Wilson Pugsley MacDonald (May 5, 1880 – April 8, 1967) was a popular Canadian poet who "was known mainly in his own time for his considerable platform abilities"[attribution needed] as a reader of his poetry.

[1] Canadian poet Albert E. S. Smythe described MacDonald as a "slight, lithe, graceful Italian figure, the same dark eyes and olive complexion, the same inscrutable smile of the shy but friendly soul".

[1] Because he refused to be anything but a fully committed poet, now that he had been published, in the early 1920s "MacDonald managed to" find a way to "supplement his income by engaging in lengthy and rather successful tours of readings and lectures".

[3] MacDonald travelled both Canada and the northern United States reciting his poetry in large city and small town alike.

"His personal shyness disappeared on stage, where he became dynamic; humming, chanting, and singing, he synchronized his whole performance to make poems come alive for his audience.

"[attribution needed][1] There are many examples online of individual poems illustrated or calligraphed by MacDonald, which look like merchandising aimed at those unwilling or unable to buy a whole book.

[4] Of course, everything bought at a performance could also be autographed; MacDonald, like George Moore before him, or A. Edward Newton, was an author whose books are seldom found unsigned.

"[2] A fan club, the Wilson MacDonald Poetry Society, was active in several cities,[3] including in the United States,[1] "and at least one such group still survives".

"[3] Some of MacDonald's poetry certainly does not hold up: for example, the books Caw-Caw Ballads and Paul Marchand and Other Poems, which employ dialect verse – here the French-Canadian habitant dialect of English popularized by William Henry Drummond – more entertaining if heard performed rather than read, and even then more embarrassing than entertaining.

The title poem of his collection Out of the Wilderness has something of the strength of Walt Whitman – "I, a vagabond, gypsy, lover forever of freedom, / Come, / Come to you who are arrogant, proud, and fevered with civilization – / Come with a tonic of sunlight, bottled in wild careless acres,/ To cure you with secrets as old as the breathing of men."