Wilson Pugsley MacDonald (1880-1867)
McDonald was a Canadian poet, more popular with the general public than with critics. He made a living off his poetry by giving readings across the country. On these tours he would sell his books of poetry and offer to sign them. It's said that it's rare to find one of his books without his signature. And, sure enough, my copy of his book of poems, Out of the Wilderness (1929) is signed by MacDonald to Mrs. Olive MacDougall: "Wishing you the minimum of the prose and the maximum of the poetry of life, Toronto, July 28th, 1931." There were even Wilson MacDonald fan clubs in Canada and the United States. He worked many different jobs in any different fields before he became determined to make his living from his poetry. His first collection of poetry was published in 1918, and he self-published his next in 1921.
Though he was a self-promoter of his work, a few critics did recognize his talents. Of his Whitman-style poem, "Out of the Wilderness," for instance, the so-called "Father of Canadian Poetry," Charles G.D. Roberts (1860-1943) wrote that in it MacDonald "has been so bold as to experiment frankly with Whitman’s peculiar form and content, and he has justified the experiment. He has succeeded at times in breathing into that harsh form a beauty of words and cadences which Whitman never achieved."
The power of his style in this beautiful poem is evident immediately:
"I, a VAGABOND, gypsy, lover forever of freedom,
Come to you who are arrogant, proud, and fevered with civilization -
Come with a tonic of sunlight, bottled in wild, careless acres,
To cure you with secrets as old as the breathing of men;
Come with the clean north wind in my nostrils,
To blow out the dust and the smoke of your lives in a great blast of beauty;
Come with a chaos of wild-flowers, grouped in a lovely disorder,
To shame all your gardens of maddening, cloying perfection."
- From "Out of the Wilderness"
His beautiful imagery portrays Nature faithfully in "Oaks."
"Oaks"
White Oak Leaves in October
No flaming hue is here,
For no youth is in the fold -
They are old, very old,
And, they garb in russet and gold.
The burning maples are near;
The pine is a sound like a tear:
One is too sombre, one is too gay
For this autumn holiday.
The mists are cold on the low ponds
And the frost is chill;
But the world is warm with crimson and bronze
Where the oaks stand on the hill.
The yellow willow leaf
Has gone to an early rest;
The leaves of the elm
Marched on at a wind from the west.
Only the oak leaves remain
With their brave russet and gold:
Their fires shall burn to the edge
Of the winter's cold.
What do the oak leaves think
In this rich, thoughtful hour?
Are they doleful at going
From so fair a bower?
Or sad as a limner
Who, in sight of the prize,
Must give up forever
His long-beloved dyes?
Or do they wonder
Who, when they are dead,
All others having gone before,
Shall make their last bed?
Russet and bronze and gold,
You shall not leave
Without fitting mourners
To weep and grieve.
The rose-pod is yet burning
In the quiet roadside air:
When the oak's bronze goes out
There will be some one to care.
Shall we go to sleep -
To the unbreathing Deep -
Like black weeds touched with frost?
Nay! Age is the time for bright colors,
Though life be the cost.
Youth is a fine adventure,
But it's rare to be old
And to go to the Master of Colors
In russet and bronze and gold.