tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81639162024-03-07T18:01:11.542-05:00Out of the WoodworkPoetry, poetics, with occasional forays into other arts and politicsBrian Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17182888011015400963noreply@blogger.comBlogger987125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8163916.post-39725523816044375802020-12-07T01:14:00.008-05:002021-03-26T15:50:14.976-04:00PROFESSIONAL RECORDINGS AT STUDIO LOCO, MONTREAL<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE-R4QmcC5Vr3eSA2PHf8m-vOfc-E5uG__nNXulKWfqegO4rzEf4hCvvO4zUdYEzSLl8UwExBJIX4gTFUOAAfB4HwYCaEiQ7QFqxhQ7eSM_OCM19e6ZH4FuW2t07LheAOppUsa4Q/s1280/Martin+B+%2526+Brian+C+-+2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1280" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE-R4QmcC5Vr3eSA2PHf8m-vOfc-E5uG__nNXulKWfqegO4rzEf4hCvvO4zUdYEzSLl8UwExBJIX4gTFUOAAfB4HwYCaEiQ7QFqxhQ7eSM_OCM19e6ZH4FuW2t07LheAOppUsa4Q/w400-h235/Martin+B+%2526+Brian+C+-+2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Me and Martin Bennett, recording engineer and music arranger at Studio Loco, Montreal. In the last year we've professionally recorded some 20+ songs, including a five-song (+ one poem) EP, <a href="https://briancampbell.bandcamp.com/album/on-this-shore-ep" target="_blank">On This Shore</a>, and a growing batch of singles. Guest artists include, from top down below the one of me, Ellwood Epps (trumpet), Jeff Deeprose (violin), Chard Chenier (harmonica), Michael Rien (drums) and back vocalists Ema Jean and Leesa Mackey. For listening, downloads, lyrics and commentary, visit <a href="http://briancampbell.bandcamp.com">briancampbell.bandcamp.com <br /></a><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimSftC6CfBOe3ElD8mSujdqiZqs-27IyL4TwuaKYeDp-244YWASKx5s7EYhxPJbIlpzTFHg6eZJDmtD3G8VRS1tNuve6e09jW5RMm5VkbpK4Ins1xWmTqPvxCbMF0scud1mPlQvA/s1215/Screen+Shot+2020-12-07+at+12.49.43+AM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="747" data-original-width="1215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimSftC6CfBOe3ElD8mSujdqiZqs-27IyL4TwuaKYeDp-244YWASKx5s7EYhxPJbIlpzTFHg6eZJDmtD3G8VRS1tNuve6e09jW5RMm5VkbpK4Ins1xWmTqPvxCbMF0scud1mPlQvA/s320/Screen+Shot+2020-12-07+at+12.49.43+AM.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUA45kX2k19_4KX69vEmzZpTRGhsjafOkvsRMDS-3GvY5Ie5w7QuJ4P6jLnNLmXzr9fKOXybdlgy3LHV36fepRZJkm_Agcu-T3B-SsCQGrFEJYCdx9ZpgZsuPIU1RcYYHWVjTqUA/s750/image-asset.jpg" style="clear: left; 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text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkqwW0ly9xcw8gEN3PyYJIxIkWMbP_-XvJ1axIKfwlzl_Cfl6KBDD-XKrkSjAcKuadSxB4peA7xiGKBkPHTiz66qXvbccPLzS6t_cLfWtZBQM0kxfaYAmhlzvaILjO6YIBo-H76g/s635/Screen+Shot+2020-12-07+at+12.57.13+AM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="635" data-original-width="396" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkqwW0ly9xcw8gEN3PyYJIxIkWMbP_-XvJ1axIKfwlzl_Cfl6KBDD-XKrkSjAcKuadSxB4peA7xiGKBkPHTiz66qXvbccPLzS6t_cLfWtZBQM0kxfaYAmhlzvaILjO6YIBo-H76g/s320/Screen+Shot+2020-12-07+at+12.57.13+AM.png" /></a></div><br />Brian Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17182888011015400963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8163916.post-67247104417164484102018-05-03T17:04:00.003-04:002018-05-03T17:04:46.396-04:00FOR A COMPLETE LIST OF UPCOMING EVENTS, SEE "NEWS"For complete list of upcoming events, see <a href="https://briancampbell.ca/blog/" target="_blank">"News" on my website</a>. <br />
<br />Brian Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17182888011015400963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8163916.post-31074842522243123312018-04-04T01:06:00.001-04:002018-04-25T14:25:34.395-04:00I DO HOUSE CONCERTS!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I've done house concerts, mostly on an informal basis; I love to do them, and would like to do more, so I just produced this brochure. Click on it to see large. I play mostly in the Montreal area. If you'd like to host a house concert with me as a featured performer, please contact me at beedeecee@videotron.ca</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh6zrmSVHYdZWzOi4X-tQDya4bsvt1TQFXV_JOCCsR9WdF2tIc_heiibAiK_BEsX9fQhZr4nJVDectRPSpOVKNHtwpG8BuunD_ecjDGsGV2deMA1IKKGXutJer1ZviN2D5pO9ecg/s1600/BC+House+Concert.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1237" data-original-width="1600" height="492" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh6zrmSVHYdZWzOi4X-tQDya4bsvt1TQFXV_JOCCsR9WdF2tIc_heiibAiK_BEsX9fQhZr4nJVDectRPSpOVKNHtwpG8BuunD_ecjDGsGV2deMA1IKKGXutJer1ZviN2D5pO9ecg/s640/BC+House+Concert.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="text-align: center;">Credit goes for <a href="http://joyike.com/" target="_blank">Joy Ike</a> for inspiring it, with her excellent <a href="https://bandzoogle.com/blog/10-ways-to-book-more-house-concerts" target="_blank">blog posts</a> about doing house concerts. I pride myself on originality, but much of the text and formatting are frankly drawn from hers, which she has given permission to do with this acknowledgement. Thanks, Joy! </span><br />
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>Brian Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17182888011015400963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8163916.post-84861470301823320402017-11-12T16:01:00.000-05:002018-11-11T11:49:55.191-05:00A Wartime Reminiscence<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTTjhPv-k4ibb4XsY7y9k9vvJn8jsnCDSUT5dCMePMy4Y3v9c6x__VWhhyphenhyphenuIFNBSsdz25D_vpizet34Bv4PH_vDEUVSJSgdYbwthaXzY8RE5VlyXFdncVgNGWKOIHk6eantYFQ7g/s1600/Dad+soldier+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1381" data-original-width="974" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTTjhPv-k4ibb4XsY7y9k9vvJn8jsnCDSUT5dCMePMy4Y3v9c6x__VWhhyphenhyphenuIFNBSsdz25D_vpizet34Bv4PH_vDEUVSJSgdYbwthaXzY8RE5VlyXFdncVgNGWKOIHk6eantYFQ7g/s400/Dad+soldier+3.jpg" width="281" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "sf optimized" , , , "blinkmacsystemfont" , ".sfnstext-regular" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: -0.12000000476837158px;">Willard Eldrin Campbell (1924-2011), who served in the Canadian army during WWII in France, the Netherlands and Germany. Picture taken in 1943, when he was 19.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><i>This is an excerpt of a letter
written by my father, Willard Campbell, to his older brother Leslie in 1974. I post this because I believe it is well worth sharing: any reader who has the time and inclination to read it, I'm quite sure, will find elements of strong historical and literary value. The letter tells of the coming of age in the 1930's of a farm boy in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia; the development of his political consciousness through following in the Halifax Herald the travails of the Spanish Civil War; of his first romances, and the effects on a small Cape Breton town of the onset of World War II. It ends with some telling details of sailing back to England on a hospital ship after being wounded in the Battle of the Scheldt, Holland.</i></span></span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman";">At the time of the writing, Willard
had just passed fifty. After the war and much moving about all over the country, he settled and raised his family in Toronto. In his life, besides being a farm hand and WWII veteran, he was a factory worker, journalist, trade
unionist, mature university student, and school teacher/librarian. Among his
many affiliations he had been, from the 1930’s to the early 1950’s, an active
member of the Communist Party of Canada. His brother Les had been a Cape Breton
coal miner and later, a lathe operator in Vancouver; likewise he had been a soldier in
World War II, and during peacetime, active in trade unions and many progressive
causes. Les died last year, at the extraordinary age of 107. My father passed away in 2011 at
87 after a lengthy struggle with Alzheimer’s.</span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman";">—Brian Campbell, Montreal, November 12, 2017<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Toronto, March 22,
1974<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman";">Dear Les,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman";">Thanks for the birthday letter. It was good to hear from you
again. No need to be apologetic about your letters; they are always fresh and
interesting. You write easily and fluently—in your own voice, so to speak. That
is how letters should be written. Mine tend to be miniature essays, laboured
and self-consciously wrought. I approach words in the manner of a priest
approaching his altar. It is not good, this tongue-tied reverence for the word.
But I’m stuck with it; it’s been with me so long. Old faiths die hard. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman";">I am now certainly an “ol’ boy”, as you said in your letter,
with a half century behind me. Looking back at my life so far, I am impressed
most of all by how much of a muddle it has been. Yet I tried to impose a
pattern and purpose on it—tried to more deliberately than most people, I
believe. Nevertheless, what stands out in retrospect is an excessive amount of
wasted time and motion. This is not something to be particularly depressed about;
it is simply a phenomenon to be wondered at. I recall a picture you took of me
when I was four or five years old, probably when we lived on Main Street in
Sydney Mines. I am sitting on some boards—or was it a bundle of shingles?—and
looking very thoughtful. On the picture you wrote the words, “I was ’sinkin’.” Yes,
looking at that picture one would certainly say, “Now there’s a fellow who’s
going to think his way through life.” But I haven’t been especially good at
that. In fact, if I were to single out a primary weakness in my makeup it would
be that I do not do enough serious thinking as I go through life. I do a lot of
dreaming, but not nearly enough thinking. Now I suspect that the little fellow
sitting on the shingles wasn’t thinking at all. He was dreaming instead. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman";">Politics, as you know, has been a major preoccupation and
influence most of my adult life. It all began when I was scarcely into my
teens. The smoking ruins of Malaga and Cordoba…remember? Blown up photographs
(in black and white) of the tagged and numbered corpses of children lying in
the pavement in Madrid… “bombs plummeted into the market place”, the news
stories ran. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman";">The summer I was 13 years old—1937—the war was going from
bad to worse for the Loyalist forces in Spain. I remember waiting, with a
feeling something like dread, for the daily news of the war that appeared in
the Halifax Herald. The newspaper reached us a day late in Boularderie in those
days, and I used to draw a peculiar comfort from that fact when the news from
Spain was especially bad. That it was yesterday’s news made it seem less
threatening, as if it were past history and therefore not immediately relevant.
Paradoxically, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">good</i> news from the
battle fronts did not suffer in the least for being old news; as I read it my
heart pounded happily and I tingled all over, as if the victory was being won
before my eyes that very moment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman";">How emotionally committed I was to the Loyalist cause! Some
wit—I think it was Chesterton—once paraphrased Shakespeare with the saying:
“Hell has no fury like the non-combatant.” Well, the fury felt by that farm boy
in Boularderie was real enough, I can tell you. I seethed with hatred for
Franco and his fascist generals, and wept in frustration over continuing
Loyalist defeats. If someone had given me a rifle and sent me over, I would
have given a good account of myself! But thirteen-year-ol’s were given no such
opportunities, alas, no matter how genuine their heroic impulses. So I followed
the exploits of the Mac-Paps in the Clarion with a mixture of hero-worship and
envy, and in the meantime waited anxiously for the Herald to deliver its daily
disasters.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman";">I used to walk to McDearmid’s mailbox every day, just before
noon, to pick up our mail. It was a short walk that I usually enjoyed, and I would
set out, barefooted, accompanied by Rex [our family dog], down the road and
over the little bridge that spanned the brook. But on those black days of
Loyalist defeats, the trek to the mailbox to get the Herald and the latest news
was painful. In order to dispel the gloom somewhat, along the way I used to
fantasize about the war, conjuring up images of headlines in the Herald
proclaiming magnificent Loyalist victories. “Spanish Insurgents Suffer Heavy
Losses.” “Franco’s Forces Crushed at Toledo.” Loyalists Triumph On All Fronts.”
As I walked in the summer sunshine up the hill toward McDearmid’s gate, my
dream factory would be working full blast: “Dancing In The Streets of Madrid.” “Gigantic
Victory Celebrations For Spain In Moscow, Paris, London.” Then I would be
confronted by the mailbox, and the dreams would vanish. I’d pick up our day-old
copy of the Herald. Sometimes I would be surprised to find nothing at all about
the war on the front page, and I would have to look inside to some obscure
column for the bad news.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman";">April 1<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman";">Ah, how nostalgic I have become! Oscar Wilde once said that,
for the English, nostalgia affords the occasional light lunch, but for the
Irish it is breakfast, lunch and supper! So perhaps it’s the Irish that’s
rising in me just now. But I suspect it’s your letters that set me off.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman";">You probably don’t remember Ann Gibbons. She lived on Pond
Street and was related to the McMullens, and distantly to the Jobes’. I met
Ann—we nicknamed her “Red” because of her bright red hair—when she stayed for a
few weeks with Hughie and Flora in the fall of 1938. I was fourteen years old,
three years her junior, but the awkward disparity in our ages did not prevent
us from becoming lovers. Perhaps that was because I was big for my age, and
worldly wise, too, in my way. As I have said, her hair was the colour of fire. This
contrasted with her skin, for she was one of those people who possess a
complexion almost totally devoid of colouring. I have to his day a distinct
memory of her face: the high cheekbones, the green eyes with heavy lids
suggestive of sleepiness, the full, pale lips, the alabaster complexion. But
this description evokes an image of some cold, remote goddess of purity, and
Ann was anything but that. She was loudly gregarious, a fun-lover who affected
a coarseness of manner. She liked nothing better than to tell obscene stories
in mixed company—much to the discomfort of us country folk. We used to gather
at Hughie’s on those nippy fall evenings; Angus and Neilie Saw, Sadie Mae
Jobes, Ann and I, along with Hughie and Flora and their bairns. We’d sit around
the stove telling stories. I recall Neilie Shaw’s brick-red face and downcast
eyes whenever he had to suffer through one of Ann’s ribald “jokes”. Yet, as I
have said, this roughness of Ann’s was an affected manner; a town girl acting
up among her country cousins. I perceived this from the beginning of our
acquaintanceship, and although I found the public affectation attractive
enough, I longed to know the real girl underneath.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman";">One evening soon after we met we were drawn together. I can
no longer remember how it occurred: a sudden, shared secret, perhaps, that
separated us from the rest, or possibly nothing more than a silent meeting of
eyes across the room. Who’s to say, and who can expect a fourteen-year-old boy
to mark such events? (Perhaps Ann knows more: the female of the species has a
talent for such things, I’m told.) So a few nights later we made love on the
cold, damp grass of the Jobes’ slopes, under a white October moon. Oh, it was
all panting and grabbing and kissing, and not much more, but the mystery and
sheer excitement of it stirred me to my very roots! She was my first adult
love, and I was exceedingly proud, and nothing could dampen my spirits on our
first night together, but I must tell you this: her breath was sour! Yes, this
is true! (We retain acute perceptions of such moments.) But could that matter
so much? I was so happy that she found me attractive. Does a boy need any
better proof that he has come of age?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman";">How many miles did we walk, I wonder, in those October days!
I see us crossing the fields hand in hand, following the wood paths to the
vacant farms; we even explored the lake shore below McDearmid’s one moonlit
night, and sat on the white rocks, hugging each other for warmth in the raw
night air. One evening, after we had walked from the Jobes’ to the schoolhouse,
I persuaded her to come with me to John D. MacIntire’s, ostensibly to get a
cold drink of water from their pump. Actually, my purpose was to show her off
to my school friends. I vividly recall how Francis, Angus, John Alex and Mary
MacIntire crowded around us to have a look at the exotic town creature that I
had with me. Such small triumphs stay with us through life!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman";">And what was she like away from the crowds, this wildcat
with the ribald tongue? She was a surprisingly simple girl, and much more
reticent than anyone might have guessed. (I once tried to tell Neilie Shaw what
she was really like, but he refused to believe me. He was convinced that Ann
and I were enjoying violent, unbridled, red-hot sex every night we went out. Neilie
was an extraordinary fantasizer.) Once I became familiar with Ann’s secret,
quiet side, I was astonished to see her don the mask of vulgarity whenever we
joined our friends at Hughie’s. Courseness was her defense in company—just as
quietness was mine. When we were alone together, we both changed: she grew
silent, and I became talkative.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman";">And how I talked and talked! There was so much to say, so
much informing and explaining to be done! The tragedy of Spain; the despicable
Anschluss; the treacherous Munich Pact (just signed the previous month); the
Sudetenland threat. How she must have marveled at the erudition of this country
lad! (Or perhaps she had already been warned by her cousins about the strange
beliefs of these Campbells. Perhaps her long silences and her shy, quiet
questions were her own skilful politics at work. I will never know.) But
politics is extraneous to the relationship of the sexes, when it comes to love
making. Marxism is neither improved nor diminished by a kiss; no social
revolution erupts when a boy and girl press their bodies together in the
moonlight. I did not know these things at the time. It took me many years to
learn the difference between life and living. So I talked on, trying to draw
her deeper into my world, but succeeding only in building higher walls between
us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman";">Yet, for all the attention I gave her, my feelings for Ann
were neither clear nor consistent. (What she really thought of me, I probably
had no idea.) A fourteen-year-old boy has no established patterns of behaviour
when it comes to the opposite sex. There are no strong precedents; he is
essentially an explorer. And so our romance waxed and waned, as it were, until
she returned to Sydney Mines at the end of October. We said goodbye carelessly,
without regrets, and with little thought for the future. This happens too, when
you are young and feeling your way. But after she was gone a strange thing
happened to me. Infatuation set in more strongly than ever, almost like the
condition of relapse that ill people sometimes suffer. I longed for her night
and day, and moped about the farm dreaming of her. And, at the first
opportunity, I went to Sydney Mines to recapture her love.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman";">But, as you can probably guess, the game was lost. We walked
along Main Street like two strangers, with scarcely a word to say and not
daring to hold hands in such a public place. I recall that she wore a new
winter coat, with a coloured scarf—the coat was beige, and looked white under
the street lights. I must have looked out of place with my knee-boots, belted
leather jacket (badly worn), and my old leather cap with the earflaps. I had no
money to take her to the movie or the restaurant, so after some aimless store
gazing we turned down Pond Street and walked to its very end, where there is a
wooden fence and beyond that a field which leads I don’t know where. We
embraced there in the dark, far from the town’s lights, and there was no moon,
just the lights from houses further up the street. Afterward we talked a little
about Hughie and Flora and Sadie Mae and the others, and then we walked back up
Pond Street, and the chasm between us was wider than before. By the time we
parted at her house, we had grown so detached that we shook hands! My heart was
bursting, but I was helpless in the face of this incomprehensible strangeness.
I walked back toward town biting my lip and fighting back the tears.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman";">I nursed this infatuation for a year—and what a year it was,
with the old homestead burning down, the move of the entire family to Sydney
Mines, to Millville, and back to Sydney Mines, and then the outbreak of World
War II. Although I saw Ann once or twice around town, I never spoke to her
again. My chances of rebuilding our romance had further dimmed with the war
crisis: the soldiers were in town. They were billeted in the old General
Office, and tents were going up in the fields beside Chapel Road. The soldiers
tramped through town, looking almost foreign in their new uniforms and jaunty berets.
Young girls on the street pushed each other and giggled whenever a soldier
walked by. They were the talk of the town. It was not an auspicious time for a
sexually precocious fifteen-year-old without money or, for that matter, a
decent pair of pants. But I was not alone; there were a number of young fellows
in the same position. And fortunately, there were at least a few girls who did
not go raving mad over the uniformed invaders. Early in 1940 I met one: Helen
Maclean, a tall, carefree brunette from Burchell Street, who instantly became
my best girl and sidekick. I did crazy things with her: I recall one
sun-filled, windy day in early spring, down by the cliffs off Shore Road, I
clambered to the top of a billboard, crawled along and hung from the middle—my
boots striking the face of the chic lady holding the Winchester cigarette—while
Helen screamed with laughter on the ground below me. But that’s another story.
Helen was the balm that healed the wounds of my first grown-up romance, and for
that I am everlastingly in her debt. I thought little more of Ann Gibbons until
sometime later in the summer, when Malkie McMullen told me that Ann was engaged
to marry a soldier who was stationed in Sydney Mines. Need I say that I felt a
stab of anguish? But memories were fading, and by the time I left for Ontario
in the fall the romantic affair of two years earlier was all but forgotten.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I heard no more of Ann until four years later.
In the fall of 1944 I was on a hospital ship in the English Channel, returning
to Blighty with other wounded men from Europe. I struck up a conversation with
a soldier sitting beside me on the deck, and knew at once from his speech that
he was a Maritimer. It turned out that he was from Florence, and before long I
learned that he knew several of the Matthews boys, as well as other Sydney
Miners. Ann Gibbons flashed into my mind, and I asked him if he knew her. “I
know who she is,” he said, “and it’s funny you should mention her. My sister
told me in her last letter that Ann Gibbons died—in childbirth, it was. Her
first baby, too.” I sat in silence, my mind trying to grapple with the reality
of what he had said. In a sense, she had been dead for me for several years,
and now the announcement of her death only served to make her live again in my
memory. As the hospital ship plied its way toward the coast of England, I
dreamed of those Boularderie nights when Ann and I walked through the woods and
fields and along the shore, of the October moon that never deserted us, and of
the bewilderment of a fourteen-year-old boy growing painfully to manhood.</span><!--EndFragment-->
Brian Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17182888011015400963noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8163916.post-26534620504439780042017-02-24T18:43:00.002-05:002017-02-24T18:45:27.167-05:00Si Bhaeg, Si Mhor -- my first music video<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="360" mozallowfullscreen="" src="https://player.vimeo.com/video/204600387" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="640"></iframe> <br />
<a href="https://vimeo.com/204600387">Si Bhaeg Si Mhor</a> from <a href="https://vimeo.com/user53887508">Brian Campbell</a> on <a href="https://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.Brian Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17182888011015400963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8163916.post-30721995643869077642016-06-30T16:26:00.000-04:002016-06-30T16:26:00.654-04:00VASE, a video poem<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="360" mozallowfullscreen="" src="https://player.vimeo.com/video/172957237" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="640"></iframe> <br />
<a href="https://vimeo.com/172957237">VASE</a> from <a href="https://vimeo.com/user53887508">Brian Campbell</a> on <a href="https://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.<br />
<br />
A video montage of "Vase", a poem in <i>Shimmer Report</i>.Brian Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17182888011015400963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8163916.post-35048501025776823072016-06-16T11:02:00.003-04:002016-06-16T11:02:55.574-04:00SHIMMER REPORT Toronto Launch<div style="color: #666666; font-family: Palatino, Georgia, Baskerville, serif; font-size: 14px;">
<strong class="event-summary">Friday, </strong><span class="event-when">June 17, 2016, 8:00 pm – 10:00 pm</span></div>
<div style="color: #666666; font-family: Palatino, Georgia, Baskerville, serif; font-size: 14px;">
<span class="event-when"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #666666; font-family: Palatino, Georgia, Baskerville, serif; font-size: 14px;">
<span class="event-location">The Westin Harbour Castle, Toronto, 1 Harbour Square, Toronto. Chartroom Bar and Lounge, just off the main lobby.</span></div>
<div style="color: #666666; font-family: Palatino, Georgia, Baskerville, serif; font-size: 14px;">
<span class="event-location"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #666666; font-family: Palatino, Georgia, Baskerville, serif; font-size: 14px;">
<span class="event-description">An informal reading and launch of Shimmer Report; open mike. Event taking place alongside the Canadian Writers’ Summit. For all who are coming, I look forward to seeing you there!</span></div>
Brian Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17182888011015400963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8163916.post-80856439374054069902016-01-25T23:14:00.003-05:002016-01-25T23:14:39.282-05:00Resonance Reading Series Feb. 2, 2015<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh57bw3VMjKPnUJlTx9XNeWRp-earJLZ9MX9RhF0IMdvJ6E40irtlfmqkzWzZvGkvz6AEJUka4HSoaBcmfNEkmFSHK7TZUKywdsvj8NAc56TAZAICYMV_Dnfd2v2GHBFLwcW-HjxQ/s1600/Resonance+Reading.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh57bw3VMjKPnUJlTx9XNeWRp-earJLZ9MX9RhF0IMdvJ6E40irtlfmqkzWzZvGkvz6AEJUka4HSoaBcmfNEkmFSHK7TZUKywdsvj8NAc56TAZAICYMV_Dnfd2v2GHBFLwcW-HjxQ/s640/Resonance+Reading.jpg" width="452" /></a></div>
<br />Brian Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17182888011015400963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8163916.post-15878168329289826092016-01-25T23:12:00.004-05:002016-01-26T01:43:03.207-05:00Ekstasis Reading Launch Jan 30, 2015<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKN73-bD0aj0t_5_dgDSbpt6lnTnM2XM3Ra6uKfhXFDmnA0HTVSaP04KCLxAPKB-i2HB3KvFOQhmvKGwPOaZHxTohjiyY0oWZiBJIDvpqyhES3JcicCr0SlLXyIghu1lZ8JIOtQQ/s1600/Montreal+Ekstasis+Reading.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKN73-bD0aj0t_5_dgDSbpt6lnTnM2XM3Ra6uKfhXFDmnA0HTVSaP04KCLxAPKB-i2HB3KvFOQhmvKGwPOaZHxTohjiyY0oWZiBJIDvpqyhES3JcicCr0SlLXyIghu1lZ8JIOtQQ/s640/Montreal+Ekstasis+Reading.jpeg" width="388" /></a></div>
<br />Brian Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17182888011015400963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8163916.post-91062484366288992602016-01-17T16:00:00.000-05:002016-01-17T18:54:22.709-05:00Poetry as fact-finding: "MOUNTAIN" and The Mount Royal Tunnel<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5v2mhhNRfv614CPb3SjiAzuE82pW2Af6B2A_W4Aq-yJRt9TEtAIUv_dVCHL9oZhIHeuu8p-fJEcyprX55OUrd_jZ_NtECpeE05SvGdApnEwW61I9OlXXqwEZiKbpD24QibhAMkA/s1600/Shimmer+Report+small+jpeg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5v2mhhNRfv614CPb3SjiAzuE82pW2Af6B2A_W4Aq-yJRt9TEtAIUv_dVCHL9oZhIHeuu8p-fJEcyprX55OUrd_jZ_NtECpeE05SvGdApnEwW61I9OlXXqwEZiKbpD24QibhAMkA/s200/Shimmer+Report+small+jpeg.jpg" width="133" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: arial, tahoma, helvetica, freesans, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">In this intriguing CTV News video, "</span><a href="http://montreal.ctvnews.ca/video?playlistId=1.2663294" style="color: #7c93a1; font-size: 13px; text-decoration: none;">Forbidden Montreal: Inside the Mount Royal Tunnel</a><span style="font-family: arial, tahoma, helvetica, freesans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">", we see the railway tunnel through Montreal's mountain. The tunnel also appears in my poem, "Mountain", in <a href="http://briancampbell.ca/writing/books/shimmer-report/" target="_blank">Shimmer Report</a>. <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mount_Royal_Tunnel" target="_blank">Wikipedia tells us</a> itl was built in the early years of the last century to give the CNR access to downtown Montreal. By any reckoning it was a major project, and is still the second longest railway tunnel in Canada. </span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, tahoma, helvetica, freesans, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Funny, I wrote the poem </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, tahoma, helvetica, freesans, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white;">without knowing of its existence. After penning the poem, I went online to see if we had indeed, as I say in the 4th line, "tunnelled through" our mountain, and discovered we had! Poetry, too, can be a form of fact-finding.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">MOUNTAIN</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "cambria";">We’ve placed a cross on your shoulder, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "cambria";">erected a transmission tower,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "cambria";">planted a spindly flag.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "cambria";">We’ve tunneled through you,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "cambria";">necklaced you with roads, paths, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "cambria";">apartments, mansions clutching </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "cambria";">like pearls at your throat. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "cambria";">You, who pressed forth</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "cambria";">forced by unrelenting magma, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "cambria";">who rose</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "cambria";">earthen breast, back</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "cambria";">primordial.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "cambria";">Now the city gathers round, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "cambria";">temples, spires</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "cambria";">obeisant to your deep bass voice—</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "cambria";">but freeways, office buildings, industrial parks</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "cambria";">oblivious. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "cambria";">We live beside you in tiny flats</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "cambria";">watch phantasmal screens, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "cambria";">eat, recline, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "cambria";">groom ourselves for the daily backandforth</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "cambria";">squirm into leather</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "cambria";">for nights in halogen town.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "cambria";">Still—certain hours—you block the sun:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "cambria";">chilled by your encroaching gloom,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "cambria";">we peer from windows, terraces, to see you </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "cambria";">throw off our ropes and stays, to loom.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
-- from <a href="http://briancampbell.ca/writing/books/shimmer-report/" style="color: #7c93a1; text-decoration: none;"><i>Shimmer Report</i></a> (Ekstasis Editions, 2015)<br />
<br />
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Brian Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17182888011015400963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8163916.post-7952591352868371092015-10-15T19:41:00.000-04:002015-12-09T19:57:22.744-05:00Photos from Shimmer Report Launch, Oct. 14, 2015<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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About forty guests came to this launch at The Word, a storied, steadfast brick-and-mortar bookstore in the McGill Ghetto. Among those pictured above: Adrian King, owner of The Word, et moi (picture 2 from the top); Cora Siré et moi (7); Maxianne Berger & Jean-Pierre Pelletier (8); Jan Jorgenson & her husband Ted (9); myself & my wife, Jocelyne Dubois (10); Elise Moser, Cora Siré, & Hugh Hazelton (11). Many books were signed and sold. Thanks Adrian and Donna for hosting the event and arranging the food & drinks, to all of you who attended! It was a great evening!Brian Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17182888011015400963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8163916.post-84499103590348485592015-09-16T16:29:00.000-04:002015-09-16T17:13:08.150-04:00Shimmer Report Montreal Launch: The Word, Oct. 14<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">It's just been confirmed: the Montreal launch of Shimmer Report, my latest collection of poetry, will be taking place at <a href="http://www.wordbookstore.ca/">The Word</a>, 469 Milton St, on Wednesday October 14 at 7:30 pm.</span>Brian Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17182888011015400963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8163916.post-27293584222465873402015-08-14T19:50:00.001-04:002015-08-14T19:50:10.383-04:00Victoria BC Launch of Shimmer Report<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Brian Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17182888011015400963noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8163916.post-75992796841446761242015-06-11T21:20:00.000-04:002015-06-12T03:43:10.362-04:00Shimmer Report in Ekstasis Catalogue<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The <a href="http://www.ekstasiseditions.com/">Ekstasis Editions</a> catalogue is now online, with <a href="http://www.ekstasiseditions.com/recenthtml/shimmer.htm">Shimmer Report</a> in it. The book won't be out until August or September, but you can order in advance <span id="goog_891209091"></span><a href="http://www.ekstasiseditions.com/recenthtml/shimmer.htm">here</a><span id="goog_891209092"></span>. <br />
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Here's the text which will appear on the back of the book:<br />
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<em>Shimmer Report</em> tells of a couple who do not fall in love so
much as ascend together into love from their own dark places. He, a
poet, musician, teacher; she, a visual artist and author, has also had
to endure the psychiatric system. Life and love are but a shimmer—but
this is a report on hard realities, as well as on flashes of colour,
delight, and whimsy. <br />
<br />
<blockquote>
<blockquote>
Years of suffering<br />
like gas into flame<br />
have drawn air <br />
into your light—<br />
a leaping, lambent figure <br />
in mist, burning bright</blockquote>
“<em>Shimmer Report</em> is a book of searing honesty and shy
grace. To read its poems becomes an act of witness as Brian Campbell
explores his city and his heart, evoking the requirements of love as
well as the vexed nuances of survival. I admire his courage.”<br />
~ Mark Abley, author of<em> The Tongues of Earth</em> </blockquote>
<blockquote>
“In Brian Campbell’s <em>Shimmer Report</em>, the poet asks,
“What dilemma is this now?” Using urban, multi-language Montreal for a
backdrop, and a palette of telling details in shades of wit and
compassion, Campbell explores today’s creativity and relationships
through echoes and upshots of complicated pasts. These are poems of love
and survival—in spite of, and because of, the curiosities of the world
we live in.”<br />
~ Maxianne Berger, author of <i>un renard roux/a red fox</i></blockquote>
Brian Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17182888011015400963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8163916.post-77112586288725892482015-06-11T21:02:00.003-04:002015-06-11T21:06:55.634-04:00Shimmer Report: CoverThe cover of my upcoming book with <a href="http://www.ekstasiseditions.com/">Ekstasis Editions</a>... the image is detail from a painting by my wife, Jocelyne Dubois.<br />
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Brian Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17182888011015400963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8163916.post-75641880439631186282015-04-17T20:29:00.001-04:002015-04-17T20:31:07.306-04:00Reading at Lapalabrava, last Thursday, Montreal<br />
<iframe width="420" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/ST-yEWEjZEA" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
Me reading a selection of poems from <i>Shimmer Report</i>.Brian Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17182888011015400963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8163916.post-87900275378860447852015-03-31T23:18:00.000-04:002015-04-10T09:05:50.824-04:00Shimmer Report to be published by Ekstasis<br />
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Great news! My latest poetry manuscript, Shimmer Report, has been accepted for publication by <a href="http://ekstasiseditions.com/">Ekstasis Editions</a>. It's to come out this fall.</div>
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Brian Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17182888011015400963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8163916.post-40421405147295732902015-02-19T19:27:00.000-05:002015-02-19T19:27:31.854-05:00Review: Zachariah Wells -- Career Limiting Moves<div class="_5pbx userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.38; overflow: hidden;">
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My review of Zach Wells' Career Limiting Moves is up at Rover.</div>
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Zachariah Wells isn't one to shy away from an argument. His collection of critical writing Career Limiting Moves is pugnacious, hilarious, and illuminating.</div>
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ROVERARTS.COM</div>
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Brian Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17182888011015400963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8163916.post-47887447439703895412015-02-08T22:55:00.003-05:002015-03-31T23:06:01.311-04:00Book recommendation: Conversations with a Dead Man: The Legacy of Duncan Campbell Scott by Mark Abley<br />
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Duncan Campbell Scott (1862-1947) was a disturbing enigma. A career bureaucrat, he was the overseer of
Canada’s destructive Aboriginal schools policy—but also one of our country’s
important poets. It was natural for Mark Abley, a fine poet
himself as well as socially concerned journalist, to imagine bringing Scott
back to life in order to have a conversation.
The ghost story—or more precisely, a series of interviews with a ghost
visitor—is a superb narrative strategy, injecting humour, irony, and drama into
what could have been a pretty dry slog had Abley simply followed a more conventional research paper format. Abley portrays Scott as a product
of his time, and yet open to persuasion; he contrasts mores, manners, mentality
and even linguistic usage in a way that wouldn’t otherwise have been possible.
An absorbing and delightful read! Highly recommended…</div>
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Brian Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17182888011015400963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8163916.post-11921297754932145812015-02-04T19:46:00.001-05:002015-02-04T20:04:43.409-05:00Nina Bruck video + CBC interview<div class="_5pbx userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" style="overflow: hidden;">
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From Julie Bruck's FB page:</div>
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For friends of Nina B's, a video by Raphael Bendahan, that ends with her chapbook launch reading.</div>
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Also, CBC Books has re-posted David Gutnick's mini-doc on Nina from The Sunday Edition.</div>
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<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;"><a href="http://www.cbc.ca/books/2015/02/listen-nina-bruck-on-publishing-her-first-book-at-85.html">http://www.cbc.ca/books/2015/02/listen-nina-bruck-on-publishing-her-first-book-at-85.html</a></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.38;">It's a tonic for me to see and hear the fully-engaged Nina of 8 years ago. She so enjoyed her 15 minutes of fame, and she would have loved this, too. (--Julie Bruck</span><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.38;">)</span></span></span></div>
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Brian Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17182888011015400963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8163916.post-40327655106263297752015-02-03T15:52:00.001-05:002015-02-05T14:26:28.873-05:00RIP Nina Bruck<div class="_5pbx userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.38; overflow: hidden;">
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My wife and I loved her and her poetry. Her chapbook, Still Light at Five O'Clock Raphael Bendahan and I published when she was 85 -- and I treasure my one remaining copy. She was a kind woman, serene in her whimsical intelligence and wisdom. All my condolences to her family and other friends.</div>
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<a ajaxify="https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10203502977519042&set=a.1106211859471.2015675.1352027395&type=1&src=https%3A%2F%2Ffbcdn-sphotos-a-a.akamaihd.net%2Fhphotos-ak-xap1%2Fv%2Ft1.0-9%2F11420_10203502977519042_5333797030971764152_n.jpg%3Foh%3Defc89d75894534c7bb3e9f93b0287e9b%26oe%3D555275C2%26__gda__%3D1432052875_edc474d698db0c744f03fc7c45bfec1c&size=321%2C494&player_origin=profile" class="_4-eo" href="https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10203502977519042&set=a.1106211859471.2015675.1352027395&type=1" rel="theater" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0470588) 0px 1px 1px; color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; display: block; position: relative; text-decoration: none; width: 256px;"><img alt="Somehow, I deleted this post. A strange way to undo what can't be undone. I'll try again, with that same heavy heart:
BRUCK, NINAMAE (nee FINKELSTEIN),
Died peacefully at home in Montreal on February 1, 2015, at 92.
Nina was a poet, photographer, and open-hearted observer of the beauty, injustice, and oddness of life. We were lucky to have her love and her whimsical humour for so long.
Predeceased in 2013 by her husband, Gerald Bruck, she is survived by her sons, Jerry Jr. and David, her daughter Julie (Lewis Buzbee), and her adored grandchildren, Zoe and Jacob Bruck and Madeleine Buzbee, by her nieces and friends, and by her loyal caregivers during her last years, especially our dear Hermie Granados.
At her request, there will be no funeral service. A memorial gathering of her family and friends will be planned in the coming months.
Donations in her memory can be made to Chez Doris (http://www.chezdoris.ca), or to the charity of your choice." class="scaledImageFitWidth img" height="395" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-a-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-xap1/v/t1.0-9/s526x395/11420_10203502977519042_5333797030971764152_n.jpg?oh=032fc0ba604d0d42fb1aa9e7a4b2d3f8&oe=555FB6CB&__gda__=1432067554_678484c9ac8a19ecf9993ef102b2ee67" style="border: 0px; height: auto; min-height: 100%; position: relative; width: 256px;" width="256" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10203502977519042&set=a.1106211859471.2015675.1352027395&type=1&fref=nf" style="color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;">Julie Bruck</a></div>
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Somehow, I deleted this post. A strange way to undo what can't be undone. I'll try again, with that same heavy heart:</div>
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BRUCK, NINAMAE (nee FINKELSTEIN),<br />
Died pea<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">cefully at home in Montreal on February 1, 2015, at 92.</span></div>
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Nina was a poet, photographer, and open-hearted observer of the beauty, injustice, and oddness of life. We were lucky to have her love and her whimsical humour for so long.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em;">
Predeceased in 2013 by her husband, Gerald Bruck, she is survived by her sons, Jerry Jr. and David, her daughter Julie (Lewis Buzbee), and her adored grandchildren, Zoe and Jacob Bruck and Madeleine Buzbee, by her nieces and friends, and by her loyal caregivers during her last years, especially our dear Hermie Granados. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em;">
At her request, there will be no funeral service. A memorial gathering of her family and friends will be planned in the coming months.<br />
Donations in her memory can be made to Chez Doris (<a href="http://www.chezdoris.ca/" rel="nofollow" style="color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">http://www.chezdoris.ca</a>), or to the charity of your choice.</div>
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Brian Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17182888011015400963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8163916.post-91341977758464428222014-12-19T21:24:00.000-05:002014-12-19T21:24:58.323-05:00Bridging Solitudes: review of books by Maxianne Berger and Annie Molin Vasseur<div class="_5pbx userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.38; overflow: hidden;">
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My review of <i>un renard roux/a red fox</i> by Maxianne Berger and <i>La voix de l'ombre</i> by Annie Molin Vasseur is now online with Rover.</div>
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Brian Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17182888011015400963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8163916.post-1110542797616317402014-11-10T21:14:00.000-05:002014-12-19T21:16:02.449-05:00A Private Collection<div class="_5pbx userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.38; overflow: hidden;">
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On Saturday night I launched my new Sky of Ink chapbook, A Private Collection, a series of ekphrastic poems inspired by works of art in my home. Appropriately enough, it was a private launch in my home. About 25 people were present, including a number of artists (some of whom are featured in the chapbook) and writer friends. We all had a wonderful time.<br /><a href="http://youtu.be/wYVXCqLk5Ho" rel="nofollow" style="color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">http://youtu.be/wYVXCqLk5Ho</a></div>
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The private goes public: the private launch in my home of A Private Collection, a chapbook of poems inspired by works of art in my house. Recorded Nov. 8, 20...</div>
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Brian Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17182888011015400963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8163916.post-41497811245646506822014-09-16T09:36:00.001-04:002014-09-16T09:38:54.622-04:00Line by Line, E-Books Turn Poet-Friendly (New York Times)<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">I remember my first e-book anthology -- actually a book of essays including a lot of poems, Edward Hirsch's How to Read a Poem. Line breaks were so badly mangled and the text so riddled with errors I eventually ordered a hard copy. Kay Ryan's Selected, which I downloaded the hour I read she had won the Pulitzer Prize, fared better because her short, skinny poems could be easily formatted in unalterable PDF images. I don't generally order poetry in e-book format -- I like to thumb through poetry books and dip into them -- but <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2014/09/15/arts/artsspecial/line-by-line-e-books-turn-poet-friendly.html?smid=fb-share">this is interesting news.</a></span>Brian Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17182888011015400963noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8163916.post-15741481970690637312014-08-01T21:26:00.000-04:002014-08-02T10:32:11.088-04:00Mariela Griffor: The Psychiatrist<div class="MsoNormal">
Child’s Eyes</div>
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<br /></div>
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People say that children see and hear things<o:p></o:p></div>
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they themselves cannot see or hear,<o:p></o:p></div>
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and this child breaking into<o:p></o:p></div>
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the room to hug and kiss<o:p></o:p></div>
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his grandmother, Wilma,<o:p></o:p></div>
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hasn’t seen me yet. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I am afraid of his eyes,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
touching like a hummingbird<o:p></o:p></div>
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the cornea of my eyes.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I don’t want him to see<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the puddle of<o:p></o:p></div>
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old pain and rusty love<o:p></o:p></div>
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that grows inside of me,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the spider web of my disappointment,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
a beaten heart that<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
has never overcome the loss of him.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I am afraid of this child<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
running around with his two frank<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
years, afraid of me breaking.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m sure he would scream<o:p></o:p></div>
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if I let my pupils touch his,<o:p></o:p></div>
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and the room would look<o:p></o:p></div>
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at me knowing the truth of<o:p></o:p></div>
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what he sees.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I am afraid and old,<o:p></o:p></div>
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smashing day after day<o:p></o:p></div>
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a memory of innocence.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I know too much.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My mind is fragile.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3OIeNTv7xGtzg4U4V8Ic-ftscTP3yDornW-et6eMxLRrudwy6ejeSk3Qt-eDTP0-Ww582yeveQgzPM_ioohdpu6NvDpaYPNgcxZNpzpSDDJ9gtLtaql2PuQkfgdQbxyzssz64VQ/s1600/Mariela+Griffor+book+image+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3OIeNTv7xGtzg4U4V8Ic-ftscTP3yDornW-et6eMxLRrudwy6ejeSk3Qt-eDTP0-Ww582yeveQgzPM_ioohdpu6NvDpaYPNgcxZNpzpSDDJ9gtLtaql2PuQkfgdQbxyzssz64VQ/s1600/Mariela+Griffor+book+image+.jpg" /></a>This is a favourite poem of mine from “The Psychiatrist”,
Mariela Griffor’s latest collection, sent to me for review by Eyewear
Publishing last year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Searingly poignant,
simply put, the poem expresses — in a way I don’t think I’ve seen elsewhere —
how one can feel confronted and even intimidated by the innocent life force of a
young child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With this poem, I have only
one — albeit small — quibble: it’s with the antecedent of the pronoun “him” in
the line “has never overcome the loss of him”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We can assume it’s not the child itself, but a man, an adult love to
which she is referring — Ignacio, perhaps, mentioned in an earlier poem, or the
unnamed subversive in “Love for a Subversive”, the unnamed lover in “Rain”?
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is probably some way around this,
but at the same time, that pronoun in this poem has its own brute force.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Mariela Griffor was born and raised in Chile, and came into
adolescence and early adulthood under the Pinochet regime.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a young woman, she joined a revolutionary
group, and doubtlessly ended up on a blacklist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In 1985, she left Chile for Sweden under involuntary exile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Much later, in 1998, she moved with her
American husband and two daughters to the United States, where she is now
Honorary Consul for Chile in Michigan. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here are poems of subversion, exile, and solidarity that
ache to be told: elegies for friends who were tortured or disappeared,
evocations of nights of insomnia, furtive meetings under code names, a character
sketch of a relative who was a possible undercover agent for DINA (National
Department of Intelligence.) <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All contemporary Chilean poets – indeed, Latin American
poets – write under the shadow of Pablo Neruda.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Indeed, Ms. Griffor will soon be coming out with a new translation of
his <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Canto General</i>, published by
Tupelo Press. Her own style, though, doesn’t bear a trace of his lush,
surrealistic influence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She reminds me of
certain Eastern European poets — Czeslaw Milosz, Tadeusz Rozewicz, Wislawa
Szymborska among others <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>— or of her own
countryman, Nicanor Para: poets that speak unvarnished truths with simple irony
and measured declaration. In some later poems in the collection, the Griffor’s
free verse becomes rather too prosaic for my taste:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My grandfather did not talk about what Mr. Monzalves said,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
but it was clear that he knew that my grandfather <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
was a sympathizer of Allende and that he had come to deliver
a warning.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just before I left Chile the last person I met from the
Front <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
in Santiago was my commander<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His real code name was Wolf.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I told him I was planning to leave the country because I
could not avoid the surveilland anymore and my good friend,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the lawyer Inunza, had arranged for me to go to Sweden or
France.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(Exiles)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In a patch like this one, I wish that the author<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>had fashioned an
introduction or searched more deeply for lyricism in her subject matter. In most places, though, her straightforward style has its own strength and sensibility.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The title of the collection raises expectations that it will
concern mental illness, or perhaps relate a series of psychiatric consultations.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
brief title poem, however, is the only one where a psychiatrist is featured;
there he figures as a voice of authority in the narrator’s head that the poet
summarily shoots down to get on with her life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Mariela Griffor’s “The Psychiatrist” is well worth buying
and reading.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I look forward to seeing
more of her work.<o:p></o:p></div>
Brian Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17182888011015400963noreply@blogger.com0