Art for Life's September to November edition final page
These four poems were the inspirations of a Canadian poet. Rowan Woods --- who studied at Carleton and Brock Universities --- penned these words during 1988-91 in such locations as Merriton, St. Catharines, Pelham and Ottawa in Ontario, Canada.

The clouds roll in ominous and black They crawl three pronged and clawed. Birds scutter, squawk, squaller home As the clouds grow Appearing like UFOs preparing to land ontop of me; But they don't. The wind pushes them west away to the mountain tops And the earth smells new.

My hair is a lion's mane A sandy beach A lover of the wind. My skin is pale Void of natural colour Indented at the chin Freckled on the left Cheek, chin and knee In the centre of my neck And sprinkled lightly Over my shoulder tops. My body is round Like a Botecelli figurine Covered with the marks Of living and earning wages Especially on my hands, and Up and down my arms.

My legs are strong from walking And my breath is short from inhaling smoke Especially in the city. My eyes are icy blue Small, and appear blank But that is only on the surface; Underneath they see incisively And record everything that is placed Infront of them. My teeth are sharp My fists are clenched My smile is tight Against the faint Memories of Embracing arms Warm handshakes Laughing eyes And carefree smiles. My voice is often soft And my little ears Listen intently to The large noises of existence...

She gets up from her chair And moves across the room To the window Black boots clacking Against pastel wood She curls up inside the window Frame and traces The shadows of the rain Across her denim jeans. She feels the frosty Winter nudging at her Finger tips and pulls at Her rolled up Sweater for shelter Against the draft. She looks at the lines on her hands...

Both her hands fit Neatly into one of his --- He studies them; Small, delicate, rose Soft as a baby, Rounded nails Rounded palms Transparent wrists A gold ring encircling One of her fingers --- Only one ring. Nothing else, Except for a gold watch Encircling her wrist. He turns back the hours On her watch...

She juts her chin towards The horizon Brows knitted Arms crossed She tosses her head back To rest it against the woodwork. She gazes from behind tilted Lashes at the sky Grey-blue, and clearing And concentrates on her breathing Slowing it down to longer, deeper intakes She exhales from her mouth. Her backbone aches So she gets up to stretch...

I reach up to the ceiling My fingers intertwined My vertibrae extends and curves backwards I bend to touch my toes And the floor Only to notice the floor Is bare It's not covered with rugs. The sun is setting And I pull on the lights cord But there isn't any gold Eminating from the bulb. I pass a mirror in the hallway on my Way to retrieve another light I stop to stare at my reflection --- I hardly recognize myself. The same lines that are on My hands are visible on my Face, except there isn't a ring On my finger like there are Under my eyes. I smile to the person Inside the reflection My eyes are warm pools Large, and full But that is on the inside Outside they are gently blind Not noticing anything else around them My teeth are white My hands are languid My smile is comforting Apart from the sharp Memories of Iron-clad arms Cold grips Angry glares And grave pouts. My voice is loud now And my big ears Strain to hear the Quietness of non-existence...

I look at him and see all the art, legends and music that must have inspired the worlds greatest artists.

The young woman wrapped her hands about the base of the pumps neck and slid her fingers over its wooden, worn handle to work its stiff machinery. As the arms moved in unison air rose in gasps from its hollow metal pipes and deep, dank well letting out moans from its mouth and creaks from its rusty joints; yet still she hung about its crane-shaped neck and let her hair fall downwards serpent-like a vine... until the water came in great gushes to wash over his cupped hands underneath its aged lips.