For Claudia and Gary

 

Claudia Lapp, 1946 - 2026

 

I am living in 2D Gary said,

the 3D life in Technicolor has ended;

no reviews prepared us for this,

the ending fails to maintain

life's promise; the theatre has fallen silent,

it's all black and white, black and white;

what kind of movie is this when the hero exits

and there is just a gang of lonely actors left behind?

Claudia, what does astrology say about this?

What do poets write about now?

We need your wise counsel.

The theatre lights are off, we file out

and stand silent in the lobby.

What do we write about now

but losing you when we need you most?

 

Stephen Morrissey

09 September 2026

Note: Published at https://periodicityjournal.blogspot.com/2026/09/stephen-morrissey-for-claudia-and-gary.html

Four Poems by Montreal Poets

The Improved Binoculars

by Irving Layton

Below me the city was in flames:
the firemen were the first to save
themselves. I saw steeples fall on their knees.

I saw an agent kick the charred bodies
from an orphanage to one side, marking
the site carefully for a future speculation.

Lovers stopped short of the final spasm
and went off angrily in opposite directions,
their elbows held by giant escorts of fire.

Then the dignitaries rode across the bridges
under an auricle of light which delighted them,
noting for later punishment those that went before.

And the rest of the population, their mouths
distorted by an unusual gladness, bawled thanks
to this comely and ravaging ally, asking

Only for more light with which to see
their neighbour's destruction.

All this I saw through my improved binoculars.

[1955]

My Lost Youth

by A.J.M. Smith

I remember it was April that year, and afternoon.
There was a modish odour of hyacinths, and you
Beside me in the drawing room, and twilight falling
A trifle impressively, and a bit out of tune.

You spoke of poetry in a voice of poetry,
And your voice wavered a little, like the smoke of your
Benson & Hedges
And grew soft as you spoke of love (as you always did!),
Though the lines of your smile, I observed, were a little
sententious.

I thought of my birthplace in Westmount and what that
involved
-- An ear quick to recoil from the faintest 'false note'.
I spoke therefore hurriedly of the distressing commonness
of American letters,
Not daring to look at your living and beautiful throat.

'She seems to be one who enthuses,' I noted, excusing
myself,
Who strove that year to be only a minor personage out of
James
Or a sensitive indecisive guy from Eliot's elegant shelf.
'What happens,' I pondered fleeing, 'to one whom Reality
claims . . . ?'

• • •

I teach English in the Middle West; my voice is quite good;
My manners are charming; and the mothers of some of my
female students
Are never tired of praising my two slim volumes of verse.

A.J.M. Smith, Poems, New & Collected, Oxford University Press, 1967

The Break-Up

By A.M. Klein

They suck and whisper it in mercury,
the thermometers. It is shouted red
from all the Aprils hanging on the walls.
In the dockyard stalls
the stevedores, their hooks rusty, wonder; the
wintering sailors in the taverns bet.

A week, and it will crack! Here's money that
a fortnight sees the floes, the smokestacks red!
Outside The Anchor's glass, St. Lawrence lies
rigid and white and wise,
nor ripple and dip, but fathom-frozen flat.
There are no hammers will break that granite lid.

But it will come! Some dead of night with boom
to wake the wagering city, it will break,
will crack, will melt its muscle-bound tides
and raise from their iced tomb
the pyramided fish, the unlockered ships,
and last year's blue and bloated suicides.

[1945-46] [1948]

Lyrics of Air

by Louis Dudek

This April air has texture
of soft scented ocean on my face --
no ripple against the skin
but open waves, parabolas from some April place
in the sky, like silk between the fingers
from old Cathay, blown about, or like gigantic roses
whose petals, waving, fall on my face
with a faultless petaline smoothness.

Delicate as a pear, this milk-white air,
to pour over the crust of windy March.
Give me a mouthful of such air, digestible as water,
to rarify in the bones and flow
upward, until
from the bud of my cold lips poetic leaves may grow.

Small Perfect Things (DC Books, Montreal, 1991)