Madam Speaker, it is indeed a delight to address this particular bill because I believe that poetry in many ways gives beauty to life. In this place many of our speeches are sometimes highly technical and sometimes perhaps even a little boring from time to time. Perhaps it is a good idea to lift our spirits a little higher, to encourage our imagination.
Poetry is very rhythmic and sometimes the rhythm is very regular, other times it is somewhat irregular, but rhythm there is. Rhythm reflects life probably better than anything else because where do we not have rhythm. We have rhythm in music, rhythm in life. We have the rhythm of day and night. We have the rhythm of pain and pleasure. Rhythm is there for all of us.
The poet laureate and the definition of the poet laureate is probably expressed best by the minister of culture in Great Britain. He put it together in a single sentence, which I like. He said:
The Poet Laureate is a voice for poetry and a voice for the nation through poetry.
It is wonderful that that kind of thing can happen. I want to commend the member who brought this forward as a motion to amend the Parliamentary Act so that we would have a poet laureate.
In tribute to poetry, I would like to read a couple of poems that might express some of this as far as Canada is concerned. I would like to begin by quoting a poem written by Robert Frost, which in British Columbia we find particularly meaningful because it has to do with logging.
It is entitled “Out, Out--”.
The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood, Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it. And from there those that lifted eyes could count Five mountain ranges one behind the other Under the sunset far into Vermont. And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled, As it ran light, or had to bear a load. And nothing happened: day was all but done. Call it a day, I wish they might have said To please the boy by giving him the half hour That a boy counts so much when saved from work. His sister stood beside them in her apron To tell the 'Supper.' At the word, the saw, As if to prove saws knew what supper meant, Leaped out at the boy's hand, or seemed to leap-- He must have given the hand. However it was, Neither refused the meeting. But the hand! The boy's first outcry was a rueful laugh, As he swung toward the holding up the hand Half in appeal, but half as if to keep The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all-- Since he was old enough to know, big boy Doing a man's work, though a child at heart-- He saw all spoiled. 'Don't let him cut my hand off-- The doctor, when he comes. Don't let him, sister!' So. But the hand was gone already. The doctor put him in the dark of ether. He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath. And then--the watcher at his pulse took fright. No one believed. They listened at his heart. Little--less--nothing!--and that ended it. No more to build on there. And they, since they Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.
The soul, the experience, the life, the rhythm of a nation of working people, but there is a lot more than that to life. There are also the values that we hold and the relationships we have one to another as this boy had a family, a sister a father and a mother.
William Shakespeare wrote a sonnet which has been with me since I was in high school. It is one of those that I found extremely expressive of what I was going through and what I was thinking. It is Sonnet 116, probably the most formal form of poetry one can write. It is very difficult to do but Shakespeare was a master at it. I really like the sonnet and I would like to read it. I hope our poet laureates will write like this.
Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments; love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove. O no, it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wand'ring bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his heighth be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
Would it not be great if our relationships were characterized that way. “Love is not love” but “it is an ever-fixed mark”. That is a beautiful image.
Canada gave an honorary citizenship to Nelson Mandela. When he was with the Prime Minister in the beautiful decor, I thought it would have been nice to have had a poet laureate present. At that time, I was unaware we had this bill coming up. I thought that would be the ideal place to have that.
I thought about the kind of poem I could refer to that would fit that kind of occasion. I looked at the words of Kahlil Gibran some time back. He writes some interesting material. He has written on giving, and I would like to read his words. Our nation gave to another person in honour of the freedom that he exemplified with his life and his dedication to sacrifice for freedom. The book, The Prophet , depicts giving. I would like to read his words into the record.
Then said a rich man, Speak to us of Giving. And he answered: You give but little when you give of your possessions. It is when you give of yourself that you truly give. For what are your possessions but things you keep and guard for fear you may need them tomorrow? And tomorrow, what shall tomorrow bring to the overprudent dog burying bones in the trackless sand as he follows the pilgrims to the holy city? And what is fear of need but need itself? Is not dread of thirst when you well is full, the thirst that is unquenchable? There are those who give little of the much which they have--and they give for recognition and their hidden desire makes their gifts unwholesome. And there are those who have little and give it all. These are the believers in life and the bounty of life, and their coffer is never empty. There are those who give with joy, and that joy is their reward. And there are those who give with pain, and that pain is their baptism. And there are those who give and know not pain in giving, nor do they seek joy, nor give with mindfulness of virtue; They give as in yonder valley the myrtle breathes its fragrance into space. Through the hands of such as these God speaks, and from behind their eyes He smiles upon the earth. It is well to give when asked, but is better to give unasked, through understanding; And to the open-handed the search for one who shall receive is joy greater than giving. And is there aught you would withhold? All you have shall some day be given; Therefore give now, that the seasons of giving may be yours and not your inheritors'. You often say, “I would give, but only to the deserving.” The trees in your orchard say not so, nor the flocks in your pasture. They give that they may live, for to withhold is to perish. Surely he who is worthy to receive his days and his nights, is worthy of all else from you. And he who has deserved to drink from the ocean of life deserves to fill his cup from your little stream. And what desert greater shall there be, than that which lies in the courage and the confidence, nay the charity, of receiving? And who are you that men should rend their bosom and unveil their pride, that you may see their worth naked and their pride unabashed? See first that you yourself deserve to be a giver, and an instrument of giving.
That is what we did as a nation. We gave an honorary citizenship to Nelson Mandela.
Three different occasions in life have been expressed by three different poets in a very different form.
It would be wonderful if our nation could give its citizens and our colleagues here in the House the experience, at least once a year, of a poet laureate reading good, solid poetry that he or she has written and would like to demonstrate. It would lift the spirit of our nation a little higher. I support the bill.