Champlain Bridge (4)

Champlain Bridge (3)

Champlain Bridge (2)

May, 2011

The Champlain Bridge (1)

Construction of the Champlain Bridge, 1962

I travelled across the Champlain Bridge from 1976 to 2010; when I began crossing the bridge it was only fourteen years old; now, not all that many years later, I am told that the bridge has only another ten years left, with continued major repairs, until a new bridge is constructed.

I only recently appreciated the bridge's structure since all that we hear is how the bridge is unsafe. 

What I would like to do is to walk the length of the bridge, but this is unlikely...

Champlain Bridge

1958: Beginning of bridge construction.

1962: The Champlain Bridge is opened to the public.

1964: Access to Atwater and La Vérendrye Blvd is opened.

1967: Bonaventure Expressway is opened.

2009: Due to age and wear to the bridge, major repairs are begun.

2011: In October, the Federal Government announces plans for the construction of a new bridge.

This is the most traveled bridge in Canada. It is a major route from Montreal to Eastern Canada and U.S. States bordering on Quebec.

Traffic on the bridge:

1963: 7,300 cars daily

1968: 33,400 vehicles daily

1989: 109,700 vehicles daily

2010: 156,000 vehicles daily

Personally, I have never doubted the safety of the Champlain Bridge...

A new bridge to replace the Champlain Bridge will cost $6 billion over a ten year period. The Champlain Bridge, constructed between 1958 – 1962, cost $35 million.

Cutting up A.M. Klein's "The Mountain"

The mountain in the distance, at Mount Royal and Park Avenue

This is in response to Jason Camlot’s “After the Mountain; The A.M. Klein Reboot Project”. Klein’s original poem, “The Mountain”, is published below; it is followed by my cut-up of Klein’s poem, published in a chapbook of the same title, compiled and edited by Jason Camlot, and published by Synapse Press, Montreal, 2011:

For many years I have been interested in William Burroughs and Brion Gysins’ experiments in “cutting-up” texts. In this poem I have literally “re-mixed” A.M. Klein’s poem “The Mountain”. This “re-mix” is a fairly conservative cut-up of Klein’s original poem; that is, I have kept the integrity of Klein’s lines in tact but I have re-mixed the order of the lines. Klein’s text was cut-up with scissors and then randomly reassembled. The resulting “cut-up” text changes a straight linear poem—Klein’s lyrical “A Mountain”—reassembles or re-mixes the poem, and finds in the new text a similar lyrical expression as in Klein’s poem, but without the linearity of the original poem. Meaning persists, but it emerges strangely transformed by the re-mix.

Stephen Morrissey
14 November 2011



Klein’s original poem:

The Mountain

A.M. Klein

Who knows it only by the famous cross which bleeds
into the fifty miles of night its light
knows a night—scene;
and who upon a postcard knows its shape —
the buffalo straggled of the laurentian herd, —
holds in his hand a postcard.

In layers of mountains the history of mankind,
and in Mount Royal
which daily in a streetcar I surround
my youth, my childhood —
the pissabed dandelion, the coolie acorn,
green prickly husk of chestnut beneath mat of grass—
O all the amber afternoons
are still to be found.

There is a meadow, near the pebbly brook,
where buttercups, like once on the under of my chin
upon my heart still throw their rounds of yellow.

And Cartier's monument, based with nude figures
still stands where playing hookey
Lefty and I tested our gravel aim
(with occupation flinging away our guilt)
against the bronze tits of Justice.

And all my Aprils there are marked and spotted
upon the adder's tongue, darting in light,
upon the easy threes of trilliums, dark green, green, and white,
threaded with earth, and rooted
beside the bloodroots near the leaning fence—
corms and corollas of childhood,
a teacher's presents.

And chokecherry summer clowning black on my teeth!

The birchtree stripped by the golden zigzag still
stands at the mouth of the dry cave where I
one suppertime in August watched the sky
grow dark, the wood quiet, and then suddenly spill
from barrels of thunder and broken staves of lightning —
terror and holiday!

One of these days I shall go up to the second terrace
to see if it still is there—
the uncomfortable sentimental bench
where, — as we listened to the brass of the band concerts
made soft and to our mood by dark and distance—
I told the girl I loved
I loved her.


The Mountain, Re-mix One

Stephen Morrissey

O all the amber afternoons
are still to be found.
And all my Aprils there are marked and spotted
upon the adder’s tongue, darting in light,
the pissabed dandelion, the coolie acorn,
green prickly husk of chestnut beneath mat of grass —
from barrels of thunder and broken staves of lightning —
terror and holiday!
Who knows it only by the famous cross which bleeds
into fifty miles of night its light
upon the easy threes of trillium, dark, green, and white,
threaded with earth, and rooted
And Cartier’s monument, based with nude figures
still stands where playing hookey
Lefty and I tested our gravel aim
(with occupation flinging away our guilt)
holds in his hand a postcard.
In layers of mountains the history of mankind,
and in Mount Royal
There is a meadow, near the pebbly brook,
where buttercups, like once on the under of my chin
a teacher’s presents.
And chokecherry summer clowning black on my teeth!
One of these days I shall go up to the second terrace
to see if it is still there—
one suppertime in August watched the sky
grow dark, the wood quiet, and then suddenly spill
The birch tree stripped by the golden zigzag still
stands at the mouth of the dry cave where I
which daily in a streetcar I surround
my youth, my childhood—
against the bronze tits of Justice.
the uncomfortable sentimental bench
where, —as we listened to the brass of the band concerts
knows a night-scene;
and who upon a postcard knows its shape —
the buffalo straggled of the laurentian herd, —
upon my heart still throw their rounds of yellow.
made soft and to our mood by dark and distance —
I told the girl I loved
I loved her.
beside the bloodroots near the leaning fence—
corms and corollas of childhood.


The Mountain, Re-mix Two, unpublished


Stephen Morrissey

one suppertime in August watched the sky
grow dark, the wood quiet, and then suddenly spill
a night-scene;
and who upon a postcard knows its shape
stands at the mouth of a dry cave where I
beside the bloodroots near the leaning fence—
corms and corollas of childhood,
against the bronze tits of Justice.
And all my Aprils there are marked and spotted
the pissabed dandelion, the coolie acorn,
green prickly husk of chestnut beneath mat of grass—
There is a meadow, near the pebbly brook,
where buttercups, like once on the under of my chin
The birchtree striped by the golden zigzag still
(with occupation flinging away our guilt)
and in Mount Royal
which daily in a streetcar I surround
holds in his hand a postcard.
In layers of mountains the history of mankind,
into the fifty miles of night
from barrels of thunder and broken staves of lightning—
terror and holiday!
upon the adder’s tongue, darting in light,
upon the easy threes of trilliums, dark, green, and white,
One of these days I shall go to the second terrace
upon my heart still throw their rounds of yellow..
And Cartier’s monument, based with nude figures
Who knows it only by the famous cross which bleeds
threaded with earth, and rooted
to see if it still is there—
the uncomfortable sentimental bench
still stands where playing hookey
Lefty and I tested our gravel aim
my youth, my childhood—
O all the amber afternoons
are still to be found.
where,—as we listened to the brass of the band concerts
made soft and to our mood by dark and distance—
I told the girl I loved
And chokecherry summer clowning on my teeth
the buffalo straggled of the laurentian herd,—
a teacher’s presents.
I loved her.

11 November 2011

Meeting David McFadden at the Morrissey Tavern in 1993

When we would visit Toronto in the early 1990s we would visit with David McFadden. David is one of my favourite Canadian authors, a poet, novelist, and traveller.  From right: SM, CZ, DMc.

Tea with George and Jeanne Johnston, 16 February 1992

George Johnston in 1992

Photos taken in the living room of their Henderson Street home, Huntingdon, Quebec

Jeanne Johnston, Carolyn Zonailo, George Johnston

We always enjoyed tea with George and Jeanne Johnston, good friends from our years living in Huntingdon, Quebec. George and Jeanne were lovely people, generous, loving, welcoming... I have been blessed by knowing them.

Marya Fiamengo at The Cedars, spring 1993

Here's CZ and Marya on the Morrison Bridge.

CZ and Marya at the Elgin Cemetery.

Marya and CZ at the Cedars.

Marya on the Morrison Bridge.

SM, CZ, and Marya at The Cedars.

Wendell Berry on William Carlos Williams

Wendell Berrry's The Poetry of William Carlos Williams of Rutherford (Counterpoint Press, Berkeley, 2011) is both Berry's homage to WCW and a discussion of poetry using Williams' work as the place of reference. This is an honest, serious, and articulate discussion of the work and meaning of one of the three or four major American poets of the last century.

Here is a quotation from Wendell Berry's book:

Without such rootedness in locality, considerately adapted to local conditions, we get what we now have got: a country half destroyed, toxic, eroded, and in every way abused; a deluded people tricked out in gauds without traditions of any kind to give them character; a politics of expediency dictated by the wealthy; a disintegrating economy founded upon fantasy, fraud, and ecological ruin. Williams saw all of this, grieved over it, and accused rightly... (p. 176)

Emily Carr on art and religion

"Emily Carr et ses amis" by Joe Fafard on Sherbrooke St. West
near St. Mathieu, 20 April 2013  

July 16th, 1933

Once I heard it stated and now I believe it to be true that there is no true art without religion. The artist himself may not think he is religious but if he is sincere his sincerity in itself is religion. If something other than the material did not speak to him, and if he did not have faith in that something and also in himself, he would not try to express it. Every artist I meet these days seems to me to leak out something, some in one way, some in another, tip-toeing, stretching up, longing for something beyond what he sees or can reach.

Emily Carr, Hundreds and Thousands, the Journals of Emily Carr, Clarke, Irwin & Company Limited, Toronto/Vancouver, 1966. P. 41.

Store windows during the Lovers and Others reading on Blvd St. Laurent October 2011 (2)

Store windows during the Lovers and Others reading on Blvd St. Laurent October 2011

Slipped out during a break in the reading and took these photographs of store windows along St. Lawrence Main. Just on the edge of Little Italy up near Jean Talon. Montreal, a city still in the 1970s when it isn't in the 1940s or 50s. That's what I love about it...

Visiting Marya Fiamengo at her office, UBC, Vancouver, 19 November 1992

Marya Fiamengo and Stephen Morrissey.

Poet Marya Fiamengo in her office at the Department of English, UBC,Vancouver.

Marya, Stephen Morrissey, and CZ. After reading in one of Marya's classes.

Marya and CZ.

Visiting Barry Dempster in Toronto, 14 March 1992

Barry Dempster

CZ and Barry.

Karen Dempster, Barry Dempster, CZ, Stephen Morrissey

Stephen and Barry.

F.R. Scott Memorial at St. James the Apostle Church in Montreal

On October 12, 2011, F.R. Scott's contribution to Montreal and Canadian poetry was honoured by the unveiling of a memorial plaque dedicated to him at St. James the Apostle Church in Montreal.