George Elliott Clarke Poems

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George Elliott Clarke
George Elliott Clarke (born February 12, 1960) is a Canadian poet and playwright. Born in Windsor Plains, Nova Scotia, he has spent much of his career writing about the black communities of Nova Scotia and served for a time in the African-American Studies department at Duke University. He earned a B.A. honours degree in English from the University of Waterloo (1984), an M.A. in English from Dalhousie University (1989) and a Ph.D. in English from Queen’s University (1993). In addition, he has received honorary degrees from Dalhousie University (LL.D.), the University of New Brunswick (Litt.D.), the University of Alberta (Litt.D.), and the University of Waterloo (Litt.D.). He is currently an English professor at the University of Toronto. In 2001 he won the Governor General's Award for poetry for his book Execution Poems. Clarke's work largely explores and chronicles the experience and history of the Black Canadian community of Nova Scotia and New Brunswick, creating a cultural geography that Clarke often refers to as Africadia. Clarke's Whylah Falls was one of the selected books in the 2002 edition of Canada Reads, where it was championed by Nalo Hopkinson. Clarke is a great-nephew of the late Canadian opera singer Portia White, politician Bill White and labour union leader Jack White. Clarke will be a featured writer/instructor at the 2007 Maritime Writers' Workshop & Literary Festival in Fredericton, New Brunswick.

I dreamed I stood upon a hill, and, lo!
The godly multitudes walked to and fro
Beneath, in... [read poem]
watercolour for negro expatriates in france
What are calendars to you?
And, indeed, what are atlases?
Time is cool jazz in B... [read poem]
The rimer quenches his unheeded fires,
The sound surceases and the sense expires.
Then the... [read poem]
The cur foretells the knell of parting day;
The loafing herd winds slowly o'er the lea;... [read poem]
Thou shalt no God but me adore:
'Twere too expensive to have more.

No images nor ido... [read poem]
the mad philosopher
The flabby wine-skin of his brain
Yields to some pathologic strain,
And voids from its uns... [read poem]
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