We’ve brought you dozens of blog posts about historical characters and events from our archives, crazy photos, and other Whistler stories. One thing that we feel we’ve brought you too little of is poetry composed by Museum staff. I’m sure you’ve been thinking the same thing. I can almost hear you thinking, “‘H – E – double hockey sticks’, when will Sarah, Jeff, Robyn, Allyn, and Myles write some goddamn poetry? A limerick maybe? A Haiku? Is that really too much to ask?”
Well, patient reader, the wait is over. Without further delay, here is a selection of poetry (mostly haiku) composed by the Museum staff (and friends).
Two mountains, strung with
cable- rise above this town,
this valley of dreams.
The mighty man among us.
His spirit rests here.
Stillness on Alta –
Alex Philip falls in drunk,
Myrtle shakes her head.
We love history.
We love Whistler’s Whistory!
Whistler is awesome.
Extreme sports paired with
endless good times, paradise
Through deep, endless white powder –
Another Whistler day.
Rainbow Lodge, Seppo,
Crazy Canucks, HISTORY!
Kids just want LEGO.
On hot afternoons
Molly and McGee nap on
While Freckles watches.
Outside is too hot?
Museum has two words for you:
There once was a Texan named Millar
Whose life was something of a thriller.
He first was a cook,
But two lives he took,
So he fled here where life was much stiller.
There once was a pub called the Boot
Just next to the highway’s main route.
It had dancing girls
And drinkers who twirled
In a “ballet” of well-known repute.
An ode to the archives
Last night I dreamt of a magical place,
Dreamers, doers, and icons all shared one space.
Oh, to visit this land where our legends can thrive.
Why, it already exists, our almighty archives!
Our collections are vast, rich with ripe tales,
From diaries and drawings to bent, rusted nails.
All with the ineffable scent of the past,
A real-life time machine that’s built to last.
Archival documents in acid-free boxes,
Fight group amnesia from LSD memory losses.
Fifty thousand pictures worth fifty million words.
Fishing rods, ice axes, taxidermied birds!
We record more than elections, wheelings and dealings,
Our shelves carry facts, dates, but also a feeling.
Whistler’s free spirit – it’s impossible to fake it,
Live here long enough you’ll end up in here naked!
Cynics deride Whistler’s history as short,
But we prove that the truth is none of the sort,
Our peaks, trees, and tales are all very tall,
And we’ve done big things for a town that’s so small.
Next time you’re curious of Whistler’s glorious past lives
Stop in (appointments only) at the Whistler Archives!
Thus concludes these haiku, limericks and jingles,
From the only folks in town still selling Boot Pub shingles!
All night long (all night)
All night (all night) All night long,
All night long (Ooh yeah)
– Lionel Ritchie