Winnipeg Words is a celebration of contemporary Winnipeg poetry. As a reflection on our city, its people, and neighbourhoods, the project is a recognition of the power of words to establish the meaning of place. Incorporating play and imagination into our everyday spaces makes visible things we may have forgotten or neglected to notice, giving us a new perspective on our city.
Winnipeg Words was created through Winnipeg's Public Art Program in collaboration with Di Brandt as a legacy of her tenure as Winnipeg’s inaugural Poet Laureate. Di Brandt is a passionate advocate for poetry. In her role as Poet Laureate, she endeavored to celebrate the work of other poets and to give poetry a place of public prominence.
This temporary project was first installed in 2020 on Winnipeg Transit and libraries around town.
*New for 2022 River City by Winnipeg Poet Laureate Duncan Mercredi in Air Canada Window Park!
River City by Duncan Mercredi in Air Canada Window Park. Photo by Andrew McLaren.
prairie hymn
what i want is the shape of the story of the blood
jolting seasonally to & from the heart underneath
the small gestures of our hands the words spoken
& unspoken between us i want the huge narrative
of the river the curved cry of the land i want the
straight blowing of birch leaves in strong wind
the whistling of prairie grass your lit face in the
distance coming to meet me your arms hot like
August prairie sky all around me
Di Brandt
From the 1990 collection Agnes in the Sky (Turnstone Press).
Installed on the Charleswood Library.
A Short-Lived Visit
under a tarnished coin
of a full moon
your fragrance
is caught
in a gasp
of grey mist
it flees
like geese
at the perch
of the first cold
dots in the sky
fireworks in reverse
Shirley Camia
From the 2019 collection Mercy (Turnstone Press).
Installed on the Harvey Smith Library.
where ceremonies go
fish nudge and crash
into my ceremonies
the wind licks them
carries away my ceremony-echo
ants use my sand ceremonies
to build their mazes
birds use my pebble ceremonies
to strengthen their nests
boys pick up my flat ceremonies
skip them across the river
girls take home my large ceremonies
paint them pink and purple and blue
these ceremonies listen
these ceremonies remember
these ceremonies speak for me
Rosanna Deerchild
From the 2008 poetry collection this is a small northern town (J. Gordon Shillingford Publishing).
Installed on the Osborne Library.
Canto of Slinders*
nobody knew who slew
the parachute unfolden
the char perilous, the night
house nude of vellum
canto of slinders: soiled fish
of the sea, the long atlantic slalom
high as kits over the cap, we lip
the opposite of what we lean
the words you crossed out
now who you are
open your own two yes
to the dark dark
*Slinder (n): an error in language, such as mispronunciation, typo, or false definition.
Catherine Hunter
From the 2019 poetry collection St. Boniface Elegies (Signature Editions).
Installed on the Windsor Park Library.
autobus
c’est à l’arrière de l’autobus
où se logent les rêveurs
les ambitieux les silencieux
c’est à l’arrière de l’autobus
où campent les mauvais garçons
qui ont des choses à se reprocher
c’est à l’arrière de l’autobus
où jouent les amuseurs publics
loin du regard du conducteur
c’est à l’arrière de l’autobus
où se cachent les métaphores
de la vie quotidienne
c’est à l’arrière de l’autobus
qu’on retrouve les objets perdus
les bébés abandonnés
c’est à l’arrière de l’autobus
qu’on refoule ceux qui ont peu
les voix étouffées les bras liés
c’est à l’arrière de l’autobus
qu’on fomente les complots
les révolutions heureuses
c’est à l’arrière de l’autobus
qu’on a la paix pour s’embrasser
Charles Leblanc
From the 2021 poetry collection allumettes (Éditions du Blé).
bus
the back of the bus is
where the dreamers
the ambitious and the silent ones live
the back of the bus is
where the bad boys camp
with their shameful secrets
the back of the bus is
where the class clowns perform
far from the driver’s eyes
the back of the bus is
where the metaphors
of daily living hide
the back of the bus is
where lost items
and abandoned babies are found
the back of the bus is
where the have-nots are pushed
with their muffled voices and bound hands
the back of the bus is
where plots are hatched
and happy revolutions planned
the back of the bus is
where we can be left alone to kiss
Translated to English by Mark Stout.
Installed on the St. Boniface Library.
Children of the Earth
i heard the message in the pines
i heard it travel through the leaves
it drifted across the land
on the sweet grass trail
it travelled across the cities from the east
and across the tall prairie grass
it rose to the snows of my youth
and across the barren lands
children stopped their play and listened
elders put their bibles down
dreaming of their childhood
mothers and fathers laid aside their
weakness and danced to the drum once more
i heard the message from the pines
the words travelled over the mountains
across the seas of foreign lands
the message spoke of pride, strength and unity
and the children of the earth rose up
and sang the message to the nation
as they led us out of the darkness
Duncan Mercredi
From the 1992 poetry collection Dreams of the Wolf in the City (Pemmican Publishers).
Installed on the Transcona Library.
FREEDOM SUMMER
We rode around St. Vital
that summer on our banana bike
that seated five. Pavan always older
pedalled us to Sev for slurpees and popeye cigs
I held Pavan tight, Bimal seated behind me giggles
Navneet seated backwards with her skinny legs dangling
over the back tire and little Jagdeep perched on the handlebars.
We got caught by the police
the cop said it’s unsafe
Silently we all thought of that word
unsafe
We thought of erecting Gurdwara walls
with trap doors, monks in bathrooms
or parents praying for peace of mind
unsafe
what did the cop know?
We waited for the police to turn the corner.
Five brown girls in perfect balance
with cigs hanging out the side of our mouths
we thought ourselves tough.
Sharanpal Ruprai
From the 2014 poetry collection Seva (Frontenac House Poetry).
Installed on the Louis Riel Library.
On naming
after Audre Lorde
Trace new fingers over glossy pictures
and rename ourselves:
cirrus, mitochondria, metamorphosis,
the gaps between shoulders
where our faces do not peer out.
Audre says our magic is unwritten, so
we press desperate hands onto pages,
pretend sweats stains are story.
In the movies with the maids,
we reminded we loved
our lower place (stratus, maybe. Fog.)
In that Book of Hymns, proud Mary
is on her knees,
Jesus has a lace-front,
there are several dead animals.
In the February calendar we go over once,
the inventors of crossed roads and CCTV
and caller ID and the cataract laser-phaco probe
are all pictures in closed-mouth smiles.
Close your eyes and remember
us in the future. Audre says
we are not meant to survive
but so far, so good. Dead
at the hands of forgotten names
never echoing in the broken spaces
they have yelled themselves into –
all the pressed skirts they ruffled,
all the anniversaries we shout down with question marks:
where were we (the powerhouse of the cell)?
Picket signs gripped and Black bodies in the kitchen,
the story goes.
I am saying a thing that has already been said:
we howled ourselves out of the margins
and into illustrations,
reclaimed the cool bleached air.
Audre names us coal
and like hardness
We invented ourselves.
Traced back to translucent stories,
opaque in the dark, and even backwards
we matter.
Even in the remembered victories
of the also-forgotten, us
made twice-another.
We were there,
and still are,
and still screaming,
and this isn’t enough for anybody,
but is something, at least.
Chimwemwe Undi
From the 2017 poetry chapbook The Habitual Be (in New-Generation African Poets: A Chapbook Set (Nne), edited by Kwame Dawes, Akashic Books).
Installed on the Millennium Library.
treegrrl
she wants to
open her arms
wide enough
stretch them out
like an elm's long branches
to catch
a thousand birds
and hold them close
she thinks
all the animals at the zoo
belong to her
knows them through
her thin tan skin
greets the lion
like an old friend
nods to the monkeys
like cousins
she knows
how we all share
the same air
Katherena Vermette
From the 2012 poetry collection North End Love Songs (J. Gordon Shillingford Publishing).
Installed on the St. John's Library.
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