Although we've had a few mild days, the cold is upon us and it makes life a lot less enjoyable. While I am usually happy to go for a morning walk, now, hearing that it is -10 C outside, I think it might be a good day to stay indoors, or go for a shorter walk and buy a few groceries on the way home. There is really nothing appealing about cold weather, not our cold weather. And it was cold a few days ago when I went for a last walk for this year on the hidden trail. The usual conviviality of walkers and dog owners was gone, it was all women dog walkers and me. The dogs enjoyed barking at me, and what of the women? I ignored them as I hurried along, cold, colder, and getting colder still.
Note: these photos were taken at least two weeks ago, before we had all of the snow we now have, and it's still falling.
When I was growing up I often heard about the three Callaghan priests, Frs. Martin, James, and Luke. The oldest priest was known familiarly as Fr. Martin, he was the first Montreal-born pastor at St. Patrick's Basilica; when he died he was buried in a plain wooden casket and, as his funeral cortege moved through the streets, people bowed their heads and acknowledged that he was an exceptional and humble man of God; they all loved Fr. Martin. Fr. James, the second born, was less known; the youngest, Fr. Luke Callaghan, was prominent but not as beloved as Fr. Martin.
The Callaghans were proud of all of their children. John Callaghan, their father, was involved in religious organizations in Montreal and, coincidentally, he was a longtime friend of my great great grandfather, Laurence Morrissey, a relationship that predates the marriage of his daughter to Laurence's son, Thomas. The Sulpician order educated these three young men and they each became prominent figures in the Montreal community. Born into the working class their intelligence was recognized by the Church and they were given every opportunity to make something of themselves; they were given the greatest gift, an education.
There is a saying, that one pays something forward (defined as "when someone does something for you, instead of paying that person back directly, you pass it on to another person instead.") Back in the 1920s and 1930s, and before, some members of the Irish Catholic community in Montreal wanted to build a hospital, and they did, it is St. Mary's Hospital which is also a McGill University teaching hospital. It was Fr. Luke Callaghan who saved the hospital when it was in jeopardy of being cancelled; he paid forward the good fortune that he had received from others.
Father Luke Callaghan
A Notman photograph of St. Michael's Church, 1934; Fr. Luke Callaghan was the pastor here and he helped build the church.
The mission of founding a hospital originated with Sister Helen Morrissey (no relation) in 1908; she was born in Pickering, Ontario, and she was joined in this work of founding a hospital by Dr. Donald Hingston, an eminent Montreal surgeon and a member of an eminent Montreal family, his father had been a surgeon and mayor of Montreal. The first location of St. Mary's Hospital, chosen by Mother Morrissey, was Shaugnessy House, on then Dorchester Blvd West, and it opened on 21 October 1924; it is now the location of an architectural centre and museum.
Shaugnessy House was soon recognized as being too small to serve its purpose and work began raising funds for a new much larger building. But the main hurdle was Mother Morrissey, she had her own vision of the new hospital, and that vision was that it would be under her control. She was also convinced of her own correctness, she was domineering, intelligent, articulate, and formidable. She was a literate person, she had written a book on Ethan Allen, and she knew what kind of hospital she wanted; soon, the business men fled saying Mother Morrissey was unworkable with. The men could do nothing with Mother Morrissey, she would not budge from her belief in what she wanted and her moral authority in getting it.
The original St. Mary's Hospital located at Shaugnessy House
St. Mary's Hospital in 2014
It seems that the men, prominent business men and politicians, cowered in the presence of Mother Morrissey, or they threw up their hands and were prepared to let the whole project become history. Thomas Morrissey was married to Mary Callaghan, a sister of the three Callaghan priests, and when Thomas died in 1916 Mother Morrissey visited the family in their working class home. Also present were Mary Callaghan's brothers, the priests. So, when the hospital project went off the rails due to Mother Morrissey, who did they call? They called the only man who had the authority and connections to do an end-around Mother Morrissey, they called Father Luke Callaghan, pastor of, at the time, the largest Irish congregation in Montreal, St. Michael's Church on St. Viateur Street in Mile End. Perhaps Fr. Luke had a chat with Mother Morrissey, he had the diplomacy to deal with all sorts of people and to get them onboard; he had seen through the building of St. Michael's church, a church that is architecturally unique in the city. Having lost her position of authority in the hospital project, Mother Morrissey seems to have disappeared from her involvement with the hospital. Soon, a million dollars was raised for the construction of a new hospital. The new hospital, located on Lacombe Avenue near Cote des Neiges Road, opened in 1934, where it is still located.
Canon Luke Callahan was named by Dr. Hingston as the
man who, through his intervention with the Archbishop during
the 1929 closure, saved the hospital. Father Callahan had
persuaded the Bishop to sanction the removal of Rev. Mother
Morrissey and bring in the Grey Nuns. Many of the Irish clergy
had been strongly in favour of turning over the hospital to Rev.
Mother Morrissey or another religious nursing order. The
community in general was dissatisfied with the doctor-dominated board and it was during this state of general discontent,
that a new board of prominent businessmen and politicians was
established prior to the first major successful drive in July 1931.
I tell this story because some years ago someone very close to me was very ill, at one point she almost died while in hospital, but doctors and nurses rushed to her bedside and by the next morning she was still alive, but barely. Every year I expected it to be her last but it is now eight years later and each year is a blessing, it is a gift and to whom do I owe this gift? To the doctors, nurses, administrators, and staff at St. Mary's Hospital. God bless them all! And to whom do I owe this hospital? To Mother Helen Morrissey, Dr. Donald Hingston, and Fr. Luke Callaghan who helped keep the hospital project alive; he paid it forward and I, his great, great nephew, am one of the many recipients of his gift. Then, in June 2021, I had cancer, it required surgery; I was referred to the chief surgeon at St. Mary's and, within a few weeks, I was operated on and here I am, writing this and once again thankful to the doctors and nurses at St. Mary's Hospital and Fr. Luke for saving it from the misguided control of Mother Morrissey. By the way, I have no special privilege at the hospital; everyone is treated equally with dignity and care.
And this is what "paying it forward" looks like from someone who has received the generous gift of those who paid it forward. I hope everyone can be generous and give something to a reputable charity like the St. Mary's Hospital Foundation. Fr. Luke, when he helped save St. Mary's Hospital, had no idea that it was descendants of his own family that would be saved by his intervention with Mother Morrissey.
Merry Christmas to you all!
Note: Sister Helen Morrissey's book, Ethan Allan's Daughter, was published in Montreal in 1940.
Here is a satellite photograph of Old Montreal and, more specifically, of Notre-Dame Basilica and the enclosed garden, the hortus conclusus, behind the Petit Seminaire on the south-west side of Notre-Dame Basilica. The Petit Seminaire adjoins Notre-Dame Basilica and there is an entrance to the basilica from the seminary. The (possibly) better known Grand Seminaire is located on Sherbrooke Street West near Atwater. The enclosed garden at the Petit Seminaire is closed to the public and there don't seem to be many photographs of it. Of course, Montreal is "Ville Marie", the City of Mary, and Mary has a large presence here; the hortus conclusus is closely associated with Mary. Photographs of the exterior of Notre-Dame Basilica and the Petit Seminaire were taken in February 2002.
All of the institutions mentioned here are owned by the Sulpician Order.
Seminary Gardens, Montreal, QC, about 1870; photographed by Alexander Henderson (1831-1913). You can see the Victoria Bridge, top left of the photo.
Here is an old photograph of the rear of the Petit Seminaire and, coincidentally, of the enclosed garden at the seminary; the buildings in the background have been demolished and new buildings constructed there
The following photographs were taken in February 2002 during a tour of the Petit Seminaire.
On rue Notre Dame, in Old Montreal, the entrance to the Petit Seminaire
When we were children we would bike to the Oratory, it wasn't far, then walk around, always in awe and amazed by the size of the place and the celebration of religion that was unlike anything found in daily life, or my life; it was exotic, supernatural, and incredible. On occasion I still visit the Oratory, and quite often I drive by the entrance on Queen Mary Road and look up and marvel. The small chapel is where Saint Brother Andre began his healing ministry; later the larger building that most people are familiar with was constructed.
When my son, who is a Medievalist, saw the fences around my garden he mentioned "hortus conclusus", the concept of the enclosed garden from the Middle Ages; this garden design has its origin and attribution to the Virgin Mary but gardens are also a part of our spiritual history, beginning with the Garden of Eden and the fall of Man. The hortus conclusus is an archetypal garden, it has that special quality of spiritual authenticity that gives the garden a greater significance, as a place that resonates in both our Christian spirituality and the spirituality of other religions. So, this is no happenstance that I have these walls enclosing the garden; this is a way of finding spirituality, or God, in the physical and material world, and it is the reason I find such happiness in having the garden enclosed with these walls.
And so, the hortus conclusus is a place of peace, and one wants to be there because it is a place of quiet, an entrance to the spiritual, and a place of temenos. All of this is foreign to our contemporary life, but people in the past, especially the Middle Ages, understood the meaning of the enclosed garden.
Poems,
no matter how dark their subject matter, are always an affirmation of life.1. What
can be seen in the dark no matter how dark it is? What light will we follow
when it is most dark? It took me many years to know what is obvious to many
people; the light that is always present, even in the darkness, is the goodness
of life, it is love. That light is love.
1. Because the act of creating something is, in itself, an affirmation of life.
An hour ago I was walking on Westmore Avenue, on my way to Pharmaprix on Westminster Avenue, when a cardinal flew across the road; maybe he's here for the winter, or maybe cardinals stay all winter. Westmore was always my favourite street in this area, large lots, nicely kept Cape Cod houses, and quiet. In fact, in 1997 when we were looking at homes we looked at two houses on this block of Westmore; this was two years after the 1995 referendum on separation (we call the topic the "neverendum") and the bottom had fallen out of the real estate market; home owners were accepting rock bottom offers for their homes; what else could they do if they wanted to sell their home? Political instability will destroy the economy because business hates instability. Anyhow, those inexpensive homes from 1997 are now worth six or seven times what people paid for them, but it's almost thirty years later and house prices across the country have become prohibitively high.
One day, years ago, my mother commented that back in the early 1950s my Uncle Bill lived on Westmore. I checked it out in Lovell's Montreal City Directory and there was his name, living in the house where the cardinal flew over the street earlier today. I think he and my Auntie Lill and possibly his son Bill Jr., stayed for a year in this house before buying a home in Ville St-Laurent. My mother was never critical of Young Bill but she was also never critical of anyone in the family.
My cousin, Young Bill, as opposed to Old Bill who was my uncle (this is how they were referred to), had been in the army in World War Two and had been part of the Canadian army that liberated Holland; his mother would speak to my mother and read her letters from Young Bill that described in detail the horrors of war. Young Bill was alcoholic and returned to Canada with possibly/probably undiagnosed PTSD; maybe when he was younger he also had Asperger's disease or ADHD, maybe that's how he would be diagnosed today. People were critical of Young Bill for his alcoholism that seems to have consumed his life. I've heard stories about him falling down drunk in the streets . . . I don't know what became of his wife, the mother of his daughter Jo-Ann, she was never mentioned, but Uncle Bill and Auntie Lill raised Jo-Ann and she was very close to her grandparents and, as far as I know, estranged from her father.
I haven't mentioned any of this before now; I didn't know Jo-Ann when she lived in Montreal but I got to know her on Facebook. I am sad to say that she died about a year ago. I never mentioned her father, Young Bill, to her, I felt he was persona non grata.
This is the house at 5265 Westmore Avenue that Uncle Bill rented in 1950, back then it would have been typical of other Cape Cod cottages, not renovated like it is now.
This is the grave of Lillian and Bill Morrissey at Mount Royal Cemetery; their son, William Chipman Morrissey, is also buried here. He died on 27 February 1990.
Creativity
has the capacity to heal; some have fallen into the darkness of existence, and
writing poetry or making art is one way to find light in the darkness; what is
the light? It is the discovery of love in one's life. It is greater than any
darkness.
Only a month ago we had +20 C weather (that's 68 degrees Fahrenheit), the colours of nature were brilliant and gave variety and life to things, but now late fall and the approach of winter has been pulled over our heads like a large wool sweater and it is a grey world we're living in, reduced, monochromatic, cold (-5 C or 23 F), dull, and uninviting.
Out walking, when I approached Meadowbrook Golf Course I saw this long line of cars and people standing around, my first thought was that there must be an extraordinarily rare bird in the swampy area to the right of the road and all of these people had gathered to see this bird, or maybe a deer was there, or a bear, the Bear Clan are just a few miles away . . . of course, I was wrong, stupidly wrong, projecting my own interests on a lot of parked cars and men standing around waiting for the golf course to open, possibly for the last time this season. But I would have preferred my scenario and seen some extraordinary bird before it took to the air and flew south for the winter.
Here is a quotation from Thomas Carlyle's Past and Present (1843):
All great Peoples are conservative; slow to believe in novelties; patient of much error in actualities; deeply and forever certain of the greatness that is in Law, in Custom once solemnly-established, and now long recognized as just and final.--True, O Radical Reformers, there is no custom that can, properly speaking, be final; none. And yet thou seest Customs which, in all civilised countries, are accounted final; nay, under the Old-Roman name of Mores, are accounted Morality, Virtue, Laws of God Himself.
Soul is what makes us more than a pile of chemicals and a
tangle of neurons; soul is that essence of consciousness that
enables us to know ourselves and our world, to recognize
what is unique in us as individuals and what each one of us
shares with the immense totality of which we are a part.
–June Singer,
Boundaries of the Soul (1994), p. xi
1
No poetics should ignore the place of psyche or soul
in writing poetry, this is because poetry is the voice
of the soul. Of course, some people don't believe the soul
exists, they associate it with organized religion
that they oppose as irrational and superstitious.
We know what a soulless city looks like, it is sterile,
plastic, glass, concrete, stainless steel, and lacking
the human dimension, lacking the uniqueness of the individual.
The soul made itself known in my life when I was a child,
with dreams that changed my life and writing poetry
that allowed me to be creative and express my inner being;
how much less my life would have been without poetry.
I believe that the soul is fundamental to poetry,
going back to the "Epic of Gilgamesh", going back
to the beginning of time and the first poem, and going
forward to the next century and the next millennium;
as long as the human spirit exists people will write
poetry and the soul will express itself. For this reason,
poetry will never die; it may become scarce, but
it won't die.
2
"Break the line when you run out of breath", sd/ Charles Olson,
but is this applicable to poets other than Olson and his cohort?
Is breath so significant in writing poetry that it should be used
to indicate line breaks? This may seem obscure but it is important,
it has to do with how poems are written, how lines of poetry scan,
and where lines end and other lines begin. It also affirms the importance
of the human soul in poetry.
Although in a different way than Walt Whitman,
Olson follows Whitman in affirming the importance of the physical body;
however, Whitman celebrated the human soul as much as he celebrated
the body; in fact, it is Whitman's soul that is celebrating "the body electric",
it is Whitman's soul that is celebrating the physical side of life.
Other poets, Pound, Eliot, H.D., and Yeats, (there are too many others to list),
affirm a more practical way of putting words on a page; free verse and traditional
metrical verse don't place importance on breath indicating line breaks.
Instead of Charles Olson's theory, in "Projective Verse",
think of poems as transcriptions of the soul, and lines of poetry
are patterns of thought, they are what the soul has to say:
what the soul perceives, the poem says.
With deference to Charles Olson, here is a different model
for how poems are written; it pertains to the deep language of poetry:
From the soul to the brain;
from the brain to thought;
from thought to the pen
and the poem is written.
3
The vocabulary of the soul includes Jungian terms,
it includes archetypes, synchronicity, the human shadow,
anima/animus, individuation, and others; these are
descriptions of how the soul manifests itself,
not instructions on what to write.
You have had an experience of the soul
when you know something intuitively, or if you've
fallen in love, or spent years writing poems, or had
a synchronistic experience, or been moved by dreams—
by a dream that changes one's life—or by a work of art
or literature, by a movie or a play, or music; these experiences
can change how we see ourselves and our world, they can change
the direction of our life, they can deepen our understanding of life,
they are a part of our journey, including what we do in the future,
what we become, and who we are.
4
Whatever people around us may think, freedom is not negotiable,
whether it is freedom of speech, freedom of assembly, or freedom
to think whatever you want. No one can make art that is authentic
to their vision and maintain their integrity as a poet if they live in fear
of being censored; censorship and creative expression are mutually exclusive.
There is state censorship and censorship by social media,
which is cancel culture, and we also censor ourselves; self-censorship
comes from within us while other types of censorship come from
outside of us, but both are pernicious and dangerous to creativity and
free expression. No poet can accept silence imposed by cancel
culture or state censorship, it would be soul suicide to do so.
We don't live in what Keats described as a "vale of soul making"
just to pander to people who are ignorant, or intolerant, or bullies.
My rule is: write exactly what I feel hesitant about writing, what I
want to keep silent about, what I want to censor; that's where poetry
lies, it is found in the shadow of consciousness.
No matter how offensive something may seem to be,
freedom of speech is essential to the arts and to democracy,
it is more important than catering to someone's sensibility,
or giving in to the fear of being attacked by them, verbally or in print,
or their demand for censorship and the denial of freedom
that has been hard won over many centuries. When a poet sides
with those who would censor the writing and statements
of others, that poet has joined the gang of repressors,
that poet has denied poetry and the work of being a poet.
In this life there is always somebody who wants to impose
what they think is best for everybody else, who wants to close down
a conversation, ban works of art, and censor what people are saying.
But poetry isn't written to make anyone happy or safe; the soul doesn't care
if you are happy or not, the soul cares about the truth of your existence.
5
I began writing poems when I was young
and I've described this as the beginning of my journey
as a poet. "All my heroes were poets" writes Ken Norris,
as poets were also my heroes: including Allen Ginsberg,
Walt Whitman, Matthew Arnold, William Blake,
John Keats, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and Chaucer;
and in my own country, my poet heroes are
the Confederation Poets, the McGill Group of poets,
Louis Dudek, Irving Layton, Al Purdy, Alden Nowlan,
and others. A young poet writes for the love of writing poems
and, if the poet is lucky, the soul appears, the soul is awakened;
a new maturity and intelligence in the writing is the appearance
of the soul's presence in the poet's work.
The nature of psyche, which is a synonym for soul,
is to find meaning and wholeness in life; and where is love?
Love is in every expression of the soul, every poem, every
insight, every action coming from the soul's awakening;
the soul has a propensity for individuation;
the soul gives joy to life;
the soul follows the bright star of love;
the soul lights the darkness surrounding us.
Author Bio
Montreal-born poet Stephen Morrissey is the author of twelve books, including poetry and literary criticism. He graduated with a Bachelor of Arts degree, Honours in English with Distinction, from Sir George Williams University in 1973. In 1976 he graduated with a Master of Arts degree in English Literature from McGill University. In the 1970s Morrissey was associated with the Vehicule Poets. The Stephen Morrissey Fonds, 1963 – 2014, are housed at Rare Books and Special Collections of the McLennan Library at McGill University. Stephen Morrissey married poet Carolyn Zonailo in 1995.
Original:
First published at https://artisanalwriter.com/2022/12/01/on-poetics/, 01 December 2022:
Also available as a podcast. To listen on Spotify click here.
"Soul is what makes us more than a pile of chemicals and a
tangle of neurons; soul is that essence of consciousness that
enables us to know ourselves and our world, to recognize
what is unique in us as individuals and what each one of us
shares with the immense totality of which we are a part."
–June Singer,
Boundaries of the Soul (1994), p. xi
1
No poetics should ignore the place of psyche or soul
in writing poetry, this is because poetry is the voice
of the soul. Of course, some people don't believe the soul
exists, they associate it with organized religion
that they oppose as irrational and superstitious.
We know what a soulless city looks like, it is sterile,
plastic, glass, concrete, stainless steel, and lacking
the human dimension, lacking the uniqueness of the individual.
The soul made itself known in my life when I was a child,
with dreams that changed my life and writing poetry
that allowed me to be creative and express my inner being;
how much less my life would have been without poetry.
I believe that the soul is fundamental to poetry,
going back to the "Epic of Gilgamesh", going back
to the beginning of time and the first poem, and going
forward to the next century and the next millennium;
as long as the human spirit exists people will write
poetry and the soul will express itself. For this reason,
poetry will never die; it may become scarce, but
it won't die.
2
"Break the line when you run out of breath", sd/ Charles Olson,
but is this applicable to poets other than Olson and his cohort?
Is breath so significant in writing poetry that it should be used
to indicate line breaks? This may seem obscure but it is important,
it has to do with how poems are written, how lines of poetry scan,
and where lines end and other lines begin. It also affirms the importance
of the human soul in poetry.
Although in a different way than Walt Whitman,
Olson follows Whitman in affirming the importance of the physical body;
however, Whitman celebrated the human soul as much as he celebrated
the body; in fact, it is Whitman's soul that is celebrating "the body electric",
it is Whitman's soul that is celebrating the physical side of life.
Other poets, Pound, Eliot, H.D., and Yeats, (there are too many others to list),
affirm a more practical way of putting words on a page; free verse and traditional
metrical verse don't place importance on breath indicating line breaks.
Instead of Charles Olson's theory, in "Projective Verse",
think of poems as transcriptions of the soul, and lines of poetry
are patterns of thought, they are what the soul has to say:
what the soul perceives, the poem says.
With deference to Charles Olson, here is a different model
for how poems are written; it pertains to the deep language of poetry:
From the soul to the brain;
from the brain to thought;
from thought to the pen
and the poem is written.
3
The vocabulary of the soul includes Jungian terms,
it includes archetypes, synchronicity, the human shadow,
anima/animus, individuation, and others; these are
descriptions of how the soul manifests itself,
not instructions on what to write.
You have had an experience of the soul
when you know something intuitively, or if you've
fallen in love, or spent years writing poems, or had
a synchronistic experience, or been moved by dreams—
by a dream that changes one's life—or by a work of art
or literature, by a movie or a play, or music; these experiences
can change how we see ourselves and our world, they can change
the direction of our life, they can deepen our understanding of life,
they are a part of our journey, including what we do in the future,
what we become, and who we are.
4
Whatever people around us may think, freedom is not negotiable,
whether it is freedom of speech, freedom of assembly, or freedom
to think whatever you want. No one can make art that is authentic
to their vision and maintain their integrity as a poet if they live in fear
of being censored; censorship and creative expression are mutually exclusive.
There is state censorship and censorship by social media,
which is cancel culture, and we also censor ourselves; self-censorship
comes from within us while other types of censorship come from
outside of us, but both are pernicious and dangerous to creativity and
free expression. No poet can accept silence imposed by cancel
culture or state censorship, it would be soul suicide to do so.
We don't live in what Keats described as a "vale of soul making"
just to pander to people who are ignorant, or intolerant, or bullies.
My rule is: write exactly what I feel hesitant about writing, what I
want to keep silent about, what I want to censor; that's where poetry
lies, it is found in the shadow of consciousness.
No matter how offensive something may seem to be,
freedom of speech is essential to the arts and to democracy,
it is more important than catering to someone's sensibility,
or giving in to the fear of being attacked by them, verbally or in print,
or their demand for censorship and the denial of freedom
that has been hard won over many centuries. When a poet sides
with those who would censor the writing and statements
of others, that poet has joined the gang of repressors,
that poet has denied poetry and the work of being a poet.
In this life there is always somebody who wants to impose
what they think is best for everybody else, who wants to close down
a conversation, ban works of art, and censor what people are saying.
But poetry isn't written to make anyone happy or safe; the soul doesn't care
if you are happy or not, the soul cares about the truth of your existence.
5
I began writing poems when I was young
and I've described this as the beginning of my journey
as a poet. "All my heroes were poets" writes Ken Norris,
as poets were also my heroes: including Allen Ginsberg,
Walt Whitman, Matthew Arnold, William Blake,
John Keats, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and Chaucer;
and in my own country, my poet heroes are
the Confederation Poets, the McGill Group of poets,
Louis Dudek, Irving Layton, Al Purdy, Alden Nowlan,
and others. A young poet writes for the love of writing poems
and, if the poet is lucky, the soul appears, the soul is awakened;
a new maturity and intelligence in the writing is the appearance
of the soul's presence in the poet's work.
The nature of psyche, which is a synonym for soul,
is to find meaning and wholeness in life; and where is love?
Love is in every expression of the soul, every poem, every
insight, every action coming from the soul's awakening;
the soul has a propensity for individuation;
the soul gives joy to life;
the soul follows the bright star of love;
the soul lights the darkness surrounding us.
Author Bio
Montreal-born poet Stephen Morrissey is the author of twelve books, including poetry and literary criticism. He graduated with a Bachelor of Arts degree, Honours in English with Distinction, from Sir George Williams University in 1973. In 1976 he graduated with a Master of Arts degree in English Literature from McGill University. In the 1970s Morrissey was associated with the Vehicule Poets. The Stephen Morrissey Fonds, 1963 – 2014, are housed at Rare Books and Special Collections of the McLennan Library at McGill University. Stephen Morrissey married poet Carolyn Zonailo in 1995.