If the dream is an Indigenous writer from the far north who’s able to capture his native landscape, spirituality, and ancestral exploitation in sublime poetry, the reality is Randy Lundy. His three earlier collections include Under the Night Sun, Gift of the Hawk, and Blackbird Song.
WHISKEY: A KIND OF ODE
a response to lines from Donald Hall
With apologies, I cannot agree with you, sage,
that whiskey is not so ruinous as rage.
They are bedfellows, twin birds in a cage,
and they copulate in unmentionable ways—
spawning the most debilitating of demons,
gargoyles, and side-show freaks.
I’ve done my research, spending days
in the haze of whiskey’s fire, its blaze
that makes of cocaine’s torment child’s play.
I have breathed with the breath of the beast,
looked deep into its gaze. It has come to know
me, and I know its name, most secret, holy.
There is no shame in being wrong, my friend.
There is shame only in falling from the bed, then
crawling back into that wretched stench again.
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