Poem by Glen Sorestad

I am very glad to welcome the well-seasoned traveller, Glen Sorestad (pictured here) to these pages this Friday.

Sorestad is a veteran poet from the Canadian prairies who lives in Saskatoon on the South Saskatchewan River.

His poetry has appeared in nearly 50 anthologies, textbooks and other volumes, has been published in literary magazines in many countries, and has been translated into French, Spanish, Norwegian, Finnish and Slovene.

He is a Life Member of the League of Canadian Poets, a recipient of the Queen's Golden Jubilee Medal, and he has read his works at over 400 public readings in Canada, the U.S., France, Norway, Finland and Slovenia.

His latest books of poetry are Grasses & Gravestones (2003) and Blood & Bone, Ice & Stone(2005).

The poem below is from Blood & Bone, Ice & Stone.

Somewhere Near Endeavor circa 1953

What you remember now
with fearsome clarity: the lighted
windows of the Flin Flon Flyer
flashing past in the darkness,
the car careening to a stop
a few feet from the crossing.

What you’ve forgotten: the road,
the make and year of the car,
who was driving, where you sat,
how many were in the car,
how close you’d come.

But you knew then. And just before
the car shuddered to a stop
in a billowing of gravel dust,
you took a huge gulp of air,
threw your hands up as if
your arms could protect you
from the rushing train. And now
after all these years, the miles,
the cars, all that’s left is the image –
the lighted windows streaming
past like all those lives we live.

poem by Glen Sorestad


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