P. K. Page. By Jumi Heo. About P. K. (Patricia Kathleen) Page. P. K. Page was born on November 23, 1916 She was lived in Victoria, British Columbia with her diplomat-husband, Arthur Irwin
By Jumi Heo
What is this love that is my life’s companion?
Shape-changer, sometimes faceless, this companion.
Single traveller, I wander a wasting world
awaiting the much anticipated Companion.
A trillium covered wood one April day
served as a nearly consummate companion.
A horse, two dogs, some cats, a blue macaw
each in its turn became a loyal companion.
Behind the loved embrace, a face of light-
demon or angel-lures me from my companion.
The street of love is neither wide nor narrow.
Its width depends on me and my companion.
Am I too bound and blinded by coarse wrappings
ever to know true love as my companion?
O Poet, squanderer of time and talents
why do you search for love as your Companion?Single Traveller by P. K. Page
The wax has melted
but the dream of flight
I, Icarus, though grounded
in my flesh
have one bright section in me
where a bird
night after starry night
while I’m asleep
unfolds its phantom wings
The sharpening air
of late afternoon
is now the colour of tea.
Once-glycerined green leaves
burned by a summer sun
are brittle and ochre.
Night enters day like a thief.
And children fear that the beautiful daylight has gone.
It is the best and the worst time.
Around a fire, everyone laughing,
brocaded curtains drawn,
nowhere-anywhere-is more safe than here.
The whole world is a cup
one could hold in one’s hand like a stone
warmed by that same summer sun.
But the dead or the near dead
are now all knucklebone.
Nothing to do. Nothing to really do.
Toast and tea are nothing.
Kettle boils dry.
Shut the night out or let it in,
it is a cat on the wrong side of the door
whichever side it is on. A black thing
with its implacable face.
To avoid it you
will tell yourself you are something,
Even though there is bounty, a full harvest
that sharp sweetness in the tea-stained air
is reserved for those who have made a straw
fine as a hair to suck it through-
fine as a golden hair.
Wearing a smile or a frown
God’s face is always there.
It is up to you
if you take your wintry restlessness into the townAfter Rain by P. K. Page
A silken rain fell through the spring upon them.
In the park she fed the swans and he
whittled nervously with his strange hands.
And white was mixed with all their colours
as if they drew it from the flowering trees.
At night his two finger whistle brought her down
the waterfall stairs to his shy smile
which like an eddy, turned her round and round
lazily and slowly so her will
was nowhere-as in dreams things are and aren’t.
Walking along avenues in the dark
street lamps sang like sopranos in their heads
with a voilence they never understood
and all their movements when they were together
had no conclusion.
Only leaning into the question had they motion;
after they parted were savage and swift as gulls.
Asking and asking the hostile emptiness
they were as sharp as partly sculptured stone
and all who watched, forgetting, were amazed
To see them form and fade before their eyes.Adolescence by P. K. Page
Planet Earth has been selected to be part of a United Nations program to foster dialogue among nations, involving readings in countries around the world and possibly from Alpha, the new international space station