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“Poetry isn’t an island, it is the bridge.
Poetry isn’t a ship, it is the lifeboat.
Poetry isn’t swimming. Poetry is water.”
― Kamand Kojouri

“The father and daughter made their way north, through unknown sylvan paradises where only the owls and skunks know their way around. The hard work of paddling non-stop for many hours had long since stopped being difficult for Saweyimew. In spite of her beauty and grace, her back had grown strong and sinewy from years of canoe trips. She reveled in the exhilaration it always brought her, after the first few hours left her body insensible to pain or discomfort. Warm and tingly, lulled into peaceful contemplation by hours of the rhythmic paddling, the smell of the water, exotic blooms, animal musk. It all combined as one to make her feel so alive. Especially when it rained, and her body steamed against the cool drops, feeling invincible against the elements. The mountain of her father's back was like a rock against anything nature could throw against them. The stream of fragrant pipe-smoke still flowing from his lips, regardless of any obstacle. She felt at that moment, nothing would ever stop her father's pipe from smoking. Nothing, not death, not any force of the living or spirit world, would ever still her father's heart. Rain cleansing her to the core, she was a spring of raw power and self-reliance, paddling against all adversity--their master completely. Her father's daughter. At times like that, when it rained, she entirely understood and shared her father's outlook on life.”
― Alexei Maxim Russell, Forgotten Lore: Volume II

“All right, he thought, take one thing at a time. Just one thing.
I poked my leg with an arrow.
There. Good. I pulled the arrow out. My leg still works. It must not have been a broadhead because it didn't go in very deep. Good.
My tent collapsed. There. Another thing. I'm in a tent and it collapsed. I just have to find the front zipper and get out and climb up the bank. Easy now, easy.
Something hit me on the head. What? Something big that thunked. The canoe. The wind picked up the canoe and it hit me.”
― Gary Paulsen

“It has always been my belief that you can judge the compatibility of two people by the rhythm of their paddle stroke.”
― Daniel J. Rice, THIS SIDE OF A WILDERNESS: A Novel

“Canoes, too, are unobtrusive; they don't storm the natural world or ride over it, but drift in upon it as a part of its own silence. As you either care about what the land is or not, so do you like or dislike quiet things--sailboats, or rainy green mornings in foreign places, or a grazing herd, or the ruins of old monasteries in the mountains. . . . Chances for being quiet nowadays are limited.”
― John Graves

“There. I've poked my leg, rolled down a bank and been hit in the head with the canoe.
All simple things. All fixable things.”
― Gary Paulsen, Brian's Return

“Mister Jordan?â€� Came the genteel, restrained voice of a more senior gentleman in the front of the canoe.
“Yes, General?�
“Shut up.â€� The General said curtly. “You’re scaring the fish.”
― Christina Engela, Prodigal Sun

“The ends of the canoe arc upwards towards the sky, like opposing axe blades cutting through the water. The tips are bound tightly together with spruce roots and sealed with black pine tar, casting an impressive U-shaped shadow across the water in the evening sun.”
― David Pompeani, Great Water: The Lost Mines of Lake Superior