The Atwater Library on 20 February 2010

 

Big snow fall on 16 February 2025

Forty cm. of snow on top of 30 cm. a few days ago. Staying indoors. It's -14 C but feels like -26 C. Worst winter in years!   

          

"Swing Plow" by Mohammed Khair-Eddine

 

Mohammed Khair-Eddine,
photograph by Sophie Bassouls

When the sea salt seen and reviewed

judiciously by the ruin of your tongue—

hearts open to absent millipedes—

when the manure that feeds your life

when the woman and her retinue of lithobies

by these streets where delirium streams

—skulls shattered against the wall, knives unsheathed

by the silence gorged with laughter

from your head that retains nothing from me but my glimmer!...

 

When the city obstructs the sky with the guts

and the vomit of children killed

on the jaundice of my smile—

splendor!

when I repress your fear

with a comma from which oozes your sour blood!...

 

When the country produces its death, standing

on it alone like pomegranate wasps…

when the storm lays down its law to the teapot…

when the wells stink, when najas

drink the mothers’ eye…

 

The South bursts into a thousand rapiers

ruffling your nerves…

and the swing plow exults on the flat stone where errs

a people hung to deleterious stars.

 

This people, do you know it? No! You have only

glimpsed it overturned by a car.

A woman, thin and beautiful, watched the worker

die… His calves brown and salient

against the light on the blood

that flowed on the pavement. The car shone

under the four o’clock sun.

 

The child of the rich played with the river’s mud.

He was happy. The whole summer abused his little and

golden body.

 

The child of the poor, who has never crossed the

mountain,

sang and carved reeds. He paddled and fished

quietly. He was punished.

 

The one you love is a carrier of cloves

and nails and rings and night laughter;

a torrent of pebbles rolls in her clear eyes:

she is the indispensable dress of the day.

 

I know that your license slipped, nude woman, over you..

at the edge of the waves flapped like obese jellyfish.

I know that Time exists,

wearing sabers, sitting on the skin of bitter peoples.

and this brat who glows on your rampage,

o mother!

 

Snakes, scorpions, rats themselves,

all slobbered, stroked my humid wounds.

 

My destiny was debated under the grindstone, a crackling

barley was crushed.

And women sang. An old leper told

his memory to the road, “There is nothing beyond

that mountain”

 

Later, I discovered the world as it is.

 

[From the collection Résurrection des fleurs sauvages Éditions Stouky (1981)]

"Barrage" by Mohamed Khair-Eddine (1941-1995)

 

Mohamed Khair-Eddine 

horse

death

rogue

syrtes

under my nails

jackal of the race of great wickedness

God dies without a spark a log in his arms

between my skin and me

rises high in the vine

and the visages

one by one

all thick

lacquers are poured

all over the walls

a thousand prisons

lynching

casbahs unearthed by a hurricane

the eye is missing here

a stiff fist

I cling to nothing

and suddenly the worms

of childhood

creep of green silts

winds

I lie above

abrupt torrent

the lost rose

becomes tongue

then junk

hi hyena

I drink tonight the defended alcohols

fair word

unfair word

sit down

toads along my

spine

eyeglasses shatter as stars

shrapnel

like folk dances

ah this South between my stiff legs

this mouth expelled from my saliva

women thus climb the hurdles

electrons

butterflies

veins darkened without bearing

forgotten in some street

under a magician fresco

where to break is to abolish the laws

ignorance

retractile sea not

simply city without city

and man without man

shadow falling into long chaps

a ship is going to leave the port of my attachments

what a villain that one who talks about

setting

fire

to the black cat popular

for its intimate

and mysterious meow

i stop

be quiet

remember

imbecile

they prepare an ax for my language

they dethrone a king i crush his wealth

i am the black ox you are looking for

evaded from memories in rubble

and torture

whereas earth is no

more earth

stone

no more stone

grilled by the cherguis

swallowed

like dawn that makes your face shine

you

delirious woman

you

moaning beast

i

acrid standing in the thickness

of my entrails

reeling

chewing scrap

negative body

i devastate the rooms

they throw down the cargo of vices

sweat and heat

ah

purulent gaze

i sow

sow again

the waste these

fields

ancient swords

cannons

mosquitoes

cramps

throughout a flight of angry stars

the gentleman feeds on cabinets

he ends with an apostrophe

bangs in the depths of another gentleman

behind me

at the bottom of me

standing over me

a satyr escaped from a cold book apparently

wrings my neck

me

an ember

hi hyena

drink me all

dawn will break in one of my wrinkles

nothing to be done

they go back up

crabs

cylinders

fumes

dresses

give me your voice sir

I want to hear mine

a lightning

wreath

spiral that soon squeals

all the kids in hell

the

city

remorse

hyena give me your elastics

and let’s drink dawn

how double and fresh and slow dawn is

to your nostrils





*chergui: The east or southeast desert wind in Morocco.

[From the collection Soleil arachnide, Éditions du Seuil (1969)]

Remembering Darrell Morrisey

Darrell Morrisey, early 1920s

Here is a link to my essay, "Remembering Darrell Morrisey"; it's the latest information on Montreal-born artist Darrell Morrisey. Darrell was a member of the Beaver Hall Group of artists but died when she was only thirty-three years old and was then forgotten. This essay includes the five paintings by Darrell that have been discovered since 2012, that's five more than we had before that date. Darrell Morrisey is forgotten no longer.

Go to: https://archive.org/details/remembering-darrell-morrisey-morrissey-06-february-2025

Belmore Avenue garden on February 14, 2013

 

"Three Angels" by Bob Dylan

 

Three angels up above the street
Each one playing a horn
Dressed in green robes with wings that stick out
They’ve been there since Christmas morn
The wildest cat from Montana passes by in a flash
Then a lady in a bright orange dress
One U-Haul trailer, a truck with no wheels
The Tenth Avenue bus going west
The dogs and pigeons fly up and they flutter around
A man with a badge skips by
Three fellas crawlin’ on their way back to work
Nobody stops to ask why
The bakery truck stops outside of that fence
Where the angels stand high on their poles
The driver peeks out, trying to find one face
In this concrete world full of souls
The angels play on their horns all day
The whole earth in progression seems to pass by
But does anyone hear the music they play
Does anyone even try?

Copyright © 1970 by Big Sky Music; renewed 1998 by Big Sky Music

Biographies of Poets, Whitman and Smith

Mickle Street 

One of my favourite biographies of Whitman is Walt Whitman in Mickle Street (1921) by Elizabeth Leavitt Keller describing the last years Whitman's life. Whitman was not the saint that some people have tried to make him out to be, his housekeeper Mary Oakes Davis was the real saint as she cared for Walt and this is Mrs. Davis's story as much as Whitman's. Today we would call Mrs. Davis a care-giver and sympathize with her as she looked after Whitman who is described as thoughtless, self-centered, and having a bad temper.





                                      




Chesterfield Avenue

Canadian poets like Louis Dudek and A.J.M. Smith weren't interested in autobiography or having their biographies written. Considering how often we hear that the public doesn't read poetry people are still interested in the lives of poets. Some people think Smith is a difficult poet, a good biography would have made him more human and possibly have made his work more available to students and other readers. As it is now good luck to anyone trying to find information on Smith's life. Leon Edel, the famous Henry James biographer and old friend of Smith's, wrote a short essay on Smith after he died in 1980. Here is an excerpt from that essay: "I can sketch a few (memories), allowing myself anecdote and biography now that Smith is gone: the touch of cockney in Smith's mother's voice and way of speech, when Smith invited me to take tea in the trim little suburban house in Westmount: the mother openly aggressive about her son's desire to write poetry — "there's no money in it" — "be quiet mother," — "I think it good he's taken up science." "Please mother." She talked to me as if I were a familiar in the house I had entered for the first time, and as if I knew all about her continuing colloquy with her son." Smith's home, where Edel visited in the mid-1920s, is located at 79 Chesterfield Avenue in Westmount.

Whatever we do

 

Bus terminus, Atwater and Ste. Catherine Street,
1956

The dead are not thinking of you 

they are dead, so you don’t have to 

think about them, you don't have to worry

about what you did or what

you didn't do, they are

at peace wherever 

they are

                                         ————————————————-

Whatever we think, whoever we like or dislike, it all refers back to ourselves, the dead are not thinking about you, and if we regret what we did or what we didn't do, whatever the case, give it up, surrender to time, to what could or might have been, let it all go, let it all disappear into time, nothing in the past can be changed and we select our memories, they are not real, they are memories, they aren't real, our regrets, what we would or should have done differently, who we loved and who we didn't love, who was mean and who was friendly, let it all go, it is only going to hold you back because it is all transient, changing, subject to change, ephemeral, evanescent, forlorn, and hopeless, and let it all go, forgive yourself, that's what you can do, forgive yourself and live in the so-called present but it isn't the present if it has a shadow of the past falling on it, darkening life, darkening our souls, and forgive yourself. The dead don't hold grudges against you or disapprove of what you have done or didn't do, the dead are dead and they have moved on, to nothing or to whatever we have invented for them to move on to. Whatever we think, whatever happened, you can do nothing about any of it, but you can forgive those who betrayed you, hurt you, disappointed you, and you can forgive yourself for what you have done or didn't do, and thank those who helped you, loved you, helped you along the way in your life's journey, but as for the dead, they're dead and gone except in your thoughts..           

Justin Trudeau: the legacy of a narcissist

 

But Canadians have finally seen through the disguises he wears,
and now he is almost gone

Be careful who you let in your home, you may not be able to get them out. But even more important, be careful who you elect to have power over you, for instance Justin Trudeau; his legacy is that he destroyed Canada. And that is the legacy of a narcissist 

Everything is worse in Canada after nine years of Justin Trudeau. We never had homeless people as we do now, we never had middle class people relying on food banks as they do now, before Justin few people relied on food banks, for the rest of us groceries were reasonably priced as were rents, and home ownership was possible for most people. Our health system ran smoothly and we didn't worry about healthcare if we got sick. Recently, in a small Ontario town, over a thousand people lined up in a snow storm to put their names in for a family doctor. For most people having a family doctor is a thing of the past; it's a good thing we have medical assistance in dying, we may not get medical assistance in staying alive (and this is not sarcasm). 

Justin's approval rating has dropped to 16%, but you wouldn't know it as he scurries around, always self-important, and still giving speeches as though he had just been elected, out of breath and sleeves rolled up as he takes a break from his prime ministerial duties to talk to the press. Social justice and self-righteousness oozes from this person. He is the Master of Woke! The Emperor of DEI! We were once a country that welcomed immigrants, now 70% of Canadians think we've taken in too many immigrants and want it stopped. Why? Because Justin let in over a million people without thinking out that they'd need schools, hospitals, places for them to live. He doesn't think anything out. 

He has changed the country for the worst and I really doubt it will ever be what it once was. Take, for instance, foreign affairs: we have fallen out with India, China, and now the United States has turned against us. No wonder Trump hates Justin Trudeau, who can have respect for a fool and Trump is no fool although he is a bad person? Be careful who you elect to have power over you because they will bring along their friends and enemies and other inferior politicians, the opposition is no better than the party in power. Can Pierre Poilievre fix what Trudeau has broken? What about Jagmeet Singh? Jagmeet was in parliament for his pension, killing time until his pension kicked in, and always pretending to oppose Justin's actions. It's Jagmeet the opportunist, always giving press conferences on CBC, his self-importance was obvious; just think, the head of a socialist party who wears a Rolex watch or is it now two Rolex watches? And Yves-François Blanchet the separatist, a puffed-up little man, someone who wants to destroy the country that pays his bills and gives Quebec the most money of any province in transfer payments, $14B a year and mostly from Alberta. Good luck replacing that in the Republic of Quebec.

These politicians are opportunists. Justin squandered our money and now, as a country, we're in more debt than we've ever been in, and it is just when we need to be frugal when Justin is out there spending us into greater debt, and of course his endless mellifluous holier-than-thou Woke speeches. In both official languages. And it was hard getting Justin to say he was going to resign, he hung onto power and was described as "delusional", now he is leaving, even though he pretends it's 2017 and people still like him. 

Quebec is heading for separation and Justin helped them go, he and his Liberal Party gave the Government of Quebec permission to destroy the English language in Quebec with Bill 96.  And Justin's "online harms bill" (still not passed in Parliament) would censor online content if the Liberal party doesn't find it politically correct, it has to be Woke to be online; this is the negation of free speech. Well, folks, count me out from supporting any of these politicians; I don't believe what any of them say or what they say they will do and I don't want anything they say they will do. My message to Canadians: Wake up, slaves! Wake up!  

Dominion Square, 28 January 2013

How the city looked in January 2013 . . . 

Dominion Square in Montreal, Quebec, Canada was renamed Dorchester Square in 1987. The name change was made to honor Guy Carleton, Baron of Dorchester, who the boulevard was originally named after.  

Some of us prefer to call it Dominion Square, it's original name. 

The Fairmont Queen Elizabeth Hotel

Mary, Queen of the Word Cathedral

Dominion Square, the Sun Life Building on the right

St. George's Anglican Church

Windsor Station, former head office of the CPR; on right is 
St. George's Anglican Church

Windsor Station

St. George's Anglican Church

The Sun Life Building, centre

An Introduction to the art of Darrell Morrisey

 

Darrell Morrisey

I wrote an essay on the paintings of Darrell Morrisey and then requested that ChatGPT edit what I had written, for concision, and this is what it produced. I made the same request of MetaAI (owned by Facebook) and got nothing, they had never heard of Darrell (couldn't they have at least done a search on her?), MetaAI was actually insulting and Deep Seek was totally useless; here is what ChatGPT wrote:

Darrell Morrisey (1897–1930) was a Canadian artist whose contributions to early 20th-century art, particularly within Montreal's Beaver Hall Group, have only recently received scholarly attention. Darrell Morrisey was a member of Montreal's Beaver Hall Group, a collective of Canadian artists active in the early 20th century. The group is notable for its inclusion of both male and female artists and its embrace of modernist styles. Despite her premature death and the subsequent disappearance of her works, Morrisey's paintings and her biography offer an interesting addition to the history of the Beaver Hall artists. 

Morrisey received her artistic education at the Art Association of Montreal (AAM) between 1917 and 1920, studying under prominent artists such as Maurice Cullen and William Brymner. Her participation in the AAM's Spring Exhibitions and the Royal Canadian Academy of Arts' annual exhibitions during the 1920s reflects her active engagement with the Canadian art scene. In 1921, she exhibited a portrait at the inaugural exhibition of the Beaver Hall Group, a collective of artists dedicated to exploring modernist themes and techniques. She studied at the Art Association of Montreal (AAM) from 1917 to 1920, participating in several of its Spring Exhibitions during that period and later years. In June 1917, she took open-air drawing classes from Maurice Cullen in Phillipsburg, Quebec, and the following year from William Brymner in Calumet (now Pointe-Calumet), Quebec.

The Beaver Hall Group, established in 1920, was instrumental in advancing modern art in Canada. Unlike the contemporaneous Group of Seven, which focused predominantly on landscapes, the Beaver Hall artists embraced a diverse range of subjects, including portraiture and urban scenes, and were notable for their inclusion of women artists. Morrisey's involvement with this group positioned her among peers who were at the forefront of artistic innovation in Montreal.

Morrisey's limited body of work is characterized by a focus on rural landscapes and one portrait. Her travels to Europe between 1921 and 1922, including visits to the United Kingdom, Italy, and France, likely enriched her artistic perspective, as suggested by the European themes present in some of her later works.

The discovery of Morrisey's paintings has been a gradual process. In May 2024, a painting titled "Sunset Landscape," dated 1917, was identified in the United Kingdom and subsequently returned to Canada. This work, along with others that have surfaced, such as a depiction of L'église Notre-Dame-de-Grâce in Montreal, underscores her artistic range and the geographical breadth of her subjects.

Despite these discoveries, much of Morrisey's life and work remains shrouded in mystery. Her early death at the age of 33 and the subsequent disappearance of many of her paintings have contributed to her status as a "forgotten" artist within the Beaver Hall Group. Recent scholarly efforts, including essays and exhibitions, have begun to shed light on her contributions, emphasizing the need for further research to fully appreciate her role in Canadian art history.

In examining Darrell Morrisey's paintings, one not only gains insight into her personal artistic journey but also into the broader narrative of Canadian modernism. Her work reflects the dynamic interplay between tradition and innovation that defined the art scene in early 20th-century Montreal. As more of her paintings come to light, there is an opportunity to reassess her impact and ensure that her legacy is appropriately recognized within the canon of Canadian art.

Morrisey's artistic contributions are less documented compared to some of her contemporaries. However, a recently discovered painting titled "Sunset Landscape" (1917) showcases her talent and provides insight into her style.

While specific comparisons between Morrisey's work and that of other Beaver Hall artists are limited due to the scarcity of her known pieces, her association with the group suggests she shared their modernist approach and thematic interests.

For a more comprehensive understanding of Morrisey's art in relation to her peers, further research and discovery of her works would be necessary.

Morrisey's artistic focus included portraits and rural landscapes, with her later works reflecting her travels in Europe. She exhibited at the first annual exhibition of the Beaver Hall Group in January 1921, presenting a portrait. Throughout the 1920s, her work was admired by critics in Montreal. She traveled to Europe from August 1921 to July 1922, visiting the United Kingdom, Italy, and France, and occasionally visited the United States.

Due to her early death and the subsequent disappearance of many of her paintings, Morrisey became one of the "forgotten" members of the Beaver Hall Group. However, recent discoveries have brought some of her works back into the public eye. In May 2014 the first of her paintings was discovered in her hometown, Westmount, Quebec, entitled "Landscape (possibly Pointe Calumet, Quebec". Ten years later, in May 2024, a painting titled "Sunset Landscape" was discovered in the United Kingdom.  Additionally, in September 2024, two more paintings were found, including one depicting L'église Notre-Dame-de-Grâce in Montreal (located on the corner of Decarie and Avenue Notre-Dame-de-Grâce), believed to have been painted between 1927 and 1930.

These recent discoveries have renewed interest in Morrisey's contributions to Canadian art, shedding light on her role within the Beaver Hall Group and the broader art community of her time.

. 

"The Skater" by Charles G. D. Roberts

 

N.D.G. Winter Carnaval, February 19, 1955; photo taken at 
NDG Park (Girouard Park); St. Augustine Roman
Catholic Church in the background.

My glad feet shod with the glittering steel
I was the god of the wingèd heel.

The hills in the far white sky were lost;
The world lay still in the wide white frost;

And the woods hung hushed in their long white dream
By the ghostly, glimmering, ice-blue stream.

Here was a pathway, smooth like glass,
Where I and the wandering wind might pass

To the far-off palaces, drifted deep,
Where Winter's retinue rests in sleep.

I followed the lure, I fled like a bird,
Till the startled hollows awoke and heard

A spinning whisper, a sibilant twang,
As the stroke of the steel on the tense ice rang;

And the wandering wind was left behind
As faster, faster I followed my mind;

Till the blood sang high in my eager brain,
And the joy of my flight was almost pain.

The I stayed the rush of my eager speed
And silently went as a drifting seed, —

Slowly, furtively, till my eyes
Grew big with the awe of a dim surmise,

And the hair of my neck began to creep
At hearing the wilderness talk in sleep.

Shapes in the fir-gloom drifted near.
In the deep of my heart I heard my fear.

And I turned and fled, like a soul pursued,
From the white, inviolate solitude.

-o-

Note: As of 8 a.m. today, 22 January 2025, it is -16C with a windchill of -23C. Milder by Sunday...