RIP Bill Knott

SONNET

Bill Knott

The way the world is not

Astonished at you

It doesn't blink a leaf

When we step from the house

Leads me to think

That beauty is natural, unremarkable

And not to be spoken of

Except in the course of things

The course of singing and worksharing

The course of squeezes and neighbours

The course of you tying back your raving hair to go out

And the course of course of me

Astonished at you

The way the world is not

I enjoyed this poem a lot when I encountered it on today's AAP Poem-a-day. I love its ease and casual (seemingly casual) brilliance, hallmarks of Knott's verse. Then I discovered by scrolling down that its author had died only a couple of weeks ago. Quite a shock.

I first encountered Knott online about ten years ago, ordered his renowned early collection, "The Naomi Poems" at considerable cost through Abe Books, and then his self-published selected, "Goodbye to Prisoner", from the blog of the author himself. We had some correspondence, but he struck me as cagy and bitter, with a harsh penchant for self-deprecation that seemed both a kind of exaggerated put-on, but also genuine, borne of profound self-hatred.  Then I got very busy, and our dialogue fell off.  This article in the New Yorker confirms those impressions, and tells us more about his life and work. Like one of the writers quoted there, I learned to admire him from a distance.

Is the "not" at the end of the first and last lines a play on the author's name? It certainly becomes so, inevitably, in that final, fatal light. (A light all good poetry is written in, of course.)  Anyway, RIP at last, Bill.  Your work will endure.

RIP Jack Gilbert

I just learned today that Jack Gilbert, one of my favourite contemporary poets, died on Remembrance Day after a long battle with Alzheimer's. He was 87. Here's a poem that was posted on AAP's Poem-a-Day.  It does resonate with the reconsideration of a life.

Failing and Flying

Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.

It's the same when love comes to an end,

or the marriage fails and people say

they knew it was a mistake, that everybody

said it would never work. That she was

old enough to know better. But anything

worth doing is worth doing badly.

Like being there by that summer ocean

on the other side of the island while

love was fading out of her, the stars

burning so extravagantly those nights that

anyone could tell you they would never last.

Every morning she was asleep in my bed

like a visitation, the gentleness in her

like antelope standing in the dawn mist.

Each afternoon I watched her coming back

through the hot stony field after swimming,

the sea light behind her and the huge sky

on the other side of that. Listened to her

while we ate lunch. How can they say

the marriage failed? Like the people who

came back from Provence (when it was Provence)

and said it was pretty but the food was greasy.

I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell,

but just coming to the end of his triumph.

RIP Celia Campbell

My mother, moi and my sister Bonnie, circa 1963.

Celia Campbell (née Scholnick)

June 3, 1927 – March 2, 2012

Beloved wife of Willard Campbell (deceased), Celia will be sadly missed by her son Brian and daughter Bonnie Wilson, grandsons Thomas and Jonathan Wilson, as well as by her surviving sisters Jeanette and Jean, brother Hymie and numerous extended family.  Born and raised in Montreal, she spent her working years as a secretary for law firms and later for the York Board of Education in Toronto.  On the job, she was admired for her exceptional organizational skills and attention to detail.  Celia will be remembered for her honesty, integrity and devotion to her family.   Her life was commemorated in a private service.

Obituary, Globe and Mail

RIP Willard Eldrin Campbell



Dad et moi...



March 6, 1924-August 11, 2011

Passed away last week at Sunnybrook Veterans’ Hospital after a lengthy struggle with Alzheimer’s. Born and raised in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, Willard later moved to Toronto, where he settled and raised his family. In his life he had been a farm hand, a factory worker, a writer, a World War II veteran, trade unionist, mature university student, school teacher and school librarian. He is survived by his loving wife Celia, son Brian, daughter Bonnie Wilson, and grandsons Thomas and Jonathan Wilson. He will be cherished in their memory as a peaceful and compassionate man, insightful and idealistic, with a gentle sense of humour and keen interest in politics and the arts, especially literature and poetry. He enjoyed music of all kinds – classical, jazz, folk, pop – and was frequently humming a tune. His children in particular owe to him their love of literature, music, and the world of ideas. His rich and inspiring life was commemorated in a private service.
　
Heartfelt thanks to the dedicated staff at K3 Sunnybrook Veterans’ Hospital for their years of care and support. In lieu of flowers, please consider making a donation to the Alzheimer Society of Canada.

-- Obituary, Globe & Mail

RIP Batman



RIP Batman Sept. 15, 1996 - Dec. 23, 2010



RIP

R.I.P. J.D. Salinger

RIP PK Page

R.I.P.

Star Gazer

The very stars are justified.
The galaxy
italicized.

I have proofread
and proofread
the beautiful script

There are no
errors.

(PK Page)

Vic Chesnutt RIP

This extraordinarily gifted songwriter took himself from this world Christmas day at the age of 45; if you want to inform yourself on the man's remarkable life and tragic passing, here's quite a thorough obit from the LA Times. 

I myself had never heard about Vic Chesnutt until the news came out of his death, but after being riveted by a couple of videos I downloaded one of his albums (and will probably download more).  His was a spare, melancholy aesthetic spiced with dashes of eccentric humour -- a minimalist Americana that brings to mind (my mind, at least) the film Paris, Texas, among other things.  Some of his work is as profound as it gets -- like the above, which brought chills to my spine and tears to my eyes.  His work was rare -- particularly for the US -- in that it confronted the darkest realities head on.   He will be missed -- but left behind a considerable body of music to explore and savour.

RIP Sonja Skarstedt

I just learned from Stephen Morrissey that Sonja Skarstedt passed away after a long battle with cancer last Friday. She was only 48. Montreal poet, painter, editor, reviewer, playwright and recently filmmaker, she founded and edited Zymergy magazine, which ran between 1987-90, and Empyreal Press, which produced a number of Montreal authors, including Louis Dudek. For a heartfelt in memoriam by a writer who knew her personally, see this post by Stephen Morrissey. For more about her various fine productions, see www.skarwood.com

RIP Frank McCourt

When I look back on my childhood, I wonder how I survived at all. It was, of course, a miserable childhood: The happy childhood is hardly worth your while. Worse than the ordinary miserable childhood is the miserable Irish childhood, and worse yet is the miserable Irish Catholic childhood.

People everywhere brag and whimper about the woes of their early years, but nothing can compare with the Irish version: the poverty; the shiftless loquacious alcoholic father; the pious defeated mother moaning by the fire; pompous priests; bullying schoolmasters; the English and all the terrible things they did to us for 800 long years.

-- Frank McCourt, Angela's Ashes

RIP Robin Blaser

Robin Blaser (May 18, 1925 - May 7, 2009)

R.I.P. Reginald Shepherd

I just learned from C. Dale's blog that Reginald Shepherd passed away last night. His commitment to the arts of poetry, criticism, and witnessing in prose was total, absolute ... all one has to do is read the final posts on his blog. His passing leaves me deeply saddened... but also awed. He suffered greatly, particularly over the last year. May he rest in well-deserved peace.

George Carlin RIP

Thanks to Pris for this one. He'll be missed. (He'd probably have something caustic & witty to say about that bromide.)

Artie Gold Memorial

Went to tonight's memorial reading for Artie Gold at The Word bookstore here in Montreal -- even though, as I've said, I didn't know him. I'm convinced by people's testimonies that he would have been a great guy to know. At least I got to know about the man from those who did. There were at least 50 people crowded into the little shop, many of them standing, including moi; when the entrance way got packed as a rush-hour bus, the owner had to turn people away at the door. A lot of familiar faces from the Montreal Anglo poetry scene: Endre Farkas, Stephen Morrissey, and Carolyn Zonailo, who helped put on the event, along with others from his inner circle; Robyn Sarah, Carolyn Marie Souaid, Elizabeth Robert. George Bowering, a personal friend of Art's, was also there and talked a bit about him. Like another Glenn Gould, Art, it seems, would call friends up in the wee hours and regale them with wildly eclectic monologues -- one said something to the effect that he was the only person he knew who could string together bubblegum wrappers, Picasso's Guernica, Henri Bergson's theory of mind and quasars all in one sentence. His poetry certainly leaps and crackles with that kind of free-ranging oddness. Before the evening was through, there was an open mike and I got to read this poem. (I hadn't expected to read, but I was prepared.) Although the owner, out of decorum, didn't make a big point of it, there were a fair number of Artie Gold books on display; this was a chance to stock up. I picked up before Romantic Words and his selected, The Beautiful Chemical Waltz, reasonably priced at $10 each. Interesting memorabilia on the walls: letters, photos, eviction notices, an elementary school report card saying if he only applied himself, he could do well, and he really should work on his synonyms and homonyms. Here's a link to a memorial piece by Stephen Morrissey with a recent photo. And here's a quote of an AG poem before I'm done. I transcribe for the pure joy of it:

Sun filters through my window
velvet like bat's bellies the shadow it casts
flutter about my room. I share the unrest

the sun is doomed with; the movement
sunup sundown moving around; ground sky ground
its only comfort the habit of its orbit.

We are orbs whatever we do is behaviour
the truth of our moment is too predictable
yet I delight in the sun. it is monumental

in the sky with certainty rising, setting
looking to the greater cycle, there is colour,
a yellow angel pedals about the world.

RIP Kurt Vonnegut

Kurt Vonnegut just passed away. I don't have time to write a lengthy eulogy here, but my adolescence was enriched by books like Mother Night, God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater and Breakfast of Champions. From the latter I can even trace few direct influences in my own work. A good link with quotes and further links is to be found here.

An Artie Gold Poem

Just cracked open Dennis Lee's anthology New Canadian Poets (1970-85) and found three Artie Gold poems. Art was, at his best, artless in an artful way. Here's one I very much like, and it serves as a fitting epitaph:

             life.

              In a sense
is the exact opposite of what we want     and
that opposite isn't death
                        but fence.
somewhere   over   a rainbow
you see, it's parabolic.
sometimes stretched out on drugs that make me taller
I sway over two kingdoms of sidewalk concrete adjacent
but over the line.  clothes vanish through the magic agency
 of drugs
naked to my brain my genitals hang like a child's drawing
 of scissors
open large enough only for the beam of life to shine through
I trap the living photon and aim it down.  my friends say:
  Artie,
 you have dropped your handkerchief.

RIP Artie Gold, 1947-2007

Just learned from Todd Swift all the way over in England that poet Artie Gold, whom he refers to as a "Montreal legend", died yesterday.

I must confess -- and this feels spooky -- though I live in the same neighborhood, walk the same streets and quite likely, without knowing it, crossed paths with him in the 17 years since I came here, I really didn't know him.

Reading through the sample poems Todd highlights, I find a devil-may-care, stream-of-consciousness quality... at times engaging, at times grandstanding, at times hackneyed, wanting in finish.

Tho I can't even picture his face, I imagine Artie Gold from behind the curtain, a sardonic smile curling on his lips out of feigned respect for this oblivious listener who never did catch on, who never did appreciate his words during his lifetime.

P.S. April 15: Seems I was mistaken. For the last couple of decades at least, AG lived in NDG, not Mile End where I live.

Irving Layton Reconsidered (II)

It’s odd that Silliman’s announcement of Layton’s death elicited only two comments – mine, where I posted the poem below, and some one else saying how shocking it was that the announcement of the death of Canada’s “most famous poet” only prompted one comment.

My first reaction was: What a bunch of ignorant egg-heads!

I give Ron credit, tho, for being generally up on Canadian poetry– he’s reviewed at least a couple about anthologies of our verse before I became aware of them, and he knows many of our poets, at least by name, probably better than I do -- but it’s telling he didn’t have anything more to say on Layton than splash his photo as if he were some rock star. Of course the “spatial and cognitive” gains more space and commentary than anything so traditional (yet wild) as this most Unquiet UnBritish Poet of So-Called Quietude… but I’m sure Ron would argue, and rightfully so, where else in blogland is “spatial and cognitive” poetry given such unlimited space? That’s his focus; it is his blog. But it would be nice for him to transcend his own self-imposed limitations once in a while. (Wouldn’t it be nice for us all…)

Back to Layton:

At this point, almost two weeks after his death, so much has been said on him elsewhere that it seems redundant to make yet another eulogy for this fighter, firebrand, and lion-like champion of poetry (there, that’s my eulogy). My only contribution to the discussion may be to point out that Enneagram-wise, Layton was an exemplar of an 8 with a 7-wing (which Don Richard Riso labels “The Maverick”… interesting that a Globe and Mail headline proclaimed him recently as “Canada’s Maverick Poet”)… an unusual number for a poet. To enthusiasts of both the Enneagram and Layton, this may be obvious (but how many of us are there? maybe one or two).

Layton’s inner “mantra” which he constantly reformulated to himself and broadcast to the world: The world is an unjust place, and I defend the innocent. Of course, “the innocent” was all too often himself, who he defended with his fists (as he says, in childhood) and (in adulthood, probably childhood too) all the powers of his impressive vocabulary. But when that innocent was a suffering prisoner or poet or bird or cat or bull calf, he could call forth a compassion that was truly breathtaking in its depth and largeness of spirit. If you turn to pp. 332-334 of Don Richard Riso’s Personality Types, you’ll see the dynamic of Layton's persona described practically to a tee. An extract that could describe him at his best:

The healthy Eight’s charisma combines with the healthy Seven’s capacity to enjoy life, producing an extraordinarily outgoing personality, often attracting many people and involving them in their hopes and plans. They create opportunities for others and enjoy challenging people to make something of themselves. There is a joyful enthusiasm for living life and sharing their experience and fortitude. Their inner strength and vitality may be so outstanding as to allow Eights with a Seven-wing to have a public, and possibly historical, impact. Their magnanimity will have a practical focus in the concern they show for the material well-being of others.

And at his worst:

Unhealthy persons of this subtype are ruthless and impulsive: they can say or do things that will later be regarded as either a stroke of genius or a fatal mistake. They can be offensive and tyrannical, verbally and physically brutish to others, lashing out at whoever has frustrated them or dared resist their wills. They have explosively violent tempers and quickly get into a rage. They easily feel betrayed and resist any restraints upon their behaviour. Their manic tendencies reinforce their delusions of omnipotence: they may spend vast amounts of money to feed their to feed their inflated notions of themselves. (I don’t know how far he went in this regard…) They tend to get out of control when they are anxious or feel threatened. Since they are susceptible to anxiety, they defend themselves against it by acting out, impulsively striking first, attempting to destroy before they are destroyed.

In all…

… robust, earthy, materialistic… feet firmly planted on the ground, but… not beyond seeking attention and regaling people with stories and “straight talk”. Even if … of limited financial means, Eights with a Seven-wing like to throw money around and have “nights on the town”. The Seven-wing also adds a degree of hyperbole, so they tend to make big promises and exaggerate situations in an effort to recruit others into their schemes.

Sounds like him? Those who are interested in exploring the Enneagram – a complex, enigmatic personality typology that can lead to literally clairvoyant insight into oneself and others -- should read Helen Palmer’s The Enneagram, and Don Richard Riso's and Ross Hudson’s Personality Types and Wisdom and the Enneagram. The Riso/Hudson Enneagram Institute site probably provides the completest information on the net.

But enough typecasting for the moment.

Layton did write a lot of dreck, all of it, however, a lively sort of dreck. Much of his work is a mixed bag of true inspiration and excess -- a source of fascination in itself, how a man could be so brilliant and yet at times aesthetically blind. Below though is one of Layton's stellar poems, that although much celebrated and anthologized, I’ve been unable to find up to now in its entirety on the net.

IRVING LAYTON RECONSIDERED

On the day of his death, I posted the poem Against this Death below as well as in the comments box of Silliman’s blog. It seemed a fitting epitaph for the man – and to counter (as far as my influence may extend, which seems pretty minimal, but actually hard to determine what with Google & all) the pat assessments already floating around dismissing his poetry as bombastic, misogynistic, etc.

Up in these parts, especially at about the time I started seriously reading and writing poetry around 1980 or so, Irving Layton was a force to be reckoned with. He was Canada’s best known, celebrated, awarded, most controversial poet – a true media star, the quintessence of literary lion. In my childhood I had watched him arguing vociferously with the likes of Nathan Cohen, Pierre Berton & Robert Fulford on CBC’s TV's weekly Fighting Words. He became the only Canadian to be nominated for the Nobel Prize. One of the first books of poetry I ever got was his Governer General's Award-winning Red Carpet for the Sun – which remains, in memory at least, a fabulous creation. Looking back on it now, I can’t help but admit he was – and probably still is – a huge & seminal influence. Returning to the national scene, I’m quite sure he’s the last poet I’ll ever see whose death will rate front page coverage and full-page testimonials in the all major newspapers up here… not to mention major spots on the television news, etc. (Leonard Cohen’s passing, I’m quite certain, will get still greater coverage, but he is far better known as a singer-songwriter than as a poet.)

It’s also indicative of Canadian attitudes that in all that coverage, precious little of his actual poetry got aired. Quips and barbs, yes. A few nice, sentimental lines on the front page of The Montreal Gazette. And this oft-quoted thing, on an inside page, flanked by two big pictures:

MISUNDERSTANDING
by Irving Layton

I placed
my hand
upon
her thigh.

By the way
she moved
away
I could see
her devotion
to literature
was not
perfect.


Ha ha. A poetic quip that still makes me smile. But… GG Award? Nobel Prize? What a goddamned joke!

This is (it pretty well goes without saying) a prose continent. The journalists and reviewers, if & when they cover it at all, actually manage to block access to poetry. I think they’re actually ashamed of it, afraid of admitting being moved enough by it to print it, afraid it will compromise their so-called professionalism. It’s a curious phenomenon. Compare with Latin America, where national dailies like Mexico City’s Excelsior or Managua’s La Prensa print whole poems – passionate, lengthy poems, not just jokey things -- in their weekly cultural section.

I’m having fun writing this. But it’s time to go to bed. To be continued....

P.S. Well, it's way past my bedtime. Just saw the Toronto Globe and Mail, which my partner had bought earlier in the day -- it seems to their credit they did far better than the Gazette or CBC. Two complete poems in the review section. A Canadian first, I think.

In Memoriam: Irving Layton 1912-2006

AGAINST THIS DEATH

I have seen respectable
death
served up like bread and wine
in stores and offices,
in club and hostel,
and from the streetcorner
church
that faces
two-ways;
I have seen death
served up
like ice.

Against this death,
slow, certain:
the body,
this burly sun,
the exhalations
of your breath,
your cheeks
rose and lovely,
and the secret
life
of the imagination
scheming freedom
from labour
and stone.

-- Irving Layton