Train Station in Montreal West

In winter, from St. Philip's Anglican Church across the street. .

(Above) looking east, to downtown Montreal.


(Below) looking west...

Lachine in winter, near the canal...

Lachine in late fall, near the canal...

Where The Molsons Are Buried

The doors to the Molson mausoleum, decorated with bare breasted angels, have now been removed as they had severely deteriorated over the years. These angels are, truly, an affirmation of life in the midst of death, even though someone doesn't know that angels are male and not female; anyhow, p,laying along with the eroticism these particular female angels are more abundantly endowed than one would expect. Perhaps there is an interesting story behind their creation.

Nature on Mount Royal

Home of Lovell's Montreal Directory, Old Montreal

St. Michael's Church, more upstairs photos

St. Michael's Church, Mile End, Montreal

More photos taken at St. Michael's...

Artie Gold, two years later

"Language, without the monkey of historical reality clinging to its back, is poetry!!" --Artie Gold 

(Artie's handwriting and design on a piece of plastic)

____________________________________________

It was on this day two years ago, February 14, 2007, that Artie Gold died. I often go for walks and pass the apartment building on Sherbrooke Street West where he lived. At night, from the street, I can look up at his windows and see that new people have painted and decorated his old place. Not long ago I entered the building, the inside door unlocked when one of the tenants was entering. I went up to the second floor where Artie’s apartment was located; there was no aura of Artie left, it had long departed; the books of poetry Artie wrote and our memories of him are all that we have left.

What memories do we have? Artie was someone who talked, rather than listened. He was an intelligent man, one of those people who seem to have been born knowing something about many things. He had charisma and a terrific sense of humour. He could be kind but he also managed to alienate many of his friends. A few old friends looked after him in his final years as he was not well and left his home only infrequently; I think of Endre Farkas, Luci King-Edwards, and Jill Torres in particular as friends who did much for Artie. I apologize for omitting the names of any others who helped him. I also visited, bought groceries, T-shirts, sole inserts, and other things he needed; and CZ and I had coffee with him at different restaurants. He often phoned. He saw few people and he allowed even fewer to enter his apartment. Artie was not someone to whom one could be indifferent. Some of us who knew him for many years thought he was fated to die young, but he managed to live sixty years and exactly one month. Once Artie showed me a book by the American poet Larry Eigner with the author’s name, where it had been written in pencil inside the book, erased but still visible. The printing was a scrawl as a result of Eigner’s cerebral palsy. Looking at Eigner’s photograph at the back of his The World And Its Streets, Places (Santa Barbara, Black Sparrow, 1977), I noticed the similarity of how Artie looked with Eigner’s appearance. Both men, at age fifty—Eigner in 1977 and Artie in 1997—are balding but still attractive men, both were dedicated to poetry despite their physical health. Artie Gold was one of our most talented poets. His bad health was partly self-inflicted, and partly the result of childhood health problems. He came from a fairly well off family in Outremont, a neighbourhood in Montreal which is mixed socially but is also very upper middle-class. His father was a businessman who made trips to China as far back as the early 1970s. Artie suffered greatly in his life, due both to his emotional and physical condition. We will not see his like again, for no one would want to live his life and few would put up with what he endured, not even Artie Gold by the end.

Thomas D'Arcy McGee

A sunny day at the cemetery...

McGee's burial place is first on the right above.

McGee's mausoleum is third from the left. The photograph below is included as part of a sunny winter day at Notre Dame de Cote des Neiges Cemetery here in Montreal.

First Meeting the Mystic Beast, 1994

SM and the Mystic Beast.

Museum of Anthropology,

University 0f British Columbia,

Vancouver, BC.

Notes on The Mystic Beast (1997)

The Mystic Beast, 1997

I first discovered the sculpture that I call “The Mystic Beast” (The Mystic Beast, Empyreal Press, Montreal 1997) around 1994 at Vancouver’s Museum of Anthropology, a museum that is largely dedicated to the art of First Nations people in British Columbia. He (the sculpture) was in a room just after the main hall as one enters the museum, placed off to one side near a window, so he is easily missed. In fact, the sculpture is a Northwest coast Nimpkish wood sculpture of a human figure, made around 1893. When I first saw him, I felt as though I had met my doppleganger; however, instead of a human double, it was an inanimate object.

I think CZ and I both immediately recognized the facial similarity that I shared with the Mystic Beast, but it was more than the expression on the face, it was also spiritual. I knew the meaning of his expression—so indicative of how I felt in life—for it showed my inner being: it was the face of an introvert trapped in a room full of extroverts; it was the face of one who is more at home being alone than with other people. It is a curious and rare experience to find a visual expression of one’s inner being, of one’s identity as a human being; he did not represent my persona, but the private face of the condition of my soul, he was the face of my Shadow.

The “Shadow” contains the aspects of our psychology that we reject, deny having, are afraid to face, and so on. They may be parts of our psychology too hurtful for us to deal with, that we would prefer to forget, or it might consist of taboo behaviour, or other aspects of ourselves that we consider too dark and disturbing to acknowledge. What we forget is that the Shadow is full of energy, think of the energy we’ve all used to deny or hide our Shadow; we sometimes project what we don’t like about ourselves onto other people and demonize them; we may go to great lengths and spend many years avoiding the Shadow; we may adopt a new persona (for instance, one that is light and lively) to hide behind, rather than investigate our own inner darkness. I am reminded of the phrase, “the bigger the sun, the bigger the darkness” and how this so often gives an accurate insight into some of the people we meet. However, there is gold in the Underworld; there is light in the darkness; there is redemption from our past; there is a voice of witness reminding us what we need to remember; there is poetry in life’s journey. So, it was epiphanous to find a sculpture, in a museum in Vancouver, representing my inner being, and I associated my Shadow with the sculpture.

                                

At the time when I visited the Museum of Anthropology, I was working on a manuscript of poems entitled The Mystic Beast, the final book in my Shadow Trilogy, and I thought of the sculpture as my twin Mystic Beast. I thought of him as having a similar psychology as myself and there he was, staring at me, or staring off into space. He is physically larger than life size, in fact much larger than he appears in most photographs, and the artist who made him caught perfectly an expression of psychological depth that, I feel, is rare in art found anywhere. When The Mystic Beast was published in 1997, the cover art was by Ed Varney who made an incredible drawing of the face of this sculpture, as can be seen above. A French translation by Élizabeth Robert, entitled La bete mystique (Editions Triptyque, Montreal, 2004) has an equally remarkable cover image, but it is not of the Mystic Beast in Vancouver. (You can see a photograph of The Mystic Beast on the home page of my poetry website, as well as elsewhere in this blog.)

In the prologue to The Mystic Beast, I refer to Edvard Munch’s famous painting “The Scream,” which is a work of art of depth and profound anguish, and iconic, but different than the Mystic Beast. On one hand, Munch’s painting is a scream of life denial emanating from the human soul in the darkness of a world that seems to lack redemption and grace. On the other hand, the Mystic Beast is more of a subversive presence, one that is apparently resigned to the way things are but is also aware that there is epiphany and grace, and life affirmation, in the very midst of a society and life gone wrong:

Here is darkness,

here the place

where waves are black

and the wind howling

through trees is a cry:

one thinks of Edward Munch,

the soul become a sheet

in the wind; have I left

a pile of skulls,

a dying heart

where it lies in my chest

as in a desert, tormented

by the sun and wind?

Here is title poem of the collection:

The Mystic Beast

1. The Invention of the Mirror


How could this be me

what I see as myself,

meeting what is

not me

but someone else:

a doppleganger passing

in the street, a twin

I was separated from

at birth, a part

of me divided

and gone,

as though

I lost my shadow

and must stay indoors

to avoid the sun.

The mirrored image

of my right hand

as I raise it

seems to be

my right hand,

but in the mirror

if my right hand is holding a book

the words are reversed—

who we are,

we never see

what we’ve become—

unless a mirror

in which nothing

could be invented

is reversed, words

read as words,

then we could see

for the first time

in human history

our true selves;

meeting ourselves

as others see us

not reversed or backwards.




2. The Mystic Beast

Arriving on the west coast,

I find the perfect image

of myself, a wooden

statue staring

at nothingness

in a museum:

he is the mystic

beast—not reversed

in a mirror,

not divided by life—

but the single

essence of who

I am. This image

is not reversed

by fortune or glass,

silver or animation,

but the inner being

so long separated:

my own face

and body frozen

in time and regret.

It is the unreconstructed

self found at last,

like finding a cousin

or brother, the true

brother of light

and camaraderie

who holds

my arm and announces

the birth of poetry,

the beginning of light,

the conclusion of silence.

It is my self

I find, my lost twin,

the inner being

I was and am,

who escaped

long ago and

disappeared,

a face encountered

in a mirror without

distortion by depression

or a concave in which

I slip into silence;

not the face seen

reflected in store

windows, the one

caught in peripheral

vision looking afraid

and alone, but an image

of one born in Heaven,

who fell to earth

from the clouds

and landed among

strangers. I searched

almost half a century

until now

when I meet myself,

I finally step out

of the mirror

as out of my body

my skin like clothes,

my face a mask,

my shadow

disappearing in light,

my true self

before and after

my birth and death.


(Stephen Morrissey, The Mystic Beast, Empyreal Press, Montreal 1997;


ISBN 0-921852-16-9; The Shadow Trilogy, including The Compass (1993) and The Yoni Rocks (1995), was published by Empyreal Press in Montreal.)