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 Canada is rich with its unknown famous poets.

 

You’d be surprised and sobered to know how many prize winners

 

Are no longer read or even recalled, not only by the young

 

But by their associates. And those back jacket endorsements

 

Proclaiming “one of our greatest” below a photograph

 Image

Glowing with Sears’ confidence is not holy writ nor even

 

Cereal box acclamation but a general epithet affixed

 

Randomly on the creativity assembly line.

 

Who visited Liz Gourlay at the end, or Eldon Grier; few did

 

Anne Marriott, her music reduced to rudimentary acknowledgments

 

And now Florence, whose poems I recall vaguely from when I was 18 &

 

Rampaged through the whole slew of Canpo available in the local library,

 

Avid for all, imagining glory, knowing now you can die ignominious

 

From a staph infection after going to the hospital with a broken hip.

 

Like anyone else, obviously, and even I didn’t drop in with flowers or to say

 

Once I read your poems, though I don’t recall which or why you were said

 

To be among our country’s finest crop of bards, blurbs rarely ending

 

Up (don’t forget this), as epitaphs.