Dear Poet,
The blog is up, the poems are rolling in from the famous, infamous, and emerging poets of this land, and we’re on the way to collecting 49 quintessentially Canadian poems to the 44th president of the US!
Mr. Obama will receive a taste of the collection on Inauguration Day, but, since it will take him a while to recuperate from attending ten inaugural balls anyway, collection will continue to the end of January.
After living in both countries, I see that Canadians generally are far more aware of what is going on in the US than Americans are aware of what makes Canada tick (and that’s not saying much for us Canadian head-in-the-sanders!) Worldly and intelligent as President Obama may be, the same rule of thumb probably applies to him.
With a person running the US who is open to the influence of the arts as perhaps no previous president has been, we poets have an unprecedented opportunity to increase Obama’s appreciation of who his neighbors are, and of what is and isn’t possible between our countries. Let’s leap at the chance to influence a world leader to make decisions that will do Canada long-term good instead of leaving that job to political leaders who enjoy so little of our support.
Don’t feel you must write a fresh poem. Please study your poem collection with an eye to what your lines say about being Canadian or in Canada. We’re not looking for political acumen, opinion, or commentary on US/Canada relations. Your poems needn’t say anything about the US or Canada at all on their face. We just want poems that express…well, call it Canucktitude for now.
Take this one as an example–not a political word in it; yet it speaks volumes about the immigrant experience in Canada half a century ago. (I can do this because it’s mine–don’t worry: your entries will not be posted.)
Easter, Sylvan Lake, 1956
Half the century ago
I found the Easter Bunny
dead about three days
his stench didn’t stop my little hand
from stroking his velvet ears
from noticing the hole in his heart
where my father had pierced him
Now I wonder
how it felt
between those darkened fingers
the silken ears still warm
as he flung the little life into the bush
if he felt better
maybe stronger
about the stubborn sleeper in the tent,
the one who lay and moaned
for silk and velvet dreams
left rotting on a European shore
Can Powell River Live Poets’ Guild on the blessed western edge of the country produce this book? With your participation, Yes, we can!
-Kaimana Wolff
Powell River Live Poets Guild
Poems for Obama 
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