WRITERS FÊTE 2021
NEW WORKS
Albert Dumont, Poet Laureate of Ottawa
As a human rights activist and as a human being it is heart-wrenching for me to see people with mental illness who have never hurt anyone or anything living on the street. What we as citizens sadly fail to recognize, so it seems, is that a loved one of our own—a son or daughter, a beloved niece or nephew—could suddenly be stricken with schizophrenia or some other mental illness, putting them into a state of mind where the street is the only place offering a sense of comfort and security to their troubled minds. Bad drugs also take their destructive toll on how people who abuse them process their thoughts. Whatever the reasons are, people who are loved by family and friends sometimes end up living on the streets.
My inspiration came from the fact that I almost succumbed to street life myself at a time in the past when severe alcohol addiction pushed me with great force towards a life on the sidewalks of Ottawa's streets. It wasn't a sickness nor bad drugs which knocked me off balance. It was a cruel society as experienced by me, that had me believing misery and heartache was the only life I could ever expect to have as an “Indian” born on a Reserve. When you carry such beliefs day in and day out, you just don't feel worthy of the “normal” life you see others living.
I believe that my poetry began to grow in my heart even before my body left my mother's womb. My spirit sings its song of praise for all who make a point through the power of poetry.
My inspiration came from the fact that I almost succumbed to street life myself at a time in the past when severe alcohol addiction pushed me with great force towards a life on the sidewalks of Ottawa's streets. It wasn't a sickness nor bad drugs which knocked me off balance. It was a cruel society as experienced by me, that had me believing misery and heartache was the only life I could ever expect to have as an “Indian” born on a Reserve. When you carry such beliefs day in and day out, you just don't feel worthy of the “normal” life you see others living.
I believe that my poetry began to grow in my heart even before my body left my mother's womb. My spirit sings its song of praise for all who make a point through the power of poetry.
The Sky, The Pavement
Dedicated to good human beings, living on the city's streets
Albert Dumont ©
Dedicated to good human beings, living on the city's streets
Albert Dumont ©
It is the fruit
Of the unjudging orchard
Of the ghost roaming city streets
Who beckon a hearty welcome
To people
Whose strength of spirit
Has been unmercifully destroyed
Because the human heart
Yours, mine, the prime minister's
Has lost so much of its humanity
Broken men
And women beaten down
In mind and spirit
Enter into a world
Where the sky becomes the ceiling
Of their dwelling
The pavement the floor of their house
Some can no longer bear old memories
Biting into the defenceless flesh
Of their minds
Their pulverized spiritual beliefs
Unable to bring them peace
The constant raping of their minds
By incurable traumas
Experienced by them
In the years of their youth
Is a beast always by their side
The unforgiving, cruel citizenry
Stare coldly at the street dweller
And with hearts
Hard, as the pavement under their feet
They whisper
"You are less than human"
The sky, the ceiling of their dwelling
The pavement, the floor of their house
Some living there
Are on the run
From the fear of a life
Living without the magic
Of drugs and alcohol
Some are mentally ill
They imagine in their troubled minds
The great force of an invisible enemy
Waiting in the institutions of the city
To rip out their hearts
And stomp on their spirits
The distorted logic
Of a broken human being
The safety, the comradeship, the freedom
The good life, the street
The sky, the ceiling of their dwelling
The pavement, the floor of their house
Of the unjudging orchard
Of the ghost roaming city streets
Who beckon a hearty welcome
To people
Whose strength of spirit
Has been unmercifully destroyed
Because the human heart
Yours, mine, the prime minister's
Has lost so much of its humanity
Broken men
And women beaten down
In mind and spirit
Enter into a world
Where the sky becomes the ceiling
Of their dwelling
The pavement the floor of their house
Some can no longer bear old memories
Biting into the defenceless flesh
Of their minds
Their pulverized spiritual beliefs
Unable to bring them peace
The constant raping of their minds
By incurable traumas
Experienced by them
In the years of their youth
Is a beast always by their side
The unforgiving, cruel citizenry
Stare coldly at the street dweller
And with hearts
Hard, as the pavement under their feet
They whisper
"You are less than human"
The sky, the ceiling of their dwelling
The pavement, the floor of their house
Some living there
Are on the run
From the fear of a life
Living without the magic
Of drugs and alcohol
Some are mentally ill
They imagine in their troubled minds
The great force of an invisible enemy
Waiting in the institutions of the city
To rip out their hearts
And stomp on their spirits
The distorted logic
Of a broken human being
The safety, the comradeship, the freedom
The good life, the street
The sky, the ceiling of their dwelling
The pavement, the floor of their house
The trees, who I accept as beings much greater and wiser than the most learned of all the peoples of this world (including grassroots leaders such as myself) will one day, through the strength of spirituality, communicate to human beings that without the presence of trees on sacred Mother Earth, the planet will die. Because of the power of spirit, all people of this planet, not just “tree huggers,” will as one fight to save the trees.
A tree is magnificent in its healing powers and in its ability to give us teachings to guide our lives in a way that we can benefit greatly in both the emotional and spiritual domains. Whether they are tiny figures peeking from the rich soil—or standing, life gone from them for decades, without branches nor bark—the trees give us lessons we can share with others who may be struggling with life's torments. Those of them long dead teach us that the ancestors are still present near us when we need support by our side.
Any place where trees grow in massive numbers is a healing place of tremendous energy and inspiration. The holy books of religions have forgotten this. Indigenous Spirituality has not!
A tree is magnificent in its healing powers and in its ability to give us teachings to guide our lives in a way that we can benefit greatly in both the emotional and spiritual domains. Whether they are tiny figures peeking from the rich soil—or standing, life gone from them for decades, without branches nor bark—the trees give us lessons we can share with others who may be struggling with life's torments. Those of them long dead teach us that the ancestors are still present near us when we need support by our side.
Any place where trees grow in massive numbers is a healing place of tremendous energy and inspiration. The holy books of religions have forgotten this. Indigenous Spirituality has not!
The Trees of the Forest Mourn
Albert Dumont ©
Albert Dumont ©
It is autumn
And the trees of the forest, mourn
I, in my forest circle
Weep for them
The old pine
My confidant, all the days of my life
Whose roots first began to grow
Hundreds of years ago, is dead
Gone now from this world
Reminding human beings that nothing lives forever
My thoughts as a man
Who recognizes the sacredness
In all the trees of the forest
Are not to give the old pine
A 'decent burial'
All Creator expects of me
At this time of spiritual reflection
Is that the music of my drum
The melody of my song
Join in the honour song
Which will spiritually engulf the pine
Even as its structure still stands
Contributing, to the mystery and eloquence
Of the peaceful forest
From the centre of my forest circle
I pray, I meditate and imagine how
The brush of the White Fish Moon*
Skillfully caresses the leaves of maple trees
Its artistry, slowly paints its canvas
The leaves accept the gift of colour
While singing their song of fond farewell
For they are aware
That short days hence
The tree will release them into the winds
Where Aki, Mother Earth
Waits to welcome them
Into their eternal home
It is autumn
And the trees of the forest, mourn
*usually ends in early October
And the trees of the forest, mourn
I, in my forest circle
Weep for them
The old pine
My confidant, all the days of my life
Whose roots first began to grow
Hundreds of years ago, is dead
Gone now from this world
Reminding human beings that nothing lives forever
My thoughts as a man
Who recognizes the sacredness
In all the trees of the forest
Are not to give the old pine
A 'decent burial'
All Creator expects of me
At this time of spiritual reflection
Is that the music of my drum
The melody of my song
Join in the honour song
Which will spiritually engulf the pine
Even as its structure still stands
Contributing, to the mystery and eloquence
Of the peaceful forest
From the centre of my forest circle
I pray, I meditate and imagine how
The brush of the White Fish Moon*
Skillfully caresses the leaves of maple trees
Its artistry, slowly paints its canvas
The leaves accept the gift of colour
While singing their song of fond farewell
For they are aware
That short days hence
The tree will release them into the winds
Where Aki, Mother Earth
Waits to welcome them
Into their eternal home
It is autumn
And the trees of the forest, mourn
*usually ends in early October
