An online supplement of contemporary Canadian poetry, an addition to those published in our Mar/Apr 2025 issue.
Simon: a story
Sarah Klassen
The grip of a Roman hand on his shoulder.
A barked order. A sword pointing
in a direction he can’t refuse to go.
Is it brute fate or amazing grace
brings Simon of Cyrene into the city,
assigns him a supporting role
in an unfolding drama?
He lifts the wooden plank
from a doomed man’s wounded shoulder
and lays it on his own. The burden
rubs his cheek raw as he follows
like a sheep its shepherd
the stumbling victim of empire:
a whipped and bleeding Jew
who must be brought alive
at the appointed time
to the appointed place
of execution.
Simon can be forgiven
for believing a plot
featuring torture, thorns, whiplash
of scorn and death by crucifixion
of an innocent man must be,
by definition, tragedy.
The cross, cumbersome to carry,
holds high the Prince of Peace
who’ll rise and raise up stumbling sheep
and shepherd them with Simon
via Golgotha into the centre of the story.
This is a reworking of a poem from Imago's 2022 project, Crossings, in Toronto
Easter: a day or two later
Greg Kennedy
the fallen arches
on which we’ve been walking
RISEN!
our fallen rates
of interest in living
RISEN!
the fallen bridges
we haven’t been crossing
RISEN!
the fallen stars
that gave up on shining
RISEN!
the fallen prey
of all our thanksgiving
RISEN!
RISEN!
the line graph plotting profits
shoots up
off the charts
out the board room
through the roof
of the high-rise towers
tickling heaven
whence angels fall
laughing their holy heads off
at the perfect punchline
so long awaited…
so impeccably timed.
The veil was torn
Matthew 27:50-51
Ken Lievers
It was time, mid-afternoon, as shadows start to lengthen
Activities picked up their pace, the numbers start to strengthen.
Worshippers entered temple gate called Beautiful, for prayer;
And in third court a lamb was slain before the altar there,
This evening sacrifice must be a lamb that’s blemish free
And on that brazen altar must be burnt up totally.
Sundown would mark start of Shabbat and start of special feast:
Unleavened Bread. Put away sin symbolically in yeast.
Inside the Holy Place a priest would trim each wick with care
And light menorah for the night, the only lighting there.
I wonder if he did it with speed, so bored with the routine,
Or if he ever paused to think and look around the scene.
Perhaps he looked upon the curtain, silent, beautiful,
Twenty feet high and sixty long, that he did not dare pull.
It barred the way. Approach to God was only once a year
When the high priest would come with blood and filled with reverent fear.
To each one in the temple, time was crucial in detail
But each was blindly unaware God’s timing would prevail,
Each unaware that on a cross outside the city wall
The Lamb of God, our sacrifice, would die to save us all.
None here would hear His final shout, triumphant victor’s cry,
“Tis finished!” Then He bowed His head, deliberately did die.
But at that very moment standing in the Holy Place
Eyewitnesses would see something that time could not erase.
The thick, embroidered, woven veil that human hands did hang
That physically could not be ripped by any priestly gang
Was torn by unseen Divine hand, was severed into two,
Torn from the top down to the floor as only God could do.
Nothing around it was disturbed, no ragged edges showed;
The awestruck priests did recognize an act of God bestowed.
I’m sure those priests did look with awe on what they’d never seen:
Most Holy Place, all open now without a veil between.
The cherubim, the mercy seat, marked as blood sprinkles can;
Now nothing left to shield the holy God from sinful man.
New access brought through Christ’s torn flesh, a new and living way.
Our Great High Priest did bring His blood as offering that day.
Christ’s blood did something blood of beasts could simply never do.
Put sin away once and for all, old rituals now were through.
And yet, like some who prayed that day, “Look on the mercy seat”
We ask forgiveness on the grounds of Christ’s one work complete.
Right after that the earth did quake, the rocks did break apart
But priests still stood in mute amazement, shaken to the heart.
They’d seen it happen, heard the fabric tear in a straight line,
Two pieces hanging silently attest to hand Divine.
Unbroken secrecy of over fifteen hundred years
Replaced by open access, bids approach Him without fears.
The very fact that God Himself would open up the way
This drama in the temple like no other would convey.
What did eyewitnesses conclude, reporting on that day?
It had to be the hand of God; there was no other way.
Like none before, end of Passover this time was unique.
And Christ’s one act in symbol strong the torn veil does bespeak.
After the day of Pentecost, priests put their faith in Christ,
For many, the torn veil convincing evidence sufficed.
Vicarious death, victorious life, the risen Lord above,
Clad in His righteousness alone, we dare approach in love.
© 2012, Ken Lievers
Easter endings
Vilma Blenman
After Sunday brunch ends in slow motion
and dishes are dried and chocolate bunnies
lie buried in stomachs, what’s next?
What’s after Easter, except for the day after
which may not be a holiday, so you want to say,
“Go away, Monday morning.
Stop knocking on my front door.”
After Easter elation,
after the soaring Sunday morning celebration,
the recalibration of feelings after Good Friday,
where’s the restless soul to go when you know
Lent leaves you still bent with the dent in your heart
still visible, the weight of crosses still heavy
on your shoulders?
You hear more news after the other news.
Not good.
There’s one more snowstorm in the forecast.
It comes as promised, on time at rush hour,
furious flakes falling, snow settling on gardens
like a white shroud as winter silences green shoots
daring to emerge. There’s no urge to take photos.
You shiver as you wonder whether
Easter was a passing parade,
a charade leaving hearts and streets frozen.
Where are the songs with the long trumpet blast?
Where’s the intersection where faith overtakes fear
at last? How do you live light today and the next
after declaring the defeat of darkness?
Tell me more about beginnings
after Easter endings.
Breakfast on the beach
Vilma Blenman
Leave the city, Simon,
is what I said to myself that last night.
You must understand this: nothing happened
that was supposed to happen. Suddenly
soldiers surrounded us in the olive grove.
Swords flashed. Our leader surrendered.
Dreams die, Simon, is what I said inside
before I said out loud, “I do not know this man.”
Then three noisy nights without sleep. . . . Sometimes
I still see blood embedded in thorn bushes,
still hear a cock crowing in my ear,
still feel the need to be near water.
At sunrise the sea is safe. Silent. Transparent. No?
Fishing felt familiar then when nothing else was.
Wind still moved a boat,
sky still surrounded earth. So I went
fishing. On shore I saw a fire, saw flames
rising like an orange flag in morning mist.
Someone shouted, “Come and eat!”
I did not know I was hungry.
I only knew I was hollow.
Yes, he made me breakfast on the beach
after the breach
and I breathed again
and ate broken bread.
Afterwards we walked together again
as friends, as leader and follower.
Near here is where it happened, where
I sank my sandals into sand as he asked,
“Do you love me more?”
He asked three times. I replied three times.
This sea holds tears and fears.
Waves hear promises whispered.
I tell you this, though, if it’s decided now
I am to die, I’ll know why.
The caretaker’s last Easter
2 Peter 3:4
David Lyle Jeffrey
“There’s an air about this place that sifts the mind,”
he thought; the headstones summoned pilgrims past,
moving weekly toward their own appointed pews.
“Now any day of the week they’re easier to find,”
he smiled, looking over the tidy rows, “at last
inured to troubles of their times. No daily news
breaks in upon the peace that comes with death.”
Going his rounds, sweeping paths or trimming wicks,
the old caretaker recalled his sexton father’s lore,
got from his own father, both gone. “Nor does breath
return to them,” an old text read. Someone else picks
plot and stone, signs the page, shuts the vestry door.
He thought of Peter’s doubters, like himself grown dry-
until what? The earth beneath his feat began to heave
like waves of the sea; he heard a bugle blow, a shout
so sharp it pierced his ears. Light shattered the sky,
sharp cosmic diamonds spilled below to cleave
the turf on every grave. Bodies rose up and out.
The sexton awoke to find himself stretched on a stone;
though fallen, heard the bell toll and got to his feet,
gazing around at graves and grass. He was as alone
as before the Day of the Lord, tasks incomplete.
Nevertheless, he walked away in lightly falling snow,
unsure of his destination, on a street he did not know.
Of Death and Pascha
Lisa Epp
1. INTO
there is
the liminal space between
the death and
the ugliness and
the sobbing and
the aftermath
the dampening
the muteness
the receding
into nothingness
there is the place where hope was eaten up by a void--
but that, still, is something
but then there is the void
2. SEALING
I have known the way of tombs my whole life
without having known them
the way a cave yawns
inhales greedily from life
absorbs, amalgamates, integrates
It is neither darkness added to nor growing
but a blot that consumes unto its gaping self
We cover it up with a heavy stone,
one that cannot be moved.
3. INERTIA: VOID/GRIEF
A body at rest
persists in its state of rest,
and a body in motion
remains in constant motion
along a straight line
unless acted on by an external force.
(Isaac Newton)
4. WHAT PERSISTS
there is the void
there is the heavy immovable stone
there is a persisting and unbent state of rest
and unrest; there is a body remaining
along this straight and only line:
grief, erasure, forward and forever
5. SUSPENSION
Morning called
though I had no want of it
I returned to the entrenched
shape of my grief
but found the boulder moved—
the tomb was so small, empty
its vacuous threat had ceased
I could touch my hand
to the back of the wall:
mere earth
and dusts stirred up
suspended in a beam of light
6. NEW WAYS
There is light that moves with holes in its hands.
There is a new day that walks with old scars.
There is the way that life was pierced and drained out
but that stands yet, alive, all anew.
Pollinators
Lesley-Anne Evans
When scouts return
to the hive
they are the way—
charismatic
spirit dancers,
spin and jive
jitterbugs.
Their sisters congregate
to celebrate
eucharist—a hint
of apple blossom pollen
the scouts offer them
to hold in
their tiny throats.
This is how they memorize
the direction they must fly.
I am looking for a way
in this world—
to know
truth, and life
infused
with honey.
An earlier form of "Pollinators" is published on Poem Alone Blog, Ed. Colin Dardis, 2024.
Earthly Easter morning prayer
John Terpstra
Loving God, in whom is
light, the light
of the world,
the early morning light
we love
as winter recedes
and spring takes hold
the lightness of spirit
we feel, despite
the pain
and all that is happening
in the world
we can’t help it
our feet barely touch
the earth
we are learning to walk
on air
in the light
of life
everlasting, life
from death
a glorious fact of Creation
You never tire
of repeating
Thanks
Thanks yet again
Because we forget
in the flux and fire
of events,
as the facts
pile up in front of us
the twisted wreckage of war
the mountains and floating islands
of plastic
we get lost
in death
and forget
It’s all around
and it never stops
and it’s very loud
and it drowns out
the song
the hallelujah song
from inside the tomb
that we strain our ears to hear
the song from the tip of the branch
that is about to burst
into blossom
again again again
You’d think
after all these years
the circuit of the seasons
that we’d accept the guarantee
and take it to heart
and we do
but that’s how strong the world is
to block it out
that’s how heavily invested we are
in what’s happening
much like You
from whom we learned it
from whom we learned
our humanity
the kindness and caring
we’re in deep
that’s why it hurts
We, who often find ourselves
flying in circles
who squawk and flap
the feathers of our faith
sit in cushioned thanks
in this garden
this spring garden
of earthly delight and beauty
where we have so graciously been planted
and want never to leave
knowing
that we already do
live and dwell
here
that You are with
and in us
all the way and every moment
each day
a resurrection
we arise, awaiting
where Your wind may loft and carry us
if only You say the word
ABOUT THE POETS: Sarah Klassen is a poet and fiction writer in Winnipeg. Greg Kennedy is a poet and spiritual director who directs Ignatius Jesuit Centre in Guelph, Ont. Ken Lievers of Lethbridge has published four books of poetry with Friesen Press. Vilma Blenman is a Jamaican-Canadian poet, registered psychotherapist and teacher in Pickering, Ont. David Lyle Jeffrey is a Canadian scholar emeritus of religion and literature based at Baylor University in Texas. Lisa Epp is a poet and junior high teacher in Edmonton. Lesley-Anne Evans is a B.C. poet who was born in Belfast, Northern Ireland, and grew up in Toronto. John Terpstra is a poet in Hamilton, Ont.
Suggestions and submissions for Easter 2026 are welcome. Photo above: Thanti Reiss