is the author of

Porcupine Archery

published by

One of the original Storm Warning poets, Bill Howell is now at the height of an award-winning literary career spanning four decades.  He has four poetry collections: The Red Fox (McClelland & Stewart, 1971), In A White Shirt (Black Moss, 1982), Moonlight Saving Time (Wolsak & Wynn, 1990) and Porcupine Archery (Insomniac Press, 2009).  A chapbook, Ghost Test Flights, was published in 2008 by Rubicon Press in Edmonton.  His writing appears in literary journals and anthologies across Canada, in the United States and the United Kingdom.  

Bill was born in Liverpool, England, in 1946.  He grew up in Halifax, Nova Scotia, and has a BA in English from Dalhousie University.  He has lived in Toronto for more than half his life.  Howell was a network CBC Radio Drama producer-director for almost three decades, 23 years as a Program Executive Producer. With more than 800 entries at CBC Archives, his plays have garnered multiple ACTRA and international awards.  This lifetime of working in dramatic dialogue echoes through his poetry and serves him well for readings.

For further information, check the following websites:

http://www.insomniacpress.com/author.php?id=183

http://www.library.utoronto.ca/canpoetry/howell

http://www.poets.ca/linktext/direct/howell.htm

http://www.nyqpoets.net/poet/billhowell

http://www.nthposition.com/author.php?authid=729

http://www.rubiconpress.org

http://wcdr.ca/wcdr/?p=29

Bill has given us one excellent poem:

BOYS WHO GO ALOFT

"Look up. Waaaaaay up!"

                         - The Friendly Giant

1

Clouds are closer to dreams.  

Also crows-nests let you see where

you're going much sooner, an important consideration

when you're trying to catch up to being

old enough for anything.  

                                        First, of course, you have to

have some idea what you're trying to rise above:

Chums Annuals from your Granny in Canterbury

full of terse tales of storm-tossed rescues

by ocean-going tugs or enormous Newfoundland dogs

from icy harbour breakwaters will do the trick nicely.

Especially if you write her polite, punctual

thank-you letters. Then race each other

to the post-Christmas mailbox,

though nothing will be picked up at least until next year,

next week.  

Your breath never seems to outrun you.

2

If they roped your meals up in a bucket,

you could pretty well live here, except when it stormed.

But then you could hardly be expected to see much anyway.  

You hang on for dear life, somehow knowing: once

you're here, there's no coming back down.

3

No crows up here. Tons of herring gulls, a few terns,

pelicans perhaps, and yes: the odd albatross.

But absolutely crowless.  

If you want, you can imagine that's a cornfield

down there.  And those rows of school buses

aren't really twenty-pounders.

The same way, when they hoist up someone

wearing a noose, you can pretend

he's only made of straw.

4

You are so light you could easily blow away.

However: you can become more determined than the wind.

You could also teach yourself how to fly.

5

Make sail. Take on sail. Keep inventing wings.

Take direction. Know where you're headed.

Keep your head. Don't sell out. Always reply

when spoken to. Never answer back. Only sleep

when you're not needed. Pretend you're not really here

helping them kill people.  

6

Aloof, aloft, beyond

your lullaby syllables, the same moon frowns

on everyone.

Far beneath your stars, your ship bleeds victory….