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The Essential James Reaney (Essential Poets
Despite his amply deserved reputation as the father of Southwestern Ontario Gothic, James Reaney was one of the most playful and buoyant Canadian poets publishing in the 1940s and '50s. The Essential James Reaney presents an affordable, pocket-sized selection of the poet's very best work.
- GenresPoetry
64 pages, Paperback
First published November 1, 2009
About the author
James Reaney
70 books2 followersJames Crerar Reaney, OC FRSC was a Canadian poet, playwright, librettist, and professor. Reaney won Canada's highest literary award, the Governor General's Award, three times and received the Governor General's Award for Poetry or Drama for both his poetry and his drama.
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Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews
January 28, 2022
Upon the lake
At Gramaphone
A beastly bird
Sits on the bank
And dips its beak
Of sharpened bone
Into a haunted
Tank
That ripples with an eternal stone.
When the ladies descend the stairs,
Some eat their fans
And others comb their hair.
But Miss Mumblecrust
Picks up that beastly bird
And dips its beak
Into that round lake
That ripple with eternal stone
And dips its beak of sharpened bone
Into a pool of a young man singing
'I'm all alone
By the telephone!'
* * *
I am Lake Superior
Cold and gray.
I have no superior;
All other lakes
Haven't got what is takes;
All are inferior.
I am Lake Superior
Cold and gray.
I am so cold
That because I chill them
The girls of Fort William
Can't swim in me.
I am so deep
That when people drown in me
Their relatives weep
For they'll never find them.
In me swims the fearsome
Great big sturgeon.
My shores are made of iron
Lined with tough, wizened trees.
No knife of a surgeon
Is sharper than these
Waves of mine
That glitter and shine
In the light of the Moon, my mother
In the light of the Sun, my grandmother
* * *
Once, auf Kanada, I met
A different kind of Don Quixot.
Instead of collecting romances,
He owned several hundreds of realistic novels!
Many copies of James T. Farrell,
And many many copies of Theodore Dreis-
er, illustrated, non-illustrated.
All bought with zeal never sated.
As for Émile Zola - ooh lala, Zoo la la -
His collected works piled on a sofa!
Now this Don Quixot went on a quest
To find nothing of particular interest,
But just to let the environment
Over him be absolutely dominant.
He tried hard not to have adventures,
And talked to people mostly of their dentures.
Until he saw one day
Beside his highway
Giants lined up on the hills.
He thought they were windmills!
And would they grind some flour for him
And fill his water pail to the brim?
Oh, these giants with their giantesses
Of windmills were quite the antitheses.
When he climbed up to them with pail and bag of wheat
Hoping to get somethign to drink and eat
These giants with terrific ease
Tore him to pieces!
Oh tale of woe!
Another victim of verismo!
Don't forget he had a Sancho Panza
Who lagged behind him like a second stanza
And kept telling him they weren't windmills,
'We live in a fairy tale, not in "real-life" novels!
The Brothers Grimm were right
Dreiser, Farrell and Zola ain't!'
Don Quixote's squire scampered off with a wail,
But not without the wheat and the pail,
Deserting this highway for a nearby wood
As fast as he could!
At Gramaphone
A beastly bird
Sits on the bank
And dips its beak
Of sharpened bone
Into a haunted
Tank
That ripples with an eternal stone.
When the ladies descend the stairs,
Some eat their fans
And others comb their hair.
But Miss Mumblecrust
Picks up that beastly bird
And dips its beak
Into that round lake
That ripple with eternal stone
And dips its beak of sharpened bone
Into a pool of a young man singing
'I'm all alone
By the telephone!'
- The Gramaphone, pg. 12
* * *
I am Lake Superior
Cold and gray.
I have no superior;
All other lakes
Haven't got what is takes;
All are inferior.
I am Lake Superior
Cold and gray.
I am so cold
That because I chill them
The girls of Fort William
Can't swim in me.
I am so deep
That when people drown in me
Their relatives weep
For they'll never find them.
In me swims the fearsome
Great big sturgeon.
My shores are made of iron
Lined with tough, wizened trees.
No knife of a surgeon
Is sharper than these
Waves of mine
That glitter and shine
In the light of the Moon, my mother
In the light of the Sun, my grandmother
- Lake Superior, pg. 21
* * *
Once, auf Kanada, I met
A different kind of Don Quixot.
Instead of collecting romances,
He owned several hundreds of realistic novels!
Many copies of James T. Farrell,
And many many copies of Theodore Dreis-
er, illustrated, non-illustrated.
All bought with zeal never sated.
As for Émile Zola - ooh lala, Zoo la la -
His collected works piled on a sofa!
Now this Don Quixot went on a quest
To find nothing of particular interest,
But just to let the environment
Over him be absolutely dominant.
He tried hard not to have adventures,
And talked to people mostly of their dentures.
Until he saw one day
Beside his highway
Giants lined up on the hills.
He thought they were windmills!
And would they grind some flour for him
And fill his water pail to the brim?
Oh, these giants with their giantesses
Of windmills were quite the antitheses.
When he climbed up to them with pail and bag of wheat
Hoping to get somethign to drink and eat
These giants with terrific ease
Tore him to pieces!
Oh tale of woe!
Another victim of verismo!
Don't forget he had a Sancho Panza
Who lagged behind him like a second stanza
And kept telling him they weren't windmills,
'We live in a fairy tale, not in "real-life" novels!
The Brothers Grimm were right
Dreiser, Farrell and Zola ain't!'
Don Quixote's squire scampered off with a wail,
But not without the wheat and the pail,
Deserting this highway for a nearby wood
As fast as he could!
- Don Quixot de la Verismo, pg. 54-55
March 28, 2026
Favourite poem: “from A City in Greenland”
March 2, 2023
It really does feel like an "essential" anthology of James Reaney. The reader can see many faces of the poet, and it's a journey through many topics and styles. However, half of it didn't feel like must-read poetry. It was a pleasant experience, tho.
October 23, 2013
Of the 20,000 things I should be doing this Wednesday afternoon, reading poetry more than likely isn't one of them. But out of the 20,000 things I have done in my life so far, reading more poetry seems like a good thing to do. And reading The Essential James Reaney was certainly one good thing I did.
Page 22 The Ghost
The evening waddles over the fields like a turkey.
I lurk,
Where my knowledge was chopped from my power.
All knowledge waits for you at the corner here so murky.
The awkward doltish low I.Q. farmboy shambles down the steps,
The empty echoing pitcher in his hand:
I am
Ha ha! And his hair stand straight up like brambles.
my complete review
Page 22 The Ghost
The evening waddles over the fields like a turkey.
I lurk,
Where my knowledge was chopped from my power.
All knowledge waits for you at the corner here so murky.
The awkward doltish low I.Q. farmboy shambles down the steps,
The empty echoing pitcher in his hand:
I am
Ha ha! And his hair stand straight up like brambles.
my complete review
Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews