Notes and Images

Champlain Bridge (4)

2012-02-11T01:43:00.000-05:00

Champlain Bridge (3)

2012-02-09T01:41:00.000-05:00

Champlain Bridge (2)

2012-02-08T01:38:00.000-05:00

May, 2011

The Champlain Bridge (1)

2012-02-06T01:28:00.001-05:00

I travelled across the Champlain Bridge from 1976 to 2010; when I began crossing the bridge it was only fourteen years old; now, years later, the bridge has only another ten years left, and major repairs, until a new bridge is constructed.

Here are photographs of the bridge. I only appreciated the structure since all of the talk about it being unsafe began.

What I would like to do is to walk the length of the bridge, but this is unlikely...

Champlain Bridge

1958: Beginning of bridge construction.

1962: The Champlain Bridge is opened to the public.

1964: Access to Atwater and La Vérendrye Blvd is opened.

1967: Bonaventure Expressway is opened.

2009: Due to age and wear to the bridge, major repairs are begun.

2011: In October, the Federal Government announces plans for the construction of a new bridge.

This is the most traveled bridge in Canada. It is a major route from Montreal to Eastern Canada and U.S. States bordering on Quebec.

Traffic on the bridge:

1963: 7,300 cars daily

1968: 33,400 vehicles daily

1989: 109,700 vehicles daily

2010: 156,000 vehicles daily

Personally, I have never doubted the safety of the Champlain Bridge...

A new bridge to replace the Champlain Bridge will cost $6 billion over a ten year period. The Champlain Bridge, constructed between 1958 – 1962, cost $35 million.

Cutting up A.M. Klein's "The Mountain"

2012-02-02T13:48:00.002-05:00

This was in response to Jason Camlot’s “After the Mountain; The A.M. Klein Reboot Project”. Klein’s original poem, “The Mountain”, is published below; it is followed by my cut-up of Klein’s poem, published in a chapbook of the same title, compiled and edited by Jason Camlot, and published by Synapse Press, Montreal, 2011:

For many years I have been interested in William Burroughs and Brion Gysins’ experiments in “cutting-up” texts. In this poem I have literally “re-mixed” A.M. Klein’s poem “The Mountain”. This “re-mix” is a fairly conservative cut-up of Klein’s original poem; that is, I have kept the integrity of Klein’s lines in tact but I have re-mixed the order of the lines. Klein’s text was cut-up with scissors and then randomly reassembled. The resulting “cut-up” text changes a straight linear poem—Klein’s lyrical “A Mountain”—reassembles or re-mixes the poem, and finds in the new text a similar lyrical expression as in Klein’s poem, but without the linearity of the original poem. Meaning persists, but it emerges strangely transformed by the re-mix.

Stephen Morrissey
14 November 2011

Klein’s original poem:

The Mountain

A.M. Klein

Who knows it only by the famous cross which bleeds
into the fifty miles of night its light
knows a night—scene;
and who upon a postcard knows its shape —
the buffalo straggled of the laurentian herd, —
holds in his hand a postcard.

In layers of mountains the history of mankind,
and in Mount Royal
which daily in a streetcar I surround
my youth, my childhood —
the pissabed dandelion, the coolie acorn,
green prickly husk of chestnut beneath mat of grass—
O all the amber afternoons
are still to be found.

There is a meadow, near the pebbly brook,
where buttercups, like once on the under of my chin
upon my heart still throw their rounds of yellow.

And Cartier's monument, based with nude figures
still stands where playing hookey
Lefty and I tested our gravel aim
(with occupation flinging away our guilt)
against the bronze tits of Justice.

And all my Aprils there are marked and spotted
upon the adder's tongue, darting in light,
upon the easy threes of trilliums, dark green, green, and white,
threaded with earth, and rooted
beside the bloodroots near the leaning fence—
corms and corollas of childhood,
a teacher's presents.

And chokecherry summer clowning black on my teeth!

The birchtree stripped by the golden zigzag still
stands at the mouth of the dry cave where I
one suppertime in August watched the sky
grow dark, the wood quiet, and then suddenly spill
from barrels of thunder and broken staves of lightning —
terror and holiday!

One of these days I shall go up to the second terrace
to see if it still is there—
the uncomfortable sentimental bench
where, — as we listened to the brass of the band concerts
made soft and to our mood by dark and distance—
I told the girl I loved
I loved her.

The Mountain, Re-mix One

Stephen Morrissey

O all the amber afternoons
are still to be found.
And all my Aprils there are marked and spotted
upon the adder’s tongue, darting in light,
the pissabed dandelion, the coolie acorn,
green prickly husk of chestnut beneath mat of grass —
from barrels of thunder and broken staves of lightning —
terror and holiday!
Who knows it only by the famous cross which bleeds
into fifty miles of night its light
upon the easy threes of trillium, dark, green, and white,
threaded with earth, and rooted
And Cartier’s monument, based with nude figures
still stands where playing hookey
Lefty and I tested our gravel aim
(with occupation flinging away our guilt)
holds in his hand a postcard.
In layers of mountains the history of mankind,
and in Mount Royal
There is a meadow, near the pebbly brook,
where buttercups, like once on the under of my chin
a teacher’s presents.
And chokecherry summer clowning black on my teeth!
One of these days I shall go up to the second terrace
to see if it is still there—
one suppertime in August watched the sky
grow dark, the wood quiet, and then suddenly spill
The birch tree stripped by the golden zigzag still
stands at the mouth of the dry cave where I
which daily in a streetcar I surround
my youth, my childhood—
against the bronze tits of Justice.
the uncomfortable sentimental bench
where, —as we listened to the brass of the band concerts
knows a night-scene;
and who upon a postcard knows its shape —
the buffalo straggled of the laurentian herd, —
upon my heart still throw their rounds of yellow.
made soft and to our mood by dark and distance —
I told the girl I loved
I loved her.
beside the bloodroots near the leaning fence—
corms and corollas of childhood.

The Mountain, Re-mix Two, unpublished

Stephen Morrissey

one suppertime in August watched the sky
grow dark, the wood quiet, and then suddenly spill
a night-scene;
and who upon a postcard knows its shape
stands at the mouth of a dry cave where I
beside the bloodroots near the leaning fence—
corms and corollas of childhood,
against the bronze tits of Justice.
And all my Aprils there are marked and spotted
the pissabed dandelion, the coolie acorn,
green prickly husk of chestnut beneath mat of grass—
There is a meadow, near the pebbly brook,
where buttercups, like once on the under of my chin
The birchtree striped by the golden zigzag still
(with occupation flinging away our guilt)
and in Mount Royal
which daily in a streetcar I surround
holds in his hand a postcard.
In layers of mountains the history of mankind,
into the fifty miles of night
from barrels of thunder and broken staves of lightning—
terror and holiday!
upon the adder’s tongue, darting in light,
upon the easy threes of trilliums, dark, green, and white,
One of these days I shall go to the second terrace
upon my heart still throw their rounds of yellow..
And Cartier’s monument, based with nude figures
Who knows it only by the famous cross which bleeds
threaded with earth, and rooted
to see if it still is there—
the uncomfortable sentimental bench
still stands where playing hookey
Lefty and I tested our gravel aim
my youth, my childhood—
O all the amber afternoons
are still to be found.
where,—as we listened to the brass of the band concerts
made soft and to our mood by dark and distance—
I told the girl I loved
And chokecherry summer clowning on my teeth
the buffalo straggled of the laurentian herd,—
a teacher’s presents.
I loved her.

11 November 2011

Meeting David McFadden at the Morrissey Tavern in 1993

2012-01-11T01:33:00.001-05:00

When we would visit Toronto in the early 1990s we would visit with David McFadden. David is one of my favourite Canadian authors, a poet, novelist, and traveller. From right: SM, CZ, DMc.

Tea with George and Jean Johnston, Huntingdon, 16 February 1992

2012-01-08T03:45:00.001-05:00

We always enjoyed tea with George and Jean Johnston, good friends from our years living in Huntingdon, Quebec. George and Jean were lovely people, generous, loving, welcoming... I have been blessed in knowing them and others like them.

Marya Fiamengo at The Cedars, spring 1993

2012-01-04T03:22:00.002-05:00

Here's CZ and Marya on the Morrison Bridge.

CZ and Marya at the Elgin Cemetery.

Marya and CZ at the Cedars.

Marya on the Morrison Bridge.

SM, CZ, and Marya at The Cedars.

Wendell Berry on William Carlos Williams

2012-01-02T01:28:00.002-05:00

Wendell Berrry's The Poetry of William Carlos Williams of Rutherford (Counterpoint Press, Berkeley, 2011) is both Berry's homage to WCW and a discussion of poetry using Williams' work as the place of reference. This is an honest, serious, and articulate discussion of the work and meaning of one of the three or four major American poets of the last century.

Here is a quotation from Wendell Berry's book:

Without such rootedness in locality, considerately adapted to local conditions, we get what we now have got: a country half destroyed, toxic, eroded, and in every way abused; a deluded people tricked out in gauds without traditions of any kind to give them character; a politics of expediency dictated by the wealthy; a disintegrating economy founded upon fantasy, fraud, and ecological ruin. Williams saw all of this, grieved over it, and accused rightly... (p. 176)

A quotation from Emily Carr

2012-01-01T01:08:00.000-05:00

July 16th, 1933

Once I heard it stated and now I believe it to be true that there is no true art without religion. The artist himself may not think he is religious but if he is sincere his sincerity in itself is religion. If something other than the material did not speak to him, and if he did not have faith in that something and also in himself, he would not try to express it. Every artist I meet these days seems to me to leak out something, some in one way, some in another, tip-toeing, stretching up, longing for something beyond what he sees or can reach.

Emily Carr, Hundreds and Thousands, the Journals of Emily Carr, Clarke, Irwin & Company Limited, Toronto/Vancouver, 1966. P. 41.

Store windows during the Lovers and Others reading on Blvd St. Laurent October 2011 (2)

2011-12-28T03:38:00.002-05:00

Store windows during the Lovers and Others reading on Blvd St. Laurent October 2011

2011-12-26T03:31:00.003-05:00

Slipped out during a break in the reading and took these photographs of store windows along St. Lawrence Main. Just on the edge of Little Italy up near Jean Talon. Montreal, a city still in the 1970s when it isn't in the 1940s or 50s. That's what I love about it...

Visiting Marya Fiamengo at her office, UBC, Vancouver, 19 November 1992

2011-12-24T03:26:00.001-05:00

Marya Fiamengo and Stephen Morrissey.

Poet Marya Fiamengo in her office at the Department of English, UBC,Vancouver.

Marya, Stephen Morrissey, and CZ. After reading in one of Marya's classes.

Marya and CZ.

Visiting Barry Dempster in Toronto, 14 March 1992

2011-12-22T03:21:00.002-05:00

Barry Dempster

CZ and Barry.

Karen Dempster, Barry Dempster, CZ, Stephen Morrissey

Stephen and Barry.

F.R. Scott Memorial at St. James the Apostle Church in Montreal

2011-12-17T01:41:00.001-05:00

On October 12, 2011, F.R. Scott's contribution to Montreal and Canadian poetry was honoured by the unveiling of a memorial plaque dedicated to him at St. James the Apostle Church in Montreal.

At Ben's Restaurant, Montreal, January 1992

2011-12-13T01:40:00.011-05:00

We used to go to Ben's with Louis Dudek, after a poetry reading, and often the visiting poet would join us. Louis was always interesting, a gracious host, and,m as one of Canada's leading poets, informative and knowledgeable about poetry.

Here's CZ and I, at Ben's Restaurant in Montreal. January 1992. Ben's is gone, now a hotel is on this valuable piece of real estate...

Guido Nincheri, Montreal artist

2011-12-08T02:19:00.005-05:00

In late November, early December 2011, there was an exhibition of the non-sacred art by Florence-born artist Guido Nincheri at Victoria Hall, Westmount, Quebec. My interest in Nincheri is due to his art found at St. Michael's Church in Mile End, Montreal, art commisioned by my great great uncle, Father Luke Callaghan. Callaghan is largely responsible for overseeing the construction of St. Michael's. You can find more on Nincheri and on St. Michael's Church by going to the index on this page.

Artie Gold in 1993

2011-12-03T01:25:00.011-05:00

All previously unpublished photographs of Artie Gold from 1993. A group of us went out for supper, including CZ, Ken Norris, Artie Gold, and myself, to a Chinese restaurant on St. Laurent. Ken's book, Vehicule Days: an unorthodox history of Montreal's Vehicule Poets (1993) had just been published. A fun time was had by all...

Dwight Druick on Artie Gold

2011-11-30T11:26:00.000-05:00

Here's a letter I received from Dwight Druick on November 6, 2011, regarding my essay "Remembering Artie Gold"; the complete essay can be read at
http://www.coraclepress.com/chapbooks/morrissey/remembering-artie-gold.html
------------------

Dear Stephen,

It has been 16 years since I moved from Montreal to make a home in Kingston, Ontario. I had come here to work at Hotel Dieu Hospital in adult psychiatry after having transformed from a musician-songwrtiter (a calling which has gratefully returned without the onus of having to make a living from it) to a psychiatric social worker. During a long period of transition from the stage to McGill - a seemingly endless 7 years - I was a bartender - first at the Rainbow and, then, at Charlie's.

I met Artie in the late 70's at the Rainbow. He would wait for the end of my shift and we would go to Ben's for a 4 AM breakfast of eggs, rye toast, and fried salami. I will never forget watching Artie eat - lingering over each bite with the delight of a child.

Artie and I spent many nights together. We would talk and eat - and we shared some drugs. He would invite me to his tiny apartment on MacKay to see his stash of treasures, the latest of which he would find in the alley ways in the Guy Street area where he lived. I dubbed him 'the urban beachcomber'.

I still have many treasures that Artie gave or sold to me. Scrooge McDuck comics wrapped in plastic and an array of lost and found objects that we both valued. We shared a kind of childlike wonder, marvelling at the great stuff other people would throw away.

This afternoon, I decided to change the place where I have hung one of Artie's drawings that he gave to me. I wanted it to get more light and attention. I turned to Nancy, my wife of 22 years - and a friend of Artie's as well - and said that I was going 'Google' him. That's how I found your tribute to him and learned the very sad news of his passing.

I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart for your words and photos. Artie was a truly gentle and brilliant soul. It was a privilege to have been his friend.

I have often thought of him as the years have gone by - and wondered how he was doing. I missed his company. His humour. His smile.

So in memory of a great friend, I will share my favorite Artie story that I tell at least 5 times a year:

I see Artie for the first time in a few days and say 'hi'.

He says "How come you don't ask how I'm doing"?

Chastened, I ask, 'So how are ya doin'?

Artie pauses, shrugs,

"Don't ask".

Thanks Stephen.

Dwight Druick

Redpath Museum (5)

2011-11-28T15:35:00.000-05:00

A store window in Westmount

2011-11-23T15:40:00.000-05:00

Redpath Museum (4)

2011-11-22T01:30:00.002-05:00

Frederick Philip Grove

2011-11-20T10:59:00.008-05:00

Frederick Philip Grove begins his autobiography, In Search of Myself (1946), with a prologue that was originally a separate essay, also entitled "In Search of Myself". In this essay Grove captures perfectly the essence of a November day in Canada, which is also the essence of November, a month of shadows and cold. Indeed, the month of November begins the Celtic season of Samhain, a time when the spirits of the dead walk and communicate with us. This is my exprience of November, always profoundly experienced, and something I tried to communicate in my poem, "November", published in Girouard Avenue (2009).

I would have included the quotation below from Grove's introduction in my poem had I remembered it from when I used to teach the book back in the late 1970s in Canadian Literature. I remember much discussion of Grove's literary deception--his falsifying the events of his life, and also reading D.O. Spettigue's marvelous FPG in which Spettigue exposes the truth of Grove's life--in Louis Dudek's graduate seminar at McGill back in the early 1970s.

Here's the passage I'm referring to from Grove's introduction:

"It was a dismal November day, with a raw wind blowing from the north-west and cold, iron-grey clouds flying low--one of those [Ontario] days which, on the lake-shores or in a country of rock and swamp, seem to bring visions of an ageless time after the emergence of the earth from chaos, or a foreboding of the end of a world about to die from entropy."

Gael Monfils at the Roger's Cup, summer 2011

2011-11-19T01:27:00.000-05:00

Rafa Nadal at the Roger's Cup, summer 2011

2011-11-18T01:21:00.000-05:00

Roger's Cup, summer 2011

2011-11-17T01:17:00.001-05:00

Jo-Wilfred Tsonga at the Roger's Cup, Montreal, August 2011

2011-11-16T13:12:00.000-05:00

Redpath Museum (3)

2011-11-15T01:26:00.002-05:00

Redpath Museum (2)

2011-11-08T01:23:00.004-05:00

Louis Dudek

2011-11-02T01:01:00.001-04:00

SM and Louis Dudek at the League of Canadian Poets' AGM, held in Montreal in 1993. I had nominated Louis for a life membership and introduced him to the AGM before he spoke that evening. Louis, fondly and lovingly remembered, someone who helped so many of us as poets, a titan among Canadian poets, respected and loved by all of us who knew him.

A quiet morning at McGill's Redpath Museum (1)

2011-11-01T01:19:00.005-04:00

At McGill's Redpath Museum, a cold early June morning

2011-10-30T01:36:00.004-04:00

It was a cold morning in early June when I visited McGill University's Redpath Museum, located on the McGill campus. I remember visiting the Redpath Museum when I was a student at McGill, many years ago. Perhaps the museum was closed for several years, and I was living outside of Montreal for many years, so it wasn't until June 2011 that I finally returned to the Redpath. It's a marvelous place! Meanwhile, on the campus, only a few hundred feet away, I had watched as William Shatner received an honourary Ph.D.; Shatner attended the same high school I went to; in Shatner's time it was called West Hill High School but by the time I got there it was Monklands High School. I have only happy memories of Monklands, especially after the miserable years I had put in at Willingdon School and especially Rosedale School. Shatner grew up in our old neighbourhood, Notre Dame de Grace. Here's an interesting link for more information on the Redpath Museum: http://redpathmuseumclub.wordpress.com/

More coming on that morning at the Redpath Museum!

Family Album: Parker, Chew, Richards (six)

2011-10-29T03:43:00.026-04:00

Here we are back in April 1, 1992 in Kingston, Ontario, at the funeral of my Auntie Muriel. That's my son, Jake, on the far left; my mother Hilda Parker Morrissey (and later Nichols) next to him; an unidentified woman, perhaps the minister; my Uncle John Parker whose wife, Muriel Bott, with whom he had been married for almost fifty years has just died; then Erma and John Parker of St. Eustache, QC, the son of my uncle; and on the far right, John's sister, my cousin, Jo-Anne Parker. The two boys in the foreground are John and Erma's sons.

Here is my uncle with his son, John Parker, and daughter, Jo-Anne Parker, on either side of him.

Family Album: Parker, Chew, Richards (five)

2011-10-27T01:05:00.000-04:00

My grandfather's car, his wife Bertha Parker in the front seat; Uncle John in the back seat.

In Woodstock, Ontario: Irene Holden on the left, Hartley Holden with cigarette in the middle, and Jenny Holden on the right. All were born in Blackburn, Lancashire, England. Irene died before marrying.

It's the early 1930s, my uncle John Parker with his sister, my mother, Hilda Parker

My grandfather's brother Victor Parker; he lived with his mother Bessie Richards until her death. He used to work at a dairy located just below Rene Levesque and Lucien L'Allier (the streets had different names at that time). After his mother's death he spent many years at the Douglas Hospital in Verdun, Quebec. One day (in the early 1970s?) my mother was reading the obituaries and came across his name. We visited a funeral parlour where he was laid to rest. His mother had intended that he be looked after by his brothers after her death, but this doesn't seem to have happened. He is seen here with the family husky.

Family Album - Parker, Chew, Richards (four)

2011-10-25T01:57:00.015-04:00

Hilda Parker on a snowy day near the Mother House (corner Atwater Street and Sherbrooke Street West) where she was a secretarial student.

We're in the Laurentians, just north of Montreal, and that's my uncle John Parker eating an apple, then Iris Price, my grandmother Bertha Parker (ne Chew), and my mother Hilda Parker Morrissey.

This is my uncle John Parker, and his sister (my mother) Hilda Parker, at a cemetery perhaps visiting Bill. This must be in the early 1920s. Montreal.

At the same cemetery as above, Bertha (Chew Parker), her husband (my grandfather) John Parker, children John and Hilda.

Family Album - Parker, Chew, Richards (three)

2011-10-20T01:48:00.007-04:00

.Here is my mother, Hilda Parker (Morrissey), at her First Communion at St. Jude Anglican Church in Montreal; the dress was borrowed from a Roman Catholic friend's family.

Here is my mother, Hilda Parker, with family friend Iris Price at Plage Laval. Iris was the daughter of a friend of my mother's mother.

Here is my uncle, John Leslie Parker, my mother's younger brother, in front of or near a flour mill in Woodstock, Ontario, where other relatives from England had settled after moving to Canada.

This photograph was taken in the Laurentians just north of Montreal. That's my uncle John Parker eating an apple on the far left, then Iris Price, my grandmother Bertha Chew Parker, and her daughter Hilda Parker on the far right. John Parker in the photo is Bertha Chew Parker's son.

Family Album - Parker, Chew, Richards (two)

2011-10-17T01:12:00.008-04:00

My uncle John Parker, in the Royal Canadian Air Force, during World War II; he was stationed in Prince Edward Island.

My uncle John Parker (on left) in front of a pharmacy on St. Antoine Street in Montreal. The friend on the right is the son of the "chemist."

A drive on the Lakeshore in a car rented by my grandfather's friend Tommy Byron. Tommy arranged to bring over his sister, May Byron, in a stateroom on the ship on which he worked. From left: a young John Parker (my uncle) at the wheel, Tommy Byron, John Parker (my mother's father), my mother Hilda Parker, my mother's mother Bertha Chew Parker, and May Kenyon at the far right. Photo taken in the early 1920s; looks like a fun time was had by all!

Photograph of Bertha Chew Parker. Not sure who the woman is on the right.

Family Album - Parker, Chew, Richards (one)

2011-10-14T01:37:00.006-04:00

Bertha Chew, mother of young Bill, her son, in the backyard of her mother-in-law, Bessie Richards Parker..

.Bessie Richards, grandmother of young Bill. Bessie had four or five sisters, one was Bella who lived in St. Thomas, Ontario

Young Bill, my mother's older brother who died when still a child.

Young Bill. We always heard that Bill had a childhood illness and that my grandparents called for their family doctor, but the doctor never arrived, he was drunk.

F.R. Scott memorial plaque unveiling

2011-10-07T01:15:00.001-04:00

A commemorative plaque for F.R. Scott will be unveiled on October 12 at St. James the Apostle church here in Montreal. Scott was a constitutional lawyer, a McGill professor of law, and an important Canadian modernist poet; however, poetry was his first love. He states, “Everything in my life that I did was done with a feeling of making poetry.”

Below is an excerpt from an interview with F.R. Scott published in the Quill & Quire in July 1982. Scott’s answers here deal with the Canadian Constitution, Canada-Quebec relations, and the big multi-national corporations; his answers are prescient and insightful in light of today’s world:

Q&Q: Is the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms entrenched in the new Constitution the one you would have wanted?
Scott: The Charter of Rights is certainly not the one I wanted. It was put together in such a hurried fashion. All these power boys running around in smoke-filled rooms. There are many things in it that will cause us tremendous headaches. Of course, I have been in favour of an entrenched bill of rights written into the old Constitution, it was understood that certain laws affecting freedom of speech, freedom of assembly or freedom of religion could not be tampered with beyond the surveillance of the court — on any condition. Now, although it is entrenched really it is only partially entrenched because there’s the clause allowing a province to opt out. Quebec wants to do this.

Q&Q: Do you think the current form of Quebec nationalism is a progressive force?
Scott: I think the Parti Québecois’ position of independence is reactionary. Furthermore, I think it is immoral. It will make everybody worse off. There’s no absolute right to independence. You’ve got to see what harm it will do. To take a functioning federal system and split it into pieces is doing so much harm all around and about that I say it is immoral. Quebec has not been so badly treated. Separatism is just satisfying an amour impropre.

Q&Q: Is it too late to bring Quebec back into the fold?
Scott: Quebec is more subconsciously in the fold than we think. You know, I was a great defender of Quebec’s rights when it came to compulsory conscription. That made me a total isolationist when the war broke out and got me into more trouble than being a socialist. But it has always been my hope and faith that Quebec will come back. It will take a good deal of common sense, which I’ve always felt French-speaking Quebeckers have, and which their English-speaking counterparts increasingly show.

Q&Q: When you entitled your brief to the Royal Commission on Dominion-Provincial Relations, “Canada — One or Nine”, were you questioning the ability of Canadians to grasp the potential of their country and does this still worry you?
Scott: This problem is as real to me today as it was in 1938. The spirit of commercialism, the disregard of the community, this attitude is so powerful and has as its most active defenders the big corporations. Only a strong federal state can stand up to these gigantic corporations though even it seems to have a hard time doing so. But at least a strong federal state can evoke a certain national will that says this is our place, these are our resources. To hell with the continental arrangement where the corporations will take 90% and the country will be left with 10%. We must say, we’re going to come into our own slowly. And if we had nothing but little individual nation states, little feudal forts running Canada, we’d be completely swallowed. I think I was ahead of my time in saying we must strengthen the federal system.

Herbert Read on art

2011-10-05T01:42:00.000-04:00

Herbert Read writes:

Tolstoy's famous definition of the process of art is expressed in these words: 'To evoke in oneself a feeling on has experienced, and having evoked it in oneself, then by means of movement, lines, colours, sounds, or forms expressed in words so to transmit that feeling that others experience the same feeling -- this is the activity of art.

'Art is a human activity consisting in this, that one man consciously, by means of certain signs, hands on to others feelings he has lived through, and that others are infected by these feelings and also experience them.'

Herbert Read, The Meaning of Art, Pelican Books, London, 1950, pages 185 - 186.

Herbert Read on Celtic Art

2011-10-04T01:33:00.001-04:00

Herbert Read writes:

Celtic art is one of the most intrinsically interesting phases in the whole history of art. By various historical accidents, the extreme Northern parts of Europe – Ireland, Scotland, Iceland and Northern Scandinavia – became the preserve of an indigenous prehistoric style. This style, which originated in the Middle Rhine area, was brought to the British Isles by the retreating Celtic tribes, and here preserved its characteristics whilst successive waves of tribal invasion swept across the rest of Europe.

The development of European art during the so-called “Dark Ages” (A.D. 400 to 1000) is extremely complicated, and Celtic art is involved in the general uncertainty. But in spite of the rarity of survivals from the period, it seems certain that the early Celtic art of the pre-Roman period survived as a continuous tradition in Ireland until a new influence appeared in the North in the form of Christianity. In Britain, the introduction of Christianity was a very slow process, lasting over a period of 200 years at least. There is but slight evidence of the prevalence of Christianity in Britain during the Roman period; its real history in this country begins with the mission of St Ninian, a disciple of St Martin of Tours, who built a church at Whithorn, Wigtownshire, in A.D. 412. Not long after, Ireland was converted by St. Patrick, and during the sixth century the process of
conversion spread to Wales, to the Picts in the north of Scotland, and then to the Saxons in England. During the sixth and seventh centuries this northern church became the shelter of Christianity in Europe; and at this period, one of the most important and significant for the whole development of art in Europe, direct contact was established between the North and the East.
. . . .

The whole range of Celtic art therefore divides itself into two distinct periods – the early, pre-Christian period, deriving its style direct from Neolithic Age, and the later post-Christian period, during which the stylistic influences from the east were incorporated. Dr. Mahr…has subdivided this post-Christian period into (1) the Vernacular style, from the seventh century to the appearance of the Vikings about 850; (2) the Hiberno-Viking style from 850 to 1000, the period of Viking domination in Ireland; (3) the last animal style, from 1000 to 1125; and (4) the Hiberno-Romanesque style, 1125 to the Anglo-Norman Conquest.

The ornament of the early Celtic period is linear, geometric and abstract; the type most familiar is the interlaced ribbon or plaited ornament vulgarized in present-day ‘Celtic’ tombstones. It is seen in all its purity in the Book of Kells, the eight-century manuscript belonging to Trinity College, Dublin.
. . . .

Into this gloomy and abstract field of art the symbols of Christianity come like visitants from an exotic land. In a prickly nest of geometrical lines, two birds of paradise will settle, carrying in their beaks a bunch of Eastern grapes. David comes with his harp, and the three children in the furnace; Adam and Eve, and the sacrifice of
Isaac, are represented in panels reserved among the bans of abstract ornament; and finally the stone is dominated by Christ in Glory and the company of angels. Such stones still stand where they were erected
centuries ago in Ireland and Scotland; and no monuments in the world are so moving in their implications; they symbolize ten thousand years of human history, and represent that history at its spiritual extremes, nearest and farthest from the mercy of God.

Herbert Read, The Meaning of Art, Pelican Books, London, 1950, pages 85-88.

from Herbert Read

2011-10-01T01:31:00.003-04:00

"...the Greeks were wiser than we, , and their belief, which always seems so paradoxical to us, that beauty is moral goodness, is realy a simple truth. The only sin is ugliness, and if we believed this with all our being, all other activities of the human spirit could be left to take care of themselves. That is why I believe that art is so much more significant than either economics or philosophy. It is the direct measure of man's spiritual vision. When that vision is communal, it becomes a religion, and the vitality of art throughout the greater part of history is closely bound up with some form of religion. But, gradually, as I have already pointed out, for the last two or three centuries that bond has been getting looser, and there does not seem to be any immediate promise of a new contact being established."

Herbert Read
The Meaning of Art, A Pelican Book, London, 1950, page 190

From Patrick Kavanagh

2011-09-27T01:27:00.007-04:00

"I am always shy of calling myself a poet and I wonder much at those
young men and sometimes old men who boldly declare their poeticality.
If you ask them what they are, they say: Poet.

There is, of course, a poetic movement which sees poetry
materialistically. The writers of this school see no transcendent
nature in the poet; they are practical chaps, excellent technicians.
But somehow or other I have a belief in poetry as a mystical thing,
and a dangerous thing.

A man (I am thinking of myself) innocently dabbles in words and rhymes
and finds that it is his life. Versing activity leads him away from
the paths of conventional happiness. For reasons that I have never
been able to explain, the making of verses has changed the course of
one man's destiny. I could have been as happily unhappy as the
ordinary countryman in Ireland. I might have stayed at the same moral
age all my life. Instead of that, poetry made me a sort of outcast.
And I was abnormally normal."

--Patrick Kavanagh
from the Author's Note, page xiii
Patrick Kavanagh, Collected Poems
Martin Brian & O'Keeffe, London, 1972

Motel Raphael, August 2011

2011-09-21T01:43:00.004-04:00

Fire destroys the famous Motel Raphael, August 2011.

It's a done deal.

No more can you dream of the Motel Raphael as a last resort, a safe harbour in the homelessness of modern life...

from a poem by Patrick Kavanagh

2011-09-19T15:40:00.001-04:00

...posterity has no use
For anything but the soul

--Patrick Kavanagh
"If Ever You Go to Dublin Town"

Jean Paul Gaultier exhibit at the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts, August 2011 (2)

2011-09-16T01:36:00.008-04:00

Jean Paul Gaultier exhibit at the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts, August 2011 (1)

2011-09-10T01:39:00.010-04:00

For some of us, the Jean Paul Gaultier exhibition currently at the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts is of only peripheral interest. Gaultier doesn’t need my review of his work, he’s wealthy and well known, but I also wonder if this work belongs in a museum? Probably not. However, it is a lot cheaper for a museum to present haute couture from France than traditional “art.” I am not too sure why this exhibition was presented in the summer months as it might have little appeal to tourists who would correctly think they would be seeing "art" in a museum, not a fashion show from France. And, at first, it has the aura of the worst of French society and the fashion industry, exclusivity, insularity, smugness, self-righteousness, and self-satisfaction.

It was not before I had seen half of the show that the clue into this exhibition of Gaultier’s work dawned on me. There were the creepy talking mannequins, the pointy bras popularized by Madonna, and the kind of costumes you see in fashion magazines that are not for actual wearing but are the folly and pretense of fashion designers like Gaultier. Gaultier is well known and lives in an exclusive world, one to which most of us don't have access.

But there is a clue to Gaultier's exhibition. It is that Gaultier has done what all great artists try to do, he has perceived the zeitgeist, he knows what will be popular before the public knows what they are want, and he explores the collective psyche of French society. In this exhibition, Gaultier has opened the collective unconscious and manifested it in his designs. This is not to say that Gaultier is a “great artist,” but only to state that he has done something remarkable, something that is of interest. These items of clothing express the collective unconscious of the French nation, each is an expression of some archetypal aspect of the French psyche.

Gaultier’s exhibition is all about the psychic content of French consciousness and it is an expression of archetypes. The exhibition disturbs some of us because psychic content can be disturbing. And what is it that Gaultier pulls up into consciousness? It is about glamour, extroversion, colour, pretence, and appearance without depth. But it is also about fun, costume, and wearing our psychological complexes in public.
Gaultier’s show is a carnival of appearance, it shows a life of great variety and imagination, it is a celebration of life, and a celebration of superficial folly signifying very little to the average viewer. It is not my world but I can appreciate what Gaultier is doing because if you compare Gaultier’s vision to a possible exhibition of what comprises the American psyche--the growing spiritual emptiness of American society, the lack of culture in much of America, America as the military police of multi-national corporations, and of all the other stereotypes that have at least an essence of truth to them--then Gaultier's vision has a significance that may have been missed. His vision is, at the least, the expression of psychic content--the collective unconscious, archetypes, dreams--and it is both fascinating and an affirmation of life.

On the Champlain Bridge (2)

2011-09-09T01:28:00.006-04:00

Backyard at Belmore

2011-09-03T01:33:00.002-04:00

At Pierre Elliot Trudeau Airport, Montreal

2011-08-30T01:07:00.000-04:00

On the Champlain Bridge

2011-08-25T01:03:00.001-04:00

Hotel Dieu Hospital, Montreal

2011-08-22T01:03:00.001-04:00

from the last election

2011-08-17T01:08:00.001-04:00

This is what people think of their former heroes, a caricature, with a little Hitler moustache for that je ne sais quoi effect.

wedding day at Alexis Nihon Plaza

2011-08-15T01:00:00.001-04:00

the wolves have turned their backs to us

2011-08-10T01:00:00.003-04:00

Belmore on May 23, 2011

2011-08-06T01:14:00.000-04:00

Construction of mega-hospital

2011-08-02T01:36:00.002-04:00

Champlain Bridge

2011-07-29T01:33:00.001-04:00

Across the street from Emile Nelligan's home on Laval Avenue

2011-07-18T01:53:00.003-04:00

On Laval Avenue, Emile Nelligan's street...

2011-07-13T01:50:00.001-04:00

A Poet's Journey: Notes on Poetry and What it Means to be a Poet (10)

2011-07-11T00:26:00.000-04:00

Marriage between a man and a woman—the expression of male and female energy—is a basic archetype of life. In the archetypal dimension we come close to universal laws that govern life. To deviate too far from the archetypes is to lose touch with what connects us to humanity, wisdom, and the eternal. It is also dangerous to be absorbed or possessed by an archetype, to lose the separateness of individuality and archetype.
__________________________

A number of years ago, out of curiosity, I became interested in the Holy Spirit. I read the bible—in several translations—for the first time. I made notes and studied what I was reading. I began by trying to remember the words to the Lord’s Prayer, which I had forgotten, and with some effort the words returned to me from my youth. I thought about each sentence of the Lord’s Prayer, it seemed incredible that I could have wandered as far from God as I had, because I felt very close to God as a child.
__________________________

The root meaning of the word “enthusiasm” is to be “filled with God.” To be “filled with God” is to have a spirited approach to life. Dis-spirited people drag themselves through life, they aren’t “filled with God.” To have lost our enthusiasm is to be dis-spirited at a very basic level of everyday life. Someone who is spiritually and emotionally depleted, has been dis-spirited. As a child I knew what it meant to feel “collapsed inside”—“The days of my youth rise fresh in my mind, / My face turns green and pale,” as William Blake describes someone looking back on his unself-conscious youth. It was a struggle to survive the life that I was born to, but I created a new life, and I always affirmed life; this was accomplished, at least in part, by writing poems. The spiritual, for me, is nourished by and manifested in the poems I am writing.

Stephen Morrissey
2003 - 2008
Montreal, Canada

A Poet's Journey: Notes on Poetry and What it Means to be a Poet (9)

2011-07-08T00:25:00.000-04:00

When I heard that a friend’s sister, living in New York City, was a “shaman,” I thought it was mildly humourous. Then, by chance, I read a transcript of one of her shamanic healing journeys. I found it fascinating. I said, “ I can do that.” It is not really “hard” to journey, but I also had years of foundational work before I could begin exploring shamanism. It is now clear to me that I began my shamanic work when I was a child and had experiences and listened to dreams that made a deep impression on me.
__________________________

The shamanic journey is not the product of imagination and it is not a guided meditation; it is also not “active imagination.” What you do on a journey is watch, observe, and later record what one experiences. It has nothing to do with influencing what happens on the journey, and it is not dreaming or lucid dreaming in which you attempt to control your dreams. The intentionality of the journey is the shaman’s, but the details of the journey are only discovered during the shamanic journey.
__________________________

When I read some of the astrological degree sets invented by other people, I knew that this was something I wanted to do and that I could do. Then Carolyn Joyce and I spent several weeks during which I dictated what I saw on shamanic journeys and we wrote The Aquarian Symbols (Coracle Press, Vancouver, Montreal, 2000). Each degree is a symbol; it is what was seen in each of 360 shamanic journeys. I did not know for which degree or sign I was journeying to write a symbol, this was all done without my being told this information; all I did was the journey and then report what was seen.
__________________________

The Aquarian Symbols are archetypal images, one for each of the 360 degrees of the zodiac. The Aquarian Symbols were not channeled, but the result of 360 individual shamanic journeys. They are to be meditated upon. For each symbol I “flew” over Vancouver, the city where they were written, and descended where the archetypal image would be given to me. Nothing was decided by me or determined by me, or by anyone else. Sometimes I entered a tunnel and sped, on a roller coaster-like ride, to the inside of the earth. What was seen during the journey was then recorded.
__________________________

The language or imagery of the shamanic journey is made up of archetypes and symbols, both are found in the collective unconscious; however, what one sees during a shamanic journey is what is literally seen on the journey, not as archetypes, not as symbols, but as fact. The poet’s journey is not the same thing as the shaman’s journey, but there are some similarities.
__________________________

A Poet's Journey: Notes on Poetry and What it Means to be a Poet (8)

2011-07-05T00:23:00.000-04:00

As a woman animates and brings to life a man’s potential, CZ has animated me to live more fully and deeply. She is a person of compassion and intelligence who has helped many people, including myself, fulfill their talent and destiny. She is a brilliant poet who has also worked as an editor and publisher. We have been together since we met in June, 1991; she brought love into my life and gave me a new and fuller life. I love her dearly and my life revolves around her. She is my life partner, my creative partner, my friend and partner in family affairs. All of my life I had wanted to find someone like her, and I thank God that I did find her.
__________________________

Family history is a quest that can take up years of one’s life, but eventually it returns us to our own life, more fulfilled and with a deeper appreciation of life. You don’t necessarily go on a quest knowing you are on one; it is something that gradually preoccupies much of one’s time. My quest was to find my ancestors, to list them genealogically, and to find information about them: who they are, their dates of birth and death, where they lived, and some facts about their lives. Writing poetry is not a quest, it is a calling; family history has been a quest.
__________________________

When I was a child I knew, intuitively, that the stories I heard my relatives tell about the family were important. I felt there was heroism to life, not the traditional heroism and bravery of the battlefield, but heroism involved in everyday life by everyday people. I felt that there was something of importance to remembering the past. I recorded the stories I heard about my relatives and ancestors. Even as a child I always felt that the real heroes of everyday life were average people, the ones who survive and who go about their lives with dignity. It is the ordinary people among us who I found to be of great interest.
__________________________

I often think about the ancestors. I work through all the generations of my family, beginning with the first family members to move to Montreal. My great great grandfather, Laurence Morrissey, moved from Ireland to New Brunswick, Canada in 1837 in the company of his parents (my great great great grandparents Patrick Morrissy and Mary Phelan) and his six siblings: John, Michael, Mary, and Patrick who were all older than Laurence, and Catherine, the youngest of the children. The whole family uprooted themselves from where they lived, possibly in Mullinahone, County Tipperary, and moved as a group to Canada. Patrick, Laurence’s father, was a saddler by profession and not a young man when he moved here; he may have been as old as fifty years. What caused them to move, whether by necessity or the desire to improve the material prospects of the family, isn’t known. I believe Laurence married within months of arriving in New Brunswick and a few years later he and his wife, Johannah Meany and their son, or perhaps two sons, moved to Montreal.
__________________________

I honour and respect the ancestors by remembering them. I am in a direct line of ancestors according to family dates of birth and death. I was born just days before the first day of the Celtic season of Beltane, on May 1st, which for the Celts was the first day of summer. Beltane, with Samhain, winter, is the time when the Otherworld is closest to our material world. Samhain, which begins on November 1st, is the first day of winter for the Celts, and is a time when the days grow shorter and the fabric between the material world and the world of the ancestors and spirit is at its thinnest. This is when the ancestors communicate with us the most, whether it is in dreams, or their physical presence.
__________________________

One November night I sat in a restaurant with some friends. After we ate a band played music. While the others listened I was filled with deeply moving memories of my father and later that night wrote a poem about the final days of his life, of his journey to a hospital in Boston where he died a few weeks later. The next day I discovered it was the forty-seventh anniversary of my father’s death. The ancestors visit us if we listen to them. On many occasions I have walked on the street and felt the presence of ancestors walking with me; I have felt them pressing against me when they have numbered in the hundreds.
__________________________

The work of writing poems, honouring the ancestors, the work of healing in poetry, all of this is given to me. I have really been very passive in life. My life was given to me, it was presented to me as a mission in which I am sometimes little more than an observer of what happens. This is the work that was given to me: writing poems, honouring the ancestors, giving time, care, and love to my family, and loving God.
__________________________

I love all of the ancestors, no matter how elevated or how lowly their social position when they were alive. Some of the ancestors are a daily presence in my life, as though they were physically present. I believe I have a connection, extending across my whole life, with the ancestors. I loved my grandmother, Edith Sweeney, who died one month short of her ninetieth birthday, on April 23, 1965, and who was buried the day before my fifteenth birthday in April 1965. My great grandmother, Mary Callaghan was born on my mother’s birthday, March 1st, and died in 1906 on my birthday, April 27. Mary Callaghan’s father died on my birthday, in 1905. My great great grandmother, Johannah Meany, died on April 26th, 1880. Her husband, my great great grandfather Laurence Morrissey, married Marie Emma Mercier, a year to the day after Johannah’s funeral, on April 29, 1881. Out of all the dozens of dates of family members’ births and deaths that I have recorded, these are some of the people I feel are the closest to me in my family history, all are in a direct line of family ancestors. I have in my own way and to the best of my ability honoured seven generations of family members.
__________________________

On Pine Avenue near St. Laurent Boulevard

2011-07-04T01:47:00.000-04:00

A Poet's Journey: Notes on Poetry and What it Means to be a Poet (7)

2011-07-02T00:21:00.000-04:00

Reg Skinner was my mentor and friend for many years. Our initial connection was a shared interest in the writings of J. Krishnamurti, but we also discussed other things. From 1974, when I first met “RR” (Reginald Rice) Skinner, to the mid-1990s, when he died in his late eighties, we corresponded on an almost monthly basis; during this time I also visited RR at his home, first at “Boisville,” near Camberley, and then later at Felpham, near Bognor Regis, both in England. I heard RR’s life story in considerable detail, and I also learned something of spirituality, healing, dowsing, and bee keeping from him. It was not uncommon that we would sit for ten hours and he would talk about his life and what he called “things appertaining” which referred to a spiritual and psychological understanding life. Knowing RR has been a blessing in my life, one for which I am deeply grateful.
__________________________

Being a part of a community of poets is a wonderful thing, especially when you are young. In a group, it is not necessary to write poems that are similar to someone else’s poems; to be creative is to write from your own soul and inner being. The important thing is that poets in a community respect each other. My community, when I was young, was other young poets; later we were known collectively as The Vehicule Poets. There were other poets I knew as well, and all of my poet friends from when I was young have a special place in my heart.
__________________________

A community of poets includes the elder poets, people we respect for their dedication to writing and for the body of work they have created. It is the work of young poets to know the tradition they are working in and to respect the older poets. But older poets must also mentor younger poets. It is a wonderful experience to receive the “blessing” of the older poets we grew up reading; I have had this experience and it sustained me for many years—even now I am thankful for the kindness, affirmation, and teaching I received when I was young from poets who were older, wiser, and more mature than I was at the time. Louis Dudek and George Johnston were especially kind and helpful to me.
__________________________

Poets can be insurance salesmen, janitors, lawyers, teachers, unemployed, or unemployable and on welfare, but these are jobs of convenience or of necessity to survive. The commitment of a poet is to writing poems, and this requires vision, dedication, single-mindedness, and determination in order to do the work the poet was born to do.
__________________________

Soon after I married for the first time, I knew that the marriage was something to be endured. I lived a dis-spirited existence, not a life-affirming and expansive one, just as I had before the marriage. Then, in my thirties, I didn’t write much poetry at all and what I wrote I didn’t like; that was why I turned my attention to writing book reviews. Much of the poetry I managed to write reflected my spiritual emptiness and unhappiness. These poems were not an expression of the Temenos that is entered when the poet is in touch with Spirit. I am not blaming the marriage for this; I take responsibility for the mistakes I have made in my life and in my first marriage. I was dis-spirited before the marriage, and the marriage itself only emphasized my emotional and spiritual condition.
__________________________

In the 1990s, I wrote “The Shadow Trilogy” (The Compass, 1993; The Yoni Rocks 1995; The Mystic Beast, 1997), books that came from an awareness of the shadow aspect of the human soul. The shadow is an important archetype in Jungian psychology; it is made up of what we reject in ourselves and project onto other people. “Owning one’s shadow” refers to being aware of one’s dark side, being responsible for one’s psychology instead of projecting its negative aspects onto other people, and examining one’s life. Writing these three books was an important journey for me, it was a time when I tried to make sense of the first half of my life.
__________________________

A Poet's Journey: Notes on Poetry and What it Means to be a Poet (6)

2011-06-29T00:19:00.000-04:00

Two dreams when I was young had a profound affect on me; they changed my life. I have written of these dreams elsewhere (see the Preface, Mapping the Soul, New and Selected Poems 1978 – 1998, The Muses’ Company, Winnipeg, 1998) but I feel that they are worth repeating, if only as evidence of the profound influence that dreams can have in a person’s life if he or she accepts the importance of dreams as a message from the unconscious. In the first dream I am still living on Oxford Avenue, in our flat where we moved in 1954. I was perhaps nine or ten years old when I dreamed this. Two men from an orphanage came to take me away; they were waiting at the back door, standing on the grey wooden stairs leading to the lane below. They had come for me from the orphanage with a wooden cage in which I was to be removed. It is this scene of the two men, and that I am to be taken to the orphanage by them, that so frightened me.
__________________________

Another dream was also significant. When I was around twelve years old I dreamed that I was in a room that either didn’t have a door or I couldn’t see the door, but that wasn’t the important thing about the room. The windows of the room were covered with mud, although the room was still bright. I remember being in this room and having, when I woke, the crystal clear awareness that I had to write down what was happening in my life or it would all be forgotten, that remembering had great importance for me or I would lose my inner being—the soul that I was born with—and that I knew intuitively was important. The effect of this dream was profound; it has resonated throughout my life: it told me that I have to remember my life, that the alternative to remembering is confusion and confusion is loss of soul. I woke from this dream knowing that I was already forgetting the details of my life. The important thing lay in remembering and understanding my life; the alternative was to sink into confusion and inner darkness. As a child I took this life-changing dream seriously. That was when I began writing a diary, which I have continued writing everyday for over forty years.
__________________________

My dream of being taken to an orphanage as a child was a nightmare. It was a dream of having my spirit depleted. However, my spirit was not depleted, stolen, or isolated; I found strategies to survive. Even as a child I knew that I was not the failure the school system told me I was. I wrote poetry; I wrote a diary; I lived a fairly solitary life for a child; I hid from or avoided those who would destroy my spirit. I was not taken to the orphanage; I affirmed life, creativity, and love. I saved myself by lying low, by not bringing attention to myself. I adapted to situations that other people would not have put up with. I survived what others would have not survived. I was not lonely as a child; I was resigned to my life as I knew it. It did not take courage to survive; there was no alternative but survival. I also gained depth and affirmation of life by surviving as I did. I cultivated my inner life, which was also the time of my apprenticeship as a poet. I lived in a kind of suspended animation. My home life as a child was spent being alone much of the time; I felt grief over my father’s death; I attended the many funerals of aunts, uncles, and grandparents; and I felt shame that I had failed two grades at school.
__________________________

It is a mistake to think of my poetry as being negative because I have written about grief, death, and loss. The fact that I have written any poems at all is a celebration of life. My poems are in no way a denial of life. All of my work is an affirmation of life and the spiritual aspect of life. All of my work is a celebration of the Divine and a journey towards the Divine.
__________________________

My life has been an affirmation of the life force, the triumph of spirit, the survival of the individual despite what has been endured in life. My whole life has been engaged with God, talking to God, God speaking to me through dreams, being separated from God, and then the return to God in my late forties. God does not write or dictate my poems, but an awareness of the presence of God is the foundation on which my poems are written. Writing, for me, is an act of survival, of strength, of courage, and it has always been a part of my life’s journey. I have had in my life and in my writing a dialogue with God.
__________________________

There is the story of Scottish poets in the Western Highlands who, up to the seventeenth century, entered a “house of darkness” as part of their apprenticeship as poets. Alone, the poet entered a darkened room where there was no communication with the outside world; the room was windowless, it was a place of solitude necessary for composing poetry, a place also for memorizing poems and communing with the Otherworld. These apprentice poets were Celts from Scotland. It was a Celtic shamanic way to apprentice a poet, and it recognized the importance of dreams and the unconscious mind. When I heard of this Celtic way to initiate poets, I saw my dream of being enclosed in a room as an ancestral memory, a message from the Otherworld to follow my path of poetry. And I did.
__________________________

When I read that shamans believed that being “dis-spirited”—losing one’s spirit, the loss of spirit, the diminishment of spirit, the attack on spirit—is one of the causes of spiritual and psychological illness in people, I knew that they were right. By “spirit’ they refer to both our own spirit and to our connection with the Divine, with God. A single phrase, “feeling collapsed inside,” is a diagnosis of being dis-spirited, a condition that was a part of my life until I met CZ in my early forties.

A Poet's Journey: Notes on Poetry and What it Means to be a Poet (5)

2011-06-26T01:33:00.000-04:00

The contradiction in writing is that you write in private, and then you allow others to read what you have written. I am a private person and yet I have also always been a “public” person. The circumstances of my life pulled me out of the crowd when I was a child; these circumstances included the death of my father and failing two grades at school. I write from the private depths of my being, and then I let go of what I have written, get it published, get up in front of a room full of people and read it to them.
__________________________

If (as I believe) poetry is the voice of the human soul, then healing and poetry are connected in a fundamental way. Confessional poetry, poetry of witness and Spirit, is a form of healing, by revelation, by catharsis, by discovery of inner truth. Poetry can be healing for the poet and it can also contribute to healing the person who reads poetry. We denigrate this aspect of poetry when we call it “therapy.”
__________________________

The poet—who is also the wounded healer—brings psychological and spiritual depth to his work. It is the work of the poet to bring the unconscious to consciousness, to be a midwife to consciousness. Poetry is not therapy, it is poetry, but I believe that some emotional and spiritual healing can be a by-product of poetry. I refer here to both reading someone else’s poems and writing one’s own.
__________________________

Good poetry does not moralize, but there is a moral dimension at the very foundation of all poetry and literature. All great poetry, all great art, has a moral dimension grounded in the eternal and universal. It is the nature of the unconscious mind to seek wholeness out of psychic fragmentation, and to assert a moral response to life situations. Morality, what is good and what is bad, is inherent in the human psyche. Poetry, like all great art, has an underlying affirmation of morality.

Emile Nelligan's second home, near Carre St-Louis, still on Laval Avenue

2011-06-25T01:40:00.003-04:00

Here is Morrissey in front of Emile Nelligan's home on Laval Avenue in the Plateau, April 2011.

From Maud Bodkin

2011-06-24T10:45:00.001-04:00

Maud Bodkin writes,

When a great poet uses the stories that have taken shape in the fantasy of the community, it is not his individual sensibility alone that he objectifies. Responding with unusual sensitiveness to the words and images which already express the emotional experience of the community, the poet arranges these so as to utilize to the full their evocative power. Thus he attains for himself vision and possession of the experience engendered between his own soul and the life around him, and communicates that experience at once individual and collective, to others, so far as they can respond adequately to the words and images he uses.

We see, then, why, if we wish to contemplate the emotional patterns hidden in our individual lives, we may study them in the mirror of our spontaneous actions, so far as we can recall them, or in dreams and in the flow of waking fantasy; but if we would contemplate the archetypal patterns that we have in common with men of past generations, we do well to study them in the experience communicated by the great poetry that has continued to stir emotional response from age to age.

Maud Bodkin, Archetypal Patterns in Poetry: psychological studies of imagination; Vintage Books, 1958, pages 7-8. First published in 1934

A Poet's Journey: Notes on Poetry and What it Means to be a Poet (4)

2011-06-23T01:30:00.000-04:00

My father died in 1956 and my mother remarried in 1962; then we moved to Montclair Avenue, about a mile west of our old home on Oxford Avenue in Montreal’s Notre-Dame-de-Grâce neighbourhood. I was never happy living on Montclair, it was for me a place that was emotionally barren, a place where my stepfather was sick and then died, a place that has few happy memories for me. It was and always will be a bleak house, cold and Dickensian. My stepfather, Graham Nichols, had a terrific sense of humour and was always very good to me; but his last three years were spent in hospitals and convalescent homes, his health deteriorating. I spent a lot of time, from 1966 to 1969 when he died, visiting him in these places with my mother.
__________________________

In 1963, when I was thirteen years old, I had my tonsils removed at the Montreal Children’s Hospital; afterwards, I typed a one-page account of my time in the hospital, this was my first “diary.” I began keeping a diary on a daily basis in January 1965. I have never censored my writing. My purpose was to get things written down as closely as I can remember them. I am not saying that there aren’t different versions to the same event, different ways of looking at the same event, but what I write is faithful to the way I have experienced and perceived things at the time of writing. I never intended to show what I had written in my diaries to anyone, it was always something I did for its own sake. The act of writing is what is important and the one rule that I have followed in all of my work—in poetry and prose—is to never censor what I am writing.
__________________________

Poetry is the voice of the human soul, speaking across time and distance. Poetry, whether written yesterday or thousands of years ago, is an expression of some aspect of the inner life and journey of the poet. A poem is a meditation and we know when we are in the presence of real poetry because we can feel a quality of spirit and soul communicating to us. My test for poetry has always been: does it make me want to write poetry? If so, it has inspired me, returned me to the spiritual dimension.
__________________________

Writing a poem completes a meditation. It is possible to find the resolution to inner conflict by writing. In the act of writing it is possible to have an experience of catharsis, numinosity, and self-transcendence. It is possible to discover and find inner peace and compassion.
__________________________

Over a three-day period in late April 1977 I wrote a long poem, “Divisions”. I wrote about things that had deep emotional meaning in my life: mostly to do with my father’s death and my failing at school. I had married the previous summer, in August 1976, and the wedding was immediately followed by marital turmoil. Writing “Divisions” was a catharsis, a purging of emotions; it is a poem of witness, of confession, of what I had seen and experienced. I tried to write the poem many times before, but when I wrote “Divisions” the form of the poem was also important; form is the container of content. Form and content must work together, must be congruent for the poem to work. This is part of the process of finding one’s voice in poetry, of finding a voice that speaks with authority and clarity and is true to one’s inner being. I accomplished this in “Divisions”.
__________________________

In my late thirties my first marriage ended in divorce. Despite the unhappiness of the marriage, I was still devastated by the divorce. My old life, as I knew it, was finished. While the marriage was unhappy, I loved my son and I wanted to be with him. Eventually, however, my wife and I agreed on getting a divorce and sharing custody of our son. Still, in the days and weeks that followed the separation, I felt physically as though I had been dragged across a rocky field by wild horses. I remember lying down in a country field and crying out “God help me, God help me.” For astrologers this was a Pluto transit over my ascendant and it lasted about three years. During this time my thirteen-year marriage ended, we had a cult murder next door, and several houses in our small rural community burned down. It was the beginning of the elimination of my life as I had known it. It was my descent into Hades.
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D.H. Lawrence & the Apocalypse

2011-06-21T19:53:00.002-04:00

This is quoted from Lawrence's book, Apocalypse:

To get at the Apocalypse we have to appreciate the mental working of the pagan thinker or poet – pagan thinkers were necessarily poets – who starts with an image, sets the image in motion, and then takes up another image. The old Greeks were very fine image-thinkers, as the myths prove. Their images were wonderfully natural and harmonious. They followed the logic of action rather than of reason, and they had no moral axe to grind. But still they are nearer to us than the orientals, whose image-thinking often followed no plan whatsoever, not even the sequence of action. We can see it in some of the Psalms, the flitting from image to image with no essential connections at all, but just the curious image-association. The oriental loved that.

To appreciate the pagan manner of thought we have to drop our own manner of on-and-m-and-on, from a start to a finish, and allow the mind to move in cycles, or to flit here and there over a cluster of images. Our idea of time as a continuity in an eternal straight line has crippled our consciousness cruelly. The pagan conception of time as moving in cycles is much freer, it allows movement upwards and downwards, and allows for a complete change of the state of mind, at any moment. One cycle finished, we can drop or rise to another level, and be in a new world at once. But by our time-continuum method, we have to trail wearily on over another ridge.

The old method of the Apocalypse is to set forth the image, make a world, and then suddenly depart from this world in a cycle of time and movement and event, an epos; and then return again to a world not quite like the original one, but on another level. The ‘world’ is established on twelve: the number twelve is basic for an established cosmos. And the cycles move in sevens.

from Apocalypse, by D.H. Laurence, Penguin Books, 1974, p. 54-55

A Poet's Journey: Notes on Poetry and What it Means to be a Poet (3)

2011-06-20T01:28:00.000-04:00

When I was in my late teens and early twenties, I was concerned with experimentation in my writing. However, even then I was still concerned with the poet as witness, writing from a Surrealistic poetic sensibility, writing that is mostly narrative, and an approach to writing that is “shamanic.”
__________________________

The experimental poetry that preoccupied my writing from age eighteen to my mid-twenties was an attempt to circumvent the ego. It was an attempt to write original poems by eliminating the ego’s presence; to enter an oceanic, mystical, non-ego state of mind by either entering a trance state, or by doing experiments in randomness in which the ego couldn’t intervene. That was my motive in experimenting in writing, that was my intuitive approach to writing poetry; it was never to be avant-garde, never to be innovative or daring, never to be cutting-edge, never to be popular. When it didn’t work using the experimental methods I was trying, I dropped it. My concerns in poetry have never been the concerns of most other poets who were experimental or innovative in their work.
__________________________

I had two premises on which my early poetry was based. I wondered if experimentation in poetry, mostly in the way of randomness, could produce new and original poems, and I also wondered if I could write from an altered state of consciousness. These experiments included using William Burroughs and Brion Gysin’s cut-up technique in which an original text is cut into pieces with a pair of scissors and then reassembled randomly, producing a text that juxtaposes the original words and phrases in a new way. I experimented in automatic writing and other experiments I thought would circumvent the ego. I was also interested in John Cage’s work, sound or performance poetry, simultaneous readings of different texts, and concrete or visual poetry. I was interested in the Dadaists, the Surrealists, concrete and sound poetry. Eventually, I began to realize that these experiments, while interesting, did not address my concerns in writing or produce the desired results.
__________________________

My experiments in poetry were part of my apprenticeship as a poet. In my early writing I was attempting to move away from the conditioned ego and I thought I could do this by altering my consciousness. In retrospect, I can see that these experiments are evidence that the inner psychological or spiritual being has always been central to my work as a poet from when I began to write poetry to the present.
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Champlain Bridge

2011-06-19T01:00:00.002-04:00

A Poet's Journey: Notes on Poetry and What it Means to be a Poet (2)

2011-06-17T01:25:00.001-04:00

Poetry, in my experience, is written in a moment of numinosity. True poems, real poems, are easy to recognize. My test of poetry has always been that when hearing or reading someone else’s poems, am I moved to want to write a poem of my own? If I am, then the poem is a source of inspiration for me. Inspiration means that the poem is inspiring, it breathes Spirit into the reader. The experience of writing poems is life affirming and it is always exciting to begin writing a new poem. Of course, it is a subjective test, but poems can always be analysed objectively and a critical and intellectual criticism of the poem formulated later.
__________________________

What is the nature of writing poetry? For me, writing poetry has always been a way to find order and understanding in my life, a life that was not empowered and that was sometimes dis-spirited. I discovered that writing poems empowered me, returned me to Spirit, and gave me an experience that I have not been able to find in any other activity.
__________________________

“Inspired” writing seems to have no ego involved in the writing and afterwards there is no ego-attachment to what has been written. This is writing from Spirit; the writing feels as though it has been dictated and this in no way denigrates the writer’s talent or hard work to produce a written text. Spirit communicates to us in our dreams and in shamanic journeys; writing poems also opens the door to Spirit.
__________________________

When I was in university I read Isak Dinesen’s short story, “Sorrow Acre.” This story opened to me the mythological dimension of literature. It gave me an approach to textual explication, literary criticism, and understanding literature. I remember being touched very deeply by the experience of reading this story. It was an epiphanous experience, just as years before reading Steinbeck influenced me in a similar way. I also read the work of many poets, including William Blake and Walt Whitman; however, it was in reading Isak Dinesen’s “Sorrow Acre”—then learning about the Garden Myth and mythology as psychological truth—that I learned my critical approach to literature.
__________________________

When I read Allen Ginsberg’s statement, in a newspaper article in 1967—“Scribble down your nakedness because it is the nakedness of the soul that people are really interested in”—I knew that this was my ars poetica and is basic to all of the poems I have written.
__________________________

One of the first long poems I wrote (I was about eighteen years old) is entitled “Tumour City,” and it is about my stepfather’s long illness. I began my writing career as a confessional poet, a poet of truth and revelation; my earliest poems were poems of witness, and I have always had a deep commitment to exploring the inner psychological being. The aim of the contemporary poet, in my opinion, is to write a poetry of witness, which includes catharsis, healing, and redemption; the aim is the diminishment of the ego, not its enlargement.
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Home of Emile Nelligan on Laval Avenue in the Plateau (one)

2011-06-16T01:00:00.001-04:00

Here is the home of the Quebec-born poet Emile Nelligan. The spoken-word poet Ian Ferrier and his family live there today.

A Poet's Journey: Notes on Poetry and What it Means to be a Poet (1)

2011-06-14T01:15:00.004-04:00

My essay, A Poet's Journey: Notes on Poetry and What it Means to be a Poet, was originally published online in Poetry Quebec.
___________________________________

A Poet's Journey: Notes on Poetry and What it Means to be a Poet

My life long journey is writing poetry. The poet’s journey is a calling, a mission, a commitment to creating a body of creative work; it is at the core of the poet’s inner being. Being a poet is central to everything the poet does. If the poet is a person of spirit, then poetry is also an aspect of a life awake to the voice of the unconscious mind and an intimate conversation with the Divine. Every poet’s journey is different and unique to the individual poet, but all poets have the same mission: to write their poems and express something of their vision of life.
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I was born at the Montreal General Hospital at 6:23 p.m. on April 27, 1950. This was when the Montreal General was called The Western Hospital and was located in what is now the Montreal Children’s Hospital, near Atwater and Ste. Catherine Street, below Cabot Park, in downtown Montreal. It is a half block away from the old Montreal Forum, the former home of the Montreal Canadiens hockey team, and a bus terminus across the street from the Forum.
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Some of the factors that defined my existence include my parents, my brother, my extended family, my race, social class, genetic makeup, physical constitution, the historical time in which I was born, and my own free will. World War Two had ended five years before I was born and we were entering the decade of the 1950s. As well, astrologically, I was born with the sun in Taurus; the moon in Virgo; and my ascendant in Scorpio.
__________________________

When I was about fourteen years old—sitting in Miss Poole’s English literature class at Monkland’s High School in Montreal—John Steinbeck’s novella The Red Pony made a deep and lasting impression on me. In this book, Steinbeck describes one of his characters as feeling “collapsed inside.” This phrase from Steinbeck was my first memorable and profound literary experience. I understood Steinbeck’s description right away because at times I, too, felt “collapsed inside.” I recognized what he described as something I had experienced in life. This phrase opened several doors to my thinking. One door was to the power of literature—indeed, to the power of a single phrase—to communicate experiences or nuances of feelings that were familiar and moving to me. This made literature an experience that I was eager to repeat by writing poems of my own and by reading the work of other writers. The other door that opened was to psychological and spiritual truth; Steinbeck’s phrase identified how I felt in life and became so much a part of my reflection on my life’s journey that I am quoting from him over forty years later. I believe that this phrase from Steinbeck’s story also contributed to opening the door to my becoming a poet of confession and witness. I wanted to do in my poetry what Steinbeck did for me in this single phrase of his novella: to accurately describe in words an emotional state that I had experienced and to find order in the confusion of my inner being by describing it in words.
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Champlain Bridge

2011-06-11T01:21:00.004-04:00

The Great Year: The Age of Aquarius, c. 2000 - 4000 A.D.

2011-06-09T01:02:00.002-04:00

The Age of Aquarius

(c. 2000 - 4000 A.D.)

the world felt itself
at the beginning
of a great change

--W.B. Yeats
Odysseus took out
Cyclopes' single eye
and for his deed
betrayed himself to louts
and thugs,
ten years in exile and travail.
Is this the dawning
of the Age of Aquarius?
We know the future
less well than ourselves,
ourselves hardly at all.
Like Odysseus we search for home:
waking on board ship to waves
slapping the bow and stern;
moonlight is silver
across foreign waters'
surface. Written on the ship
or starship
the name "Aquarius".
We think of brave Odysseus then
and know the sea,
know the stars and space
calling us with celestial music,
sounds we hear
late at night, when
darkness enfolds us in mystery.
In each port the gurus and gods
have gone, no more Christs
or Buddhas, only fanatics,
eyes on fire with millennial fever.
Still, wherever a harbour or farm
exists we find a home--
this awakens nostalgia
for the homes we had,
exiles and outsiders
on the earth.
Our world is ancient
as giant turtles
or redwood trees,
where electric current
is the new river of life and blood,
making the earth one port,
one living being
in cosmic outer space

The Great Year: The Age of Pisces, c. 100 B.C. - 2000 A.D.

2011-06-05T01:07:00.003-04:00

The Age of Pisces

(c. 100 B.C. - 2000 A.D.)

Fish surrounded me
when I was a child,
even my mother's arms felt
wet and cold; I could taste
salt on my lips
and lay with eyes closed
and knew the world
was an alien place.
I was surrounded by fish
all of them with
faces resembling
mother, father,
wife, mother-in-law,
they were sharks, piranha,
salmon, cod, pickerel;
they swam
upstream in my veins
finding a pool of warm
liquid in my heart
where they flung themselves
violently--
what heartache they caused!
At night I prayed
to God, as though this life
would never end,
my prayers were
the sound of water running
in a river until
giant boulders
are worn smooth. Soon
I, too, went to sea
and became a fisherman;
in my small cabin
cluttered with books,
a copy of the Vinland
Map spread across
my desk, and over my bed
was an icon of Christ
in whose arms
I rested; His eyes
followed me
as I moved from one
corner of my cabin
to the next, sometimes
His lips moved
shaping something
resembling a smile,
and I could hear Him
speak, in ancient Aramaic,
words I could not
understand;
I threw sardines
to a school
of dolphins
that swam beside
my ship, then
caressed their sides,
their eyes filled
with compassion.
The sea
is a cathedral
whose ceiling
is the stars
and whose floor
the blue water--
sun or moon reflected
it is a mosaic
of silver tiles,
the kind seen
in Roman palaces,
dolphins frozen
in the ceramic waves.

A "Stop" sign ("Arret") becomes "Art" on Park Avenue

2011-06-04T01:31:00.004-04:00

The Great Year: The Age of Aries, c. 2400 - 100 B.C.

2011-06-02T01:04:00.004-04:00

The Age of Aries

(c. 2400 B.C. - 100 B.C.)

The moon
blood red,
not with
harvest, but
like the earth,
with blood;
peaceful men
became warriors:
battering rams
at the gates.
In the night sky
Mars is near
the horizon,
the same sky
on land
as on the sea
where Odysseus
sailed;
someone asks,
"how could the goddess
not depart?"
Clouds
gathered
across the moon,
only a white circle
distant
almost disappeared
from the sky--
the sun, too,
is hidden
and everywhere
men leave home
to wander
and impose
their will.

A truck load of animals on the way to the abattoir

2011-05-30T01:21:00.001-04:00

Philip's Square seen from The Bay in late May 2011

2011-05-29T01:11:00.001-04:00

The Great Year: The Age of Taurus, c. 4550 - 2400 B.C.

2011-05-29T01:07:00.004-04:00

The Age of Taurus

(c. 4550 - 2400 B.C.)

The bull silent
in an ochre coloured
field, genitals hanging;
the shadow
in moonlight
of one
whose body was a man's,
whose head was a bull's--
he fed on human flesh,
his image inhabits
every mirror--
our passions
are too great.
We each
have one song,
a chorus
repeating
our need for love;
oh, I am consumed
with betrayal
and darkness,
inhabiting
a labyrinth
and waiting
for my executioner
who even now
I hear trying to walk
silently around a corner
with a club and knife.

The Great Year: The Age of Gemini, c. 6480 - 4550 B.C.

2011-05-26T01:01:00.003-04:00

The Age of Gemini

(6480 - 4550 B.C.)

When Adam and Eve
left the Garden
the journey began,
and so we find ourselves
always searching--
our memories
held together
by darkness,
tawdry rope
grown weak, unravelling,
and unkind.
Somewhere a garden
exists, but it,
too, is a memory;
our fall
is endured
alone.
We have invented
the Wheel of Life,
erected sacred pillars,
know gods in Heaven
and gods in the Underworld.
We are centaurs,
half man half
horse, half
divine and still
we are wounded;
why can we heal
others but not
ourselves?
I fell asleep
and woke at middle age,
so many years spent
in deepening sleep
until released
as though the ground opened
beneath my feet
and nothing was ever
the same.
Betrayal and grief,
love and compassion,
now I am someone
I never was
before, one
with the soul's
wounding.

Champlain Bridge in April 2011 (two)

2011-05-25T01:28:00.001-04:00

The Great Year: The Age of Cancer, c. 8640 - 6480 B.C.

2011-05-22T01:05:00.003-04:00

The Age of Cancer

(c. 8640 - 6480 B.C.)

We do not live
in caves, we visit
them as holy places--
each seed planted
is a new beginning,
and this is our desire:
the moon, the first
seed, erotic and glowing
in the night sky;
who could not be in awe
seeing the full moon--
stars disappear
and our homes
cast shadows
across the path
to the edge
of a forest or
the ocean's shore--
we visit caves
as sanctuaries
returning us
to what is lost:
a cave, the moon,
a woman's womb.
Floods cleanse
the land,
the soul
that watery element.
We place water
in bowls, seeds
in woven baskets,
the dead in graves,
live in settlements,
count seeds, trade
amulets, bracelets,
necklaces, female figurines
the size of your thumb--
the grave a container
for men, women, children;
bones with patterns scratched
on them, bodies positioned
in the earth containing them.

Black Elk: Crying for a Vision

2011-05-21T10:31:00.002-04:00

Every man can cry for a vision, or "lament"; and in the old days we all -- men and women -- "lamented" all the time. What is received through the "lamenting" is determined in part by the character of the person who does this, for it is only those people who are very qualified who receive the great visions, which are interpreted by our holy man, and which give strength and health to our nation.

The Sacred Pipe, Black Elk's account of the Seven Rites of the Oglala Sioux, recorded & edited by Joseph Epes Brown, (Baltimore, Penguin Books, 1971) p. 44.

The Great Year: The Age of Leo, c. 10,800 - 8,640 B.C.

2011-05-19T01:47:00.004-04:00

Age of Leo

(c. 10,800 - 8640 B.C.)

A lion is born
in the heart,
he walks at night
enters dreams,
and in our throats
when we wake
we seem to hear
growls, roars.
This is not
a time for prayer
or worship
of any god,
but knowing
an inner light
illuminating
consciousness,
as the sun
moves across fields,
mountains, lakes,
from morning rising
to evening sunset.
Here is the birth
of Apollo, somewhere
else Dionysus is born,
somewhere else again
Hermes and Osiris.
This golden age
when we found
light above our
heads, within
our souls;
and always
a lion waiting
in the distance.

Champlain Bridge in April 2011

2011-05-17T01:11:00.002-04:00

The Great Year: Age of Virgo, c. 13,000 - 10,800 B.C.

2011-05-15T01:06:00.004-04:00

The Age of Virgo

(c. 13,000 - 10,800 B.C.)

The months begin
and are like winter,
always longer than expected:
five months of winter, so you
long for it to end;
consider it
a time of rest and quiescence,
a time to turn inward:
add drawings to earth walls
white as fields--
grass brown in the cold,
and then disappearing beneath
more snow;
fields that are
austere,
the soul's condition
in winter.
The moon
cold and white
as earth,
it is also woman
round and open
unfolding secrets
of existence, repetition
of birth and death,
seasons, tides,
sunlight and moonlight,
planting crops,
bears hibernating
in caves, snakes
in a crevice,
deer's antlers
on the forests' floor:
this is the time
of silence, of
the soul's gestation--
at night
we see stars
moving in the sky.

The Great Year

2011-05-12T01:38:00.003-04:00

I have always been concerned, perhaps obsessed, by time. I have been a diarist since January 1965. Some of my first poems were about the transience of time. How could they have not been when I was preoccupied with death and failure? I have written an extensive history of my family, going back to the early 1800s. I have written "A Short History of the Irish in Montreal" and other poems that I group into the category of history, time, the years. Since the mid-1980s I have written poems on individual years. I look at my life and think there is more that has been done than will be done in the future. The expiry date is not far off. It is time to do the important work of life, the mission of writing and what it means, the vision of art. There is chronological time, emotional time, and cosmic time. This poem, then, deals in cosmic time.

The poems that follow, "The Great Year," were first published at The Astrology Guild website

(http://www.astrologyguild.com/thegreatyear.htm).

The Great Year

In our present day, when this same planet, Earth, rocking slowly on its axis in its course around the sun, is about to pass out of astrological range of the zodiacal sign of the Fish (Pisces) into that of the Water Bearer (Aquarius), it does indeed seem that a fundamental transformation of the historical conditions of its inhabiting humanity is in prospect.

--Joseph Campbell

The Inner Reaches of Outer Space

These poems celebrate the Great Year, a period of time that lasts 25,868 years during which Earth passes through the twelve zodiacal signs, and the Great Months, each lasting approximately 2,500 solar years. Poetry, like astrology and mythology, is the language of the unconscious mind, dreams, symbolism, irrationality and intuition. © Stephen Morrisey, M.A.. 2002

Age of Virgo - c. 13000 - 10800 B.C.Age of Leo - c. 10800 - 8640 B.C.Age of Cancer - c. 8640 - 6480 B.C.Age of Gemini- c. 6480 - 4550 B.C.Age of Taurus- c. 4550 - 2400 B.C.Age of Aries- c. 2400 B.C. - 100 B.C.Age of Pisces- c. 100 B.C. - 2000 A.DAge of Aquarius- c. 2000 - 4000 A.D.

Where Cedar meets Pine Avenue (two)

2011-05-10T01:05:00.002-04:00

Where Cedar meets Pine Avenue (one)

2011-05-08T01:16:00.002-04:00

Rowan trees outside Loyola Chapel, Concordia University, November 2010

2011-05-05T01:00:00.005-04:00

Man on street corner with placard

2011-05-04T01:02:00.004-04:00

A shoe store window on Monkland Avenue in Montreal

2011-05-03T01:02:00.002-04:00

Renovations at 2226 Girouard Avenue in October 2009

2011-05-01T01:21:00.004-04:00

My heart went out of visiting Girouard Avenue when the renovations began. Whatever there was of the place as it used to be is now gone. The future has arrived and it has little to do with the past. I hope the new residents, in their brand new condo, will enjoy living there, but my interest was solely in family history.

Jean Cocteau on Poetry

2011-04-29T13:20:00.000-04:00

Excerpts from Opium, by Jean Cocteau, (Icon Books, London, UK, 1957). Cocteau's notes were written in December 1928 while he was a patient in a clinic near Paris for opium addiction. In the following, I have excerpted only his notes on poetry.
----------------------------------------------

     One cannot translate a real poet; not because his style is musical, but because his thought has a plastic quality, and, if this changes, the thought changes.
     A Russian said to me: ‘The style of Orphée is musical in the opposite way to what the public calls musical. In spite of its lack of music, it is musical because it leaves the spirit free to profit from it as it wishes.

*

     A poet, unless he is a politician (such as Hugo, Shelley or Byron), must only count on readers who know his language, the spirit of his language and the soul of his language.

*

     What of a poet or a dramatist endowed with the Indian fakir’s power of mass-hypnosis? Why do you boast then about not being in the realm of illusion and of seeing the trick behind the curtain? It is a case of people making fun of genius because they cannot be touched by it. That is the whole difference between us and the camera with its coweye. Many minds are confused between being touched and being victimized, admiring and being the dupe. They brace themselves against hypnosis. It is easy, alas! because the poet uses his fluid indirectly and possesses only the feeblest means of persuasion.
     A museum is only justified to the extent that it bears witness to ancient activities, and keeps what remains of the phosphorescence around works, the fluid that emanates from them, and thanks to which they succeed in overcoming death.

*

     Once a poet wakes up, he is stupid, I mean intelligent. “Where am I?”, he asks, like ladies who have fainted. Notes written by a poet who is awake are not worth much. I offer them only for what they are worth, at my own risk. One more experience.

*

     The inexplicable importance of poetry. Poetry considered as algebra.
     First of all, poetry only solicits the toughest minds, minds which should scorn it as a luxury; the worst of all.
     If it were proved to me that I would condemn myself to death if I did not burn “L’Ange Heurtebise,” [A poem which Cocteau first published in 1925. (Tr.)] I would perhaps burn it.
     If it were proved to me that I would condemn myself to death if I did not add to or take away one syllable from the poem, I could not change it, I would refuse, I would die.
     When I see all the artists who used to make a practise of despising the fashionable world because they had not as yet been received into it, lapse into snobbishness after the age of forty, I congratulate myself on having had the possibility of going into the fashionable world at sixteen and on having had enough of it by the time I was twenty-five.

*

     Legend gathers round poets who live in glass houses. If they hide and live in some unknown cellar, the public thinks: “You’re hiding, you want us to believe there is something where there is nothing.”
     On the other hand, if they look at the glass house, the public thinks: Your over simple gestures conceal something. You are deceiving us, you are mystifying us; and everyone begins to guess, distort, interpret, search, find, symbolise, and mystify.
     People who come close to me and fathom the mystery, pity me and become angry; they do not know the advantages of a ridiculous legend: when they throw me to the flames they burn a lay figure who is not even like me. A bad reputation should be maintained with more love and more luxury than a little dancer.
     In this way, I can explain the fine phrase that Max Jacob wrote to me: One should not be known for what one does.
     Fame in one’s lifetime should only be used for one thing: to allow our work, after our death, to start out with a name.

*

     I wonder how people can write the lives of poets since the poets themselves could not write their own life. There are too many mysteries, too many true falsehoods, too many complications.
     What can be said of the passionate friendships which must be confused with love, and yet nevertheless are something else, of the limits of love and friendship, of this region of the heart in which unknown senses participate, which cannot be understood by those who live standard lives?
     Dates overlap, years mingle together. The snow melts, the feet fly away; no footprints remain.

Trees at Montreal West Train Station

2011-04-27T01:00:00.000-04:00