An online supplement of contemporary Canadian poetry, an addition to those published in our Mar/Apr 2026 issue.
Easter dinner with my daughter
Vilma Blenman
My daughter said dinner was at her house instead
Mom, you always make us such a spread.
At the front door my granddaughter showed me
real Easter eggs found at her friend’s egg hunt
on Easter morning. She was not with me in church.
In the hall was her picture taken at the mall
smiling, snuggling with the Easter bunny
He was so cute, Granma, all furry and white.
The dinner table displayed fresh tulips and white candles.
A perfectly pink ham crowned with yellow pineapple slices
sat beside roasted potatoes beside cornbread and braised
lamb chops and the greenest spring-mix salad and
my son-in-law offered wine—red or white?
I tasted tender lamb with mint jelly but couldn’t chew
knowing all that wasn’t true. I want to know when I go
I’ve left her more than Easter dinner mores. More than this.
…After supper he took the cup, saying, do this,
whenever you drink it, in remembrance of me.
I swallowed hallowed wine, warming my throat.
I know I’m growing old. I hold a faith that fell
from her years ago, shattering like a glass and …
Mom, aren’t you impressed? See. I’m cooking like you now.
Is there something the matter, Mom?
The women
Marianne Jones
In the grey light we made our way on lead feet
to the edge of town
where the dead lay.
Emptied of tears
empty of hope,
we wondered how we would move the rock.
We were just women, after all,
come to perform the office of women.
Even in despair the work goes on.
By the time we got there
the sky was blushing with sunrise.
What we saw I still thrill to remember:
a Shining One,
a stone rolled aside
a tomb empty except for discarded grave clothes,
Birds trilling, wildflowers blooming
—all the signs of life were there.
Why seek the living among the dead?—The Being asked.
I swear he winked as the truth penetrated our confusion!
Open-mouthed, we looked at each other, clutched hands,
then cried for joy.
Hearts thudding, we ran all the way back,
staggering as we came through the door
babbling what we had seen.
Being men, they didn’t believe us.
But we knew. We knew.
Alive
Sarah Klassen
In this country* you’ll find Christ
carved from the heart of a lime tree.
He’s perched like any peasant on a stump,
crowned with crude thorns.
He’s leaning forward,
right arm bent at the elbow,
the elbow resting on his knee.
A weathered hand cups the bearded chin.
His feet are sandaled.
The expression on his face
(gouged out of wood but not wooden)
is pensive. As if he’s remembering
friends he called by name
and sent to labour in his vineyard.
Perhaps a parable he told the crowd
about a late night visitor
whose importunity broke open a door.
Once he took hold of the lifeless wrist
of a young girl, called her by name.
She opened her eyes, amazed
to see, so close, a face so visible
and so alive.
*Lithuania
All That Belongs
Angeline Schellenberg
Composed on the lectionary texts for the 7th Sunday of Easter (John 17:6-19; Acts 16:16-34)
the secret things, the sacred things
belong, dreams revealed, highest
heavens, earth, the land, every living thing,
all this abundance and all of it
belongs, the high mountains to the wild
goats, the plans of the heart
do not harm yourself
belong, strength and insight,
in body and spirit, a cup of water
because you belong, I belong
to my beloved, we
for we are all here
though many, form one
body, and each belongs, this is how
we know, whether we live
or die, we belong
Risen as He said
Debbie Sawczak
These are song lyrics. Click to play an MP3 of this song.
He’s gone; the Friend we loved has died.
The pain and love sting deep inside.
Our lives will still go on, but never be the same again.
We wish we were a little more brave;
We steal down early to the grave…
The stone is rolled away! We can’t believe it, but they say:
He is risen as he said,
He is risen as he said!
He is no longer here among the dead—
He is risen as he said!
The air of earth with angels thrills,
The Silent Planet finally fills
With music pure and bold, too strong for human ears to hold.
They watch the Son come from his fight,
The winner over death and night;
They hallow Jesus’ name, they hail his beauty, shout his fame!
Alive! Our Christ is now alive!
He lives, never again to die!
His triumph now is ours—we live by resurrection power!
Lord Jesus Christ, to you we kneel;
Your victory is sure and real,
Your sacrifice complete. We fall and worship at your feet.
You are risen as you said,
You are risen as you said!
You are no longer there among the dead—
You are risen as you said!
In herbal medicine the whole of yarrow is used: flowers, leaves, and roots
Lesley-Anne Evans
—After Andrew Motion’s “Sparrow”
Keep returning
meadow’s fling
fragrant leafing
discerning
fumigating
nest lining
bug repelling
re-wilding
magic making
blood clotting
health protecting.
Keep returning
clump forming
non-invading
root spreading
pioneering
wound healing
fever ending
skin soothing
calming breathing
peace bringing
harm deterring.
Keep returning
edge dwelling
ever-greening
feast serving
for pollinating
roots clinging
white bloom rising
air sweetening
drought surviving
field blessing
spring’s emerging.
Keep returning.
ABOUT THE POETS: Vilma Blenman is a retired teacher and therapist in Pickering, Ont. Marianne Jones is a writer in Thunder Bay, Ont. Sarah Klassen is a poet and fiction writer in Winnipeg. Angeline Schellenberg is a Winnipeg spiritual director and the author of Tell Them It Was Mozart, Fields of Light and Stone and Mondegreen Riffs. Debbie Sawczak is a writer, editor and lexicographer in Georgetown, Ont. Lesley-Anne Evans is a B.C. poet who was born in Belfast, Northern Ireland, and grew up in Toronto.
Suggestions and submissions for Easter 2027 are welcome.