I am very happy to announce the publication of my new book, A Poet's Journey: on poetry and what it means to be a poet, just published by Ekstasis Editions in Victoria, BC. This is a compilation of essays and reviews written since 1975. Thank you, Richard Olafson, for creating such a beautiful book, this means more to me than anyone knows. Here is the cover and the table of contents.
Tuesday, November 19, 2019
Wednesday, November 13, 2019
Mid-November, Snow
This year the snow came early, 20 cm. of snow on Remembrance Day and it's unlikely to melt until next spring... five months of cold weather is not something we look forward to...
Tuesday, November 5, 2019
Farewell, Veeto
Here is Veeto and me at the St. Viateur Bagel Restaurant, our first meeting in many years, July 2005 |
Audrey Keyes, also known as "Veeto" and "Veeto Wendy" on Facebook, died on October 23, 2019; she was sixty-nine years old. I met Audrey in 1954 when we moved from my grandmother's flat on Girouard Avenue to Oxford Avenue; we were neighbours, both four years old, and we became friends. I'd go to her front door and ask Mrs. Keyes, "Can Audrey come out to play?" As children we had years of playing together, in her home, riding our bikes, always imagining things, always playing, always making up imaginary worlds, always "let's pretend"... I think I am a poet partly because of those years of imagination and play with Veeto. My older brother played with Veeto's older brother, Bobby. Both Veeto and Bobby were adopted, we all knew this and never thought anything of it.
Here we are outside of our respective front doors on Oxford Avenue,
where we lived in the 1950s
Veeto and her mom, around 2006, at Manoir Westmount |
Veeto came to Montreal fairly regularly to visit her mother who lived at the Manoir Westmount on the corner of Landsdowne and Sherbrooke. Her mom was living a half block from where she grew up on Landsdowne; my dentist's office was located across the street from the Manoir and, had I known, I could have visited both of them when Veeto was in Montreal. Every time I visited my dentist I parked at the top of Landsdowne walked down the street passing where Mrs. Keyes grew up. Her mom was a lovely person, and when she died in 2008 I was at the funeral and met some of the other members of Veeto`s family, some visiting from Australia for this occasion. Veeto's mother, Edith Smith, died on February 28, 2008; Veeto's father, Richard J. Keyes, died on the same day, February 28, but in 1980. They are buried at Cote des Neiges Cemetery. Veeto spoke of walking along the hall of the Oxford Avenue flat and seeing her father praying beside the bed in the master bedroom. She said that her mother spoke of always living within sight of St. Joseph`s Oratory, even when she died in her mid-90s, at St. Mary`s Hospital, the Oratory was in sight outside of her hospital room window. I know the fifth floor on which she was a patient very well.
Veeto at her family monument at Cote des Neiges Cemetery, summer 2008
Veeto made a life for herself in Australia but here, in Montreal, Veeto also had a life, she had been a student at private schools, first at the Villa Maria, at the top of Monkland Avenue, a former home of three Governors General of Lower Canada; it became the home of a private girls' school in 1854. My cousin, Linda, also a student at the Villa, and who was also a neighbour and lived on Oxford Avenue, used to walk a very young Veeto to the Villa. Later, Veeto was a student at The Study, her parents spared no expense on Veeto.
Veeto visiting the Keyes' family monument at Cote des Neiges Cemetery |
A few years ago Veeto tried to get in touch with her biological mother; she also wanted to meet her biological mother and possibly her half-siblings and, she said, to see if any of them also sang, like her, as they walked along the street. But this lady, now elderly and living in Toronto, turned Veeto down and wouldn't meet her; it must have felt like a second rejection for Veeto. After that the discussion of finding her birth family ended.
One time, when Veeto was visiting, I took her for a long walk, through Montreal West, down the steep hill to Ville St. Pierre, and along Norman Avenue where we used to ride our bikes; it was all country back then, we both wanted to find some country in the city. We also used to buy fireworks on the main street of Ville St.Pierre; I remember blowing up Mr. and Mrs. Nuttall's tulips with fire crackers, they lived upstairs from us. Veeto remembered the names of all of our neighbours, I have forgotten most of them. We used to ride our bikes everywhere, even to the East End of the city to visit her grandmother; we were ten or eleven years old and it never occurred to us to tell anyone about these bike rides, why would anyone be interested? Truly, Veeto was the sister I always wanted but never had. But I did have Veeto.
Veeto also remembered my father's funeral in November 1956; that day she asked her mother if she could play with me and Mrs. Keyes, always loving to her daughter, said "Not today, not today." She remembered my father waiting for my mother to drive him to work at Windsor Station in downtown Montreal, he would sit on the balcony railing beside our front door; I remember him sitting there and I remember horse drawn milk wagons making their way along the street; I also remember looking up at the clouds and seeing faces that were frightening. Now, no one remembers any of this except for me, and that is why remembering is so important to me; to forget is to lose part of our inner being, part of our lives, part of our soul.
The statue of Jesus behind Souvlaki George Restaurant
corner of Coronation Avenue and Monkland Avenue
A few years ago Veeto and I were walking by Souvlaki George Restaurant and behind the restaurant is a life size statue of Jesus; we entered the backyard to get a closer look and there was a man there with whom Veeto began to talk. This man had worked in construction and so had Veeto, she had driven a large truck and worked on construction sites and even driven a taxi for ten years in Sidney, Australia; class barriers meant nothing to Veeto. This man liked Veeto right away. She treated him with respect and as an equal, even though he was a bit down-at-the-heels. That may have been the day we walked to Norman Avenue. Veeto was always an original, fearless, loving, one who celebrated life and accepted everyone she met.She had married in Australia and had two children, she had several grandchildren, she made her life in Australia; she loved people and music and people responded to her. Veeto loved life; and I ask, why is it the truly exceptional people go first?
A few years ago Veeto and I were walking by Souvlaki George Restaurant and behind the restaurant is a life size statue of Jesus; we entered the backyard to get a closer look and there was a man there with whom Veeto began to talk. This man had worked in construction and so had Veeto, she had driven a large truck and worked on construction sites and even driven a taxi for ten years in Sidney, Australia; class barriers meant nothing to Veeto. This man liked Veeto right away. She treated him with respect and as an equal, even though he was a bit down-at-the-heels. That may have been the day we walked to Norman Avenue. Veeto was always an original, fearless, loving, one who celebrated life and accepted everyone she met.She had married in Australia and had two children, she had several grandchildren, she made her life in Australia; she loved people and music and people responded to her. Veeto loved life; and I ask, why is it the truly exceptional people go first?
There is so much to say about Veeto but not enough time to say it. She was a strong woman used to hard work, but she was also well-read and knowledgeable about the world; she was highly intelligent and yet she lived, for the most part, a life of physical labour; she was adopted and embraced wholeheartedly the ancestry of her adopted Keyes family; she was named Wendy (I think of Wendy in Peter Pan), then she was named Audrey, and then she incarnated as Veeto. She was born in Canada and yet ended up making her home thousands of miles away in Australia. And this is Veeto, a completely original, caring, and loving person. The worst thing about all of this is that someone as loving and as full of life as Veeto should have left us so soon, and I know that many of us are devastated by her passing.
I send my deepest condolences to Veeto's family, to her daughter, her son, her granddaughter and other grandchildren, to her great grandchildren, and to her friends. She often spoke of her family in Australia of whom she was proud and loving. There is no turning the clock back, no recovering the torn off pages of the calendar, we've been blessed with her presence and now we must be the light in our own lives and the lives of others, just as Veeto was a light in our lives.
Saturday, October 19, 2019
After Reading Guy Birchard's Valedictions
Home of Mary Brown and Artie Gold at 3667 Lorne Crescent |
Before George Bowering was GB there was Guy Birchard,
maybe the first GB, both named as such by AG, Artie Gold. Valedictions (2019),
published by rob mclennan's above/ground press, is Guy's farewell to three
deceased artists, poet William Hawkins, musician and visual artist Ray 'Condo' Tremblay, and our mutual friend, poet Artie Gold. I
met Guy in the spring of 1973, I met Artie through Guy. I never met Ray
Tremblay but one day my brother took a taxi in Ottawa that was driven by
William Hawkins; somehow the subject of poets came up and Hawkins said that he
had heard of me. It's a small world; we were all a lot younger in those days,
we knew a lot of people. And now Guy's memoir has caused me to think about
Artie once again, he was an imposing and domineering figure for many of us in
the early 1970s.
Life seems to be a series of coincidences and
cumulatively they can add up to something meaningful, or nothing at all. For
instance, Guy says that he first encountered Artie at a reading by Michael Benedikt,
but I was also at that reading, it was on 16 March 1973 in the Hall Building,
the ninth floor I believe, and it may have been at this reading that I also met
Guy, sitting a few rows behind me. Around that time, winter-spring 1973, Hopeton Anderson invited Guy to read at Karma Coffee House and that was the occasion on which Guy met Artie Gold; to get this sequence of events accurate, it was also at Guy's reading at Karma that Richie Carson, another poet of that era, invited Guy to read again at Karma. By then I knew Guy and he extended to me an invitation to read after he read (the reading was on the third week of April 1973), just as Hopeton Anderson had extended a similar invitation to Guy, all of these readings taking place at Karma. Karma Coffee House was located in
the basement of the Sir Williams University Student Union Building.
Artie was an extraordinary person, there was an aura
of excitement surrounding him, he was a genuinely creative person; I doubt most
of us meet someone like Artie Gold more than once in a lifetime. One winter day
he and I and my first wife took a train to Ottawa and visited the National
Gallery of Canada. For years I had a copy of The Far Point, bought on that
occasion, an article in that issue was my introduction to what was happening in
poetry in Vancouver where many of the most innovative poets were living at that
time. There are other, happy memories of Artie; it was a seminal time when we
were apprentices as poets. But now, after reading Guy's memoir of Artie, what
is for me an unpleasant and pivotal memory has surfaced. It is a memory that explains
what happened to my relationship with Artie. I remember talking with Artie and
him telling me that he had published more than I had and that he was more
important as a poet than I was. It may have been true but do we say that to a
friend? I have never said that to another poet and no other poet has said
it to me, except Artie.
Remembering that comment by Artie I also realized that
it is may have been around this time that my relationship with him began to
diminish. Artie was getting ahead in
poetry, considering his talent and his intelligence the only thing that could
hold him back was himself, the baggage of his life; the baggage eventually won: he was now being published by Talon Press in Vancouver; he was giving readings in
BC, Ontario, and Quebec; other better known poets had heard of him and made him
a celebrity of sorts; he was one of three poetry editors at Vehicule Press, the
other two editors were Ken Norris and Endre Farkas. Artie had now become a
"somebody". I benefited by Artie's ambition, Artie, Ken, and
Endre published my first book, The Trees of Unknowing (Vehicule
Press,1978) and I am grateful to them and to the press for that.
So, Artie moved on and was an important poet with a
future. Then, Si Dardick, the owner of Vehicule Press, fired his three poetry
editors and installed someone else in the job; I don't know the details of this
firing but I do know that the books the new editor published never interested
me; the emphasis was now on formalistic poetry.
I still knew Artie after he was no longer an editor at
Vehicule Press; I gave him readings for several years, beginning in 1976, at
the college where I was now teaching, I knew he needed the money. From these readings he would go home with a little money and office supplies from the college. But there
were other changes happening in Artie's life; his decline into poverty,
worsening health, and increasing drug dependency is usually dated from when
Mary Brown, who supported Artie, ended their relationship by moving a few doors away but still on Lorne Crescent; later she moved to a house
she helped build in the country. Mary Brown died in 1999. But now I wonder if Artie's decline might also be dated from when
he was no longer an editor at the press.
My long forgotten memory of Artie's comment to me had other
repercussions on our relationship; it explains to me my distance from Artie in
the years that followed. For instance, I continued knowing Artie but on a more formal
basis, the old familiarity we once had was gone. Nothing lasts forever,
everything changes. When he stored his boxes of archives in our basement,
around 2005, I offered to give him a receipt (of all things!) and this
surprised Artie as much as it surprised me at the time; however, I didn't want
any problems with Artie and I didn't want Artie coming back at me saying I had
polluted his papers with cat dander, an alleged trigger for his COPD (not asthma). When
I bought groceries for Artie, or clothes, or what have you—this was when he had
friends supporting him so he could remain living autonomously—if I said I
didn't have the time to go to several shops that day to buy him croissants or
cans of chick peas he wouldn't push me to do it, he just agreed and let it go,
in fact, I noticed he was uncharacteristically meek in accepting what I said.
No good deed goes unpublished is one of my mottoes and it included Artie Gold.
Artie died in February 2007 and later that year a
small group of us scattered Artie's ashes at places we thought significant to
Artie. One of the people at this gathering told me that when she separated from
her husband Artie phoned to offer his sympathy, at first this was an incredible
thing for Artie to have done, she must have felt supported by Artie's phone
call; but, more importantly, it must have at first felt doubly compassionate as
it was from someone who was rarely compassionate about anybody. The point of
this anecdote is that literally thirty seconds after Artie expressed his
sympathy he returned to his favourite subject, himself. We both laughed at
this, it was "good old Artie" being himself.
When I first saw Artie's cover drawing on his last chapbook, The Hotel Victoria Poems (above/ground press), I thought it was prescient, that this was the same bed in which the police discovered his body on Valentine's Day in February 2007. But I was wrong, Guy tells me this image appeared on a postcard he received when Artie was still living on Lorne Crescent, it is not the same room and bed where he died in 2007. Artie was a friend of our youth, he was one of the first real poets some of us met on this journey in life.
October
2019, revised version
Monday, October 14, 2019
Mid-October and out for a walk
It's the Canadian Thanksgiving and we're headed into a federal election, the choices are minimal and not too exciting. So far it's been a lot of promises paid for with taxpayer money, endless speeches, scandals that blew over, and the whole thing descended into a comedy that is not funny or even entertaining.
Winter is not far off, this is the last chance for honey bees to stock up on pollen |
Concordia University has made this mini-park just outside the rear gates of Loyola Campus |
Also at the mini-park |
The baseball diamond is in the rear, at Loyola Park between Fielding and Somerled |
Home sweet home... |
Wednesday, October 2, 2019
Poetry Is A Calling
Calliope, the muse of epic poetry; detail from a Pompeii fresco |
No one makes a conscious decision to be a poet—poetry is a calling, a metaphysical event— poetry calls you. To deny a calling is to step out of the current of life, it is to deny life and the direction in which life is sending you. To deny a calling is to betray your life, it's that fundamental. There are only a few times when you will have a calling in life, perhaps only once, and there aren't many people who have a calling, so to turn down what life has given you is to deny the basic integrity of one's life. Being a poet has always been the biggest event in my life; if you follow a calling you are affirming life at a very basic level; to be a poet is not a conscious decision, poetry calls you to be a poet.
Sunday, September 22, 2019
Gardening, Mid-September in 2019
I've added a new section to the garden, as seen above |
Final three photos, honey bees in the garden. It wasn't always this way, only for the last three years or so, but now honey bees are common in the city. |
Tuesday, September 17, 2019
A poets' body of work: how much is too much, how much is too little?
One
of complaints made by critics about A.J.M. Smith is that his body of published work
is too small for him to be considered an important poet; if a poet hasn't done
the writing, they reasoned, then how can that poet be considered significant? At
first this view seemed valid to me; however, I also felt that Smith had written
some individual poems that are the work of genius, he was too good a poet to be
dismissed on this one point. Indeed, except for A.M. Klein none of the members
of the Montreal Group of poets have large bodies of published work; Smith was
not a prolific poet but he published more poems than Leo Kennedy and about as
many as John Glassco, both members of the Group. Consider the following
citation:
After a life of persistent devotion to literature, he has left enough poems to make a single small volume (less, certainly, than a hundred poems in all), a single volume of prose, a few pamphlets, and a prose translation of the poems of Poe.
This
could be a description of A.J.M. Smith's literary writing (omitting the reference
to Poe) and yet the citation is taken from Arthur Symons' ground breaking book
on the French symbolists, The Symbolist
Movement in Literature (1919), and it is Stéphane Mallarmé who is being
referred to. Symons affirms Mallarmé's work; E.K. Brown is critical of Smith's
work.
Some
poets have small bodies of work, these include Elizabeth Bishop who published
101 poems, Stéphane Mallarmé who published less than 100 poems, Jay MacPherson,
John Thompson (who published two books), Patrick Kavanaugh, and of course
A.J.M. Smith who published 100 poems. Is the poet who publishes a small highly
crafted body of work, each poem the result of many drafts, the product of
considered editing, better or worse than the poet who publishes a lot including
a few brilliant poems? I suspect that
some poets need to write a lot in order to arrive at a few good poems; others
need to write very little but do endless edits and revisions to arrive at a few
good poems of their own. Ezra Pound said, regarding Walt Whitman, that when he
was young he found a small number of Whitman's poems worth reading but now that
he is older he can't find those few poems. Many would say the same thing about
Pound's poetry but few would say it about Elizabeth Bishop's work.
Some
poets are proud of not writing much and I suspect that this is sometimes a
pretention on their part, a kind of snobbery found among both individuals and little
in-groups of poets. I have known people like this. Perhaps these poets have
higher standards than the poet who cranks it out, they would have us believe
this. What are some of the reasons these poets don't write more than they do?
Perhaps they are not very good poets; perhaps writing poetry was just a lot of
talk and socializing; talent without hard work isn't worth much. Poetry is an
art of inspiration and work, not what could or might have been.
Poets
who write "too much" are also open to criticism; it is difficult to say
how much is "too much" but the number of books published by established
Canadian poets may be more than most of us think. Here is a list of several
important Canadian poets and the number of poetry books they published, but with
a proviso, I am not saying that they all published too much, only that the number of books poets publish varies
widely. Irving Layton published 51 books; Al Purdy published 33 books; Dorothy
Livesay published 25 books; Louis Dudek published 23 books; Phyllis Webb
published 23 books; Earle Birney published 21 books; Margaret Avison
published 11 books; P.K. Page published 14 books; and George Johnston published
eight books. All of these poets have made a substantial contribution to
Canadian literature.
When
I was a university student in the early 1970s, I would visit the poetry section
at Classic's Little Book Store on Ste. Catherine Street West here in Montreal.
The store had expanded from one floor to two, and then to a third floor where
the poetry books were displayed at the top of the stairs. I remember seeing Clayton
Eshleman's books, one title in particular stood out, Indiana (Los Angeles:
Black Sparrow Press, 1969), a hefty book of almost 200 pages. And I
remember my first reaction to this book: wasn't it a bit presumptuous to
publish such a lengthy tome? Who had that much to say? My ideal for poets at
that time, but not my personal reality, was a small body of meticulously
crafted work. Over time I changed my opinion about Eshleman, in fact I became a
fan of Eshleman's work and, in May 1978, I invited him to Montreal to read at
the college where I worked as well as at Vehicule Art Gallery where I organized
readings with John McAuley. Unfortunately, this gesture on my part, of
friendship and respect for Eshleman, backfired on me. I found him to be a
difficult person, not very friendly, and I don't remember hearing from him
again after he left Montreal. I think there was a misunderstanding as to
whether he would be paid in Canadian or American money, a difference of a few
dollars that I regret not having made up at my own expense. Let me just say
that Eshleman is a highly talented and gifted poet and translator, his work is
original and visionary.
Many
poets are critical of self-publishing but it has a long history and is a valid
option for many poets; Louis Dudek recommended a number of approaches to
publishing that included self-publishing (Whitman's first book was
self-published), setting up a literary press, and being published by a small
literary press. I have been published by established presses, I have been
published by presses just getting off the ground, and I have self-published one
of my books. My work has always been guided by the central myth of my life,
discovered when I was young, and that is the Garden Myth, the fall from
innocence into experience. My nine published books follow the progression of my
life as it fits the template of the Garden Myth. I am working on two
manuscripts, by the end of my literary career I will have written a medium sized
body of work of eleven or so books of poetry, maybe these two final books will
be self-published online but at least I will have done the work and completed
my life mission.
In
itself publishing too much or too little is not a valid basis on which to
critique someone's life work; at best, it may be a way to qualify one's
statements about the work, perhaps as an addendum to other more serious
criticism; at worst it is lazy criticism and does little to evaluate a poet's
work. I agree with Louis Dudek and T.S. Eliot (whose body of published poems is
fairly small), both said that the final critic or judge of a poet's work is
time. It isn't how much or how little you publish, it's how good the work is
that you publish; it's not possible to know what poetry will last and what
poetry will be forgotten, that's determined by unknown variables in a future
that is also unknown.
Stephen
Morrissey
September
2019
Thursday, August 15, 2019
Honey Bees and Flowers in Mid-August
Mid-August and everything is lush and full of life. Honey bees are visiting hollyhocks, flowers are blooming, life is good.
Tuesday, July 30, 2019
John Glassco, Ralph Gustafson, and F.R. Scott
Montreal by John Glassco, DC Books, 1973 |
These and Variations for Sounding Brass by Ralph Gustafson, self-published, 1972 |
Next is Ralph Gustafson's chapbook, Theme and Variations for Sounding Brass (self-published, 1972) in which Gustafson laments the loss of our collective innocence in several violent political events in the late 1960s and early seventies; these include the Prague Spring of 1968, Kent State in 1970, and the political terrorism of 1970 that lead to the War Measures Act in Quebec. I was never a big fan of Ralph Gustafson's poetry but this chapbook seems to me some of his best and most passionate work.
The Dance is One by F.R. Scott, McCelland and Stewart, 1973 |
In my opinion F.R. Scott would have been a better poet had he written more long poems like his "Letters from the MacKenzie River", published in The Dance is One (M&S, 1973). This long poem has ten sections and is based on his 1956 trip to the North West Territories with his friend, our future prime minister, Pierre Eliot Trudeau. It is a truly magnificent poem that is also not typical of Scott's other work in poetry; it is my opinion that Scott would have been more significant as a poet had he written more poems like this and omitted some of the satire that he is known for; it is also better than Al Purdy's poems (published in 1966) about visiting the Baffin Islands, a place he didn't like.
According to some critics none of these chapbooks (or poems) are Glassco's, Gustafson's, or Scott's best work; however, these poems are among their most appealing and accessible work and can be read as a significant statement on the times in which they lived.
Revised: 17 January 2020
Monday, July 15, 2019
A Reappraisal of A.J.M. Smith
"And the classic shade/ Of cedar and pine..." |
1.
Some people may think it presumptuous to call a book of only a hundred short,
mainly lyrical
pieces of verse Collected Poems—but actually that is exactly what it is.
—A.J.M
Smith, Canadian Literature, (# 15, winter 1963)
Fifty
years ago A.J.M. Smith was one of our most prominent Canadian poets, since then
Smith's prominence has declined into obscurity. Smith was a poet but he was also
an anthologist, a critic, and someone who was important in the literary history
of Canada, but he is primarily important as a poet. The reason for Smith's
obscurity is his small body of poems, that he did not publish enough to be a
significant poet. In E.K. Brown's review of Smith's first book of poems, News of the Phoenix (1944), Brown
writes,
At last Mr. Smith has brought out a collection of his own. My first feeling, at the mere sight of the book, was one of disappointment. It is a little book; it holds but thirty-nine poems, spread over about as many pages; and among the thirty-nine are the twelve from New Provinces, and others well known to the readers of more recent anthologies of Canadian verse. One had hoped for evidence of greater fertility.
One may be justifiably disappointed at
the size of Smith's book but the book's real importance is its content, not the
number of pages, and beginning with the title poem there are some truly
exceptional poems in News of the Phoenix.
Brown mentions twice that Smith is not a "fertile" poet, seemingly to
reinforce his dislike for the book. But surely Brown knew that all poets are different; not all poets
are prolific, some poets stop writing when young, some have ten or twenty years
between books, and some write and publish more than they should. (Note: that both Brown and Smith published books on Canadian poetry in 1943 perhaps explains something of Brown's criticism of Smith's book; they were, in some sense, rivals with opposing views.) A few months
after publishing this review, Brown made an effort to soften his first reaction
to Smith's book by writing the following:
Finally, just a few months ago, appeared Mr. Smith's "News of the Phoenix," long awaited in Canada, and in perfection of technique undoubtedly the finest first volume since Archibald Lampman's "Among the Millet" came out in 1888. Mr, Smith has undergone the same influences that went to shape the difficult younger poets in this country. He is their analogue—and their peer. In his work is a distinctive note, the note of a temperament which is, as I have said elsewhere, "proud, hard, noble, and intense."This idea that Smith's work can be dismissed based on his small body of published poems is repeated by Desmond Pacey in his Ten Canadian Poets (1958); Pacey writes that Smith "has produced a small body of poetry—only, in fact, two slim volumes, the second of which reprints a good deal of the contents of the first... " Pacey then writes,
To call Smith a poet's poet seems to me to draw attention to his strengths and his limitations. He is a master craftsman, a poet from whom other poets can learn many of the subtleties of technique; on the other hand he has neither the explosive force, the musical charm, nor the clearly formulated set of ideas which either singly or in some combination make a poet a great popular figure.
Many contemporary readers will agree with Pacey's
assessment of Smith's poems; the poems emphasize craft over emotion and because of this they lack the capacity to hold our interest. To these
readers Smith's poems must seem disembodied from time and place, as though self-contained
and remote. This is the flaw in Smith's poetry: it is that technical skill
without emotional depth is a formula for obsolete poems; however, conversely,
emotion without technical skill is also a flaw in poetry. Having said this,
there is more to Smith's work than craft; there is imagination, insight,
intellectual depth, thematic cohesion, a restrained emotional content, and Smith's persistence to create a body of work that sustains its vision over many years.
These are the qualities that we overlook when we complain that Smith's poems
weigh too heavily on the side of craft.
About twenty years after E.K. Brown's
review was published, and five years after Pacey's book was published, Canadian
Literature (# 15, winter 1963) dedicated an issue to A.J.M. Smith; in this
issue, "Salute to A.J.M. Smith", Earle Birney used the same word as Brown,
"fertile", to criticize Smith; Birney writes, "As it turned out, Smith was to prove less fertile a poet than
most, and, though he was to continue to set us all high standards when he did
publish, his dominance was elsewhere." I could be totally wrong but until
reading E.K. Brown's statement that Smith is not a "fertile" poet, and
Birney's repetition of this, I had never heard of any poet, or any artist, referred to as "fertile" except as
having a fertile imagination.
2.
Most of the members of the Montreal Group are distinguished poets
(Leon Edel, a member of the group, was not a poet); all the poets but Leo
Kennedy won the Governor General's award for poetry (F.R. Scott won the GG two
times, once for non-fiction). Indeed, this is the preeminent group of poets—distinguished,
creative, and innovative—in Canada. If Smith didn't publish a lot of poems Leo
Kennedy published even fewer; John Glassco published only marginally more than
Smith. Glassco and Smith published two books each followed by Kennedy with his
one book. F.R. Scott published slightly more than A.M. Klein but only because
Scott lived longer than Klein. In sum, none of these poets were prolific.
Critics who complain that Smith was not "fertile" as a
poet don't understand the process of writing poetry which, simply put, is that
the Muse visits the poet, it doesn't work in reverse. As well, much of Smith's
published body of poems was written when he was young, the Muse often prefers young
poets over older poets; as an example of this, Coleridge was most prolific as a
poet for a two year period when he was twenty-five years old, from 1797 to 1799 (I am not conflating Coleridge with A.J.M. Smith). Smith's priority was the perfectly crafted poem, his ideal was a small collection
of about one hundred poems; this results in a small book because perfectly crafted poems take more time to write than poems that
need little editing. To explain this better, consider that Alex Colville,
although not a poet but a man of great technical skill, imagination, and vision; Colville produced only three or four paintings a year, but no one
ever said he wasn't "fertile". Smith encouraged an idea of the
importance of technical ability in poetry but when applied to his own work this was
interpreted as Smith not being "fertile" and then further interpreted
and misconstrued as his work not being significant.
All the members of
the Montreal Group (again, leaving out Leon Edel) published poetry but also worked
in other literary genres, for instance criticism, translation, and memoirs, or
as anthologists (Smith and F.R. Scott; Smith and M.L. Rosenthal). Some group
members were accomplished as poets but also in fields other than writing: F.R.
Scott was a distinguished constitutional lawyer and law professor; A.M. Klein was
a lawyer and publicist for the Bronfman family; Leo Kennedy made his living
from advertising; A.J.M. Smith was a man of letters. Let's compare Smith's body
of published books of poems with those of other members of the Montreal Group,
excluding posthumously published books, and see where Smith stands among them;
here is a list of the poetry books they published:
F.R.
Scott's books of poetry:
Poetry books:
- Overture. Toronto:
Ryerson Press, 1945.
- Events and
Signals.
Toronto: Ryerson Press, 1954.
- The Eye of
the Needle: Satire, Sorties, Sundries. Montreal: Contact
Press, 1957.
- Signature.
Vancouver: Klanak Press, 1964.
- Trouvailles:
Poems from Prose.
Montreal: Delta Canada, 1967.
- The Dance
is One.
Toronto: McClelland and Stewart, 1973.
Selected Poems:
- Selected
Poems.
Toronto: Oxford University Press, 1966.
A.M.
Klein's books of poetry:
Poetry:
- Hath Not a
Jew....
New York, Behrman Jewish Book House, 1940.
- Poems. Philadelphia:
Jewish Publication Society of America, 1944.
- The
Hitleriad.
Norfolk, CT.: New Directions, 1944.
- Seven Poems. Montreal:
The Author, 1947.
- The Rocking
Chair and Other Poems. Toronto: Ryerson Press, 1948.
John Glassco's books
of poetry:
Poetry Books:
- The
Deficit Made Flesh: Poems. Toronto: McClelland &
Stewart, 1958.
- A
Point of Sky.
Toronto: Oxford
University Press, 1964.
Chapbook:
- Montreal.
Montreal: DC Books, 1973.
Selected Poems:
- Selected
Poems.
Toronto: Oxford University Press, 1971.
A.J.M.
Smith's books of poetry:
Poetry Books:
- News of the
Phoenix and Other Poems. Toronto: Ryerson Press, 1943. New
York: Coward-McCann, 1943.
- A Sort of
Ecstasy.
Michigan State College Press, 1954. Toronto: Ryerson Press, 1954.
Selected Poems:
- Collected
Poems.
Toronto: Oxford University Press, 1962.
- Poems New
and Collected.
Toronto: Oxford University Press, 1967
- The Classic Shade: Selected Poems. Toronto: McClelland Stewart, 1978
Poetry Books:
- The
Shrouding. 1933
3.
Here
are some quotations from Canadian Literature's "Salute to A.J.M.
Smith" issue (# 15, winter 1963). In 1963 Smith was still a prominent poet
and referred to with admiration and esteem by his contemporaries; he was
acknowledged as having made a substantial contribution to Canadian poetry.
- "This issue of Canadian Literature is in part a celebration
occasioned by the publication of the Collected Poems of A. J. M.
Smith, one of Canada's important writers and, since the 1930's, a poet of
international repute. It is an act of homage..." —George Woodcock
- "All help in the end to put this
collection, despite its spareness, among the most distinguished, I
believe, of the century." —Roy
Fuller
- "As I read the Collected Poems which
Oxford has just given us, I realize, as I never did before, just how all
of a piece, as well as how varied, Smith's work really is.
"Metaphysical poetry and pure poetry are what I stand for," he
has insisted. One may be justly dubious about his "metaphysical"
qualities, but he is as pure a poet as he is a critic." —Milton Wilson
4. A.J.M. Smith and M.L. Rosenthal
M.L.
Rosenthal was both a poet and a critic; in his introduction to A.J.M. Smith's The Classic Shade, Selected Poems (1978) Rosenthal writes with authority and insight into Smith's
poetry. Perhaps because Rosenthal is not Canadian he can appreciate Smith's
work in a way that Canadians can't; Rosenthal isn't encumbered with the
preconceptions native Canadians bring with them. It was Rosenthal who invented
the important descriptive phrase "confessional poetry" in his review of Robert Lowell's Life Studies,
a whole school of poetry is categorized as such, so Rosenthal is both
perceptive and influential. Rosenthal is also a poet and poets are often, if
not usually, the best critics of poetry and the most understanding of what
motivates poets to write. It is a failed critic who places ideology above the
work being discussed. Smith met Rosenthal at Michigan State College (now Michigan State University) in the 1930s when they were
both teaching there; Rosenthal moved on to teach at New York University but
they remained friends and together edited the anthology Exploring Poetry (1955). Here are several quotations by Rosenthal
from his 1977 essay on A.J.M. Smith, the essay is both the introduction to The Classic Shade and a separate essay that
was published elsewhere:
- "Smith, an important force in modern
Canadian poetry though still but little known in the United States, is an
active esthetic intelligence whose life's work (like that of most other
genuine poets of matured intelligence) refutes the very notion of an
"anxiety of influence" that reduces the power of poetry to renew
its energies because of its great past." P. 10
- "If we viewed Smith's complete oeuvre as a
unit, we would find in it analogous balancing of joy in the life-force and
more depressive visions." P.
12
- "In the Romantic-Classical debate, Smith
tends to vote Classical on principle while his poems actually throw the
balance of feeling and imagination a little the other way." P. 13
- "His (Smith's) ordinary humanity is
evident in his obvious preoccupation with love and death and joy, and in
his sense of language." P. 15
- "The nobility of his (Smith's) finest work has many aspects. I believe it can partly be accounted for by his high degree of empathic sensitization to the rhetoric of the most truly accomplished lyrical poetry generally. But his unabashedly human hatred of death is somehow another, and of necessity a more passionate, source. One rarely finds the position held with such thrilling clarity in poetry. The language is the pure, sustained, and subtle speech of a poet who sees his own nature as a relationship between his art and his fate." P. 19
5.
He will go far, for he is
genuine, and gifted.
—F.R. Scott, diary entry on A.J.M.
Smith, 21 February 1927
Casual
readers of poetry should not be overlooked, any audience for poetry is
important. Casual readers don't care about the technical or historical
background of poetry—they don't care if A.J.M. Smith was influenced by the Metaphysical
Poets, they have probably never heard of the Metaphysical Poets—they like great
poems when they read poetry. This was my experience when I was young, I was
reading Palgrave's The Golden Treasury and read Shelley's "Ozymandias of Egypt" and immediately I knew I
was in the presence of something great, something that existed by itself, as
though it had always existed and always would exist. Great poems have a life of their
own, they transcend the rest of a poet's body of work and, again, one doesn't
need knowledge of the literary and historical era to enjoy reading them. These truly
great poems are experienced as "pure poetry", existing beyond time
and place; they are the kind of poem A.J.M. Smith wanted to write and, in fact,
did write. One or two of Smith's poems—"pure poems"— more than make
up for his small body of work; I refer to poems like "The Lonely
Land" and "Like an Old Proud King in a Parable", but there are others.
Roy Daniells, in his review of
Smith's The Classic Shade, Selected Poems (1978), published in Canadian Literature (# 79, winter
1978), positions Smith "as moving between two
worlds, one dying, as the tradition of Carman, Lampman and Roberts subsides,
one powerful to be born. ... How well has Smith provided a continuum, bridged
the gap, or at least navigated between these diversities?" Just over forty years later we have our
answer, Smith has not fared well. The reason Daniells gives for Smith's failure
to retain his prominence as a poet is demographic, he suggests that multiculturalism
has displaced the concept of a homogenous culture of which Smith was a
representative. Multiculturalism, as Daniells recognizes, is the society that
was still "powerful to be born." For Daniells, Smith might be too old
fashioned and even irrelevant to a contemporary multicultural audience; however,
he also writes, "It is certain
that a poet can become memorable on the strength of a handful of
poems that show a fine excess of sensibility and achieve a genuine utterance."
Louis
Dudek writes that it was Smith' s misfortune to publish his work in an era of
low art, a time when poetry was popularized and made easy to understand and when
high art was rejected by the public as uninteresting, inaccessible, and elitist.
In a review, published in Delta (# 20, February 1963), of Smith's Collected Poems (1963), Dudek writes,
"It may be that we find, in the end, that this was the most durable poetry
published in Canada in the forty or so years since Smith began. He is our miglior fabbro, and in the last resort
it is the fabbro that looks best to
immortality." As most readers will remember, T.S. Eliot referred to Ezra
Pound as "il miglior fabbro", the "better craftsman", in
thanks to Pound who had edited Eliot's "The Waste Land". This is high
praise from Dudek considering his adulation of Ezra Pound.
Most
poets never know prominence, they only know obscurity; A.J.M. Smith is
fortunate, he was once a prominent poet and deservedly so. Smith can be better appreciated
and understood today than when he was alive, today we can consider his oeuvre in
the context of the completion of both his life and his body of poems. The first
thing in a reappraisal of Smith's literary career is to stop diminishing his
accomplishment in poetry by saying he did not publish enough poems to be a
significant poet; Smith's body of poems is sufficient in size and, more
importantly, it is also significant as poetry. Some of Smith's poems transcend
the time in which they were written, they are the "pure poems" that
he wanted to write and they resonate in the reader's imagination. Smith's
status is probably somewhere between being a "minor poet" (to which
he resigned himself) and a "major poet"; in fact, he is neither minor
nor major, but he is one of our better poets. Smith's
poetry is a remarkable and incredible achievement but, as with any poet, he is
not everyone's cup of tea and reading Smith takes some work, it is not light
reading.
—Stephen
Morrissey
April-July 2019
NOTE: Do a search of this blog for other comments on A.J.M. Smith .
NOTE: Do a search of this blog for other comments on A.J.M. Smith .
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