The Empress

The Fleur-de-Lis

This 600 page document in poetry composed by Emily Isaacson was sent to Prince William from 2005-2009. The Fleur-de-Lis is Canadiana literature in bloom:  the sea, the stars, and the North all appear at Emily Isaacson's eloquent table. The perspective stemming from her disciplined art, its affect and influence, her painterly presence, her sense of decorum, and nicely, the silver thread through her epistle of romance all establish Emily as a prominent poet of Canadian birth.

Discover the poetry of Emily Isaacson, and you will find that she performs the enchantment of the poetic to recapture the spirit of her country and her people. The Fleur-de-Lis is an epic dance to portray the duel between darkness and light; the riveting romance between two mortals seeking immortality. Will Justice and Liberty prevail?

The counterpoint of two voices ponder the fantastical world; with both skill and myth, navigating the waters of truce. The language of verse speaks as most cherished medium, chronicling human nature in all its pathos and gestation.

 Coming to bookstores: December 2010 . . .   The Fleur-de-Lis

  ____________________________________________

The Fleur-de-Lis is such a testament to living in Canada among the diversity, heritage and culture. Emily Isaacson's writing is vivid, imaginative and a joy to experience. Her words literally unfold in a landscape of luxury for the senses, that expands a lifetime of terrain in a glorious unfolding of endless destinations. It is a must read for the sheer enlightenment.
 
Tracy Repchuk
President and Founder of the Canadian Federation of Poets

____________________________________________

Now take a tour and learn more on this site about one of the most historic monuments of this nation, read previews of Emily's poetry, view Emily Isaacson's photographic art or visit her sites for literature and the arts. 

 Thank you for visiting!

  ____________________________________________

 

Pavane

  

On stable hills,

the flagstaff wrought

in the avant-garde

minuet,

an encompassing silence

later passing for

a bitter note,

the horses, cantering

broadly, side-stepped

in red-flanked

terror;

smoke rippling

their nostrils

off the trench . . .

 

The litany continued

in the poppy fields,

each general roused

to gunpoint,

and white-crossed

for fear,

a flag-borne

crusade.

 

Descant Rives

  

The sonorous trumpet

in four voices

from the Euphrates:  

bringing in the sheaves of heaven,

a wedded bouquet

from the peaks of time,

the glorious

coronation still

riveting Wales.

   

Westminster Chapel

 

Turn out

the blunt for the delicate,

embroidered with

bees and thistles;

one pointe,

the barre-strong

company, suffrage

to the icy floor—

each watery echo

a compass

to pirouette,

in perfect time:

minuet after minuet

of color

light

and sound.

 

 Aldercott

 

At the break of

seven seas,

under the tides of

moon,

winter light

crevassed the rock

of the quarry

limestone-white,

resonant in the starlight

palace,

a diminuendo

into salvage on

canary island.

  

Diamond Tiara

 

Seraphim

rivet the

throne room

extravaganzas

in linen and fine silver,

lilies

whispering halos,

cherubim painted

once upon

an arched ceiling,

flecked with gold;

I, meadows away

in France,

sat on an old stone wall,

while the statue

cast in bronze—

writes upon

the Barcelonian 

twilight

at dusk.

       

 Battenburg Ashes

 

In England,

frosted windowpanes

displaying apothecary jars,

earnest to medieval

wanings,

crisscrossed pastries

in cherry;

dress shops,

suiting in royal red and

midnight black,

and oft the prow

of the Britannia,

in empress green,

a salt lick tearing

the morning from

sea to sea . . .

and I,

lashed insensible

to

the half-mast.

 

Foreign Walkabout

 

A crinoline of grace,

your journey through      

the terra-cotta desert,

quails mortified,

was swathed in

white linen,

balms after heat waves

swollen with lukewarm

séances;

so it was, a thousand

miles into nowhere,

when the sun set

on my anger,

and I spit in the dust,

making mirages out of

Lebanese soldiers.  

 

-- The Fleur-de-Lis

     Emily Isaacson   

   

 

 

 

Attempting to pen a few comments on Emily Isaacson’s new work is like a caveman with a chisel and stone trying to capture a resplendent, golden sunset.  Emily is a painter, a sculptor, a ballerina with words.  Her creation is to be savoured and sipped slowly on a grassy knoll, not swallowed hurriedly.  Let the reader dance with the poet as she takes one into times past, or to enjoy nature with new eyes, or to be drawn closer to the Creator – in English or in French. 

‘The Fleur-de-Lis’ is a delight.

 Marc Dalton, MLA   Maple Ridge, BC