A shaman on the back of a grizzly

The bear is a symbol of rebirth, for the bear hibernates during the winter which is a kind of death, and then in spring he emerges from his cave, as though brought back to life, as though reborn. The shaman is a representative of the world's oldest spirituality.

Witness the white bear of the poles, and the white shark of the tropics; what but their smooth, flaky whiteness makes them the transcendent horrors they are?
                                                 —Herman Melville, Moby Dick

That inescapable animal walks with me,
Has followed me since the black womb held
                                                 —Delmore Schwartz, “The Heavy Bear Who Goes With Me”

The moon was high now, sailing in icy splendour of solitude
over the immensity of the ancient wood.
                                               —Charles G.D. Roberts, The Heart of the Ancient Wood

                                          Cave paintings from the Cueva de la Vieja, Alpero, Spain. 

Years ago my brother gave me a wood cut print entitled "Shaman on the back of a bear"; I kept this wood cut for many years but when we moved to this house I was hasty and discarded it. I regret that I no longer have this piece of art, but I did write a poem that was inspired by it. Here is the poem:

a shaman on the back of a grizzly
the black fur a black streak
moving between the trees
then across an open grassy field
a shaman eyes blackened
hair hanging limply down over ears
& arms holding to handfuls of bearskin
he leans slightly forward
knees pressing to flanks
the grizzly face down & mouth open
a bewildered look on his face
we see the white of his teeth
we see the shaman mouth open
we see him see us
we see them disappear back into the forest
they see us disappear back into the forest
we see them disappear back into the forest
we see him see us

(1972)

Perfecting the Art of Living

Who has perfected the art of living? Who lives a life worth noting? My wife's parents come to mind, they were married to each other for over sixty years; several times a week they had relatives or friends drop in on them, everyone was made welcome. They were good people and we miss them. I think also of my friends George and Jean Johnston, they had a large family and many friends, they were generous and kind people, and it was a blessing to have known them. And now I include Bill and Dora who live up the street from us. They go out for breakfast everyday and then sit outside their home reading the paper; many people walking by will stop and chat, some people on the street sit and talk with them. They're good people and Bill gave me the single clue to living a healthy life (he said it was given to him by their family doctor): it is to socialize; but socializing isn't just for health, it`s also how to live a good life and how to perfect the art of living.

Heading for Samhain

Heading for Samhain, the season of the soul; the unconscious opens to the conscious mind, in dreams, something caught fleeting in peripheral vision, and the long days to winter solstice.

Indigenous Poems and Stories from Quebec

Here is my review, published in The Malahat Review, issue 197, winter 2016:

Indigenous Poems and Stories from Quebec

Languages of Our Land, Indigenous Poems and Stories from Quebec,

Langues de Notre Terre, Poèmes et Récits Autochtones du Québec 

Susan Ouriou, ed., and Christelle Morelli, trans., 

Banff Centre

Banff, 2014

I

f you read Languages of Our Land / Langues de Notre Terre with any preconceptions about Indigenous writing, then you will be surprised by these twelve writers from Quebec; they are all unique and talented voices. All of these authors write in French and for the most part they live either north of or in the Quebec City region.

            I suspect that many readers of this book will be English-speaking. What might be interesting for them is to read the English translation and the French text together. Don’t just ignore the original text; even with thirty-year-old high-school French you can benefit from this reading. With no offense to Christelle Morelli, who translated this book into English, you will see the limitation of translation. There is an almost ineffable quality to a text in its original language that can elude even the best translator. For instance, here is the beginning of Mélina Vassiliou’s wonderful poem “Birthing/Writing.” In English the text is flat: “birthing / writing // writing / my future.” But in the original French you have the wonderful sound of the words, as Mélina Vassiliou wrote them; they have a vigour not found in the English translation. Here is the same passage in French: “progéniture / écriture // écriture / mon futur.” These are powerful words in French, and you can get the full force of the words by reading them out loud several times, “écriture / mon futur”—“écriture / mon futur.” It becomes mantra-like, an inspiring motto reminding poets that the profundity of our existence lies in communicating our vision, it is our present and our future.

            In “Roadblock 138–Innu Resistance,” the Innu poet Réal Junior Leblanc asks, “How can we / defend our heritage / and our children’s future / against the moneyed giants?” I used to live near the New York state border on Route 138, the highway that Leblanc refers to. It is mostly a secondary highway that runs its 1400-kilometre length slightly diagonally east and west through country and city across the province of Quebec. In some ways, this road is an asphalt soul of the province connecting, linking, joining people from north to south. I am reminded of the Mohawk blockade of the Mercier Bridge, on Route 138 as it enters Montreal, back in 1990, and the reaction of the majority of the population against this manifestation. Any answer for Leblanc’s question, “how can we defend our heritage?” is both difficult and complicated; however, Leblanc writes, “I weep / for all the rivers / they will divert / for all the forests / they will plunder / for all the lands / they will flood / for all the mountains / they will raze // To them, I will say always / from the depths of my soul / No.”

            It might be difficult to maintain a “No” when the force of modernity and so-called progress surround one. So much is political in Quebec: French, English, First Nations. We who live here know that our identity is in the language, or languages, one speaks; it is our endless conversation, our endless dance. Even though writing in French, Manon Nolin, in her poem “The Land of My Language,” is referring to her Innu-aimun—her Innu language:

           

                                    Roots of our ancestral lands
                                    a word, a language
                                    that of my ancestors
                                    bear my promised land

                                    The language of my cradle
                                    becomes my land
                                    and so the territory of my tongue
                                    remains my life’s Innu-aimun.

            If poetry is the voice of the human soul, as I believe it is, then these Indigenous writers are the voice of the soul of their community. As editor Susan Ouriou writes in her Introduction, they bring to us a “reinterpretation of history and a rediscovery of spirit.” There is so much of interest in Languages of Our Land / Langues de Notre Terre that I regret not being able to discuss each author in some detail. However, perhaps the poet Johanne Laframboise speaks for all of the writers in this book when she writes, “One cannot kill / poetry // it withstands all / for us // we owe it to ourselves / to be poets / in this century” (“Emergence”). “One cannot kill / poetry” is a statement of survival and transformation and a wonderful affirmation of the creative spirit. These writers bear witness to their vision and their community in this excellent anthology.

Poetry as place, history, soul

I wrote these notes before a reading at the Visual Arts Center in Westmount, QC, on 17 October 2017:

Poets aren't nomads, we all come from somewhere; and this "somewhere" is our psychic center, our home, the place we identify with, the place where we have a history. Personally, place is very important to me—I think it is essential in poetry—and I identify with Montreal, the home of my family since we moved here 180 years ago. Everywhere I go in this city I find something that expresses my soul, my inner being, the place of my ancestors and my family. That is why I say I am a Montreal poet, for nowhere else I have been is home as much as Montreal is home. So, not only is poetry an expression of location but it is also a place of history, of what happened in the past, of names, places, dates, events; that is to say it is a place of psyche, of the soul.

Lane behind Girouard Avenue.

Lane behind Girouard Avenue.

Lane behind Girouard Avenue.

Looking towards Girouard Park, one street west of Girouard.

A few years ago when they renovated 2226 Girouard, my grandmother's home from 1925 to 1965, they didn't put in a new door (as seen above) that leads to the basement. 

Looking up at the back porch of my grandmother's flat on Girouard.