Mark Callanan was born and raised in St. John's, Newfoundland. After completing his B.A.at M.U.N., he worked in Leeds, England for two years. He has returned to Newfoundland and now lives and writes in Rocky Harbour. A regular reviewer for The Sunday Independent, he also does marketing work for Rattling Books. His poetry has appeared in various literary journals and anthologies. Scarecrow, his first volume of poetry, was published by Killick Press in 2003 to great praise. The three poems that comprise Genealogy were commissioned for the CBC's 2004 Poetry Face-Off. Check out Mark's website to read more of his poetry and learn of ongoing projects.
 

Geneology

Cooper

When I was still too young to know
what tools that trade might employ
or how much of a man can be poured
into a cask bound by iron rings,
I pictured him: plug of a nose, bung eyes
protruding from his face, barrel-chested.
At six I couldn't have placed a meaning
to his job-- making vessels for a living.

And those barrels might have shipped
whale oil to lanterns over Europe
or bore drinking water for the crew.
My water springs easily from a tap,
my lights ignite without need of a match.

I can't pretend to know how much
work can make a man into himself--
a box, a chest, a barrel bearing
blood and water, bound by flesh.

Where Once They Stood

When my father talks of how things used to be,
young loves, the mainland, a nameless dark-haired
woman who appears in photos lounging on his knee,
brown tuxedos on his wedding day, and how
heavily he bore my mother across the threshold

his eyes lose focus and his voice falls away, rises
again against my ears like a sea dragging pebbles
from the safety of the beach. He scribbles furious
diagrams on a napkin as he speaks, mapping out
his own geography. I touch his hand and he smiles at me.

The Price of Fish

They found him early one morning, sprawled
on the kitchen floor, rifle fallen beside him,
the shirt he wore soaked dark with blood
and arms splayed out as one would lay
salted cod to dry in the sun. His eyes,
wide and gawking, could have belonged
to any fish hooked and hauled aboard.

This was my great uncle in middle age.
Nights he had gone around the town,
twisted with drinking, the names of every
rotten dog dribbling from his mouth,
my mother would reel him in and sit him
at the kitchen table to dissect him,
catch his agony out and pin it down.

She tells this story from a chair at the side
of my bed. Later we step outside to catch
a breath of air. I open my hands and rain
spatters my upturned palms, my clothes.
Runoff from a drain pipe strikes my chest.
On the front of my shirt, a dark stain grows.

- Mark Callanan