The Trout River in late winter, early spring

At The Cedars on Trout River

The old Morrison property located on the Morrison sideroad -- the house burned down years ago -- and only this shed remains. There are a few places I would say are "sacred sites" and this is one of them, another is St. Patrick's Church in Montreal. A sacred site doesn't have to be associated with any organized religion (sometimes the opposite prevails), there is a quality of quiet, depth of thought, and spirituality that can be felt at these places. Dowsers can locate them, they exist on ley lines, so you can hold out your hands, palm down, and walk along a country road, and feel the living presence of the earth pulsating in your hands. The Morrison property is located at the junction of the Fourth Concession and the Morrison Sideroad, in Godmanchester, Quebec. I remember in the mid-1990s, often visiting the Morrison property, just to sit and think or be quiet for a few minutes. It was one day, perhaps in 1996, that I decided to sell The Cedars and relocate back to Montreal. I was walking past the Morrison property when I realized that where ever I am living, whatever I have done, that who I am as a human being is a part of my essence. I don't have to live in any particular place, where ever I am I carry with me where I have been and who I am. I am on a journey in life and this is it.

An old oak--important for us Celts--in the middle of a field, on the left side of the Morrison Sideroad as you approach the Morrison Bridge that crosses Trout River from Route 138. I can see Route 138 in the distance...

I made this path just by walking on it from our house to the river. Whenever I think of The Cedars, our old home, I think of Trout River. It was a long commute from the city, about an hour and twenty minutes each way for work, but you certainly felt a lot more in touch with nature when you were out there. And the scenery was beautiful; it wasn't stunning or magnificent, but it was beautiful. The Trout River runs across the U.S. border from the Adirondacks, oddly enough an unpolluted river entering Canada from the States, and then in the perhaps ten miles it's in Canada it becomes polluted. Then, just before you reach Huntingdon, the Trout River merges with the Chateauguay River. You wouldn't want to drink the water from the Trout River, but you could swim in it, and it wasn't polluted where we lived except with some run-off from farmers' fields. The only "problem" with the river was that it was very shallow, but this was also a good thing, you could swim in places and enjoy the river, but you could also wade the river. If there was one thing I really loved about this area, where I lived for almost twenty years, it was the river. You couldn't really cross country ski there, the snow blew across farmers' fields and became impacted and icy. I skated a few times on the river, and that was fun. Mostly I'd sit in the summer on a rock in the middle of the river, it was quite narrow (maybe twenty or thirty feet wide where we lived) and read and write poems. Or walk down to the river, it was maybe a hundred feet behind the house, and stand by the river and enjoy being there.

Above: Trout River in early spring. Below: some trees by the river:

The Cedars

Our home on Route 138--six miles south of Huntingdon, six miles north of the American border--from June 1979 to June 1997.

At the Botanical Gardens in Montreal (two)

Carp at the Botanical Gardens

Where the carp swim...

Hingston Family Grave at Cote des Neiges Cemetery

After reading Allan Hustak's biography of Sir William Hingston, Montreal mayor, surgeon and banker (Price-Patterson Ltd., Canadian Publishers, Montreal, 2004), who lived from 1829 to 1907, I was delighted to find the Hingston family plot at Cote des Neiges cemetery. I used to live about six miles from the New York State border, at Trout River, and William Hingston grew up only a few miles away at Athelstan, Quebec. I enjoyed Hustak's book on Hingston very much. I've read several other books by Allan Hustak, including his excellent biography of St. Patrick's Basilica, and I recommend whatever he's written.

Re. Dk/ : Read the work

At the estate sale of the late Stephanie Dudek,
Vendome Avenue, 20 July 2020

The first issue of the new online periodical http://poetry-quebec.com/ is dedicated to the work of Louis Dudek. My article, "The First Person in Literature", on Louis, is available on the site. I add the following as a suggestion, a postscript, that we read a poet's writing, his body of work, and avoid those whose aim seems purely negative.

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Louis Dudek made an enormous contribution to literature in Canada as a poet, publisher, and critic. He helped many poets realize something of their creative potential by mentoring, publishing their work, and reviewing their books.

Robin Blaser describes Louis as being a “walking loneliness.” Even Louis’ friendship with Ezra Pound, for which he has been criticized for being overly naïve in his support of Pound’s work, is the friendship of a someone who would find approaching Pound difficult. It is this criticism of Dudek’s relationship with Pound, who Pound referred to as Dk/, that I would like to discuss here.

People will dig up whatever they can to criticize someone else, or invent something, or reveal their personal grudges in their comments. When he met Pound, Dudek was young and in awe of the older poet, as many of us would be if we were in his situation. Another visitor of Pound’s at St. Elizabeth’s Hospital, where Pound was incarcerated after the war, was Charles Olson. It took Olson several years of dealing with Pound before he finally made his break with him. Olson and Pound had personalities that were larger than life; alternately, Louis was introverted and introspective.

Assuming that Pound needed to be “disowned”, then perhaps Dudek, like Olson, should have disowned Pound much earlier in his career than he did. Dudek rightly identified Pound’s Cantos as one of the greatest works of 20^th Century literature; however, he never supported Pound’s political views.

Dudek went to Pound to offer his support as a younger poet to the older poet that he admired for his poetry, just as Olson approached Pound for the same reason. To find one’s own voice, as a poet, it is necessary to assimilate something of the work and vision of the poets who come before us and that we admire in our youth. Both Louis and Olson assimilated in their work what they learned from Pound, and both poets eventually found their own distinctive poetic voices. Pound’s poetry helps inform something of Dudek’s work, just as Pound’s poetry helps inform something of Olson’s work, but the majority of both Dudek’s and Olson’s body of work is original and beautiful, for instance Dudek’s Atlantis and Olson’s masterpiece The Maximus Poems.

Dudek’s respect for Pound is that of an introverted person for the elder poet who had accomplished more in his writing career than just about any other poet in the 20^th Century. However, Dudek was not without serious critical reflection on Pound: Louis confided to me that despite having taught Pound’s work for over thirty years he never convinced anyone to share his enthusiasm for Pound; as well, he accepted that Pound was "mentally ill", as others have diagnosed, but which in no way disqualifies Pound’s creative work. Louis would always direct his students to read Pound’s work, The Cantos, for themselves, to go to the source, and not get hung up on what others are saying.
Although I saw Louis only infrequently in the 1990s--at poetry readings at McGill and a group of us went to dinner at Ben's Restaurant after the readings with Louis--I was kept informed of how he was doing by Sonja Skarstedt, who did so much for Louis during that time. Sonja, who is a tireless worker for poetry, both writing her own work and publishing poets with Empyreal Press, also published Louis’ work in his final years.

I remember when Louis died in 2001, leaving the reception after the funeral, walking into the cold dark March evening, and feeling an incredible emptiness, knowing that an important person in Montreal, a city of poets, was Louis Dudek and that he was now no longer among us. I felt that a great man of letters had died.

What is the meaning of the poet’s life? Poetry demands everything from a person. It demands one’s time and one’s soul and being. The meaning of the poet’s life is his writing, and this means his body of work. The message, then, is this: pay your respect to an elder poet, like Louis Dudek, by reading their body of work. Avoid the writings of those who would destroy a poet's reputation and memory. These people don’t know what motivated the man, who he really was, or his future place in literature.

Montreal Goddesses

The streets adjoining St. Patrick's Basilica, Montreal

This is what's left of Hermine Street, where my great grandmother, Mary Callaghan, lived, only a block from St. Patrick's Church where her two brothers, both priests, served the congregation. Father Martin Callaghan was the first Montreal-born pastor of St. Patrick's. Of course, we are reminded that he was always "interim" pastor, retired from that position for a younger man who happened to be the son of a past mayor of Montreal . . . It was the act of nouveau riche Irish not wanting to be associated with a priest from the working class, a man who lacked being born into the social position that the other, younger man, had been born into. Father Martin's brother, Father James Callaghan, also served at the church and there is a weather-damaged plaque paying homage to him stored in the basement of the church. I took photographs of the plaque when I visited there with my son about ten years ago (around 1999). Hermine isn't much of a street anymore, not residential at all. It's a half block from St. Patrick's and the street has been cut in two, by the Ville Marie Expressway. This photo faces south and that's a below ground section of the Ville Marie Expressway at the end of the street. Hermine was once residential, now it's a wasteland. Here is a photo of a business that was once located on Hermine:

This is on St. Alexander Street--rue St. Alexandre--looking south towards Hermine. St. Patrick's is just to the right of this photograph.

This is rue St. Alexandre looking north, with St. Patrick's on the left.

You can see a little of this red door, on the right, in the previous photograph. I believe it was where Father Martin Callaghan and Father James Callaghan lived when they were priests at St. Patrick's. Check it out at the Morrissey family history website.

Here (above) is St. Patrick's from rue St. Alexandre.

Looking down at LaGauchetierre (it runs perpendicular to Hermine and St. Alexandre) from St. Patrick's Church. There's a memorial park in the foreground with the foundation of some old buildings that were associated with the church and then some buildings on the other side of the street. Same view below, from circa 1915.

Other historical photos of St. Patrick's Church:

This would be the entrance from Sherbrooke Street West

This is looking from LaGauchetierre, south and parallel to Sherbrooke Street West

This is taken looking up at one of the buildings across the street from St. Patrick's on rue St. Alexandre. This whole area is being redeveloped, lofts and condos are bringing in new people which has a great location to the downtown of Montreal. When I first began walking in this area it was quite run down, and St. Patrick's wasn't in great shape, that was in the early 1970s. I think if there is a single place of deep spirituality in Montreal, this is important, or in any of the many churches in Montreal, it is at St. Patrick's. When I'm downtown I'll sometimes go to St. Patrick's.

Walk to the Black Stone

Here is the Black Stone.

It was 150 years ago, in 1859, that the Black Stone was erected. The Black Stone, also called the Black Rock, is situated on Bridge Street at the entrance of the Victoria Bridge on the Montreal side of the St. Lawrence River. The rock was dredged from the river by workers who were constructing the Victoria Bridge and it commemorates the deaths of over 5,000 Irish victims of typhoid fever who had just arrived in Canada after having escaped famine in Ireland in 1847. Already weakened by tragedy at home, the loss of their homes by forced evictions and the death of relatives, as well their own hunger, the long and difficult ship journey to Canada, and then death by typhoid fever when they arrived... It's a tragic and sad story of these people. The men who were building the Victoria Bridge discovered the mass grave--they died only twelve years before--of the Irish famine victims, some probably their own deceased relatives. Of course, they insisted that this tragedy be commemorated in some way. The rock faces a parking lot, on the other side of the street, where the actual graves are located. Every year, at the end of May, several hundred people walk from St. Gabriel's Church in Point St. Charles to the rock where a memorial service is held. There is a reception at the church hall after the walk. These photos were taken a few years ago, on a rainy cool May morning.

Yoni rocks

Two collages

Images of trees

W.B. Yeats's Grave, Sligo, Ireland, July 1978

Back in July 1978, I visited my friend R.R. Skinner at Boisville, his home in Camberley, England. We had first met a few years before, in August 1974, after I attended Krishnamurti's Gathering in Saanen, Switzland. After visiting with RR I planned to spend some time in Ireland and flew into Dublin, then after a day or two I took the train across Ireland to Galway and then on to Sligo. It not only rained, it poured rain the whole time I was there. I was miserable. One day I took a bus tour to the grave of W.B. Yeat's, that was probably the same day I also visited Lissidale House, where Yeats stayed in his youth. I did my research for this trip the way poets do their research, which is after the fact... this perhaps accounts for the dismal nature of my trip to Ireland. Years later I decided I would never visit a place where I didn't know somebody, or where I didn't have a reason for visiting (for instance, a conference). The life of the tourist is not for me, it is given to loneliness and self-consciousnss, constant travel, exhaustion, trying to maintain an interest in siteseeing when I'd prefer to be at home reading a book, and associating with some questionable people. It's all perfectly dreadful! So, this is the highlight of my trip to Ireland: Yeats's grave, including the church near his grave, and a Celtic Cross gravestone, all within close proximity to each other. Yeats is (perhaps) the greatest English language poet of the 20th Century.