A Serious Call by Don ColesA Serious Call by Don Coles

A Serious Call

byDon Coles

Paperback | February 28, 2015

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In his latest book of poetry, A Serious Call, Don Coles brings to life a series of everyday moments, objects, and relationships in a touching reflection on the passage of time and the power of memory.

Donald Coles was born in Woodstock, Ontario, Canada on April 12, 1927. He received a bachelor's degree in history and a master's in English from the University of Toronto. After graduating, he studied at Cambridge and spent most of the 1950s studying, writing, and working as a translator in Europe. He moved to Toronto in 1965 and taugh...
Title:A Serious CallFormat:PaperbackDimensions:64 pages, 8.75 × 5.56 × 0.35 inPublished:February 28, 2015Publisher:Porcupine's QuillLanguage:English

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:0889843805

ISBN - 13:9780889843806

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Read from the Book

Two-HanderTo my newborn grandson There was usually a warning. "If you'reSo set on it", my Gramp would be told, "go ahead.But keep in mind he's just a little boy."That was Gran. While she was talkingHe'd be studying whatever piece of wallHe was nearest to, or adjusting his hat,The straw one with the black bandAround the bottom of the crown. ThenOut the cottage's back door we'd both go,Him carrying the two-hander.It was shaped like a harp. This isSeventy years later, a long while forA simile's slow glow to be mountingTowards a page's, this one's, surface, butThe saw's shape never wavered.It hung on pegs on the wall in The entry-way, and only came downOnce or twice a summer.The simile's stronger for the wait.Its wooden handles were painted crimson,A dried-blood colour, as I didn't always know.They were the smoothest things of woodI've ever held. My hands clench, Remembering them.He didn't say much, my Gramp. ButI'd catch him watching me When we were out there, the two of us Standing in a pine-tree woodOn a yellowing pine-needle floor, and Along with the watching there'd sometimes be An awkwardness in him, something unsure or shy,Glimpses of all those, which may just have been What could he do about the years, Such a jumble when he turned to Look back-the imbalance between us that Words wouldn't fix. And meanwhile My arms would be stretching out towards him When the saw moved in that direction, And then they'd be pushed back until they wereAlmost behind me, and then further forward again,And everything repeating.When the log started to tilt downwards atIts middle, meaning it was about to break intoIts two new halves, you had to stop right awayAnd lift the blade up and out. I'd probably haveTaken my T-shirt off by then, and now I'dPick it up and throw it over my shoulder. We'd walk to the stream where, years and yearsAgo, he'd stuck a V-shaped length of tin tightly Among the stream-bed's stones. A small saucepan Was half-hidden among the weeds and he'd fill this From the water running as from a tap out of The front of the V-shaped tin. He'd watch The water settle and clear in his pan and then Drink all he wanted and rinse the pan out before Passing it to me. I'd do what I'd watched him do.All this comes from the two-handed saw whichI'm remembering as much of as I can, onlyBecause of you, little one, resting among usIn your dream of Eden, and a lot smaller Than I was then, whose dream never showed The two of us in a wood together, as we will never be.

Editorial Reviews

`Don Coles is quickly becoming one of my favorite poets. His precise words often move me to tears. I'm always impressed by his multi-cultural and multi-lingual erudition, nevertheless expressed in the simplest possible terms.'

- Book Dust Flying Blog