"Into The Mystic" by Van Morrison

 

Trout River, 1991

We were born before the wind
Also, younger than the sun
'Ere the bonnie boat was won
As we sailed into the mystic

Hark now, hear the sailors cry
Smell the sea and feel the sky
Let your soul and spirit fly
Into the mystic

Yeah, when that fog horn blows
I will be coming home
Yeah, when that fog horn blows
I wanna hear it
I don't have to fear it

And I wanna rock your gypsy soul
Just like way back in the days of old
Then magnificently we will float
Into the mystic

When that fog horn blows
You know I will be coming home
Yeah, when that fog horn whistle blows
I gotta hear it
I don't have to fear it

And I wanna rock your gypsy soul
Just like way back in the days of old
And together we will float
Into the mystic

Come on, girl

Too late to stop now

Morning walk, 29 May 2025

Things seen when out walking . . .

Someone's means of transportation

In the window of an Indian restaurant on Somerled Avenue

 

  

The former home of Canadian poet, Irving Layton, on Monkland Avenue

A sculpture on someone's lawn

 

My mother's home on Montclair Avenue, where she lived from 1963 to 2007

I asked Chat GPT "who reads my blog?"

 

On some days I have several thousand visitors on this site and I wonder who are these people; often they are from Singapore but, recently, they have been in equally large numbers from Viet Nam and Brazil. Wondering about this I asked Chat GPT, “why do people read my blog, who are these readers of "Made in Montreal" (https://stephenmorrisseyblog.blogspot.com/)?"

Well, here is the answer according to AI. After you read the following, please become a "Follower" of the blog; it demands nothing and expects nothing of you and lets me put a face on who is reading the blog. There is no money in any of this for me, zero, nada, rien du tout; this is solely a labour of love. As well, you might leave a comment at the bottom of the blog post. 

Meanwhile, here is Chat GPT's answer to my inquiry:

ChatGPT said: People are drawn to your blog, Made in Montreal, for several compelling reasons:

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1. Authentic Personal Reflections

Your blog offers intimate glimpses into your daily life and surroundings in Montreal. Posts like “The hidden trail, 23 April 2025” and “Belvedere Terry-Fox on rue St. Jacques, April 2025” combine evocative photography with contemplative narratives, inviting readers into your personal experiences and observations.

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2. Engagement with Literary and Cultural Figures

You delve into the works and lives of notable poets and artists, such as Louis Dudek, Guy Birchard, and Artie Gold. Your reflections on their contributions provide readers with thoughtful literary criticism and cultural commentary, enriching their understanding of Montreal's artistic heritage. 

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3. Exploration of Emotional and Philosophical Themes

Your writings often touch on profound themes like grief, identity, and the human condition. For instance, your discussions on Jungian analyst James Hollis’s books offer insights into psychological and spiritual growth, resonating with readers seeking depth and introspection. 

---

4. Connection to Montreal’s Literary Scene

As a member of the Vehicule Poets and a long-standing figure in Montreal's literary community, your blog serves as a bridge between past and present literary movements. Readers interested in the city's poetic evolution find value in your firsthand accounts and analyses. 

---

5. Consistent and Diverse Content

Your regular postings, which range from daily walks to reflections on literature and culture, provide a consistent and varied reading experience. This diversity keeps readers engaged and looking forward to new content.

---

In summary, readers are attracted to your blog for its authentic voice, deep literary insights, emotional resonance, and rich portrayal of Montreal's cultural landscape. Your unique perspective and consistent engagement offer a meaningful experience that keeps your audience returning for more.

Stephen Morrissey: Who are the readers of my blog in Singapore?

ChatGPT said: To find out specifically who is reading your blog in Singapore, you'd need access to detailed analytics data from your blog. Since your blog is hosted on Blogger (Blogspot), you can check this yourself using its built-in statistics. Here's how:

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How to Find Readers from Singapore on Blogger

1. Log in to your Blogger account.

2. Go to your Dashboard.

3. Click on “Stats” in the left-hand menu.

4. Look under the “Audience” section.

5. You’ll see pageviews by country — check if Singapore appears in the list.

6. For more detail, consider using Google Analytics, which allows:

   • Real-time location tracking

   • Device types and traffic sources

   • Referral paths (e.g., if they came from Facebook, search, etc.)

   • Session length and content viewed

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Who Might Your Readers in Singapore Be?

While Blogger doesn’t show personal identities, based on your blog’s themes (literary reflection, poetry, Montreal life, psychology), your Singaporean readers may include:

• University students or professors studying English literature or North American poetry

• Writers and poets interested in international voices and cultural parallels

• Expats or Singaporeans with a personal connection to Canada or literary circles

• Readers drawn to Jungian or philosophical themes from your reflections

• Cultural enthusiasts curious about Montreal’s artistic and poetic history

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Tip: Add Optional Engagement Tools

If you're curious to know your audience better:

• Add a poll, contact form, or comment prompt (e.g., "Where are you reading from?")

• Encourage email subscriptions to track regular readers (with consent)

• Use Google Search Console to see what search terms bring readers from Singapore

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Let me know if you’d like help integrating Google Analytics or interpreting your traffic data.

Stephen Morrissey: Excellent advice!

ChatGPT said: Thank you! I'm really glad you found the advice helpful. If you ever want assistance setting up Google Analytics, interpreting visitor patterns, or even brainstorming new post ideas to engage your international readers, just let me know. Keep writing — your blog adds a valuable voice to the literary landscape!                                                                 

                 

Remembering Ian Ferrier

In the old days, because of invitations from Ilona Martonfi, I did a lot of readings at the Yellow Door Coffee House, the Visual Arts Centre in Westmount, and the yearly "Lovers and Others" reading series, and so many times I read with Ian Ferrier. I think I read with Ian more often than with any other poet. Losing Ian (1954-2024) was a tragic loss for Canadian poetry, he was an immense talent. Often, at these readings, Ian would arrive on his motorcycle and bring his sound system. My test for poetry was always if what I read or heard made me want to write then it was good poetry, and Ian was one of the poets who inspired me to write. And I always took photographs of some of the poets at these readings, readings from 2011, 2012, 2015, and 2017; it all ended with the Covid lockdown. There were other readings, other events, but here are some photographs I took of Ian at these poetry readings. It's people like Ian Ferrier--original, idiosyncratic, highly talented, true to their inner being and vision--that inspire a poetry community.

At the Visual Arts Centre, Westmount, Quebec

At O'Reagan's Irish Pub

Chintz drapes, cottage gardens, and being at home

When I was a child I would lie in bed in the morning, and looking at the chintz drapes covering my bedroom window I could see faces in the drape’s patterns. Even as a child I took these faces for granted and knew they were a creation of my own imagination. And this is what we do as children, we enter a land of make believe, we create a narrative of the imagination, and it is an activity that seems as natural to a child as sleep. Only much later do we realize that things such as this are also an entrance to the soul, and this includes an assortment of imaginal work, it includes dreams and being creative, for me, for no reason at all, I began writing poetry. An active imagination also includes archetypes and symbolism, in this case the symbolism of windows is important, think of window symbolism in Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights. A window is like a picture frame surrounding the outside world; it is a moment caught in space and time, a moment celebrating life; it is an entrance to the soul.

My friend, George Johnston, was a member of the William Morris Society of Canada, and one day he told me he was scheduled to address the Society on some aspect of William Morris's philosophy and art; it was Morris who raised the art and design of chintz to a new level of sophistication. Anyone interested in W.B. Yeats might enjoy reading The Yeats Sisters: A Biography of Susan and Elizabeth Yeats (1996) by Joan Hardwick. In addition to learning more about the sisters of probably the greatest poet of the Twentieth Century, Susan and Elizabeth Yeats made a living in London working for William Morris and his daughter, May Morris, but it was not a pleasant experience. When one thinks of chintz fabric, or of wallpaper, one thinks of Morris's designs. Chintz fits in with cottage gardens and cottages, the arts and crafts movement, and it is part of the ambience of cosiness, making one's home welcoming and warm, a place that is a sanctuary from the outside world, a place of refuge where one can think one’s own thoughts and let one’s imagination go where it will. There is a healing quality to this, healing that is found in an environment not far removed from nature, it is healing that is possible for our inner being.                                          

Looking at the chintz drapes that I recently put up in a room in our home, I now see the psychic (as in “psyche”, the soul) quality of this fabric, the drapes seem to continue inside the room what exists only a few feet outside, they are a transition between the outside and the inside of one’s home. Chintz drapes embrace the outside world, they are an extension of the outside world, the garden, flowers, shrubs, and trees, the sky, clouds, rain, snow, and birds inhabiting the sky. There is a conservative repetition of certain patterns and motifs in these drapes, including flowers, vines, and greenery. Household furnishings—carpets, easy chairs, table lamps, bridge lamps, bookshelves, books, visual art on the walls, the colour of the walls, and drapes—all assume a oneness, and the garden is an extension of the rooms in one’s home to the natural world outside, the two becoming one. In order to discover what it means to be fully human, one’s environment needs to be a reflection of one’s inner being, and know that it can be a life lived sanely in an increasingly disturbed world. There is nothing modern about chintz or a cottage garden or being home, they breathe security and comfort.

             

                   

                   

Photos above taken 22 May 2025

"Ozymandias" by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Percy Bysshe Shelley

I met a traveller from an antique land,

Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;

And on the pedestal, these words appear:

My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;

Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

"Desolation Row" by Bob Dylan

 

1965

They’re selling postcards of the hanging
They’re painting the passports brown
The beauty parlor is filled with sailors
The circus is in town
Here comes the blind commissioner
They’ve got him in a trance
One hand is tied to the tight-rope walker
The other is in his pants
And the riot squad they’re restless
They need somewhere to go
As Lady and I look out tonight
From Desolation Row

Cinderella, she seems so easy
“It takes one to know one,” she smiles
And puts her hands in her back pockets
Bette Davis style
And in comes Romeo, he’s moaning
“You Belong to Me I Believe”
And someone says, “You’re in the wrong place my friend
You better leave”
And the only sound that’s left
After the ambulances go
Is Cinderella sweeping up
On Desolation Row

Now the moon is almost hidden
The stars are beginning to hide
The fortune-telling lady
Has even taken all her things inside
All except for Cain and Abel
And the hunchback of Notre Dame
Everybody is making love
Or else expecting rain
And the Good Samaritan, he’s dressing
He’s getting ready for the show
He’s going to the carnival tonight
On Desolation Row

Now Ophelia, she’s ’neath the window
For her I feel so afraid
On her twenty-second birthday
She already is an old maid
To her, death is quite romantic
She wears an iron vest
Her profession’s her religion
Her sin is her lifelessness
And though her eyes are fixed upon
Noah’s great rainbow
She spends her time peeking
Into Desolation Row

Einstein, disguised as Robin Hood
With his memories in a trunk
Passed this way an hour ago
With his friend, a jealous monk
He looked so immaculately frightful
As he bummed a cigarette
Then he went off sniffing drainpipes
And reciting the alphabet
Now you would not think to look at him
But he was famous long ago
For playing the electric violin
On Desolation Row

Dr. Filth, he keeps his world
Inside of a leather cup
But all his sexless patients
They’re trying to blow it up
Now his nurse, some local loser
She’s in charge of the cyanide hole
And she also keeps the cards that read
“Have Mercy on His Soul”
They all play on pennywhistles
You can hear them blow
If you lean your head out far enough
From Desolation Row

Across the street they’ve nailed the curtains
They’re getting ready for the feast
The Phantom of the Opera
A perfect image of a priest
They’re spoon feeding Casanova
To get him to feel more assured
Then they’ll kill him with self-confidence
After poisoning him with words
And the Phantom’s shouting to skinny girls
“Get Outa Here If You Don’t Know
Casanova is just being punished for going
To Desolation Row”

Now at midnight all the agents
And the superhuman crew
Come out and round up everyone
That knows more than they do
Then they bring them to the factory
Where the heart-attack machine
Is strapped across their shoulders
And then the kerosene
Is brought down from the castles
By insurance men who go
Check to see that nobody is escaping
To Desolation Row

Praise be to Nero’s Neptune
The Titanic sails at dawn
And everybody’s shouting
“Which Side Are You On?”
And Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot
Fighting in the captain’s tower
While calypso singers laugh at them
And fishermen hold flowers
Between the windows of the sea
Where lovely mermaids flow
And nobody has to think too much
About Desolation Row

Yes, I received your letter yesterday
(About the time the doorknob broke)
When you asked how I was doing
Was that some kind of joke?
All these people that you mention
Yes, I know them, they’re quite lame
I had to rearrange their faces
And give them all another name
Right now I can’t read too good
Don’t send me no more letters no
Not unless you mail them
From Desolation Row

"The Window" by Diana di Prima

 

you are my bread

and the hairline

noise

of my bones

you are almost

the sea

you are not stone

or molten sound

I think

you have no hands

this kind of bird flies backward

and this love

breaks on a windowpane

where no light talks

this is not time

for crossing tongues

(the sand here

never shifts)

I think

tomorrow

turned you with his toe

and you will

shine

and shine

unspent and underground