Poems by Chad Norman

Επιμέλεια: Εύα Πετροπούλου Λιανού

Brief bio: Chad Norman lives beside the high-tides of the Bay of Fundy, Truro, Nova Scotia. He has given talks and readings in Denmark, Sweden, Wales, Ireland, Scotland, America, and across Canada. His poems appear in publications around the world and have been translated into Danish, Albanian,  Romanian, Turkish, Italian, Spanish, Chinese, Czech, Polish, Portugese, and Hungarian. His collections are Selected & New Poems (Mosaic Press), and Squall: Poems In The Voice Of Mary Shelley (Guernica Editions). And Simona: A Celebration of the S.P.C.A. came out early 2021 from Cyberwit.net (India). And a new collection, A Matter Of Inclusion, is due out 2022 from Mwanaka Media and Publishing (Zimbabwe). 


A walk can be much more than a walk.

I did not feel like a viking
on an unexplored shoreline.

I did not feel like a voyeur
behind a partly opened curtain.

When I was about to pass her
one chilly darkening afternoon,
when I looked up from
seeing how her child
held his half-full bottle
and noticed how the closest
tree had one leaf left.

I clearly understood we all cling
in whatever ways we must
to whatever will allow us
to come together out on any street,                                                                     out in any community no matter the size.

And such understanding came about
due to the smile of this friendly mother
with her hair & head wrapped in
a piece of material I don’t need to name,

only, yes only, notice how it clings
to a choice she must’ve made
back where she may have been born
when she was a girl who never knew
one day on a sidewalk miles into the future
she would share a certain hello
with a thankful man born into this nation
she made another choice to come to,

a home they are able to share
under two different coloured roofs.


After the paid-for hydro
has been turned off
is when the masterpieces begin
to hang themselves,
none of them ever painted
or cameraed before,
none of them seen or critiqued
by the corrupt microscope,
connected to
that which belittles
the human potential
a scene and exception
grew up with,
was given to take
in hand
and write about,
not like a baton or torch,
or any such useless connection
to useless competition.

We endure, now, don’t we?
The planet our feet expects,
always there.

Nothing surprises us anymore;
we know it all.

Every scene of beauty is about the human.
No flaw, unlike the real Nature,
nothing wrong.

Sleep with a grin, why not?
Sleep and laugh,
go there, find a way,
suitable for yourself,
and stop all to grin,
and if you can find a mirror,
find it,
the watching of a grin,
the seeing of a grin,
a grin your face saves for you,
your face endures for itself,
sleep with a grin,
and make sure there is someone
beside you, or ready
to peer down at you ready,
ready in the morning
to guarantee it was there.

After the fire has been lit
and the home is heating,
the home the System said
you were worthy to own
and beauty is now found
in leaves you rake, is found
in a lawn you keep from
being always trimmed,
is found in a frosted mug
full of liquor from afar,
after the day is a bit lighter,
and Winter is ready
to offer Spring,
a go at the seasons
you use to stay sane.


if the crow is
loved by others,
is as wondrously silent
as a roost asleep
in its latest
favourite local forest.