Grist for the Mill: Select Poems and Images
A selection of poems paired with photography inspired by the Mississippi Valley’s industrial history and landscape.
Susan Macaulay is an Almonte-based writer, author and poet. In the spring of 2018, Susan was moved by a painting by artist Eileen Hennemann, to write grist for the mill, the title poem of this virtual exhibit.
Since then, Susan has produced numerous ekphrastic poems inspired by the images of local photographers. An ekphrastic poem is one in which the poet engages with visual art, such as painting, drawing, sculpture and, as in this case, photography.
In keeping with the Museum’s mission, the pairings of poems and images in this exhibit reflect the history of the woollen textile industry in the Mississippi River Valley, and the effects it had on the social, cultural and industrial development of the region.
Many thanks to our talented contributing photographers, both professional and keen amateurs:
Genevieve Vivian is an Almonte-based photographer. See more of her work here.
Trevor Johnston is an Almonte-based photographer, digital illustrator and graphic artist. His photography may be found here.
Paul Latour is an Almonte-based photographer.
Victoria Miller is an Almonte-based photographer.
Click on the photos to view the poems.
Image credit: Victoria Miller
grist for the mill
grist for the mill
Words by Susan Macaulay
it’s true it’s confusing
maybe even inane
to name a street mill
when it should be called main
“how could it have happened?”
tourists wonder in vain
as they wander around
in the snow, sun and rain
mill could be up
between mary & martin
and main could be be down
where the hill is just startin’
why don’t they just switch it?
why not make it clear?
replace mill street with main
‘cause everything’s here!
it’s chock as a block
full of fun and smart places
and in june they make room
for the bicycle races
not everyone favours
suggestions of change
though over the years
there’s been quite a range
almonte’s heart had grown quiet
until some saw potential
now it hops with cute shops
packed with goods quintessential
i love it that mill street’s
the name of the main
so what if it’s sometimes
a drain on the brain?
if it were me,
i would leave it the same
add a twist to the list
of the town’s claims to fame
the stairs
the stairs
Image from the MVTM
the sounds of their footsteps
echo softly through time
find their way into hearts
like yours and like mine
mothers and fathers
some with children in tow
below to the mill
and to work they must go
the stairs shorten the trip
from their homes to the mill
where they toil on machines
for their bellies to fill
they climb up and down,
morn, noon and night,
when the bell tolls
for that is their plight
did they come from afar?
have they always being here?
whom do they love?
what do they fear?
on the planks underfoot?
are they covered in fibre,
salty sweat or light soot?
what are their dreams?
how do they feel?
do they dance to a jig?
or spin to a reel?
do they talk as they walk
of the weather and friends?
how might they do good,
or with god make amends?
do they stop at the top and
look whence they’ve come
before they move on
to chores they need done?
when wartime visitors pose
in pressed sunday best
is it wool from the mill
In which they are dressed?
decades go by
and the stairs become worn,
from their place on the hill
the steps must be torn
what would ghost workers think
of the new metal way
where they are remembered
for the price they once paid?
would they marvel and point
at the nuts, bolts and screws?
or rest on the platforms
and take in the views?
sunset looms
Words by Susan Macaulay
Image by Eye Meets World Photography
looming threads
across the sky
cause my mind
to wonder why
sunset colours
get reflected
in unborn fabric
to be perfected
how is it that
weavers know
what the lens
has yet to show?
sunset looms
i am the river
i am the river
Words by Susan Macaulay
Image by Paul Latour
i am the river
in spring when
snow-melt waters
released from forests,
fields, hills and dales
force floodgates open,
allowing stemmed tides to
rise and rush through:
tumbling, falling
racing, white-
capped and
chaotic where
once there were
fences, wires and
walls, the dry land
is a torrent,
drowning the earth
so quickly
one stolen breath after
another after another
when i am the river
denied, the water
damned, free
to flow now
wanted or not
as the last of
winter
thaws
velvet waters
velvet waters
Words by Susan Macaulay
Image by Genevieve Vivian
velvet soft waters
like a mirror reflect
the richness of history
the shape of respect
two paddles dip quiet
we glide through the glass
slip into the future
remember the past
minds empty slowly
hearts fill up fast
who among us came first?
which ones will be last?
stones standing solid
now ripple in waves
made by our vessel
in a mercurial grave
so far we must travel
from the days of our youth
as the river invites us
to embrace sunken truth
MISSISSIPPI VALLEY TEXTILE MUSEUM
3 Rosamond Street East
Almonte, Ontario K0A 1A0
Phone: (613) 256-3754
Email: [email protected]
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