"Robin Redbreast" by William Allingham (1824 - 1889)

Good-bye, good-bye to Summer! For Summer’s nearly done; The garden smiling faintly, Cool breezes in the sun; Our Thrushes now are silent, Our Swallows flown away, — But Robin’s here, in coat of brown, With ruddy breast-knot gay. Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear! Robin singing sweetly In the falling of the year. Bright yellow, red, and orange, The leaves come down in hosts; The trees are Indian Princes, But soon they’ll turn to Ghosts; The scanty pears and apples Hang russet on the bough, It’s Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late, ’Twill soon be Winter now. Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear! And welaway! my Robin, For pinching times are near. The fireside for the Cricket, The wheatstack for the Mouse, When trembling night-winds whistle And moan all round the house; The frosty ways like iron, The branches plumed with snow, — Alas! in Winter, dead and dark, Where can poor Robin go? Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear! And a crumb of bread for Robin, His little heart to cheer.

Review of GEC's J'Accuse (Poem versus Silence)

Here is my review of George Elliott Clarke's J'Accuse, in which GEC fights back against the kancel kulture that tried to destroy his literary career, and could have succeeded. 

Go to https://poets.ca/review-gec-jaccuse/

Review of The Green Archetypal Field of Poetry

Here is a link to Cynthia Coristine's review of my new book, The Green Archetypal Field of Poetry; what a terrific review for which I am very grateful!

The review can be found here, or copy and paste the following: https://poets.ca/review-the-green-archetypal-field-of-poetry-stephen-morrissey/

The Green Archetypal Field of Poetry

Here is the front and back cover of my new book, The Green Archetypal Field of Poetry, on poetry, poets, and psyche, published by Ekstasis Editions a few months ago. The book was published at the same time as Ekstasis Editions published books by Ken Norris and Endre Farkas, both of whom I've known since the mid-1970s. I thought I had reached the end of writing, now it seems I have a few more years left in me. 

Books can be ordered from Ekstasis Editions.

The Green Archetypal Field of Poetry: on poetry, poets, and psyche gathers a selection of essays and short statements on poetry by Stephen Morrissey. While best known as a poet, Morrissey’s critical writing is an important part of his literary work. In this book he writes on the legacy of Canadian poets who helped bring modernism to Canadian poetry. Morrissey’s approach to poetics reminds us of the enduring importance of Beat, Romantic, and shamanic poetics. Morrissey suggests that poems originate in what he calls the green archetypal field of poetry. This is Stephen Morrissey’s second volume on poetry and poetics, after The Poet’s Journey: on poetry and what it means to be a poet (2019).

 

Zoom book launch for Ekstasis Editions books

Here is the text I read at the Zoom online book launch for several of this years new Ekstasis Editions books, including my own The Green Archetypal Field of Poetry, on poetry, poets, and psyche. This event was online on Sunday, 15 May 2022 at 2 p.m.

----------------------

Book Launch, Zoom, 15 May 2022, 2 p.m.

Place in Poetry

Thank you to Richard Olafson for publishing these books that are being launched today, and thank you to Endre Farkas and Carolyn-Marie Souaid for organizing this book launch.

This book, The Green Archetypal Fields of Poetry, on poetry, poets, and psyche isn't poetry so maybe I should just say a few words to introduce the book.

This is my second book with Ekstasis Editions on poetics and memoir, on becoming a poet. The first book was  A Poet's Journey: On Poetry and what it Means to be a Poet. Thank you Richard, I really appreciate your work for poetry.

The background to the book, what created it, its reason for having been written, is that we live in a place, a city or a community, and this is a commitment to a specific geographical location, it is also a spiritual location. For me, this location, this place, is Montreal. In fact, the whole book refers to Montreal. Montreal is my psychic centre.

But think of place in the work of Charles Olson, it's Gloucester; or William Carlos Williams, it's Paterson; or Raymond Souster, it's Toronto; and for Louis Dudek and John Glassco, it's Montreal.

Montreal is where modern English Canadian poetry was born. If you were a poet in Canada you wanted to live, even for a short time, in Montreal. PK Page, Phyllis Webb, and many others lived here for a while, and this is the birth place in the 1920s of the Montreal Group of Poets at McGill University; they included FR Scott, AJM Smith, and John Glassco; also in Montreal were others, Louis Dudek, Irving Layton, and AM Klein.

This is where we came from and we haven't left.

I also wrote about the Vehicule Poets, "Starting Out from Vehicule Art Gallery", a history of our early days as poets, the Sunday afternoon readings, and that essay is in the book. Of course, the Vehicule Poets are in the line, the lineage, of the Montreal Group and other groups of poets that started here. That is our canonical lineage because all poetry is a part of a canon and a lineage of poets and poetry, however poetry changes it is always in the context of a lineage.

There is also our ancestral heritage in Montreal. For me, personally, my family have lived and worked here since 1840; not as long as my Quebecois and Quebecoise friends, and certainly not as long as the Indigenous people, but still a long time, and I have written about this as well, for instance the Morrissey Family History website.

Poets aren't nomads and we're not from nowhere. We're from a specific place, but this specificity of place is being lost in the economic and political globalism of the world, in every city you visit the condos are all the same, the stores and music we hear is the same, the politics is divided, and what is specific and local is being lost.

More specifically, my psychic centre, what made me the person I am today, is my family history but this is located and symbolized in my grandmother`s home on Girouard Avenue in Montreal`s West End. No one had money but family kept us together.

So place works on a number of different levels, it works as a geographical place, but it's also an ancestral and spiritual place, it's what formed us as people, it's the the birth of psyche.

That's how I became a poet, it began here in the City of Montreal.

Montreal is our home as poets, it's our centre as poets. 

Here is a short excerpt from The Green Archetypal Field of Poetry:

We are increasingly living in a deracinated world, in a global community, but a global community is an abstraction, an invention of committees and legislation and driven for profit and by people’s personal ambition; it is an intellectual construct, it is not born organically, a process that may take hundreds of years of human migration, political and military strategies, layers of cultural change, and spiritual vision. There is also a spirit of place; spirit of place manifests in the natural world, but it also includes our ancestral memory and family history and stories. If we are not careful we will soon be living in Huxley's Brave New World or Orwell’s 1984 world of geographical regions and the repression of creative individuality, not places of vibrant specificity that are containers of soul. A geographical place is specific and local, it is not abstract but concrete; globalism is an abstract concept that has little or no connection to community or place. Abstraction denies the specificity of place; place emphasizes the diverse world of things. Poetry requires community; it requires the diversity of a specific place.

Thank you all for being so patient and listening to this.

 

The Leonard Cohen memorial postage stamp

Here are photos of a Canada Post delivery truck advertising new postage stamps in memory of Leonard Cohen. I have never really been a fan of Leonard Cohen's poetry but I do like some of his songs; Leonard Cohen has written some of the best popular music since 1970. But for a great poem made into a song listen to Patrick Kavanaugh's "Raglan Road", sung by Van Morrison, The Chieftains, The Dubliners, and a few others; what a great lyrical, emotionally moving, and loving poem. It takes a great poet to write about love, unrequited love, romantic love, or sexual love. Cohen is a great song writer, along with Paul Simon, Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell, and, best of all, Van Morrison. But Cohen is not a great poet, Kavanaugh is a great poet. "Suzanne" is a great song, one of Cohen's better songs, but placed beside Kavanaugh's "Raglan Road", Cohen's "Suzanne is only a good song; it's Patrick Kavanaugh's poem that I keep returning to. Poetry trumps song writing.

Updated on 25 December 2021

Mother of Muses, sing for me, by Bob Dylan

                                                Mother of Muses, sing for me
                                                Sing of the mountains and the deep dark sea
                                                Sing of the lakes and the nymphs of the forest
                                                Sing your hearts out, all your women of the chorus
                                                Sing of honor and fate and glory be
                                                Mother of Muses, sing for me

                                                Mother of Muses, sing for my heart
                                                Sing of a love too soon to depart
                                                Sing of the heroes who stood alone
                                                Whose names are engraved on tablets of stone
                                                Who struggled with pain so the world could go free
                                                Mother of Muses, sing for me

                                                Sing of Sherman, Montgomery, and Scott
                                                And of Zhukov, and Patton, and the battles they fought
                                                Who cleared the path for Presley to sing
                                                Who carved the path for Martin Luther King
                                                Who did what they did and they went on their way
                                                Man, I could tell their stories all day

                                                I'm falling in love with Calliope
                                                She don't belong to anyone, why not give her to me?
                                                She's speaking to me, speaking with her eyes
                                                I've grown so tired of chasing lies
                                                Mother of Muses, wherever you are
                                                I've already outlived my life by far

                                                Mother of Muses, unleash your wrath
                                                Things I can't see, they're blocking my path
                                                Show me your wisdom, tell me my fate
                                                Put me upright, make me walk straight
                                                Forge my identity from the inside out
                                                You know what I'm talking about

                                                Take me to the river, release your charms
                                                Let me lay down a while in your sweet, loving arms
                                                Wake me, shake me, free me from sin
                                                Make me invisible, like the wind
                                                Got a mind that ramble, got a mind that roam
                                                I'm travelin' light and I'm a-slow coming home

               

Songwriters: Bob Dylan

Mother of Muses lyrics © Special Rider Music, Universal Tunes

Bishop's University honours Noni Howard

Irving Layton, Carolyn Zonailo, and Noni Howard, at Layton`s home on Monkland Avenue, Montreal, 1997. Photo by Stephen Morrissey

    Bishop's University's blog has honoured one of their famous alumnus, Noni Howard. Many thanks to Jeremy Audet who initiated and completed this projected. Noni would be both honoured and flattered by this attention to her and her work as a poet.

https://blog.ubishops.ca/remembering-noni-howard/?fbclid=IwAR08fnosxpOnBDm8XtkhKow564VpIUuysKiM4g_-yhX_C8tLADgKJRvLXJM

Poetry is the Soul's DNA

Poetry is the soul's DNA, the memory of the human race. Poetry, not prose, not history, not fiction or drama or short stories or religious texts, but poetry is the expression of the collective unconscious. This DNA is the container and memory of everything humanity has done or will do, the Akashic record of everything that has happened in the past and will happen in the future; it does not recognize divisions of time into past, present, and future. Poetry is the single collective entity, the body of work, the distinct expression of the soul's DNA. Each poem is a separate expression of some aspect of the soul, the archetypes, emotions, intellectual musings, shared by all people living, to be born, and those that have died. It is both an expression of the Anima Mundi, the spirit of the world, and a celebration of humanity. 

Poetry Is A Calling

 Calliope, the muse of epic poetry; detail from a Pompeii fresco

No one makes a conscious decision to be a poet—poetry is a calling, a metaphysical event— poetry calls you. To deny a calling is to step out of the current of life, it is to deny life and the direction in which life is sending you. To deny a calling is to betray your life, it's that fundamental. There are only a few times when you will have a calling in life, perhaps only once, and there aren't many people who have a calling, so to turn down what life has given you is to deny the basic integrity of one's life. Being a poet has always been the biggest event in my life; if you follow a calling you are affirming life at a very basic level; to be a poet is not a conscious decision, poetry calls you to be a poet.

A poets' body of work: how much is too much, how much is too little?

One of complaints made by critics about A.J.M. Smith is that his body of published work is too small for him to be considered an important poet; if a poet hasn't done the writing, they reasoned, then how can that poet be considered significant? At first this view seemed valid to me; however, I also felt that Smith had written some individual poems that are the work of genius, he was too good a poet to be dismissed on this one point. Indeed, except for A.M. Klein none of the members of the Montreal Group of poets have large bodies of published work; Smith was not a prolific poet but he published more poems than Leo Kennedy and about as many as John Glassco, both members of the Group. Consider the following citation:

      After a life of persistent devotion to literature, he has left enough poems to make a single small volume (less, certainly, than a hundred poems in all), a single volume of prose, a few pamphlets, and a prose translation of the poems of Poe.

This could be a description of A.J.M. Smith's literary writing (omitting the reference to Poe) and yet the citation is taken from Arthur Symons' ground breaking book on the French symbolists, The Symbolist Movement in Literature (1919), and it is Stéphane Mallarmé who is being referred to. Symons affirms Mallarmé's work; E.K. Brown is critical of Smith's work.

Some poets have small bodies of work, these include Elizabeth Bishop who published 101 poems, Stéphane Mallarmé who published less than 100 poems, Jay MacPherson, John Thompson (who published two books), Patrick Kavanaugh, and of course A.J.M. Smith who published 100 poems. Is the poet who publishes a small highly crafted body of work, each poem the result of many drafts, the product of considered editing, better or worse than the poet who publishes a lot including a few brilliant poems? I suspect that some poets need to write a lot in order to arrive at a few good poems; others need to write very little but do endless edits and revisions to arrive at a few good poems of their own. Ezra Pound said, regarding Walt Whitman, that when he was young he found a small number of Whitman's poems worth reading but now that he is older he can't find those few poems. Many would say the same thing about Pound's poetry but few would say it about Elizabeth Bishop's work.

Some poets are proud of not writing much and I suspect that this is sometimes a pretention on their part, a kind of snobbery found among both individuals and little in-groups of poets. I have known people like this. Perhaps these poets have higher standards than the poet who cranks it out, they would have us believe this. What are some of the reasons these poets don't write more than they do? Perhaps they are not very good poets; perhaps writing poetry was just a lot of talk and socializing; talent without hard work isn't worth much. Poetry is an art of inspiration and work, not what could or might have been.  

Poets who write "too much" are also open to criticism; it is difficult to say how much is "too much" but the number of books published by established Canadian poets may be more than most of us think. Here is a list of several important Canadian poets and the number of poetry books they published, but with a proviso, I am not saying that they all published too much, only that  the number of books poets publish varies widely. Irving Layton published 51 books; Al Purdy published 33 books; Dorothy Livesay published 25 books; Louis Dudek published 23 books; Phyllis Webb published 23 books; Earle Birney published 21 books; Margaret Avison published 11 books; P.K. Page published 14 books; and George Johnston published eight books. All of these poets have made a substantial contribution to Canadian literature.

When I was a university student in the early 1970s, I would visit the poetry section at Classic's Little Book Store on Ste. Catherine Street West here in Montreal. The store had expanded from one floor to two, and then to a third floor where the poetry books were displayed at the top of the stairs. I remember seeing Clayton Eshleman's books, one title in particular stood out, Indiana (Los Angeles: Black Sparrow Press, 1969), a hefty book of almost 200 pages. And I remember my first reaction to this book: wasn't it a bit presumptuous to publish such a lengthy tome? Who had that much to say? My ideal for poets at that time, but not my personal reality, was a small body of meticulously crafted work. Over time I changed my opinion about Eshleman, in fact I became a fan of Eshleman's work and, in May 1978, I invited him to Montreal to read at the college where I worked as well as at Vehicule Art Gallery where I organized readings with John McAuley. Unfortunately, this gesture on my part, of friendship and respect for Eshleman, backfired on me. I found him to be a difficult person, not very friendly, and I don't remember hearing from him again after he left Montreal. I think there was a misunderstanding as to whether he would be paid in Canadian or American money, a difference of a few dollars that I regret not having made up at my own expense. Let me just say that Eshleman is a highly talented and gifted poet and translator, his work is original and visionary.

Many poets are critical of self-publishing but it has a long history and is a valid option for many poets; Louis Dudek recommended a number of approaches to publishing that included self-publishing (Whitman's first book was self-published), setting up a literary press, and being published by a small literary press. I have been published by established presses, I have been published by presses just getting off the ground, and I have self-published one of my books. My work has always been guided by the central myth of my life, discovered when I was young, and that is the Garden Myth, the fall from innocence into experience. My nine published books follow the progression of my life as it fits the template of the Garden Myth. I am working on two manuscripts, by the end of my literary career I will have written a medium sized body of work of eleven or so books of poetry, maybe these two final books will be self-published online but at least I will have done the work and completed my life mission.

In itself publishing too much or too little is not a valid basis on which to critique someone's life work; at best, it may be a way to qualify one's statements about the work, perhaps as an addendum to other more serious criticism; at worst it is lazy criticism and does little to evaluate a poet's work. I agree with Louis Dudek and T.S. Eliot (whose body of published poems is fairly small), both said that the final critic or judge of a poet's work is time. It isn't how much or how little you publish, it's how good the work is that you publish; it's not possible to know what poetry will last and what poetry will be forgotten, that's determined by unknown variables in a future that is also unknown.

                                                            Stephen Morrissey

                                                            September 2019

(Mostly) Anonymous in Inner Space

All of the ancestors have returned and are living quiet lives in Inner Space.  

Choirs will fall silent, money will be thrown into the streets, and everywhere people will wonder what this dream was all about.

I was not cut out for childhood, I was already living part-time in Inner Space.

How can poets write anything without going down the spiral staircase to the darkness below?

I needed so many years to accomplish so little.

I'm back living at the Yew Tree Inn; nothing has changed, there is a Yew tree outside my window and children playing by the old wishing well.

There were some people dressed in colourful outfits, meditating and praying in Inner Space; we threw them out.

I no longer care what poets have to say, not if it's just more of the same old avoidance of Inner Space.

None of this was invented by me. It is what I found in Inner Space.

I was absorbed into the universe by cosmic energy; there's no playing around in Inner Space.

And now I'm a broken wheel going nowhere.

It's not bleak here in Inner Space, it's just a habit of mind to say that life is meaningless.

I liked poets but when I arrived in Inner Space I found few had joined me there, they were too busy trying to make names for themselves.

Most poets have nothing I want or need, they are not crowbars prying open the unconscious mind. Poets need to be crowbars.

  

If a poet can't be a crowbar he can at least be a hammer. 

                                                                       

Believe Nothing

When did I become a nihilist? I was born this way.

Inner Space is a hinterland of cosmic waste; here, everyone is either a nihilist, a poet, or both.

My defense is suited to one whose motto is "Believe nothing".

Poets used to be referred to as "ground breaking" or "visionary"; now they want to be referred to as "award winning poets", the visionaries are gone. 

I am well known in the territory of Inner Space.

About what am I incredulous? On most days, just about everything.

A whole new cohort of poets has arrived,  they are ambitious, self-conscious, and dedicated to self-promotion; in other words, younger versions of older poets.

The opposition of nihilists to all forms of censorship is famous in the history of Inner Space.

I am not the Pope's nose but I can still smell shit when it's all around me.

As we cross the green archetypal fields of poetry we reach the borders of Inner Space.

I have lived the nihilist's life: anonymous, introverted, and appalled.


Mister, in Inner Space we don't have room for anybody but poets and nihilists, so you'd better high tail it outta here before you're discovered.

Most religious and political beliefs offend my sense of nothingness.

A poet's apprenticeship can never be replaced with sitting in a classroom workshopping someone's poems.

Believing anything makes people stupid.

Photo taken at the Montreal Botanical Gardens, 2009

Poems are Reports from Inner Space

   Yew Tree Inn, 1 Beardwood, Blackburn, Lancs,
owned by my great great grandfather Thomas Parker, 1881 

There is no consensus of intelligence anymore, but there is Inner Space.

The first experience we have of Inner Space: our dreams.

Of course, if we censor our reports from Inner Space we end up with poetry that lacks authenticity.

I come from a dark place—I know that it will always be dark—I have spent too long in Inner Space.

Poetry has its own archaeology: it's what we excavate in Inner Space.

Did you follow your vision? Did you hear the voice calling you from Inner Space?

We fear the unconscious; it is a portal to Inner Space.

It was not a part of my repertoire of emotions; I was trapped in Inner Space.

Poems are reports from Inner Space.

November is "Inner Space Month".

Artifacts and the detritus of Inner Space wash up on the shores of consciousness.

One day everything you said from Inner Space will be used against you.

All artists are nihilists; they destroy the old in the act of reporting from Inner Space.  

The poet's journey in Inner Space is the shaman's journey. 

I live at the inn of Inner Space, the inn on the road through a forest; few come this way, few visit the inn, the Yew Tree Inn.

Where we live, those outposts of Inner Space.

I am sending out probes into Inner Space.

Someone emerges, one born from the genetic debris of Inner Space.

                                                                                                            2015

First Published: Urban Graffitti, http://urbgraffiti.com/writing/poems-are-reports-from-inner-space-by-stephen-morrissey/#more-6185, Edmonton, November 2015.

NOTE: A year after this was published I posted it on this blog, today I see that it is no longer online where it was originally published at Urban Graffitti. This is what is seriously wrong with online publishing and digital archives, they are subject to change without the author's notice: they can be deleted, altered, rewritten, removed, gone... Mark McCawley published this essay in good faith that it would stay online; after his passing his web zine, Urban Graffitti, was eventually taken offline. Losing UG we lost all the graphics, short stories, essays, etc., that were online. If Mark had these archived at LAC then I stand corrected.  

SM

11/05/2018

On Dreams, Poetry, and the Soul

I always assumed that everyone had “big dreams” at some time in their life. Everyone dreams but most people don’t listen to their dreams, they forget them as soon as they wake, or if the dream is remembered it is either ignored or sloughed off. They don’t want to be disturbed by dreams, or by re-visioning their life, or by becoming more conscious, or by the discomfort of psychological insight. This is how poets think: they allow for the presence of dreams as a form of communication from the unconscious, and the dream is then listened to.

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God communicates to people in two ways: through angels and through our dreams. If you want to communicate with God, or receive a message from God, then be open to your dreams. Dreams coming from God are the “big dreams”, and we may have only a few of these during our whole life. Dreams have some interest for poets and artists, dreams are psychic collages juxtaposing images that one would probably never put together. They are of interest in an aesthetic sense, as a curiosity, and importantly for therapists as a door into the psyche of their client. Discussing a dream is a way—an entrance, a door—into the psyche, it is a catalyst for discussion. Surrealism as a movement grew out of Freud’s positioning of dream interpretation as an important part of therapeutic work. The Surrealists were more fascinated by the dream as an aesthetic event than by its therapeutic value. Dreams, then, as life changing events, can be an important aspect of how poets think; as well, dream imagery can be transformed into a poem.
----------------

Two other minor examples of poetic thinking: when I returned to live in the neighbourhood where I grew up, I would regularly see people who I used to see in the streets when I was young. They were not older versions of themselves, they were the same people that I used to see, as though, over the intervening years, they had never changed. I no longer see these people, they seem to have departed, where they have gone to I don’t know, but I would often see them, just as they were so many years ago. A second example: I have always believed that when we think of someone we used to know, but have lost contact with them, and they suddenly come to mind, for no reason at all, at that same moment they are thinking of us. For example, sometimes we think of an old friend with whom we have lost contact and then, only a few seconds later, the phone rings and it is the person we have been thinking of. Synchronicity reminds us that there is some kind of cohesion and meaning in life if we can see it.
----------------

It is the essence of the shamanic journey that what is perceived is not a product of the imagination but is “real”. The important thing is the experience in which our awareness and consciousness is not always subject to cause and effect. Dreams juxtapose images that are usually not associated with each other. In essence, the dream is a collage or a "cut-up" (see Brion Gysin). Dreams fascinate us when they open the door of archetypal association. A door, for instance, allows us to enter a room, but a "door" for William Blake is an image opening our awareness and our perception of the symbolical world of the psyche. Almost two hundred years later Jim Morrison resonated to Blake's perception and the music of The Doors followed, music that is shamanic and archetypal.
----------------

Dreams, Tarot cards, Sabian Symbols, the Aquarian Symbols, archetypal images, paintings by Odilon Redon, Magritte, and others, photographs by Man Ray, all help open an entrance into the deeper levels of the psyche. At this deeper level we become conscious of people, we can explore events that were formerly left unconscious, and a narrative becomes available to the conscious mind. I would include fairy tales and mythology as ways to access the unconscious mind.

----------------

Poetry deals with the soul and soul making. Just about any subject can be transformed into poetry, but a poet’s soul is needed for this transformation of the everyday into poetry. The poet is the soul's alchemist. Poetry is transformation. Dreams are another form of alchemy; they transform everyday reality into an expression of the psyche or the soul, and these dreams can sometimes give us access into our own souls.