Site hosted by Build your free website today!


"All that's visible clings to the invisible." ~ Novalis

Don Domanski was born in 1950 on Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia, Canada.
He has published seven books of poetry:

THE CAPE BRETON BOOK OF THE DEAD House of Anansi Press (1975)ISBN 0-88784-135-X

HEAVEN House of Anansi Press (1978) ISBN 0-88784-069-8

WAR IN AN EMPTY HOUSE House of Anansi Press (1982)ISBN 0-88784-094-9

HAMMERSTROKE House of Anansi Press (1986)ISBN 0-88784-150-3

WOLF-LADDER Coach House Press(1991) ISBN 0-88910-416-6

STATIONS OF THE LEFT HAND Coach House Press(1994) ISBN 0-88910-416-1

PARISH OF THE PHYSIC MOON McClelland and Stewart (1998) ISBN 0-7710-2874-1

His work has been published in a number of anthologies including:

"Domanski's is a vision that encompasses life and death without
useless rage or intellectual bleakness, but with an acceptance that
is both passionate and articulate." ~ Gwendolyn MacEwen, Books in Canada

"At a time when much of contemporary poetry seems content to evolve
toward prose, preferring to avoid risk taking and the shadowy regions of
the imagination, Domanaski's vision is refreshing. Earthy and astral, dark
and buoyant..." ~ John Bradley, The Bloomsbury Review



each night I spend whatever
God made during the day
spend it freely
on paper and empty air

I spend because God is only
a resemblance of God
only a conjuring built out 
of nebulas and wheat 
by a few old men 
asleep in their escapes

I believe in God
because those old men
sleep among paintings
they've never seen
because they're part
of the paintings
little dabs of colour
with stern faces
and arms akimbo

while these men were awake
and walked about in the world
their bodies were easily
corroded by any movement
of flesh in the street
they were terrified
they were weak as sleeves
and God knew He was
as many arms
that filled them 
with a total weight

God doesn't exist
and that was His best idea
to keep it simple
as every priest knows
reality ebbs away by noon

so better to have
the rolling embrace
of being invented
like the wheel
which carries the silence
in baskets up the hill

I spend whatever God makes
because He doesn't exist 
and will never miss it

I believe in God
because I'm paid so well
so often

also I believe because
I'm saddened by belief
saddened by praying hands
by the little footsteps
that hurry back and forth
beneath the storm.


in the waterdrop 
hanging from the gingko leaf 
there's just enough moonlight 
and sailors 
to make a woman miserable. 

LETHEAN LOCK MNEMONIC KEY forgetfulness is the weight of a pigeon landing in the park forgetfulness is a slight sobbing just ahead of the wind when I walk I measure out the spaces between forgetting and those spaces line up nicely like mine shafts down into coal deposits which smell of late-night taverns and complete success at sitting alone I remember forgetfulness it was part of the greenery it swallowed addresses it ate the bright fruit it was space when everyone's back was turned it was the sound of a closing gate soon after going to bed in old paintings it was always represented as the beautiful child with a broad leaf for a mother's lap in its chubby hands there was always a black key a key that opened the lock of memory I've never seen that lock but I'm sure it's made of flesh and bone I know there's a little darkness waiting there to be manipulated by the key two tumblers waiting to be spun round like two sleeping heads who suddenly wake stare into each other's eyes and turn away.
LOOKING FOR A DESTINATION the frozen road the scalded pines wind in the hills stars balancing everywhere on stilts we are driving this car this greasy bed this sink full of dishes along the coast looking for a destination watching wedding nights and rain between the trees we sing with the fury of a snail who sleeps among dogs in the yard drinks rain from their bowl and in his dreams barks at passing cars kicking up his one masculine foot high above his head in a salute to wolves we roll down our windows call to dogs snails to anything with blood on its lips to point us in the right direction to hand us a chart a map the secret one made out of skin and shadows the black one humming to itself like a motor like a car waiting on a highway at night for its hitchhiker its teenage girl with her breasts edged in water her teeth pointing backwards in her mouth like a boa her eyes her hair of matches and straw.
THE APE OF GOD and what if evil was a tint of pink against the bone pink star pink water the pinks of a world turned red by turning what if the devil was a cadaverous paste stuck to your gun-blue shoe and what if this point-blank demon this anti-priest this ape of God was simply and closely you dreaming of a better life a better sun better clouds a greener field a bluer sea what if all the evil was in your hand at its tiger-tips at its dusty edge would you suddenly dream of heaven's casino folded under your skin huddled high in your blood such a bright room on a bright night and the angels bringing such gruff and crumpled pages to your lips to be read earthly pages to be explained in the pink light the pink spice of their half-small-desire.

© Copyright

Internet Link Exchange Member of the LinkExchange Network

Sign My Guestbook View My Guestbook