John King-Farlow

Edmonton, Alberta, Canada

I have published poems in five countries and published ten books of prose; travelled in Africa, Europe, the Americas and Thailand; Philosophy Professor, University of Alberta; collector of Aboriginal art. I am a Fellow, Royal Society of Canada; my medical wife, Liz, heals limping verse and stanzas. Born in London, U.K.; former officer Royal Air Force; Teetotaller who loves taverns, novels, friends, jokes, theatre, opera, nature, Canada. I am Anglican.

Eulogy For My Mother (Hazel Guggenheim McKinley, Artist)

Flesh lakes of Hazel's colours
Stretch out in the heat
Colours nibbling all over New Orleans
On curls of ribbons of green and wit
And across the canvases stroked by her daydreams

No academy's marble centaur
Diverts her from planting on canvas
Her teasing faces that spy on you
"She tosses away her muffins for eagles
"Far from ossified teachers of cramp"

She needs a canvas from her daydreams
With her recall too giddy for error
Sometimes she tickles upon a canvas
More sounds even than pigment
Her work plans love to erupt
Like a crater of rebels

She's a child who reversed the rainbow
Sketched through chats with artists
Hazel in teasing oils and water colours
Jests at the wash of her products
Her paint brushes have been feathered
Like Argonaut's oars curving through time

Honeymoon in High Places

Snow chalks borders, the acres from
Blacks and browns with the sun's new turnings
See, that side of the mountain's tanned
This side dark as the ace of spiders.

We joked in bed with the early spring,
Our cabin winked at the peaks' best snowbanks,
We found hope with the horned sheep's noon,
And we learned love from the flesh of winter.

Alone At A Social Gathering

Some stranger leaves me. Soon I'll be alone.
Which one will choose me when this one is gone?
I look for eyes I know. Each stranger's face
Appals me, knocks me back to memories:
Which one will choose me when this one is gone?
I hated nights when I was five, I'd shun
The changing surfaces of sheets and socks,
Calling their wrinkles monsters out of books,
Dragons and pterodactyls, octopi,
And names the family refused to say.
Old adolescent knows his younger half,
Silent when only talking is relief.
As gossip's chessmen stumble around the gin
To use the mind's blind eye for their spittoon!
"The gifts of God must be too numberless,
"Too good to notice and too close to please."

All poems Copyright © 1996 John King-Farlow. All rights reserved.