30 Glebe Report February 6, 2026
POETRY QUARTER
Beginnings The word “start” means “to begin,” yes, but it also means to startle, to jump, perhaps to be frightened. We live many beginnings – a new love blossoms, a child is born, we move to a new city, we retire. Morning is a kind of reset button, when all things are possible. Spring brings renewal in nature and the joy of life beginning again. We asked poets to send us their thoughts and feelings in poetic form on the theme of “beginnings.” Here is a selection of their poems. The Glebe Report’s Poetry Quarter is curated by Deborah-Anne Tunney, poet and short story writer.
POETRY QUARTER
She Could Not Wait To Begin!
beginnings with or without measure. . . then again, regardless, somewhere, beginnings, all anew again
I Want to Begin I want to begin with that morning waking up and thinking I could walk to his house across the fields. I want to begin with being fourteen again with a heart that reached to my fingertips to my nose to my feet. I want to begin with something that woke me before dawn and my friend lay asleep beside me. I want to begin with the sweet air of her grandmother’s house, and the quiet that was on everything, even the dishes. I want to begin with the screen door closing behind me like a steel whisper and the morning breathing in the trees. I want to begin with what called me, as I stepped from the road to the fields and dryness snapped beneath my shoes. I want to begin with the sound of the first birds beginning to moisten the morning of that dark sky. I want to begin with my heart that folded to an arrow, even though I’d never been that way before.
Maureen Korp
Startled What a huge snowflake she thinks as she moves toward the window, discovers instead, a shower of feathers. Thoughts race as she remembers the Cooper’s Hawk perched, unmoving, high in her neighbor’s giant fir, the pigeons who swirled below. She tries not to put the pieces together. Tells herself it could have been a close call. Chooses not to venture outside and investigate; prefers her fantasy ending to a more probable reality.
Ronnie R. Brown
LOVE SPROUTS The trumpet-major of my heart draws near, In haughty splendor, flushed with rising light; He bursts upon my sight with sudden might— The spark that stirs his spring is vibrant and clear. From hollow depths where nothing once was there, Love sprouts—first fragile life in silent night; He hears the calling voice, yet soft and slight— A desert’s ardent breath, untouched, sincere. No true emotion ever marked his face; No whispered signs of passion crossed his day, No hidden joys, no tears in secret trace.
Someplace he hasn’t been to before, a nether world, it seems-Tiresias-eye as he looks back at me feline no less, bending forward-but straight-backed. How I expected him to be-my cat a wise old man, and what’s going through his mind I will never know seeing him from another place before the moon’s light appears.
Watch now, his breast swells sweet with soft dismay— The arrow strikes with tender, fatal grace; The end has begun: Love approaches in its sway.
A far country I will indeed claim for him sometime before Homo-this or-that Einstein’s dark matter with non-being, the cat coming closer to me... like from long ago.
Marie-France Richards
Cyril Dabydeen
A fish swimming in a bowl; the flutter of a hummingbird—that first quickening that finally convinced her when even the test (or, actually, tests). the sonograms, the doctor’s assurances could not. The sign that, at long last, she was going to be a mother, that life was growing inside her and a new, wonderful adventure was about to begin.
Ronnie R. Brown
Ronnie R. Brown
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APRIL, COME SHE WILL… Five pink tulips in a pot, beginning to open up, defying the freezing rain & snow on the other side of The kitchen window; showing Mother Nature what she should Be offering, instead of this cruel April fool joke.
SUE REIVE, BSCPT, MCPA
OTTAWA
Betty Warrington-Kearsley
IN THE BEGINNING…
Cat Poem
Michelle Desbarats
I’m four. Daddy says I’m too young to go to school. “Wait till you’re six!” Two more years for that fix! On a joy ride in Uncle Heng’s lorry he pointed to schools on our way home. My keen mind mapped the closest one before he turned homeward to where we lived in Fish-Eye Bay. When Mum and Dad went to work next day I slipped on my sunhat, socks, shoes, and gloves like Mummy does and look as presentable. I filled her shopping bag full of books: my Rupert 1941 and 2 Annuals, Enid Blyton’s Bedtime stories, as well, Wynken, Blynken, and Nod. With all my offerings I set off walking the map my mind had traced, skipping potholes, brushing tall grasses. called Lalling, till I neared the big road’s rushing traffic. yet school was still far away. Late afternoon, sirens nearing. Suddenly, police cars, Uncle’s motorbike, appeared. “We’ve found her! She’s safe!” They shouted. “Come! little girl, home is where you’re going!” “No! No! I’m nearly there! See?” I pointed to the distant shadow. Uncle lifted me on his bike tank as I howled and struggled to no avail. I clutched my books. A beginning failed!
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