First Light, Last Light by Glen Sorestad

 

First Light, Last Light by Glen Sorestad

by Stephen Morrissey

 

First Light, Last Light

Glen Sorestad, 2025

Shadowpaw Press

Regina, Saskatchewan,

ISBN 978-1-998273-46-1

 

            In his eighty-eighth year Glen Sorestad continues to write new poems and has just published a new book of poetry, First Light, Last Light. The first section of the book, "The Human Touch", is comprised of poems in which Sorestad remembers people who were important to him; the second section, "Sunbeams and Shadows", is less defined by the past, it has an awareness of the natural world, mostly referring to birds. The whole book emphasizes the importance of the past as well as the importance of the natural world. It is a book of endings, fall to winter, day to night, and the people we've known and loved and who are now deceased; it is a book of the transience of life.

 

The first section of First Light, Last Light has many references to Sorestad's father, someone Sorestad often remembers; Sorestad recalls that his father drove a "1935 Ford", and that his father had a beautiful singing voice, a talent that Sorestad also shares; "My father had a great singing voice./ I have no memories of this of my own" but an elderly aunt has "conveyed/ this genealogical tidbit to me", and this reminds Sorestad that his memories of his father are of an older man, one "who grew/ increasingly taciturn and introspective/ as he neared the end of a life cut short...".

 

It is in the details that the past comes to life; in "The Whistler", Sorestad remembers that his father "loved to whistle." In "Honouring Our Fathers", Sorestad writes that he and his wife, Sonia, compared "notes about/ our long-departed fathers" and reflect on the similarities between the two men. Both of these fathers are remembered as men who valued their families, they were hard workers, they were good men. In another poem Sorestad writes, "I have always been aware of this:/ the missing are always missed." As time passes we may not miss these people as often as we once did, but missing someone, or feeling grief at losing them, does not end, it stays with us as long as we live. The word "missing" is poignant; "missing" suggests the hopeful possibility they might one day be found; of course, where they truly are is in our hearts. Sorestad writes,

 

                        Why do I keep writing these memories,

                        real or imagined, of my father, now gone

                        over six decades from my life?

                        .  .  .  .  . 

                        Is there anyone left alive with reason

                        to doubt whether my own recollections

                        bear even slight resemblance to the man?

                                                            "Gene Gifts", p. 27

 

In "Bulldozers" Sorestad reflects on the illusion of progress, "We inter our own history/ under the sham mound of progress". What is left of the past is ploughed under—"Every fallen log, every hillock—/ abandoned beaver dam,/ or forgotten Indigenous grave—/ levelled". Sorestad's feelings about the bulldozing of old homes, fields, nature despoiled, is also the destruction of our collective and individual memories, and poets are memory carriers, they remember the past and they keep the past alive in the stories, anecdotes, and details of what the past was like.

 

It is the second section of First Light, Last Light that really surprised me; these poems have a different quality to them than in the previous section; it is now the natural world that impresses itself on the poet. This section is mostly comprised of poems that refer to birds and there are also a few foxes that have been seen in the part of Saskatoon where Sorestad lives. There is a transformation manifested in nature; this is expressed in the emphasis on birds and the symbolism of birds. In Jean Chevalier and Alain Gheerbrant's A Dictionary of Symbols (1969) we read that birds are "symbols of the links between Heaven and Earth . . . Birds, symbols of the soul, play the role of Intermediaries between Heaven and Earth."

 

As symbols birds are messengers of the divine; birds are symbolic of freedom, spirituality, and a connection between the earth and the heavens. Sorestad's poem, "Red winged Blackbirds" stood out for me (and not only because it mentions my birthday in the first line—"the twenty-seventh of April") and describes walking in nature and seeing a red-winged blackbird, a bird I no longer see here in the east; Sorestad writes,

 

                        There is no avoiding the brazen birds,

 

                        should you be so inclined. They are political

                        poets of the bird world and like Milton Acorn

 

                        they shout love, whether you understand,

                        or appreciate, or agree with it or not.

 

Here are some of the birds referred to by Sorestad in this book:

 

                        Snowy owls

                        Crows

                        Waxwings

                        Blackbirds

                        Cooper's Hawks

                        Canada Geese

                        Catbirds

                        Robins

                        Chickadees

                        Swans

                        Juncos

                        Snow geese

                        Turkey vultures

                        Magpies

                        Catbirds

                        Bohemian Waxwing

                        Blue Jay

 

We are visited daily by these messengers of the divine. Take, for instance, "Crow Meditation"; upon seeing the first crow of the year Sorestad writes,

 

                        Is it confirmation of an expectation?

                        Or the assurance, here and now. Nature

                        has proclaimed again that all is well?

 

The crow is a bird that has a long memory, be careful not to offend a crow or the consequences will be long lasting, you might be subject to the crow aggressively flying at you, not for days or weeks, but for years to come; and they will recognize your face and distinguish between you and other people. Crows have the intelligence of a seven year old child and can be a delight to watch. One's relationship with crows is one in which we can learn something about ourselves; they can be predatory (I have watched a crow land in a neighbour's tree with a small dead squirrel in its claws), but there is much more to crows than this.

 

Sorestad writes that it is "Hard to Love a Crow", especially when the crow hunts younger birds; looking out at their new bird bath he writes, "I expect we both shared the same vision:// robins and sparrows, warbler and finches,/ chickadees and other songsters would arrive/ at our burbling flow to drink and to splash." But crows are clever and intelligent animals, crows are carnivores and cagey in their approach to finding the next meal. In "Corvid Hygiene" he writes,

 

                        Crow turns to the window,

                                    cocks its head at me

                                    and those dark eyes

                        seize mine for a moment.

                                    I'm positive Crow

                                    would like to say

                        something to me, something

                                    I'm not at all sure

                                    I want to hear.

 

Personally, I have observed crows and other birds for years and I always enjoy seeing crows soak food found at a nearby Chinese restaurant in our backyard bird bath. Crows are also known for leaving presents after their visits. One day, after visits by crows, I was pouring fresh water into the bird bath when I found an old Canadian penny beside the bird bath; I thought that was nice and then I looked at the penny more closely, it was almost completely rubbed smooth and the date on it was 1957, the year after my father died. It is probably of no great significance, but personally, I like to think that it is a meaningful coincidence—a synchronistic experience—and that it tells me we live in a meaningful universe. I feel that the crows had delivered to me a special gift—a personal gift from them—and it is a penny that I still possess.

 

There is also Sorestad's "Nordic spirit" present in his poems; by this I refer to ancestral qualities of self-reliance, an adherence to truth, love for the natural world, the importance of inner strength, and an unstated assumption of accepting things as they are. Glen Sorestad's heritage is Norwegian and he reminds me of the late Canadian poet George Johnston whose own poetry, including his translations of the Icelandic Sagas and poetry from the Faroe Islands, also had these Nordic qualities. Both poets discover in the everyday, the quotidian, a way to express what is important in life. Glen Sorestad's poems also remind me of the poems of the American poet William Stafford; Sorestad and Stafford have a similar sensibility; they are western poets and, one feels, they are closer to the essentials of poetry than is found in some poets of the big eastern cities.

 

For Glen Sorestad the first light is diminishing and the last light is on the horizon, but it is not a time of sadness; it is a time of love. This is not a sad or unhappy book, every poem affirms life and being alive; the past lives in our hearts but it also lives in memory. This is a book of memories and reflections on the past, they weave in and out of consciousness; it is also a book of the natural world, of a connection with nature. These are fall and winter poems, a time of reflection, a time of solitude. Do we agree with Beowulf, that "grief follows joy", or is it Chaucer that we resonate to when he writes in The Canterbury Tales, "But after wo I rede us to be merye"? I think Sorestad would choose the latter; however, a paradox of life is that you can be on both sides of an issue at the same time; but, overall, Glen Sorestad is on the side of life and creativity and continuing on life's journey no matter if it is the first light or the last light of day.

                                                                                      Stephen Morrissey

                                                                                       25 November 2025

Remembering Barry Dempster, 1952-2025

 

Stephen Morrissey and Barry Dempster, March 1992

         

From left, Karen Dempster, Barry Dempster, Carolyn Zonailo, Stephen Morrissey

                                          

It's difficult to believe that Barry Dempster (1952-2025) is no longer with us. In the 1980s and 90s we corresponded, over two hundred letters, and I wrote many reviews for Barry who was the reviews editor at Poetry Canada Review. We all loved Barry Dempster for who he was, a good decent human being who had integrity and was committed to poetry and writing. Barry helped many poets and he helped build the poetry community; he touched many lives. You might read this book length interview (photo above) done with Barry, it was published a few years ago, and it gives a real feeling of who Barry Dempster was; it after reading this interview that I reconnected with Barry and learned of his illness. Carolyn and I visited Barry and Karen at their home in Toronto in March, 1992, here are three of the photographs taken that day. Rest in peace, old friend.

St. Philip's Anglican Church on 22 November 2025

 

"The Compass" by Stephen Morrissey

You never know where a poem will turn up. A few days ago I was reading some old entries on this blog and came across how someone had used my poem, "The Compass", on an actual compass. A writer in Paris contacted me and generously sent me one of these compasses from a friend of hers who had travelled in Asia. It's a pretty good poem and here it is once again.

On the four corners of the bed

the body becomes a compass

describing the direction

of passion. Months of desire

arrive at this destination,

rocking on a single almost silent

wave we are sheltered

by darkness. The body

is a compass needle;

you turned me from east to west

awoke a sleeping giant that moves

between your mouth and breasts and legs;

the room illuminated by static electricity

thrown off by our bodies.

How many decades did I sleep

waiting only for you; I lust after you

in all the directions of space.

Meeting at the airport

your foot touching my leg

beneath the restaurant table,

we secretly entered an empty banquet

hall where the caterers chattered and

poured drinks behind a wall partition

then quickly leaving

we found a deserted hallway

of open office doors

where we embraced.

All the others in my life

fell away, I was ready

to abandon my old life for you,

for the touch of your hand

and mouth, the apple red and delicious

cut in half that I eat.

Tied to the four corners of love

as to a bed which becomes a compass,

I find you on your stomach,

on your back, in the morning

lying pressed against me.

It is not possible to return

to sleep now, it is not possible

to forsake your touch and love,

black lace, fingers, wetness,

your mouth, words. The compass

needle turns finding north switched

to east and west to south, night

becomes morning; nothing remains

as it was. You pointed my life

in a new direction, towards a corner

of the world only dreamt of before.

Outside the sun is red

descending behind a row of trees,

shadows fade into the other

unexplored regions of night.

From: The Compass, (Book One, The Shadow Trilogy), Empyreal Press, Montreal, 1993

Driving to work, 23 November 2011

 

The Vertical Garden at Loyola Park

Opened last summer, here is the vertical garden on 09 October 2025. If the intention was to grow food then it looks like this was a failure; perhaps the growing areas could have been located closer together in order to use the limited available land. 

"Norfolk" by John Betjeman

 

John Betjeman

How did the Devil come? When first attack?
These Norfolk lanes recall lost innocence,
The years fall off and find me walking back
Dragging a stick along the wooden fence
Down this same path, where, forty years ago,
My father strolled behind me, calm and slow.

I used to fill my hands with sorrel seeds
And shower him with them from the tops of stiles,
I used to butt my head into his tweeds
To make him hurry down those languorous miles
Of ash and alder-shaded lanes, till here
Our moorings and the masthead would appear.

There after supper lit by lantern light
Warm in the cabin I could lie secure
And hear against the polished sides at night
The lap lap lapping of the weedy Bure,
A whispering and watery Norfolk sound
Telling of all the moonlit reeds around.

How did the Devil come? When first attack?
The church is just the same, though now I know
Fowler of Louth restored it. Time, bring back
The rapturous ignorance of long ago,
The peace, before the dreadful daylight starts,
Of unkept promises and broken hearts.

Our decline, our lack of confidence

The once prestigious Queens Hotel at the corner of Peel and St-Jacques;
built in the 1890s and demolished in 1995

Is our Western society in decline, are we moving towards collapse? Oswald Spengler certainly thought it was. 

In East and West (1963), C. Northcote Parkinson writes about “… the Western loss of confidence…”, and that this loss of confidence is a symptom of our decline. We aren’t only afraid to celebrate our victories, we’re embarrassed by them, we reject them and apologize for being who we are; now we agree with our critics and say “we must be terrible people.” It’s all topsy-turvy, what was condemned in the past is now the norm and what used to be the norm is considered reactionary and condemned; our culture is even considered dangerous and needs to be replaced. This is a failure of belief in ourselves and a lack of confidence in our history and culture. To quote, yet once again, W.B. Yeats’s famous lines,

            Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

            Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world

Once, we were building a nation, building a railroad uniting east and west, defeating tyranny in two world wars and Korea, now we’re arguing about gender identity and disputing the value of our history; we have no great national projects but we have many people trying to pull down what we have built. We have separatists in Quebec who say that Canada is oppressing them and yet they oppress Quebec's English-speaking population; no one says anything about this, the politicians have no integrity, they want the French vote and to hell with what is right and what is wrong. And Alberta has made itself one of the least liked provinces with its complaining about the federal government; Albertan separatists have no idea what they are getting themselves into. In Canada we have no unifying national project, or values, that distinguish Canada and make it a place of the future. Now we’ve surrendered to feelings of guilt and appeasement to people who have no self-doubts; this lack of confidence seems to be a symptom of a collective depression; it’s just what Yeats was saying in “The Second Coming”. I don't know how we can restore our confidence, the Western world has become a society of arguing voices, agreeing with nothing the other side has to say, and even hating the other side; and there aren't just two sides, there are many. Until we have confidence, and vision, we will continue to decline. But right now we have no politicians who have vision or courage or integrity.

            

The Library of Lost Interests, 3

1967

Opening boxes of old books saved from our flooded basement, it’s a return to the past, a return to what used to interest me. This includes beekeeping, honey bees, dowsing, divination, psychic healing, Biblical prophecy, British-Israelites,  The holy bible, King James Version, the Great Year, remote viewing, and  various ancient texts. It is all an infiltration into consciousness, flirtations, amusements, hangovers, expressions of absurdity, delirium, a hullabaloo that came and went but is still a part of my inner being.                

Even back in the 1970s I read about biblical prophecy, what crack pots said would be our future, but these many years later their prophecies are the same, not revised, not changed, and they are happening as predicted. What I refer to, specifically, is a prophesied authoritarian and oppressive government; politicians come bearing gifts but the population will pay for whatever is offered—we’re already no longer free men and free women—and it is a very frightening dystopian future we are facing. Looked at this way, there is no political right wing and left wing; one side may be more benign than the other, but in either case there is still the loss of freedom, there is only the question as to how many of your rights and freedoms will be lost. All governments give you some dust with one hand and, with sleight of hand agility, they take from you what they want. You won’t get back what government has taken from you; they reach into your soul and pull out your inner being, like a rabbit from a hat. In other words, there is only who will oppress you more than the other and who will leave you alone. I want to be left alone. 

I still have many books on beekeeping, I learned the craft from two friends, RR Skinner and George Johnston. I used to go to the Miner Institute, in Chazy, New York State, with George for all day classes on beekeeping; these two men—Reg and George, living on different continents—were mentors. I love the honey bee and I love observing them, being near them, these industrious bees who wish no one harm, who spend their days collecting pollen and nectar from wild asters and other flowers, and without them our crops would not be pollinated and we would eventually perish. By the end of summer they have worn out their wings which are visibly frayed and old.

What still maintains my interest? It is family history, gardening, and walking, that’s what’s left in old age. Here are some other books (saved from our flooded basement) that I enjoyed reading, books by the British writer T.C. Lethbridge. I bought some of these books in London, UK, in the mid-1980s; Lethbridge is one of those peculiar thinkers—he held prominence at Cambridge University (for thirty years Director of Excavations for the Cambridge Antiquarian Society and for the Cambridge University Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology)—an original thinker who couldn’t be contained by narrow thinking and who found his audience outside of the establishment. Lethbridge might be classified as an eccentric but he is also a model for original thinking, and there are few like him. It’s good to have people like T.C. Lethbridge, they have integrity and expand our idea of how to live in this society, they make life more interesting, and they are not politicians, they mean no harm. Here is Lethbridge on the educational system:

Many (poets) seem to be able to slip from one layer of the mind to the next without any difficulty. But then to be a real poet you have to sit and think. Few people nowadays have time to do this and would have to go on the dole if they tried to do it. It is the old story of Mary and Martha all over again, over and over again. Martha has no time to spare for thinking about anything of real importance. Our whole educational system is designed to produce Marthas. Mary made time to sit and think about what everything meant. So when she met someone who really knew something, she was able to listen and understand. This may be a parable, or it may be fact, it does not matter which; but the more facts educationalists try to cram into the heads of children, the fewer real thinkers they will produce. 

               --T.C. Lethbridge, A Step in the Dark, p. 127

1965

1972

1969

1976

1980

A few notes:

--My poem, "The Great Year", is on the Internet Archive; it can also be found mentioned on this blog, https://stephenmorrisseyblog.blogspot.com/2011/05/great-year.html

--I suggest reading the King James' version of the bible; despite what some people say, that it is difficult because of apparently archaic language, it is actually not hard to read at all. You will not be disappointed.