Erin Mouré

Erin Mouré Poems

There was a cold
In which

A line of water across the chest risen

Courageous lair "might prevail"
Waking up to her your "yellow coal"

Steals a its way

1. And if you were to leave me for my faults
2. I'd not defend my lameness, walking halt
3. and from my trust I would elide your

Unspeakable. The word that fills up the
poem, that the head
tries to excise.
At 6 a.m., the wet lion. Its sewn plush face

I have a little dog of water
It is just a little peg
my dog of water

SAUNA 89 (sweated by В. Шекспір)

1. And if you were to leave me for my faults
2. I'd not defend my lameness, walking halt

Dignified is a heartsong here
Harsh traverse of the unknown

"Better to go down dignified"

I ll never master the art of poetry. I
have these words: sadness and tears!

I can t sleep for grief.
I can t sleep for longing.
I can t sleep for wanting happiness!
Mother, how will I live.

It was at the fountain where I washed my curls,
Mother, and where I did loosen them
and me
oh lucent

I m not pleading any thread of love
until I see you.

I m not plaiting my hair above
until the sea brings you.

I m going to walk to the mountain. As if
we could meet there!

First I must dream the mountain

Is bad weather coming
how would we know
Is bad weather coming
call everyone

In one of its cornices are the two boots of a man
In one of the stone canzorros
If you listen you can hear him walk

On the hill there is no hay
but rain

no hay for a hayrick but
small rivulets singing the grass down

I am in the little field of my mother
Her field touches
oaks of the valley
and I touch the faces of my corn

At night in the valley of penedos erguidos
a glint of wolfram

the uncles' job at night
to touch the glint of wolfram

In a woman's arms lies a man
his skin is blue and his lips are blue
and his chest is a hayrick
flat with forks of blue

A little river and a big river
the story of the bronchials
Some of earth's heartbeat but not all

Nowhere yet has a footfall proven
adequate to its situation
Waiting for the boots to call out
from their stall by the door

Erin Mouré Biography

Erin Mouré is a Canadian poet and translator of poetry from languages which include, French, Galician, Portuguese and Spanish to English. Biography Her mother Mary Irene was born 1924 in Galicia, Western Ukraine (then Poland) and emigrated to Canada in 1929.(ref) Erin’s father is William Moure born in Ottawa Canada in 1925. Erin is the oldest of 3, having two younger brothers, Ken and Bill. In 1975 Erin moved to Vancouver, British Columbia, where she took her second year classes at University of British Columbia in philosophy. After only taking one year of classes Erin left University of British Columbia and got a job at Via Rail Canada where she continued to write poetry and is where she learnt French, Erin still lives in Montreal Canada Writing and Style According to an interview conducted in the early 1990s, Erin has four major influences which led her to become a writer, other than the work of other writers or poets: “Landscape of cars, her mother going to work, her mother teaching her to read, and in a small way losing her sense of touch”[5] Of her more recent work, Melissa Jacques has written: "Erin Mouré's poetry is fragmented, meta-critical and explicitly deconstructive. Folding everyday events and ordinary people into complex and often irresolvable philosophical dilemmas, Mouré challenges the standards of accessibility and common sense. Not surprisingly, her work has met with a mixed response. Critics are often troubled by the difficult and therefore alienating nature of the writing; even amongst Mouré's advocates, the issues of accessibility and political efficacy are recurrent themes."(on Moure's EPC page, external link below). Erin has been nominated and won many writing awards for both her writing and her translation. Some of these awards are the Pat Lowther Memorial Award, Governor General's Award for poetry, A.M.Klein Prize for Poetry.)

The Best Poem Of Erin Mouré

The Cold

There was a cold
In which

A line of water across the chest risen

Impetuate, or

Orthograph you cherish, a hand her
Of doubt importance

Her imbroglio the winnowing of ever
Does establish

An imbroglio, ever
she does repeatedly declare

to no cold end
Admonish wit, at wit's end, where "wit" is


The cold of which
her azul gaze impart a stuttered pool

Memoria address me here (green)

Echolalic fear
Her arm or name in French says "smooth"

A wine-dark seam inside the head, this name
The "my" head I admit, or consonantal glimmer

Or wet fields the vines or eucalyptus wood

Lift from, here


Whose cartilage did grief still bear?
Whose silent wound?
Who submitted?
Who fortuitously was grave?
A trepidation honest
Whose declaration met silence?
Whose demurred?
Whose wall shored up became
Whose "will"?

Whose sympathetic concatenation? Whose picture
withstood "ordeal"?
Who caressed "that tiger"?
Whose laugh at an airport called forth? Whose ground

Anonymous submission.

Erin Mouré Comments

ibn Ali 13 June 2015

Nice poem

0 0 Reply
Abdul Samad 01 May 2014

Of course, it is a nice poem, from which we feel a difference.

1 0 Reply

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