After the Second Great War
the long war of the breaking of lives
people scattered like brief leaves
over our earth, groaning
when our gods paused, spirit of men, women
and innocent children almost defeated,
the sun beamed hot on the prairies of waving wheat
earth basking in the sun, fallow beneath the snows.
Our household in St. Boniface buzzed,
“Coming back! It’s coming back, yes,
they say they’re going to start it up again,
le pique-nique des purs
in St. Vital, where Louis Riel ran about as a boy.”
Les Purs, horse breakers were riding again
on the open prairie, beyond the baseball fields
racing for prizes, and the sheer joy of it,
their swift-footed horses shaking the horizon.
“It’s true. They’re going to be
a pique-nique des purs this summer.”
Now that the great war was over,
Alfred would hear again the galloping
that shook the horizon, recalling his team of horses
he once led, powerful memories,
the working hooves and neighing and snorting
his own fine team, life giving, pride of life,
ploughing through the furrows, pulling the threshing machines
through waist high wheat, men stooping to stook.
People of the ironic smiles, Les Purs,
laughing, shouting across the prairies
by the Seine River, where Riel ran about as a boy,
struck by the great spaces, our natural church,
“on est des purs Metchifs”
of native blood commingled
with all the blood come to the prairies.
The “Pure-Bloods” were gathering again in St. Vital
to play crown and anchor, bingo, and lasso prizes
by throwing wooden rings, the same
held by my mother ”Pour faire la dentelle”
the jig and the fiddle, the red-river miracle,
horses beyond, not far yonder, beyond the bushes
(where the men sneaked away home made drinking)
ride the horses, hooves thudding, earthly drumming
at gallop to shake the horizon, whistle the wind,
shout for the sun, once again breakers of the horses.
All weekend, easy smiling faces,
to see another again
under the sun playing on the prairies.
Great War and winter gone, choke cherries returning,
dust rising, war and winter gone.
At gallop to shake the horizon, whistle at the wind,
shout for the sun, once again the breaker of horses.
Memories of that Sunday afternoon
my mother trying her luck at bingo
my father playing crown and anchor
I throw the wood rings
the grass trampled down with smiles and greetings
tonight at the Red River Jig contest.
In the late afternoon, the tug o war
my father would be anchor man, strength
for winters and wars for mother and me,
in this world of wars and winters,
tying the rope about his torso, digging in his heels
the cheering for the tug –o-wars, each team surging
in opposite direction, the crowd urging
sun pouring down, earth basking, grasses trampled,
hooves pounding in the distance, my father’s heels
digging in, slipping, holding fast again.
The male strength for winters and wars
horses to plough furrows, pull threshing machines
stoop for stoking, choke cherries red and blue,
Hanging in thick clusters, wine and once pemmican,
the cheering for the tug-o-war, first one team is dragging the other, now the other team of men
defeating the other.
Sun going down over the land , vast spaces to the horizon,
late sunlight on the grass, long walk on the gravel road
leading to the streetcar stop
away from the fiddle starting up
the dancing platform bright, waiting for the flying feet
the dancing will go on late into the night’s mystery
we are leaving the special days, pique-nique des purs
his hand in mine, large, calloused handler of horses.
Suddenly his rough palm pressing down hard on my shoulder
for steadiness, an alarming weight,
a man of strength unsteady,
about to stumble, my mother hurt and disappointed again.
Man on the team of horses, hand on my shoulder,
his weight pressing down to catch his balance,
for he was mingled with other scarred men
in the bushes beyond, swapping stories on destiny,
beyond the bushes yonder, by the thudding hooves
men who enlisted in the Canadian Army
to go over seas to bleed pure blood
Now with jobs, working with other damaged men
having come here from the world over,
some from the gulags of eastern Russia,
others scattered here from elsewhere
after the long war of the breaking of lives
people scattered like brief leaves
over our earth, bleeding
the long war of the breaking of lives
people scattered like brief leaves
over our earth, groaning
when our gods paused, spirit of men, women
and innocent children almost defeated,
the sun beamed hot on the prairies of waving wheat
earth basking in the sun, fallow beneath the snows.
Our household in St. Boniface buzzed,
“Coming back! It’s coming back, yes,
they say they’re going to start it up again,
le pique-nique des purs
in St. Vital, where Louis Riel ran about as a boy.”
Les Purs, horse breakers were riding again
on the open prairie, beyond the baseball fields
racing for prizes, and the sheer joy of it,
their swift-footed horses shaking the horizon.
“It’s true. They’re going to be
a pique-nique des purs this summer.”
Now that the great war was over,
Alfred would hear again the galloping
that shook the horizon, recalling his team of horses
he once led, powerful memories,
the working hooves and neighing and snorting
his own fine team, life giving, pride of life,
ploughing through the furrows, pulling the threshing machines
through waist high wheat, men stooping to stook.
People of the ironic smiles, Les Purs,
laughing, shouting across the prairies
by the Seine River, where Riel ran about as a boy,
struck by the great spaces, our natural church,
“on est des purs Metchifs”
of native blood commingled
with all the blood come to the prairies.
The “Pure-Bloods” were gathering again in St. Vital
to play crown and anchor, bingo, and lasso prizes
by throwing wooden rings, the same
held by my mother ”Pour faire la dentelle”
the jig and the fiddle, the red-river miracle,
horses beyond, not far yonder, beyond the bushes
(where the men sneaked away home made drinking)
ride the horses, hooves thudding, earthly drumming
at gallop to shake the horizon, whistle the wind,
shout for the sun, once again breakers of the horses.
All weekend, easy smiling faces,
to see another again
under the sun playing on the prairies.
Great War and winter gone, choke cherries returning,
dust rising, war and winter gone.
At gallop to shake the horizon, whistle at the wind,
shout for the sun, once again the breaker of horses.
Memories of that Sunday afternoon
my mother trying her luck at bingo
my father playing crown and anchor
I throw the wood rings
the grass trampled down with smiles and greetings
tonight at the Red River Jig contest.
In the late afternoon, the tug o war
my father would be anchor man, strength
for winters and wars for mother and me,
in this world of wars and winters,
tying the rope about his torso, digging in his heels
the cheering for the tug –o-wars, each team surging
in opposite direction, the crowd urging
sun pouring down, earth basking, grasses trampled,
hooves pounding in the distance, my father’s heels
digging in, slipping, holding fast again.
The male strength for winters and wars
horses to plough furrows, pull threshing machines
stoop for stoking, choke cherries red and blue,
Hanging in thick clusters, wine and once pemmican,
the cheering for the tug-o-war, first one team is dragging the other, now the other team of men
defeating the other.
Sun going down over the land , vast spaces to the horizon,
late sunlight on the grass, long walk on the gravel road
leading to the streetcar stop
away from the fiddle starting up
the dancing platform bright, waiting for the flying feet
the dancing will go on late into the night’s mystery
we are leaving the special days, pique-nique des purs
his hand in mine, large, calloused handler of horses.
Suddenly his rough palm pressing down hard on my shoulder
for steadiness, an alarming weight,
a man of strength unsteady,
about to stumble, my mother hurt and disappointed again.
Man on the team of horses, hand on my shoulder,
his weight pressing down to catch his balance,
for he was mingled with other scarred men
in the bushes beyond, swapping stories on destiny,
beyond the bushes yonder, by the thudding hooves
men who enlisted in the Canadian Army
to go over seas to bleed pure blood
Now with jobs, working with other damaged men
having come here from the world over,
some from the gulags of eastern Russia,
others scattered here from elsewhere
after the long war of the breaking of lives
people scattered like brief leaves
over our earth, bleeding