Louise Morey Bowman

Louise Morey Bowman was a Canadian poet active in the early twentieth century. Her poetry is known for its lyrical depictions of nature and the Canadian landscape. Biography ↓More ↓

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Louise Morey Bowman

Hyacinth

Hyacinth dreams in the arbour ... Just a crumpled mass of gray ... Soft ashen hair and colourless skin, Small, delicate hands blue-veined and thin ... Hyacinth dreams in the arbour And who shall say What Hyacinth dreams to-day? Hyacinth dreams in the arbour And the stealthy pussy-cat creeps To her silken lap in the soft green gloom. Room for the pussy-cat, Hyacinth ... room! Hyacinth dreams, in the arbour, Of Life ... that steals and leaps Like a panther out of the shadows ... Hyacinth sleeps. Hyacinth! Hyacinth! Open your eyes!

Louise Morey Bowman

Mistress Mary

“O Mistress Mary--Mistress Mary-- What have you found in your new old house? Paperers are waiting you, and carpenters, and gardeners-- And you are up garret, just as still as a mouse! What makes your eyes so wet and so round? Mary--Mary! What have you found?” “Where the sour old wind grieves under the eaves There’s an old trunk hid--Oh the dust on the lid! I pulled out from it a gay round box, And in it were worn-out boots and socks-- Little, soft socks and little, stout boots-- And a child’s crude drawings of flowers and fruits, And a tiny toy whip, and a ship and a ball-- Oh--they’re just like a little lost boy! That’s all!”

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The Birth-Night

The eerie fingers of the rain All day have stroked my window-pane, While all the day and all the night Elves have been grinding, keen and bright, Weird, tiny knives of nerves and wits. Upon my heart an Elf-king sits ... A cruel, Lilliputian mite ... And by my breath he flies a kite Of hope in life or hope in death. He tugs and scowls with all his might ... The kite depends on my frail breath. I watch the earthly colours bright, Painted upon that fluttering kite.

Little boys fly gay kites And play with marbles ... Little boys laugh and shout In the wind and the sunshine....

Little Boy ... oh little Boy ... were you ever an Elf-king?

The eerie fingers of the rain All day have stroked my window-pane.

Far off I hear a voice explain “She seems to listen to the rain ... She has put up a plucky fight! A splendid boy! Oh she’s all right!”

Elves! Elves! Stop your grinding! Rain! Rain! Stop your stroking! Bright little kite is gaily flying In the sky ... for I’m not dying ... I am alive!... alive!... alive! Heart and soul and senses five!

Now as soon as I can say anything I’ll make them show me that Elfin-king!

A Portrait

Frail, exquisite, indomitable face, Where pain has left its trace ... Where are the words to paint Her curious austere charm ... elusive, pure, As the frost etchings on the window-pane. Ivory, ebony, lace ... Yes I shall choose that clinging gown of black, Severely plain, but with such frills of lace Over the delicate wrists and blue-veined hands That for an instant one feels all restraint Quite useless! Ravishing, ecstatic frills Of lace, or lacy thrills! Choose either phrase! She’s no fanatical saint ... No, after all, No saint at all! Come help me, portrait painters rare and old ... Velasquez, Romney, Reynolds and Van Dyke ... Here’s what you’d like Poured in a modern, twentieth century mould. Ivory, ebony, lace ... Her face Brings suddenly before me grave and clear, Impression of an old-time cavalier, With feminine grace; Brave glancing sword and delicate ripples of lace. For she has conquered dragons of old pain With a deep-shining clarity of thought: Victorious though her frailty shows the strain. I trace With clumsy words the outlines of her face ... Brave, grave, and suddenly flashing, purely gay, Like the lace frills at play! And so you see as I began I end This portrait of my friend ... Ivory, ebony, lace ... Frail, exquisite, indomitable face!

A Sketch

I hear him humming as he drives his car, In mellow baritone, an ancient psalm-- Drifting down to his subtle modern brain From his old covenanting ancestors, Who strode bare-kneed through purple heather bloom, Praising their God on wind-swept Highland hills. I am his wife. Beside him vividly, I see now not the crowded city streets, Through which he presses, strong, aloof and calm, Factories and shipyards where his vast machines Whirr steadfastly, obedient to his brain-- I see now just those small and golden hours When he is mine.

Deep Snow

Powder Of diamond Upon a silver birch; Old stone wall Buried deep.

And you ... A scarlet bird Whose wild wings flutter here Against my soul. How still The world!

Twelve Hokku on a Canadian Theme 1

How strangely they float, Pale gold and ivory cups, On wilderness lakes.

Twelve Hokku on a Canadian Theme 4

Silver-haired Marquise! You were transplanted, one Spring, Into wild New France.

Twelve Hokku on a Canadian Theme 5

The sugar maples ... Benevolent goddesses Who offer honey.

Twelve Hokku on a Canadian Theme 6

Snow-shoes: like strong wings Bound on the feet of victors Conquering snow-fields.

Biography

Louise Morey Bowman was a Canadian poet who wrote during the first half of the twentieth century. She published several collections of poetry that explored themes of nature, domestic life, and spiritual reflection. Her verse frequently employed traditional forms and a musical, lyrical style. Bowman's imagery often drew upon the landscapes of Canada, particularly the prairies and woodlands. Her poetry also examined the inner emotional world, balancing personal introspection with observations of the external environment. Though not as widely known as some contemporaries, she contributed to the body of early Canadian modernist poetry. Her work appeared in literary magazines and anthologies of the period. She is remembered for her careful craftsmanship and her ability to evoke mood through precise natural detail.

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