The library of discarded interests

Here are two boxes of Krishnamurti books, destroyed when our basement flooded.

When our basement flooded two years ago I lost books, literary papers, archives, old family photographs, manuscripts, and old diaries. Losing these things was strangely liberating, I didn't really care as much as I thought I would. I had already begun discarding books; years before the flood I began downsizing my library; I kept poetry and books on poetics, biographies of poets, books on poets’ work, books of interviews with poets, and some other books that still meant something to me. But fiction was easy to discard, except for a few novels--Moby Dick, The Great Gatsby, novels by Margaret Laurence, and other Canadian novelists--most of the rest were discarded.

Years ago I read all of Henry Miller's books, some were purchased second hand, some new, some remaindered, and some from antiquarian book stores. I read books that Miller recommended, for instance, the diaries and novels of Anais Nin and I heard her speak at Sir George Williams University; I read Blaise Cendrar and other writers that Miller knew. Read Henry Miller's The Books in My Life (1952); I am pretty sure that I discovered J. Krishnamurti because of Miller's essay on him in this book. I remember late one day, taking a city bus home, and meeting Louis Dudek on the same bus; he had planned to publish something by Henry Miller but decided against it; he writes, somewhere, that the big influence on his writing was Matthew Arnold and Henry Miller. He liked Miller’s conversational style of writing and that Miller was intelligent but not academic.

Also, I must have read all of the novels of Jack Kerouac, and then I moved on to other Beat writers, Corso, Burroughs, Michael McClure, Ferlinghetti, and Diane di Prima. It used to be that when I would read someone whose books I liked I read all of their work, their novels, poems, essays, letters, books on their writing, and biographies. And I’ll read the books they recommend or books that influenced them. 

I began reading Jack Kerouac in the fall of 1969, around the time I heard Allen Ginsberg read his poems at Sir George Williams University where I was a student; by then, Kerouac had fallen into obscurity, he drank his way into oblivion, and then he died; by then the public had moved on from the Beatniks to the Hippies and left Kerouac behind. Back then, in 1969, I found it difficult to find Kerouac's books; today, they're in the remaining bookstores that we have. But now I have no real interest in Kerouac or Allen Ginsberg. As bpNichol said to me, when he read his work at the college where I was teaching, Kerouac is for when you are young, when you get older you want something more substantial. I'm no longer interested in reading Kerouac's novels but I kept his poetry, I still like Kerouac's poetry.                                 

I remember the evening of 21 October 1969, a dark and rainy evening, I was downtown on McKay Street when I heard that Kerouac had died. But death was good for his reputation as a writer, over the following years and decades his popularity has grown and his unpublished manuscripts have been published; books on Kerouac, biographies and memoirs, have also been published. 

Back in the late 1960s there were still people around who had known Kerouac from his visits to Montreal. A professor and friend, it was Scotty Gardiner at SGWU, told me that he expected Kerouac to come for supper at a friend's home but Kerouac never arrived. It was the usual story of a drunk Jack Kerouac disappointing people and not caring, he could be belligerent and argumentative when drunk. Ginsberg also read in Montreal, in November 1969, and from where I was sitting I could see George Bowering in the first row with Peter Orlovsky. The years passed and Ginsberg returned to read in Montreal (I can't find documentation for this visit) but Ginsberg's readings were no longer important cultural events, it was golden oldies, and people demonstrated against Ginsberg's advocacy for adult men having sex with young boys. Ginsberg discredited himself advocating for this issue, he was not ahead of his time, he was out of touch with society, its norms, and values. Here is something ironic: a few days ago I read that when Ginsberg was young, he lived for a while with William Burroughs, and when he moved out he complained to Burroughs that he didn't want to have sex with some old man... Actually, Ginsberg said a lot worse about Burroughs' private anatomy than I will repeat. Ken Norris writes in a poem that, when he was young, poets were our heroes, and they were. A friend, Trevor Carolan, wrote on Ginsberg in Giving Up Poetry: With Allen Ginsberg At Hollyhock (Banff Centre Press, 2001). Ginsberg, like Kerouac, is a writer of one's youth, not one’s older years. 

Our flooded basement:

Flooded basement, July 2023

Photographs taken after reading at Cafe Sarajevo on 12 October 2011

I was part of a group poetry reading at Cafe Sarajevo, located at 6548 Blvd. St-Laurent, on 12 Oct 2011; after the reading I took these photographs of store windows across the street from the reading venue. 

 

Expect the expected

Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch (1863 - 1944)

A terrible shadow drew nearer -  a shadow 

that seemed as if torn from universal Night.   

                   —Dame Edith Sitwell, 

                    The Queens and the Hive (1962)

They say “expect the unexpected” but common sense tells us to “expect the expected”; there is some hope in the unexpected, it remains unknown, but we have a good idea of what the expected might be. Isn't it just common sense to expect the expected?

The other night, reading the Oxford Book of English Verse (1939), edited by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch,  I thought this is about as good as it gets for a poet. If you can have just one page in a future edition of the Oxford Book of English Verse you've got it made, you have been and will be  remembered, you have dodged obscurity, your work will be remembered. The irony of this is that the editor of this famous anthology, Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, has been more or less forgotten; indeed, Quiller-Couch's website intends to salvage him from obscurity. The truth is, for all of us, that with time there will be no one still alive who will remember us, or remember what (if anything) we accomplished, and it will be as though we never existed. Expect the expected.

Oh, how we struggle against time. Time cracks the whip and we jump and ask, “is that high enough, I can jump higher?” Old age is torture, it includes declining health, physical and mental exhaustion, arthritic pain, dentures and dementia, loneliness and regret, and the loss of all of one’s friends and family, we are stripped naked and chastised; the worst is saved for last when we are weak, crippled, and incontinent, and least able to deal with it. 

D.H. Lawrence wrote about the "bitch goddess" success, about the desire for material riches and fame that drives most people; they want the magic dust of being wealthy and famous sprinkled on them but without doing anything to deserve it, they want to be a somebody, even if being a somebody doesn't last long. But this magic dust bestowing fame and success is still dust, to be sprinkled down by the gods, or perhaps from Mount Parnassus. Poets should remember that the Muses don't care about your fame, prizes, literary awards, honorary degrees, prestigious presses, or who you knew, they are preoccupied with transience, that nothing lasts forever, and if it is the desire for fame driving your poetry, hanging out in bars at 2 a.m., schmoozing and boozing, it will still come to nothing but dust. And this applies to everybody; Transience, thy name is Everyman's Fate; Shelley knew this, it is the message of "Ozymandias", his most famous poem. I say to you poets, you are dead while still alive; blow the dust off the paper on which you have written your poem, the poem is already dust, the paper is dust, and then the poet is dust.

“I am happy living simply” by Marina Tsvetaeva (1892—1941)

 

Marina Tsvetaeva

I am happy living simply:

like a clock, or a calendar.

Worldly pilgrim, thin,

wise—as any creature. To know

the spirit is my beloved. To come to things—swift

as a ray of light, or a look.

To live as I write: spare—the way

God asks me—and friends do not.

1919

Remembering Ian Ferrier

In the old days, because of invitations from Ilona Martonfi, I did a lot of readings at the Yellow Door Coffee House, the Visual Arts Centre in Westmount, and the yearly "Lovers and Others" reading series, and so many times I read with Ian Ferrier. I think I read with Ian more often than with any other poet. Losing Ian (1954-2024) was a tragic loss for Canadian poetry, he was an immense talent. Often, at these readings, Ian would arrive on his motorcycle and bring his sound system. My test for poetry was always if what I read or heard made me want to write then it was good poetry, and Ian was one of the poets who inspired me to write. And I always took photographs of some of the poets at these readings, readings from 2011, 2012, 2015, and 2017; it all ended with the Covid lockdown. There were other readings, other events, but here are some photographs I took of Ian at these poetry readings. It's people like Ian Ferrier--original, idiosyncratic, highly talented, true to their inner being and vision--that inspire a poetry community.

At the Visual Arts Centre, Westmount, Quebec

At O'Reagan's Irish Pub

"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot

 

                                                    T.S. Eliot by Patrick Heron

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherized upon a table;

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question ...

Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”

Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,

The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,

Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,

Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,

Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,

Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,

And seeing that it was a soft October night,

Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time

For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,

Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time

To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”

Time to turn back and descend the stair,

With a bald spot in the middle of my hair —

(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)

My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,

My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin —

(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)

Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

I know the voices dying with a dying fall

Beneath the music from a farther room.

               So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—

The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,

And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,

When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,

Then how should I begin

To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?

               And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—

Arms that are braceleted and white and bare

(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)

Is it perfume from a dress

That makes me so digress?

Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.

               And should I then presume?

               And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets

And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes

Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ...

I should have been a pair of ragged claws

Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!

Smoothed by long fingers,

Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,

Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,

Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,

Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,

I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter;

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,

And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,

After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,

Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,

Would it have been worth while,

To have bitten off the matter with a smile,

To have squeezed the universe into a ball

To roll it towards some overwhelming question,

To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,

Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—

If one, settling a pillow by her head

               Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;

               That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,

Would it have been worth while,

After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,

After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—

And this, and so much more?—

It is impossible to say just what I mean!

But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:

Would it have been worth while

If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,

And turning toward the window, should say:

               “That is not it at all,

               That is not what I meant, at all.”

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

Am an attendant lord, one that will do

To swell a progress, start a scene or two,

Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,

Deferential, glad to be of use,

Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—

Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old ... I grow old ...

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind?   Do I dare to eat a peach?

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves

Combing the white hair of the waves blown back

When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Copyright Credit: T. S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" from Collected Poems 1909-1962 by T.S. Eliot.  Copyright © 1963 by T. S. Eliot.