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 & Stewart(1998) ISBN 0-7710-2874-1
His work has been published in a number of anthologies including:
THE OXFORD BOOK OF CANADIAN VERSE OUP(1982) ISBN 0-19-540396-7
"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
EPIPHANY UNDER THUNDERCLOUDS 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.
HALIFAX PUBLIC GARDENS 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.
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