The Compass in Hong Kong

You never know where your work will show up in our still "new" internet age. Someone in Hong Kong found my poem, "The Compass," the title poem of my book The Compass (1993) and inscribed it on a real compass. Someone else wrote this article on finding a compass with my compass poem on it, and this article was published by CNNGO, located Hong Kong, an affiliate of CNN News. The complete article is below:

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An unlikely object of desire found at the Cat Street Market

An engraving on an antique compass spawns a search for answers. Thankfully, a reader comes to the rescue

We saw a beautiful antique compass at the Cat Street Market, which we got for HK$19, thinking it would make a great Christmas gift for a relative. However when we looked inside the cover of the compass and read the long engraving, we thought otherwise.

We've typed out part of the engraving here as we thought you might enjoy it:

“On the four corners of the bed the body becomes a compass describing the direction of passion. Months of desire arrive at this destination, rocking on a single almost silent wave we are sheltered by darkness.

"The body is a compass needle; you turned me from east to west awoke a sleeping giant that moves between your mouth and breasts and legs; the room illuminated by static electricity thrown off by our bodies.

How many decades did I sleep waiting only for you; I lust after you in all the directions of space. Meeting at the airport your foot touching my leg beneath the restaurant table, we secretly entered an empty banquet hall where the caterers chattered and poured drinks behind a wall partition then quickly leaving we found a deserted hallway of open office doors where we embraced. All the others in my life fell away."

We were left wondering. How on earth could this have ended up on Cat Street and what kind of romantic souls with a penchant for bondage play could have possibly owned it? A pair of star-crossed lovers forced to live in separate continents, perhaps? Or an epic extra-marital affair between a poet and his muse? Something mundane like a member of the Cathay Pacific mile high club and a mistress from Lockhart Road.

Thankfully, CNNGo reader rgucci came to the rescue, pointing out to us that the engraving is actually from a poem by Stephen Morrissey, aptly titled "The Compass." We feel a wee bit silly that our literary knowledge didn't extend that far. If you want to read the full poem, or any other of Morrissey's works, click here.

We wonder now whether the author is happy his poem has made it to the new antiques of Hong Kong's Cat Street.

The eclectic market sells everything from Mao memorabilia to sex compasses. The Cat Street Market is located on Upper Lascar Row in Sheung Wan. It is between Lok Ku Road and Hollywood Road.

The street is also called 'mo lo gaai' (with 'gaai' pronounced as 'guy') in Cantonese by residents in the neighborhood and is how it should be referred to when asking for directions to the market.

The Outlook and other gates

There are archetypal images everywhere we look, including these gates leading to expensive homes in Vancouver. A gate is an opening, but the gate is strong, large, protective of what is inside. The psyche resonates to the archetype of the gate, it isn't just a gate to a home, it is a gate to something else, some psychic content that has value for us. But what is this value? What is it behind the gate? It can be ominous or it can be liberating, but it isn't neutral. It is something important to us. But at what level of importance? Well, it can be materialistic but that's doubtful. You can find material wealth on this side of the gate. You may begin with the materialistic, but you end up with the spiritual. We're being kept from what is behind the gate. It is something more like inner peace, or self-discovery, or some information that will liberate us from whatever it is that is holding us back, keeping us in stasis.

The "mission" is to penetrate, or venture, or gain access into whatever is behind the gate. That is the first part of this mission. The mission is a quest, and when we enter through the gate, however that may be accomplished (maybe just ring the door bell and the gate will swing open) then the adventure continues, then we continue this mission of finding what is behind the gate, and we're doing this because it is some kind of a journey. This is the archetypal value of the gate. Any gate will do as an image of the gate.

There is also a gatekeeper, but we haven't yet seen him. He's there, somewhere, adding to the complexity of the journey. If you capitalize "Gatekeeper," then the word assumes a different value, it has a more sinister meaning. Then it is personified; who is the Gatekeeper? Now we have at least five things: we have what is on this side of the gate; we have the gate; we have the Gatekeeper; and we have us looking at the Gate, questioing something about our situation in the world and what is behind the Gate. We also have a narrative about all of this. And now we have a myth; now we've given birth to a mythological perspective of our lives, and in some sense it all came from this one observation of a gate.

I hope this explains something of my interest in archetypal images. A gate is just a gate until it assumes some psychic value, and then it works (as poetry works) simultaneously on several levels of complexity. This is a simple thing to understand but until we make the leap into archetytpal thinking, we are missing the other levels on which thinking, images, archetypes, symbolism, poetry, and mythology can work.

Vancouver (three)

Taken outside where I am staying on the UBC campus.

Trees in Vancouver (two)

Taken as one approaches the Student Union building at UBC.

Trees in Vancouver (one)

Trees on the UBC campus.

Montreal Goddesses

This old photograph of a semi-naked woman was found in a jewellry store window on Monkland Avenue in Montreal. We had just had dinner with Laurence and Mary Hutchman at the St. Viateur Restaurant across the street; I had seen this photograph before but this was an opportunity to photograph it.

Crypt at Le Grand Seminaire, April 1998

This is the crypt at Le Grand Seminaire of the Sulpician Order, Atwater and Sherbrooke Street West, here in Montreal. My great great uncle, Father Martin Callaghan, is buried here, as well as his brother Father James Callaghan. Remains are disinterred after fifty years and then deposited in a small box seen in the bottom two photographs.

Grant's Tomb, NYC

Thoughts of Girouard Avenue

Back porch at 2226 Girouard Avenue, my grandmother and my cousin Herb,
spring 1938

My parents worked hard and ensured their children had the opportunity to get ahead. Even so, due to my father's bad health, we lived with my grandmother and other relatives on Girouard Avenue for two years in the early 1950s. We were not the first to return there to live. I could make a list of the different family members who lived there over the years. When my grandmother was planning to move--maybe it was the move to Girouard from St. Henry back in the mid-1920s--my father told her to get a smaller place so she wouldn't be able to take in so many family members. As it turned out, the flat on Girouard was bigger than ever. The door was always open to family members who needed a home, who needed a safe harbour.

Some families are still willing to take in relatives fallen on hard times, bad health, unemployment, or family crisis, but the "open door" seemed to happen more often in the past before a social safety net took over this function. If you had family or friends, you would never find yourself on the street, you’d never be homeless. In our family, this help was given by my grandmother; other families did the same thing for their relatives when they were in need.

As I remember it, homeless people in the past were almost all men who had fallen on hard times, often due to alcohol; we called them “rubby-dubs,” and I wonder if this word exists outside of Montreal and if it is derived from a French word? If you saw any homeless people, or beggars, in Montreal just a few decades ago they were mostly men and many of them were hopeless alcoholics. Now, there are many homeless people in Montreal. Not all sleep in the streets, many sleep in shelters, others crash for a few days in the apartments of friends, and you see a few pushing grocery carts full of plastic garbage bags containing their possessions through the streets, or sleeping in the entrance ways to stores that have closed for the night. Being homeless is now a possibility in many people’s lives, just as time spent incarcerated is a possibility for some people, almost an expected event. If one served time in prison in the past it was a terrible disgrace and you had brought shame on your family; now, especially in the United States, for many poor people, it is just a part of life.

Are people really all that much worse now than they used to be? Must so many people end up in prison? Maybe these people really are terrible, lost souls, that you want to avoid, or put in prison. Maybe using illegal drugs has made them outcasts from traditional society. Maybe our society has turned into something that would be shocking and incomprehensible to people just fifty or sixty years ago. They might recoil with horror at some of the changes in our contemporary society.

Recalling my grandmother’s home as a place of welcome, I believe that this is how memories and family cohesiveness is created. When family memories are loving and happy ones, then these memories are sustaining for us when we are having difficult times in our own lives. We remember the good times when the hard times seem overwhelming. That is when an address, like 2226 Girouard Avenue, a place remembered, enters into the geography of the soul and into the important memories in a family’s collective history.

(Yes, they were called "rubbies," that is "rubby-dubs," because they drank rubbing alcohol. I had forgotten this.)

Mausoleums

Return to Girouard Avenue

Looking south on Girouard Avenue

(1) Return to Girouard Avenue 

When I returned to my grandmother’s flat at 2226 Girouard Avenue in May 2009, it felt as though no time at all had intervened since I was last there, that was also in May but forty years before. I had driven by the flat that day, as I often do, and noticed that the front door was open, there was an open house set up by a real estate agent. I rushed home and got my camera, and returned to a place that had meant so much to me my whole life. Entering the flat, it was as though only a few minutes had intervened since my last visit, so many years before. There was also a feeling of suspended animation as there had been no major renovations to the premises since it was built around 1900, and since 1966, when my grandmother died, there seemed to have been very little maintenance—the floors were now uneven, the door jambs crooked, the roof had leaked, and windows were threatening to fall out of the walls. Despite this, I felt “at home”; I was happy to have returned to this place that figures so much in my imaginal and psychic life. 

(2) It was in 1959... 

That day I took many photographs as I walked through the flat, I knew this would probably be my only visit there, and it was. The first room I entered had been my Aunt Mable’s bedroom where I can still remember sitting one afternoon on my father’s lap and learning how to spell, maybe I was three or four years old. Next was the living room where I often stood at the window and looked out at the street below—we were on the second floor — and one day in 1959 I counted eleven streetcars running along Girouard Avenue, for it was the last day there was streetcar service in Montreal. Here, too, was where my brother and I had visited our great aunts at Christmas just months after our grandmother had died; my Great Aunt Edna told us stories of the past, describing our grandparents’ wedding over seventy years before. I also entered what had been my grandmother’s bedroom; then the dining room; and as I walked down the long hallway to the rear of the flat I noticed the old claw foot bathtub in the bathroom; then my Great Aunt Essie’s bedroom; and finally I entered the kitchen and spare room off the kitchen where my great grandfather had lived his final years. All of these memories returned to me, including Bella, the cleaning lady my grandmother had come to the flat once a month in her old age; I remembered Bella on her hands and knees, with her nylons rolled down to her ankles, polishing the hardwood floors by hand and the smell of floor wax in the air. 

(3) Geography 

Girouard Avenue is on the eastern edge of NDG although it isn’t the true border where NDG begins and ends, but psychologically that border is Girouard. Driving south on Girouard, below Sherbrooke Street West, we pass my grandmother’s flat and then drive through an underpass at the bottom of the street; now we’re in Lower NDG and if you turn left from there onto St. Jacques you're headed in the direction of St. Henry, St. Cunegonde, Griffintown, Little Burgundy, or Point St. Charles. This journey is across the years but also across our collective emotions, a journey from the past that is frozen in a kind of suspended animation. 

(4) Dreams 

While I have often dreamed of the Girouard Avenue flat, it bothered me that usually my grandmother was absent in these dreams. Maybe one or both of the old great aunts would be there or the flat was empty, but only seldom was my grandmother present. I now see that it isn't only the people, it's the actual place that is important to me, and this includes and encompasses my relatives and ancestors who lived there, it encompasses all we've done as a family living at this one location for so many years. Not only was the flat itself important to me, it was my psychic centre, a place of dreams and poetry, a place of creativity, family, memory, and emotion. The Girouard flat was a place of the soul and I have manifested the soul’s vision in the poems I have written. We contribute to the world with our poetry, our creativity, our love, our enthusiasm, our spirit, and this is what I have tried to do in my writing and in my life. 

(5) Notre Dame de Grace 

Many people have their own “Girouard Avenue,” as such it is an archetype for that first home, that first idealized place where we grew up and where we had our first memories of childhood. It is a place for us that recalls the world of innocence. For many of us, it is the place where we first lived as we moved upward in social class, from St. Henry to Notre Dame de Grace, to the familiar "NDG," our new neighbourhood. Many of our parents never finished high school: my father dropped out of St. Leo’s Academy to help support his family after his father died; my mother went to the Mother House and learned shorthand, typing, and secretarial work. 

(6) The quiet zone that is old age 

I was a quiet child and did not need constant entertainment, or any entertainment, when I stayed at my grandmother’s. I never thought of her as being someone to play with, I went to her house and stayed the day and just naturally played on my own. I respected that she was old. I looked out the window; I played with little cars on a tea wagon; I sat and listened to the radio with my grandmother; one day, I asked her to play the piano for me and we sat on the piano bench, just inside the living room, and she played a few notes, and then stopped, she could no longer play. I accepted my days of relative inactivity at her home as normal, as what one did at one’s grandmother’s home. I knew she was old and that she did not do much, she drank tea and ate toast, she sat, she listened to the radio. This created in me a sense of what it is to be old, of the quiet zone that is old age. I still enter a quiet zone of my own, as I have done my whole life, and which was a gift from my grandmother to me.

On Glen Sorestad's Poetry

Glen Sorestad, League of Canadian Poets AGM in Edmonton, 2007

Ten years ago, I invited Glen Sorestad to give a reading of his poems at the college where I teach. It was a large audience, well over a hundred students, and I remember that the students loved the poems that Glen read that afternoon. Later that day, Glen and I drove into Montreal and had lunch at an Irish bar-resto on McKay or Crescent below Ste. Catherine Street. I remember introducing Glen to our waiter and saying that Glen was a well-known poet, that he was also the Poet Laureate of the Province of Saskatchewan. A few minutes later the waiter returned with a guest book for Glen to sign, I had no idea restaurants had guest books.

Once, someone wrote in a review of a reading I gave that I came across as “everyone’s favourite uncle,” not necessarily what I would like to have heard but perhaps accurate. The only other poet I’ve met who could also be described in a similar way is Glen Sorestad. I remember Margaret Laurence being described by the critic Robert Fulford as nondescript, perhaps looking like a housewife. Appearances are deceiving!

Over the years I’ve read many of Glen’s books as they’ve been published; two of his newer books are Road Apples, an autumn journey into America (Rubicon Press, 2009) and What We Miss (Thistledown Press, 2010). Unless I am mistaken, What We Miss is Glen’s first major publication since Blood & bone, ice & stone (Thistledown Press, 2005). In fact, as online-chapbook editor at Coracle Press, I published Glen’s Language of Horse in 2007 and some of the poems in this chapbook are republished in What We Miss.

Road Apples, an autumn journey into America is an impressive chapbook. It is part of a body of literature—the iconic and archetypal journey or road trip across a part of America—that moves from particular observations to general comments about American society. The archetype of the journey is present in many American writers, from Walt Whitman to John Steinbeck to Jack Kerouac. Sorestad’s American journey is across a landscape of ranches, highways, RV parks, and tourist attractions. Sorestad is the outsider, the observer, the bystander. This is America seen through Canadian eyes, that is, it is the perception of someone who is easily assumed to be a fellow American but whose perceptions are always informed by a consciousness that is uniquely Canadian. You could call us “Americanadians”! Americans, unlike Canadians, seem to know very little about the outside world. When telling a waitress in Sioux City, Iowa that he and his wife have just driven from southern Nebraska, she comments that this is lovely and where are they from? They reply they are from Saskatchewan… “And what part of southern Nebrasaka/ would that be in?” she asks. There’s no guest book to sign in this American restaurant, and I doubt the waitress would know what a Poet Laureate is…

………

        Glen Sorestad’s What We Miss is a truly inspired book of poems. These poems are deceptively simple, they return us to the basic experience of being a poet and writing poetry. This experience lies in the ability to see in the quotidian, the everyday, that which is marvelous and meaningful. In the first section, “Moving Towards the Light,” we read poems of everyday experiences, of going for daily walks and recording what is significant on these walks: it is seeing the first robin in spring; the presence of a red-winged blackbird; the warmth of the sun on one’s face; rain; geese; an old man and his dog; the sun coming through some clouds; a woman walking two dogs; a decapitated field mouse… All poets have had this experience: we place importance on observations that other people either ignore or aren’t aware of or think are too trivial to comment on. The poet gives these experiences significance and importance, he gives people a different way to perceive reality. As well, informing Sorestad’s poems is the recognition of our mortality. We know that when he writes of “walking towards the light” it is not only a kind of awakening, but it is also the light that lies beyond death. “Towards the Long Night,” the last poem in this section of What We Miss, finds us in November, the decline to winter has begun, and we note “The sharp sting of wind in our faces, /we bear reluctant light through the park.”

Sorestad’s love of language began when he was a child; he writes of this experience in “The Language of Horse”:

It was words like halter and hames,
bits and bridle, collar and reins,
words his uncle threw at him
as if they were self-evident—
this language so foreign to him.
It was a childhood epiphany:
each new landscape he encountered
from that point on would come with
its own language, its own lexicon
to be snapped or buckled into place,
for him to become a part of and in turn
for it to become a part of him.

Glen Sorestad is a poet who celebrates his early life, his family, moving between the city and the country, but it is in the country where he seems happiest, a happiness of being in a loving family and in close contact with nature. For instance, “Snow Tunnels” and “Christmas Oranges” are both poems of a happy childhood and of innocence. His poem, “Map of Canada,” returns us to an earlier time in Canadian history, he writes of a large map of the country on the classroom wall, but this map had a different quality to it, it also advertised the products of a chocolate company, and now, many years later, the names of different chocolate bars are forever associated to places in Canada, at least in Glen Sorestad’s consciousness! The final poem in the book, “Winter Walk,” has at least two layers of meaning; it is winter, but this is also a walk in the cemetery, and Sorestad is one of several pall bearers of a child’s coffin. This is a very moving poem, it reminds us of life’s transience and the fragility of human life. He writes movingly,

At last they set their box down at the site,
consigned the child to cold and dimming light.

The beauty of Glen Sorestad’s poetry lies, in part, in finely crafted epiphanous perceptions of nature, a love for family, and memories of the past; in these two books we see things through his eyes and know something of the way poets perceive reality.

I consider Glen Sorestad one of our finest Canadian poets. 

(The Language of Horse by Glen Sorestad can be found at http://www.coraclepress.com/the-chapbooks/language-of-horse-glen-sorestad/.)

Floor tiles at St. John the Divine

A day at the Montreal Botanical Gardens (4)