There have been several poems written about canoes such as:
Thus the Birch Canoe was builded
In the valley, by the river,
In the bosom of the forest;
And the forest’s life was in it,
All its mystery and its magic,
All the lightness of the birch-tree,
All the toughness of the cedar,
All the larch’s supple sinews;
And it floated on the river
Like a yellow leaf in Autumn, Like a yellow water-lily. – From Longfellow’s Song of Hiawatha, 1855
Temagami
Far in the grim Northwest beyond the lines
That turn the rivers eastward to the sea,
Set with a thousand islands, crowned with pines,
Lies the deep water, wild Temagami:
Wild for the hunter’s roving, and the use
Of trappers in its dark and trackless vales,
Wild with the trampling of the giant moose,
And the weird magic of old Indian tales.
All day with steady paddles toward the west
Our heavy-laden long canoe we pressed:
All day we saw the thunder-travelled sky
Purpled with storm in many a trailing tress,
And saw at eve the broken sunset die
In crimson on the silent wilderness. - by Archibald Lampman (1861-1899)
The Old Canoe by George Marsh (Scribner’s Magazine, October 1908)
My seams gape wide so I’m tossed aside
To rot on a lonely shore
While the leaves and mould like a shroud enfold,
For the last of my trails are o’er;
But I float in dreams on Northland streams
That never again I’ll see,
As I lie on the marge of the old portage
With grief for company.
When the sunset gilds the timbered hills
That guard Timagami,
And the moonbeams play on far James Bay
By the brink of the frozen sea,
In phantom guise my Spirit flies
As the dream blades dip and swing
Where the waters flow from the Long Ago
In the spell of the beck’ning spring.
Do the cow-moose call on the Montreal
When the first frost bites the air,
And the mists unfold from the red and gold
That the autumn ridges wear?
When the white falls roar as they did of yore
On the Lady Evelyn,
Do the square-tail leap from the black pools deep
Where the pictured rocks begin?
O
h! the fur-fleets sing on Timiskaming
As the ashen paddles bend,
And the crews carouse at Rupert House
At the sullen winter’s end;
But my days are done where the lean wolves run,
And I ripple no more the path
Where the gray geese race cross the red moon’s face
From the white wind’s Arctic wrath.
Tho’ the death fraught way from the Saguenay
To the storied Nipigon
Once knew me well, now a crumbling shell
I watch the years roll on,
While in memory’s haze I live the days
That forever are gone from me,
As I rot on the marge of the old portage
With grief for company.
Additional verse written by Kirk Wipper for Kanawa Collection (now the Canadian Canoe Museum):
Tho’ they rest inside, in our dreams they’ll glide
On the crests of streams of yore.
In the mid-day sun, they’ll make their run
and night on a distant shore.
The travelers are gone their unmatched brawn
Who plied the mapless ways
But their craft we keep tho the paddlers sleep.
Their stars we seek today.
Another great poem:
West wind, blow from your prairie nest
Blow from the mountains, blow from the west.
The sail is idle, the sailor too;
O! wind of the west, we wait for you.
Blow, blow! I have wooed you so,
But never a favour you bestow.
You rock your cradle the hills between,
But scorn to notice my white lateen.
I stow the sail, unship the mast:
I wooed you long but my wooing’s past;
My paddle will lull you into rest.
O! drowsy wind of the drowsy west,
Sleep, sleep,
By your mountain steep,
Or down where the prairie grasses sweep!
Now fold in slumber your laggard wings,
For soft is the song my paddle sings.
August is laughing across the sky,
Laughing while paddle, canoe and I,
Drift, drift,
Where the hills uplift
On either side of the current swift.
The river rolls in its rocky bed;
My paddle is plying its way ahead;
Dip, dip,
While the waters flip
In foam as over their breast we slip.
And oh, the river runs swifter now;
The eddies circle about my bow.
Swirl, swirl!
How the ripples curl
In many a dangerous pool awhirl!
And forward far the rapids roar,
Fretting their margin for evermore.
Dash, dash,
With a mighty crash,
They seethe, and boil, and bound, and splash.
Be strong, O paddle! be brave, canoe!
The reckless waves you must plunge into.
Reel, reel.
On your trembling keel,
But never a fear my craft will feel.
We’ve raced the rapid, we’re far ahead!
The river slips through its silent bed.
Sway, sway,
As the bubbles spray
And fall in tinkling tunes away.
And up on the hills against the sky,
A fir tree rocking its lullaby,
Swings, swings,
Its emerald wings,
Swelling the song that my paddle sings. – The Song My Paddle Sings, E. Pauline Johnson
I have written a few poems based on canoeing and paddling….several I have posted here:
Canada Day In A Canoe
Floating along on the still water of a small lake
Being in a canoe on Canada Day is no mistake.
Hardly disturbing the water’s surface, canoe hiked over to one side
Paddling in the Canadian Style, the solo canoeist takes such pride
The canoe is silent, quietly moving and being free
The solo canoeist dips his blade in a rhythmic motion
Maybe just thinking of how wonderful it is just to be
Not really thinking of anything, no ideas or silly notion
Maybe how this is such a great country to have been born to
So many great places to dip a paddle, to take a canoe
Great paddlers….Mason, Trudeau, Stringer and Wipper, to name a few
So many rivers and lakes to canoe trip through
The canoe was one of Canada’s Seven Wonders in a national poll
This is a country with so much history tied to the canoe
So many places to go, whether by paddle, portage or pole
Whether solo or in tandem, something any of us can do
To me, Canada is canoe country….water, rock and tree
I’m a Canadian paddler proud to be
In a land that beckons us to just see
More of Canada, True North strong and free - Mike Ormsby
Easing the canoe from its resting place on the shore
Silently launching into the still water of a cool morning
The first stroke of the paddle gracefully slicing through the liquid surface
You and the canoe forming almost a ghostly figure
In the early morning mist rising above the rocks, trees and water
The sound of the water makes as it drips off the end of the paddle
Yet nearly all is complete quiet and silence
As stealth-like as an owl on wing you travel along the shore
The rhythm of the strokes as one with the rhythm of Mother Nature
You become one with your surroundings
As you glide across a watery wonderland
A beaver slaps its tail as a warning of your presence
The morning stillness is interrupted by the call of a loon as the day awakes
A red squirrel scolds you from an overhead pine branch
A moose munches on aquatic vegetative delicacies in a quiet secluded bay
The morning mist now long melted away in the glow of the sun
You easily send your canoe forward with each stroke
Now and then feathering your paddle to rest
And take in all that abounds along the lake
Peace and serenity, the exhilaration of being out on the water
But there is much going on along these shores
Turtles basking in the sunlight slide off a log as you approach
Slow paced almost statue like, a great blue heron stalks dinner (or is it lunch)
But still you lose track of time as you drift along
Forgetting cares and woes, finding strength in each paddle stroke
As you near the far shore’s portage, you feel fresh, ready to carry the canoe
Over the short yet rocky trail into the next small but distant lake
Perhaps even to a welcoming campsite under the pines
Settling down for the night under sparkling stars
Maybe even catching glimpse of a shooting star or the Northern Lights
The cedar and canvas canoe rolls up onto your shoulders
Not too much weight, a bit more than you remember from last year J
ust enough to let you know you’re still alive
You double the carry over so you don’t overdo it
Or maybe it’s just to take more time to see where you’re at
As you rest by a waterfall beside the path, you reflect on the day….on what lies ahead
Still a few hours left before the sun sets….should be a full moon tonight
Maybe you’ll hear the howl of a wolf…. the echo of a loon from a nearby lake
You feel good….at ease….at home….and far from being alone
The canoe and you have journeyed far…and still have farther yet to go
For each trip takes you away from the daily grind
With each paddle stroke, there is definitely a greater peace of mind
So you pick up your pack, walking the last of the portage
Upon arrival, you launch the canoe onto the shining waters
You and the canoe dance on into the remaining daylight – Mike Ormsby
Ghost Canoe
Painted using a mixture of regular marine grey and an artist’s $2 tube of cobalt blue
There was little chance of mistaking Tom Thomson’s distinctive dove grey canoe
Yet when it was found floating upside down in Canoe Lake
Offshore and unattended, riding free in the wave’s wake
Little could anyone have realized the great mystery about to unfold
The legend and the lore of the man, the story that might never be told
Discovering Thomson’s body bobbing near Little Wapomeo Island
With a bruise over the temple, blood coming from the ear
Could this be the result of an argument that got out of hand?
At the very least finding Tom such had been the greatest fear
With so much talent and surely a prosperous future just ahead
It was sad that by July 1917, at age 39, Tom Thomson was dead
But would anybody ever know how he had met this terrible fate?
Over the years memories fade and facts become less than straight
What is to be made of the ankle wrapped around with fishing line?
Was Tom killed by a waterborne whirlwind or likewise divine?
And what ever became of the missing favourite paddle?
So much that is hard to fathom or begin to try to straddle
What of the two paddles lashed inside the canoe as if ready to carry
But apparently haphazardly tied in with less than an expert’s knot?
Had Thomson decided to head out west, to leave without further tarry?
Was a loan to Shannon Fraser involved, a debt for canoes recently bought?
Were harsh words over the war with Germany allowed to enflame?
Was Martin Blecher (or was it Bletcher?) that was the one to blame?
Would the truth ever come out of what had happened to the artist cum guide
Had he drowned standing up attempting to pee over the canoe’s side?
Was it a case of possible foul play or even suicide?
Had Tom Thomson gone missing due to a matter of family pride?
Had he promised Winnie Trainor that they would wed?
Or was his death the result of a fatal blow to the head?
Was there a baby that was soon to be due?
And who really last saw Tom in his canoe?
What is to be made of the report of the artist’s frequent swings in mood?
Was Thomson a gentleman, true in his word, or a drunkard sometimes crude?
Was he happy or sad? Was he bi-polar or even depressed?
So much remains unknown and never properly addressed
The coroner arrived after Tom had been embalmed and already buried
Holding a brief inquest that found death to have been accidental drowning
When to some such a finding seemed at the very least somewhat hurried
Even the coroner’s report becoming lost can only leave one frowning
What of the bruise on the temple? Was it on the left or the right?
Surely there must have been talk from the locals of a possible fight?
Accidental drowning may have been the official word
But this just seems far too simple and even absurd
Most thought Tom was more than adequate in the water; it was known he could swim
He was also considered a good enough paddler to keep any canoe reasonably trim
No water in his lungs? So long for the body to surface? Did something prevent it to rise?
Too many questions for such a quick report….too much unanswered to just surmise
What of the questions of the actual burial site? Is Tom in Leith or at Canoe Lake?
Was there really a body in that sealed metal casket? Or merely sand meant to fake?
Why has the family never allowed exhumation? Was undertaker Churchill sly as a fox?
Who was dug up in 1956? Thomson or someone of Native descent left in the same box?
Why did Miss Trainor continue to place flowers on a supposedly empty grave?
Baffling and puzzling to say the least….enough to make some even rant and rave.
Whatever we may know about Tom Thomson’s demise
And no matter that we may have to just simply surmise
Canoes do weave in and out of Thomson’s story; he often painted from a canoe
Canoes appear in his art, even that of his distinctive Chestnut, painted grey blue
A canoe was involved in his death and in the name of the lake where he lost his life
Maybe from a debt over the purchase of canoes, money he needed to take a wife?
Some even say a ghostly figure can be seen on misty mornings paddling a canoe on Canoe Lake
But supposedly a silent, even benign spirit, hardly scary enough to keep one up nights wide awake
So through much of the tale of Tom Thomson is the image, ghostly or not, of the canoe
But what became of his beloved Chestnut, with metal strip down the keel, and grey blue
Little is known where it ended up; maybe rotting at Mowat Lodge or on a portage trail?
Years after Tom’s death, a local camp even tried to locate this canoe, but alas to no avail
Painted using a mixture of regular marine grey and an artist’s $2 tube of cobalt blue
There was little chance of mistaking Tom Thomson’s distinctive dove grey canoe
Yet when it was found floating upside down in Canoe Lake
Offshore and unattended, riding free in the wave’s wake
Little could anyone have realized the great mystery about to unfold
The legend and the lore of the man, the story that might never be told – Mike Ormsby
Twas out paddling my favourite wood canvas canoe mere weeks before Christmas
The lake still being open with weather so balmy that no snow had yet come to pass
Still the water was more than quite frigid and so brisk was the early morning air,
Maybe too windy to be out in a canoe, but it wasn’t a gale force blow so I didn’t care.
I paddled over to the far side of the lake to where a river spilled in
Landing my canoe at the portage next to the whitewater roarin’.
I sat on a rock in the warming sun wearing layers of fleece under my old PFD,
Right next to the moving water, leaning my back up against an overhanging tree.
When further upstream there arose such a clash
I was startled, and slipped, and fell in with a splash.
My glasses went one way, my paddle went another.
Cold water went down my back….more than a bother.
The gleam of the sun on the river around,
Was lovely, but heck, I was going to drown!!
When what to my wondering eyes should appear?
One of those tupperware boats. Was my rescue near?
This bright red canoe had a jolly old fella, rather too fat to fit into a solo playboat,
With such a wide girth it was hard to imagine how his canoe could ever stay afloat
Even through the rapids he teetered, bouncing off each and every big rock.
This old guy looked to enough of his own big trouble, I thought with a shock.
But he slid in so slowly, so graceful, even stopping to surf the waves in one huge hole
As if none of the river’s challenges had ever required him to have to attempt a roll
And then he glided in softly, as smooth as can be,
Into the eddy, bothering nothing except maybe me.
And then in a twinkling he popped out of his craft
Like a cork from a bottle, I shouldn’t have laughed.
With flowing long hair and very scruffy beard, all of which were quite white
His unkempt appearance, complete with such frosted whiskers was really a sight.
He looked like he had been on the trail for far too many weeks
His canoe was covered in duct tape to prevent any further leaks
His paddling jacket encircled his ample frame
With pockets full of gadgets, too many to name.
He waded right in to help pull me out of the water where I’d fallen
He didn’t waste a second or even a minute standing around or stalling
Then just as fast back out in his canoe, twirling his paddle high over the top of his head
He chose to surf the waves or play in an eddy rather than accept my praise or thanks instead
Yet he still hadn’t spoken a word but went straight to his fun,
And he portaged his canoe back for yet another river run.
But before putting in, he turned to me and said “I got something to tell ya”
“I’m Santa Claus….although I’m still mistaken for that Bill Mason fella.”
He sprang to his red tupperware boat, out into the current with a good pushing.
And then he shot downstream with a splash and nothing from rocks to cushion.
Now I’d have thought old St. Nick would be more of a traditionalist in his choice of boat
Something all wood or a canoe of wood and canvas with a shiny red painted coat
Something in keeping with his image (and likeness to such a famous paddler of Chestnut canoes)
Yet it appeared that Santa had taken to the synthetic materials and much more modern views
But I heard him exclaim as he drifted almost completely from sight.
“Always paddle safe, and remember to keep your canoe upright.
I have a number of canoes and kayaks up at the North Pole
And my favourite wood canvas just isn’t the easiest to roll
Although I’d have far more room for all these gifts in a Prospector
These tiny play boats don’t have enough space to properly store
Now I’ll have to get used to making my deliveries by paddling a boat
Because a sleigh and twelve reindeer just never could float
With global warming and polar ice caps beginning to melt, raising water levels so high
Soon a canoe could be the only answer to getting around rather than having to fly
Although I admit it won’t be so easy once the snow has started to fall
But for now let me just wish a Merry Christmas to all.”
And with that old St. Nick was very much gone
His concern about the environment was obviously quite strong
But I liked his choice of a canoe of any type as a mode of transportation
So I’ll just add Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to the whole paddling population!!! - Mike Ormsby
A Paddling Version Of Lazy Hazy Days Of Summer
Roll out those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer
Those days of being out in the canoe, getting out there
Roll out those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer
Dust off the sun and moon, sing a song of the Voyageur
Fill up your pack, tie down the canoe, get your paddle and tent
Then lock the house up, now you’re all set
Heading out on the road, following trails where others went
Oh you can hardly wait to get the canoe wet
Roll out those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer
Going wherever the canoe takes you, wherever you steer
Roll out those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer
You’ll wish that summer could always be here
Roll out those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer
Those days of being out in the canoe, getting out there
Roll out those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer
Dust off the sun and moon, sing a song of the Voyageur
Don’t hafta tell a girl and fella about paddling at night
Their canoe gliding quiet and still, out under a romantic full moon
Out under a clear sky, with stars twinkling so bright
A little cuddling, even a kiss, just enough to make any heart swoon
Roll out those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer
Going wherever the canoe takes you, wherever you steer
Roll out those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer
You’ll wish that summer could always be here
You’ll wish that summer could always be here
You’ll wish that summer could always be here – Mike Ormsby
But there are lots of great examples of canoe poetry online….many far better than anything I could write….
Dance with the Wilderness by Charles Burchill
Memories of still water Speak to your restless soul Calling you and your silent craft To the rippled reflection of the shore.
Rushing water spills over a ledge Scan for the V to point the way Eddy out and watch the swirl Now ride the wild wave.
Go and Dance Your partner waits.
Ideals by Charles Burchill
Who will speak for us now? Pierre and his canoe have left us. Bill and his Pal are gone. Politics threatens our union. Tell me when will it end.
We believed at Stockholm We believed in Rio. Now Voices from Kyoto fall. Where does it end.
When do we start?
PFD by Charles Burchill
Personal was the choice I made. The wind was calm, the waves were small. The distance was not much at all.
Freedom was what I wanted then. The way was short, just across the bay. No one knew I went that way.
Death called to me. The shore was dim, I could not swim.
The Spirit by Charles Burchill
The spirit has moved within me and draws me back each year. It calls to me each spring, and every fall it draws a tear.
Every stroke’s a blessing each spring and summer day. Moving forward with my life in such a wondrous way.
How I love the tranquil sound of water rushing by. The quiet laughter on the hull lifts my spirit high.
To paddle with you is a joy; across the lake each fall. Of all the things I keep inside this I tell to all.
Once the spirit finds you your life will be complete. The love of paddle and canoe will keep your soul replete.
I found this seasonal poem at Canoe Poems, Free Verse (from Canoe Poems)….a website of canoe poetry by Lenny Everson (everson@golden.net)….Lenny shares his poems online for free of charge (as long as he gets acknowlegement as the author)….and there are some great verses….not all free verses….some do rhyme….any way here are some thoughts for a rainy October day:
October
Rain at dawning. Warm breakfast, but I ended up at the window, gray-feeling.
At nine the clouds headed for Quebec leaving stunning blue on the world’s ceiling.
Got the canoe on the car, feet soaked with dew, and on the water by ten-thirty, making paddle-whirlpools, Octobering my Canadian soul. I tell you, I went down the lake for no particular reason. Portaged just to step on crackling orange leaves or maybe just to ruffle a grouse.
I think eternity could start this way. I wouldn’t mind. I wouldn’t mind at all.
Elsewhere I found a series of poems on Poems from ‘Temagami’ and Other Poems by Jim Flosdorf….since I love Temagami….and canoes….these were two of my favourites:
What Grey Owl Knew
It’s fitting we should meet on the water
you hailing me with ‘that’s a familiar stroke’
and it should be — you taught me
Ojibway style, the first time we tripped together
years ago; and before I can see your face I recognize your voice
light-traveller, voyageur, poet you’re off again
just back from Heathrow and into the bush
Canada’s Lake District outshining England’s by a country mile.
Canoe Makers
Quickly, deftly out of the steam chest a rib extracted, and with a hasty grace they bend the supple wood over the mold and tack it down, over and over, growing skeleton, nailing it to backbone in the old way.
Muscle and tissue planks lift off the mold like a dragonfly slipping from its crysalis, a skin grows, breathes again. As it swims among brother pike and bass, cedar and ash, they nod to each other, exchange greetings.
There are several other poems by Jim Flosdorf that really touch the soul….and I recommend you check these out….I have to admit I was quite taken by these two poems….so much so that I ‘rewrote’ them a bit (OK just slightly altered)….and combined both together….partly because I love the images of canoe building….the canoe taking shape….the canoe on the water….and the meeting of two paddlers on the water reminded me of a friend and mentor who traveled on a few months ago….my apologies to Jim, but I do hope it does justice to the soul of the original words:
Quickly, deftly out of the steam chest a rib extracted, and with a hasty grace they bend the supple wood over the mold and tack it down, over and over, growing skeleton, nailing it to backbone in the old way.
Muscle and tissue planks lift off the mold like a dragonfly slipping from its chrysalis, a skin grows, breathes again.
As the canoe dances across the water, made of canvas, cedar and ash, it takes its place among the other creatures of the marine environ, exchanging greetings with fish and waterfowl; animals like beaver, moose, frogs and turtles; plants such as cattails and lily pads.
It’s fitting we should meet on the water
you hailing me with ‘that’s a familiar stroke’
and it should be – you taught me
Ojibway style, the first time we tripped together
years ago; and before I can see your face I recognize your voice
light-traveller, voyageur, poet, teacher, history and culture buff, preserver of wilderness, collector of canoes, lover of heritage and tradition
just back from the bush….from Canada’s Shield country – true ‘canoe country’ – outshining any other by a country mile.
but as soon as you return, you’re off yet again….back to the country of your birth – or at least ‘re-birth’ – back to the country of the canoe.
Paddles up until later then….and to ‘poetry in motion’….
