“How impressed I was with Sande’s poems. She is very good.” – J.D. Hazen
(2006 note to Lawrence Creaghan)
Introduction to Woods
I want you to feel the wildness
of a Canadian forest
that frightened your father.
The fear of getting lost,
the fear of feral animals and of trees.
No trees in Connemara,
not like these!
Dry twigs snap underfoot
over-grown paths scratch,
branches whip back as you walk quietly,
listening to the forest.
We make our way
to the turbulent brook,
careful, once there, to hold onto something
as we lower our feet into icy water to be tickled;
massage by quicksand.
On the way back,
a stop to eat berries
and examine moose tracks in the dirt
while mosquitoes get high on untainted blood.
Later to take refuge on a sea breeze
out of the enclosure
and onto the waves of the Atlantic,
yes, the same Atlantic,
rocking as the wind picks up to a storm.
Waves break high on the boat deck
as they do over the promenade in Salthill.
Then motor broken down,
we are stranded out at sea,
rain comes down in sheets onto your slim
bathing-suited forms, while an uncle
gives you rum for warmth. Ride it out
until a tug is sent to the rescue.
I watch the wildness take hold,
the power of the untamed catch.
General Store Burnt Down
Old men smoked pipes and grunted
on either side of an iron stove,
worn wooden planks passing time
in a dark grey shingled building.
It was my thirteenth birthday
before fire left scorched earth.
We were grannies before our time
long dresses, wire-rimmed glasses,
woven shawls and the Beatles
going round and round.
Up the shaky ladder to the attic
to find treasures from another time:
lace-up boots, grandfather shirts,
storm lamps made of silver.
An old man behind the old counter
wraps up scoops of peppermints
in slow motion.
Wharf at Burnt Church
I cried when I saw your broken bones
Black with tar, or scorched; always fires here.
Large boulders support your weathered limbs,
between warning signs that belong in a war zone.
They’ve moved on. No one will have you,
a condemned old tart that can’t be trusted.
Once fishing boats clustered around you:
Stella Maris, Rêve de l’Acadie, Annie Rose.
You lifted young ones into the sea
as they made their first strokes,
playfully leaving tar on city bottoms.
The thunder of cars caressed your beams.
|
| A new collection of poetry from Sandra Bunting. Whether opening windows for the reader into musings and memories or taking us to faraway places, Sandra Bunting’s poems offer gentle and often poignant fragments that reflect our own experience, evocative and powerful, with the natural world an ever-constant presence. |
|
| This book brings us into a world of childhood tales, unsuspected life twists and even a thriller or two. Layers of stories reveal history, truths and lies; even a sunflower field is not what it seems. The reader travels from Ireland to Canada and back, with each location depicted with a warmth and detail characteristic of Bunting’s work. |
|
| The debut short fiction collection from Canadian writer and poet, Sandra Bunting. It brings together stories that are broad-reaching yet have a strong sense of place, resonant with personal struggle, yet evincing an earthy humour throughout. They are set in Canada, Ireland and further afield.
|
|
| The debut poetry collection from Canadian poet and writer Sandra Bunting.
|
|
| All are available on Amazon. |