|
|||
|
|||
Dr. Pollard Poetry Park
Dr. Pollard Poetry Park
By David Brydges
From the four corners of the world the stampede of human wealth seekers streamed. Originally our pioneer ancestors camped on land that would someday be a public elementary school in Cobalt. Staking their tent home and hopefully staking their fortune. With no town planning silver hunters grabbed any piece of hillside available. Creating the charming meandering street design we have today.
The first school was in a tent in the morning, a mining school in afternoon, and a place to read/write and social centre at night.
A proper physical building was needed. J. B. MacDougall district superintendent and police constable George Caldbick scouted out a potential site. Thick bush prevented a suitable view for a flat site. They climbed onto a large glacial boulder and spied a level piece of land. A claim post erected said “SCHOOL GROUND- KEEP OFF.” Squatters were not intimidated by a mere sign so physical persuasion proved necessary. Tents and lumber were cleared from the property. A watchman had to be stationed to discourage any further threat of squatter invasion. A one room school was built amongst the bush, growing to a ten roomed building. In the spring of 1906 the first public school opened with 12 pupils. No officially trained teachers were working so Elizabeth Mac Ewan assumed the almost tutorial responsibilities. At the end of the year 100 students had enrolled. Thus began the adventure of educating future generations. Today these historic grounds have remnants of their former glorious building. As we begin building a sanctuary for the past, and outdoor cultural performance place. May we too seek a more prosperous future while never losing that dialogue with the past.
Submitted by David Brydges
Dr. Douglas Pollard owner of the iconic Highway Bookshop was a great pioneer of literature for Northern Ontario. He published over 478 titles from the Highway Bookshop printing presses. Developing the literary careers of many new northern writers.
Thus serving the local publics appetite for home grown historical books. Becoming a strong advocate for literacy in all its genre categories. Doug was the single most influential person in the area for half a century for historical/cultural promotion.
The Highway bookshop is one of Canada’s finest, quirky, independent bookstores for booklovers. It’s a great roadside attraction for tourists passing through the north. Who could imagine literally in the middle of the bush stood this amazing book temple for lovers of literature. A Mecca for book browsers and the intellectually curious.
Doug’s passionate book hunting skills and encyclopedic knowledge of almost every book in the store was legendary. This gentle giant friend of the written word always welcomed you into his warm, inviting living room of just books.
The first Spring Pulse Poetry Festival in 2008 created the South Temiskaming Arts Recognition award to honour his service to the literary community. Doug received the Order of Canada for his distinguished work in the category of communications. It is the highest civic award anyone can achieve for lifetime achievement. The naming of Canada’s most historic poetry park in his honour will given generations of others a living appreciation for his legacy and legend.
This Grant Sirola poem “Doug Pollard” is deep testimony in how eternally matured our literary landscape.
Doug’s a staid and proper fellow,
Doesn’t fit the average mold.
A diamond in the Cobalt rough.
A winner from the cold.
Conservative … well yes,
But with a twinkle in his eye.
You can’t wrinkle his composure,
No matter how you try.
Of course, conservative’s his nature.
I don’t know his politics.
Doug is Cobalt’s famous book man.
Tis how he gets his kicks.
If a town’s to be world famous …
The whole country’s source of lore,
It had better have a printer,
And he’d better have a store.
For though Cobalt’s at the centre,
And abounds in priceless tales,
Twould be voiceless without Pollard
And what his shop unveils.
The Highway Book Shop I refer to.
No doubt you’ve heard the name
Even if you’re in Australia.
Such is its worldly fame.
Doug’s shop has published many books.
By authors from the north.
He revives our sleeping giant.
Hidden Hemingway’s come forth.
The giant I refer to,
Is the north itself of course.
Tis our country’s true foundation,
Its wealth and very source.
Our northern pride has faltered,
We had lost the will to live,
Till the Pollard press got rolling,
With identity to give.
Doug preserves our history
Through the timeless written word,
And by his persistent efforts,
Cobalt’s voice is being heard.
But Doug’s not just a printer.
He’s an intellect in mind,
So he built a giant book shop
Stocked with books of every kind.
He proved that northerners were starving
For a chance to read at length.
And through their quest for knowledge,
His business built its strength.
Doug sells books of many varied sorts,
New or used, it matters not.
There’s a book for every living soul,
Whatever ‘er may be his lot.
Doug knows that folks will not discard,
Old books that are well used.
So he resells them in his shop,
Though some are slightly bruised.
Aged tomes by endless thousands
Line his bookshelves to the sky.
For these books alone he’s famous.
Seems the old ones never die.
You could n’er on earth imagine
The knowledge on his shelves.
You can see our past rewritten.
Tis the mischief of the elves.
But let’s get back to basics.
By now you’re well aware,
Of the reason for this writing,
Tis to tell Doug that we care.
He records our precious history,
And his bookstore feeds our souls.
He revives our sleeping giant.
Who designs such lofty goals?
His work has made its mark,
On the future of the north.
Its past is now in print for all.
Its pride once more springs forth.
The written words in Pollard’s books
Will live on beyond our day.
Tis his special gift to yet unborn.
A light to lead the way.
— Grant Sirola
Submitted by David Brydges
Dave MacLaren was the first local poet inducted into the poetry hall of fame in 2009 during the Spring Pulse Poetry Festival at the Cobalt Public Library.
ANOTHER SPRING
I look out my window
Everything is turning green
The newly budded leaves
On the hillside can be seen.
A briskly blowing breeze
Moves the branches to and fro
Makes the scene a gentle movement
In spring time’s annual show.
A gull flies through the picture
In its endless search for food
And the waving branches
Seem to resent the gull’s intrude.
Then the breeze subsided
And everything grew still
Among the cherry blossoms
That grew upon the hill.
Next the sky grew cloudy
And rain began to fall
Which splattered on my window
And trickled down the wall.
The rain kept falling steadily
Throughout the day and night
When I looked out next morning
It was a pretty sight.
The budding leaves had opened
In the early morning sun
Showing off what Mother Nature
With her rain had done.
— Dave MacLaren
(Submitted by David Brydges)
Muriel E. Newton-White was inducted in to the 2011 poetry hall of fame. She was an award-winning poet, bet seller short story writer and renowned painter. Below is her 1972 first-place poem from the Dr. William Henry Drummond Poetry Contest.
NORTHLAND MUSIC
Wind in northern pines
strong pines harp-shaped by west wind’s blowing;
Wind in poplars, tearful
trembling in storm-fear;
Wind in green –waved grasses
whispering
whispering Northland music.
Waves, shore-splashing, wind-dancing
in blue-scented rhythm;
singing falls and rapids
water falling over itself in haste
to descend from level to level
in the riverful land;
same song sung over and over
by never the same water-voices
singing
singing Northland music.
Star-songs in
wolf-howling winter night;
frosts-crackling, sound-carrying,
muted
muted Northland music.
Crows cawing of first rain,
of returning sun-warmth;
wildgeese calling homesick
summoning the restless;
magnetic
magnetic Northland music.
bird-voices rejoicing
robin, joyful;
white-throat, longing;
veery, thrilling;
mosquito-humming evenings with
drum-cock drumming fan-tailed on hollow log;
frogs in night-swamp whistling,
chorusing
chorusing Northland music.
Northern carillon;
harness-bells, holy;
angelus-bells, holy;
cow-bells, summery;
blue-bells, fairy;
ringing
ringing Northland music.
train-whistle, haunting,
stirring the wanderer;
opposing
the ring of axe-blade and
song of cross-cut saw
holding the settler to the land;
echoing
echoing Northland music.
Roar of skidoos, whine of motor-boats,
grinding of brakes,
thunder of transports-
threatening to overwhelm and drown
the low harmony
of soft northern voices;
God who speaks in a still small voice,
save the silence of
Northland music.
— Muriel E. Newton -White
John Gore was the second local poet inducted into the poetry hall of fame during the spring pulse poetry festival ceremony at the Cobalt Public Library.Below is his first-place-winning poem from the first Dr. William Henry Drummond Poetry Contest.
An Evening of Memories
As i sit alone in the evening haze
My thoughts turn back to other days
Of old time friends of long ago
Of sunny days, of rain, and of snow.
How the dipper turns, and the night falls out
While the northern lights would skitter about
How the north star never moves, as the world rolls by
And a billion stars light the northern sky.
How the fur crews on Temiskaming
Where the waters sweep and play
And formed a part of the ancient route
That leads to Hudson's Bay.
How the mosquitoes hum, and the partridge drum
Along the rocky shore
How the big bark canoes, with their reckless crews
Will pass this way no more.
How the ones who sleep by the waters deep
Beside the Old Mission Fort
Are resting still at the base of the hill
Where the Factors held their court.
Of the "Lumber Kings", and the awful things
They did to the great white pine
How the wanton waste, in their greedy haste
Was a monumental crime.
How mile on mile, stumps, and sawdust piles
Reeked of bark and rotting wood
Were the only signs they left behind
Where majestic forests stood.
How the richest prize in the pioneers eyes
Lay further to the north
How the lake scows came, before the trains
And the homesteads blossomed forth.
How the white frost covered the coils of hay
And disappeared before mid-day
How their clothes got wet with the morning dew
As they ran their furrows straight and true.
Of the hornets nest in the berry patch
How the blackflies made them want to scratch
How the hens would squawk, as their eggs they'd lay
How the wild flowers bloomed in early May.
How they lay at night in their quilted beds
While south bound flocks flew overhead
How the woodpile disappeared, by the cabin door
And the wash dish froze on the kitchen floor.
How with them, came another breed
A kind the north will always need
Men who would dig the rocky ground
In a widening search for a golden crown.
How cities would spring and quickly grow
In the silent land of spruce and snow
And the silver jewel in that golden crown
Would be widely known as the best old town.
Of the bark of the dogs on the frosty trail
The melting snow in the old tea pail
Of the posts they cut, and the lines they ran
Of the deals they made, with the shake of a hand.
How the headframes grew, in those booming times
As the north gave birth to its famous mines
How they forgot the lessons of nature's files
Learned from the stumps and sawdust piles.
How the beaver splashed in the Montreal
And along the shore the cow moose call
How between the trunks of the red pine trees
Flashed the beautiful waters of Temagami.
How the great grey trout on their spawning bed
Grabbed the leaves as they fell, from overhead
Before the cottage lined the shore
Before the highway passed our door.
How the fur crews sang on Temiskaming
As i close my eyes and i start to dream
I am back on the shore of a northern stream
My paddle dips, I have to go
As memories fade, like the melting snow.
— John Gore
Copyright Dr. Wm. Henry Drummond Poetry Committee
Published by Douglas C. Pollard
Printed at Highway book Shop
Cobalt,Ontario 1974
Pages 11-14 Cobalt Miners Festival Dr. William Henry Drummond National Poetry Contest
