Chad Norman lives beside the high-tides of the Bay of Fundy, in what is known as the hub of Nova Scotia.
He has given talks and readings in Denmark, Sweden, Wales, Ireland, Scotland, America, and across Canada.
His poems continue to appear in publications around the world and have been translated into Danish, Albanian, Romanian, Turkish, and Italian.
His latest collections are Selected & New Poems ( Mosaic Press, Oakville, Ontario, Canada), and Waking Up On The Wrong Side Of the Sky (Grant Block Press, Truro, N.S., Canada). A new collection, Squall: Poems In The Voice Of Mary Shelley, is due out Spring, 2020.
NOTES ON FINDING PEACE
To stop the sound of one's footsteps and kind of make a trade with tall neighbourhood fir trees and the wind winter offers the morning seems easy when no thought is needed. Then what is not to be called debris can be observed all along the sidewalk to entertain in a way both ear and eye, caught in a crack the frost caused in the shape of a familiar mystery, one I figured out during other walks, one I have found more than once, an icy broken twig, a tiny discarded peace sign.
A READING OF CLOUDS*
Someone says something about a storm. So I say what better time to head out for a walk... my favourite walk. Each step allows me to see the stones again, allows me to feel a change one I only know as a new season. Each look up at a vocal sky brings what I hear, what I question to know a sound I dare believe is a reading of clouds... those ones I can't name. Those ones I see and have seen many times when my neck needs a workout. A reading of clouds, each gust like a language meant for me, why I've spent a lifetime seeking what the sky is about and what I will never be a part of... left to stare and talk out loud to the wind about whatever those clouds are named. Each one, all of them way above anything I might’ve been myself, or the other curious men I can say are also locked to and led by unforgettable stories often written about the land. *written between March 12-18 during the worldwide outbreak of the Coronavirus.
for El Jones As I heard the laughter become the weeping and the weeping become the laughter all that the laughter tries to hide, no signs of the life lived there I've always noticed how dirty snow can get. She was looking for the page on the stage fallen, taken when the wind sang. A stronger time I ask the door about but it has taken too many knocks. A stronger scene I ask the window about but it has taken too many closures. A stronger unity I ask the home about but it has taken too many renovations. Marry me to the sky even though I married a woman. We have to make the roses grow. I saw a woman walking with a leash around the neck of a blue shadow painting the dirty snow. The only thing meaning anything to me at the moment are the starlings preening in the sun, in the snowy cedar trees. When I watch them and their remarkable hunger as the feeder on the front-deck offers a variety of adored seeds. All of this version, this depiction to be taken as the life I am living where some of those closest to me are eager, are willing, continually to take a stand for what I stand against. The lies about an uprooted Muslim family and all the Muslim families that have stayed alive to make such a choice I have no idea about, and I believe those closest to me have no idea about. How to find Canada, how to believe again it is where a freedom is rampant, it is where it is worth what it takes to rebuild the lives of those families who somehow have managed to say, “We can, and we will.”