Biography of Brian Purdy
Resident: Halifax, N.S. Canada
At any given hour: reader, writer, husband, sketch-artist and water-color painter, cyclist, pool-player, coffee-drinker, smoker...
Brian Purdy's Works:
Books: To Feed the Sun
Chapbook primer on poet-craft
Magazine publications during 1970s & 80s. New work to appear soon.
Brian Purdy Poems
A Poem Is
A poem is admission Of confusion And being what it is Excites derision;
The New Romance
Fewer creeks blacker starlings fewer home-made killing-jars
On Tin-Can Creek
On tin-can creek where I stayed long the woodsy mist made up for wrongs
Forty years I trudged And had no answers; A mind that was at sea And heart unanchored.
Song At Sixty
Bring fire-flies to the wedding feast Cast your spell on the rough-coat beast In the quiet where the crickets sing One word changes everything.
While Waiting For Documents Needed To Ad...
You slugs, you sloths, you worse Than insensible things, Who will not do as is so Urgently needed - how
I Tell You, Gus...
I tell you, Gus, there's just one way to skin a monkey, snake or frog and don't let the buggers tell you any different. You take your knife
Puzzled, I am By the tepid response Of those on whom I depended. Must I walk alone this moonlit path
Trying To Turn Us To Angels In My Blood ...
As a boy, alone, with a crayon you wrote On the walls of your room. Now, you wail Silently, so that others don't hear; Bellow and moan on the page of your mind
Orillia, Ontario, May,2001: Half-Pint Pe...
Half-pint perch in sunlit water Chase their shadows above the rocks. A fisherman chews a cigarillo Light brown in a darkly-golden face.
The Learners, E.S.L.
Probably, they think they have something to say. How else explain their willingness to display This welter of misspelled words, Phrases misapprehended,
All Are Welcome
All of these and more are here: the mad and sad, the badly nurtured those with a past, some without futures all of these and more are here.
From Five Letters To A Married Woman (Ii...
he has a large nose or a small appetite a taste for tinned pears a gold watch a woman in chains both sides of the coin and you. he
Christmas Cabin Fever
Wear a brown hat like a snow-man Sleep with the dogs in the snow While the Northern Lights are turning And the moon tells all she knows.
Song Of Children Lost
Lost in the silent groves of his beard
we pray to the god of this forest:
how is it fair that we wander alone
our sleeves tucked into this cold?
So far we've come, stones and bread-crumbs
look alike. The path behind
fills up with stinging nettles; our voices
grow cracked with crying. If a witch
should find us now, we know