Out walking this January morning

 

Our 30 cm snowfall

Here is our 30 cm snowfall as seen this morning, several days after it fell. Soon the city workers will be out there plouging and trucking away the snow; it's been worse than this, one year we had so much snow that it was difficult for the city to find a place to dump the snow. It's also getting colder over the next few days, perhaps -20 C cold. Still, there is only seven weeks of winter left, the end is in sight, and it hasn't been all that bad a winter so far.

"The Snow Is Deep on the Ground" by Kenneth Patchen

 

The snow is deep on the ground.   

Always the light falls

Softly down on the hair of my belovèd.

This is a good world.

The war has failed.

God shall not forget us.

Who made the snow waits where love is.

Only a few go mad.

The sky moves in its whiteness

Like the withered hand of an old king.   

God shall not forget us.

Who made the sky knows of our love.

The snow is beautiful on the ground.   

And always the lights of heaven glow   

Softly down on the hair of my belovèd.

"Love Minus Zero/No Limit" by Bob Dylan

 

My love she speaks like silence,
Without ideals or violence,
She doesn't have to say she's faithful,
Yet she's true, like ice, like fire.
People carry roses,
Make promises by the hours,
My love she laughs like the flowers,
Valentines can't buy her.

In the dime stores and bus stations,
People talk of situations,
Read books, repeat quotations,
Draw conclusions on the wall.
Some speak of the future,
My love she speaks softly,
She knows there's no success like failure
And that failure's no success at all.

The cloak and dagger dangles,
Madams light the candles.
In ceremonies of the horsemen,
Even the pawn must hold a grudge.
Statues made of match sticks,
Crumble into one another,
My love winks, she does not bother,
She knows too much to argue or to judge.

The bridge at midnight trembles,
The country doctor rambles,
Bankers' nieces seek perfection,
Expecting all the gifts that wise men bring.
The wind howls like a hammer,
The night blows cold and rainy,
My love she's like some raven
At my window with a broken wing.

Note: "Love Minus Zero/No Limit", written by Bob Dylan and recorded on his 1965 album, "Bringing it all Back Home".   

"‘Throwing a Tree’, New Forest" by Thomas Hardy

 

I 

The two executioners stalk along over the knolls, 

Bearing two axes with heavy heads shining and wide, 

And a long limp two-handled saw toothed for cutting great boles, limp – flexible; boles - trunks 

And so they approach the proud tree that bears the death-mark on its side. * 

II 

Jackets doffed they swing axes and chop away just above ground, doffed – taken off 

And the chips fly about and lie white on the moss and fallen leaves; chips – small pieces of 

Till a broad deep gash in the bark is hewn all the way round, wood; gash – wound; hewn - cut 

And one of them tries to hook upward a rope, which at last he achieves. 

III 

The saw then begins, till the top of the tall giant shivers: 

The shivers are seen to grow greater with each cut than before: 

They edge out the saw, tug the rope; but the tree only quivers, 

And kneeling and sawing again, they step back to try pulling once more. 

IV 

Then, lastly, the living mast sways, further sways: with a shout mast – long upright pole 

Job and Ike rush aside. Reached the end of its long staying powers 

The tree crashes downward: it shakes all its neighbours throughout, 

And two hundred years' steady growth has been ended in less than two hours. 

* death-mark – a chalked or painted mark to show it is to be felled. To throw a tree is to fell a tree, bring it to the ground. 

Empty Pharmacy Shelves

Here are the empty shelves at a local pharmacy, part of a country-wide chain of pharmacies. It's been like this for months, no Tylenol and other medication for children at a time when many children are getting the flu and other illnesses that require reducing fever. Who would have ever thought that Canada in 2023 can't even have basic medication for children? That's the result of seven years of Justin Trudeau's government.

Yesterday's snow storm

The weather forecast kept changing before the first real snow storm of 2023 occurred. I was outside shoveling snow--it's all exercise, it's all a way to be outside in the fresh air--. A neighbour called over, "Be careful", she was referring to having a heart attack while shoveling snow; I know of two people who died of heart attacks while shoveling snow; it's heavy wet snow, so don't overdo it, be careful. In fact, be doubly careful because the hospitals are full of people and several people have died in ER rooms waiting to see a doctor, and others were sent home where they died a few hours later. They say our hospitals are collapsing, what they mean is that our hospitals can't deal with all of the unwell people needing care. The message is just don't get sick. That's Canada in 2023. It will get worse but I am not optimistic; the present government has done so much damage that I doubt we will recover for decades.

 

"The Trees are Down" by Charlotte Mew

—and he cried with a loud voice:
Hurt not the earth, neither the sea, nor the trees—
(Revelation)

They are cutting down the great plane-trees at the end of the gardens.

For days there has been the grate of the saw, the swish of the branches as they fall,

The crash of the trunks, the rustle of trodden leaves,

With the ‘Whoops’ and the ‘Whoas,’ the loud common talk, the loud common laughs of the men, above it all.

I remember one evening of a long past Spring

Turning in at a gate, getting out of a cart, and finding a large dead rat in the mud of the drive.

I remember thinking: alive or dead, a rat was a god-forsaken thing,

But at least, in May, that even a rat should be alive.

The week’s work here is as good as done. There is just one bough

   On the roped bole, in the fine grey rain,

             Green and high

             And lonely against the sky.

                   (Down now!—)

             And but for that,   

             If an old dead rat

Did once, for a moment, unmake the Spring, I might never have thought of him again.

It is not for a moment the Spring is unmade to-day;

These were great trees, it was in them from root to stem:

When the men with the ‘Whoops’ and the ‘Whoas’ have carted the whole of the whispering loveliness away

Half the Spring, for me, will have gone with them.

It is going now, and my heart has been struck with the hearts of the planes;

Half my life it has beat with these, in the sun, in the rains,   

             In the March wind, the May breeze,

In the great gales that came over to them across the roofs from the great seas.

             There was only a quiet rain when they were dying;

             They must have heard the sparrows flying,   

And the small creeping creatures in the earth where they were lying—

             But I, all day, I heard an angel crying:

             ‘Hurt not the trees.’

Charlotte Mew, “The Trees are Down” from Collected Poems and Prose (Manchester, England: Carcanet Press Ltd., 1981).

Source: Collected Poems and Prose (Carcanet Press Limited, 1981)

"Stars" by Emily Bronte

 

                        Ah! why, because the dazzling sun
                        Restored our Earth to joy,
                        Have you departed, every one,
                        And left a desert sky?

                        All through the night, your glorious eyes
                        Were gazing down in mine,
                        And, with a full heart’s thankful sighs,
                        I blessed that watch divine.

                        I was at peace, and drank your beams
                        As they were life to me;
                        And reveled in my changeful dreams,
                        Like petrel on the sea.

                        Thought followed thought, star followed star,
                        Through boundless regions, on;
                        While one sweet influence, near and far,
                        Thrilled through, and proved us one!

                        Why did the morning dawn to break
                        So great, so pure, a spell;
                        And scorch with fire the tranquil cheek,
                        Where your cool radiance fell?

                        Blood-red, he rose, and, arrow-straight,
                        His fierce beams struck my brow;
                        The soul of nature sprang, elate,
                        But mine sank sad and low!

                        My lids closed down, yet through their veil
                        I saw him, blazing, still,
                        And steep in gold the misty dale,
                        And flash upon the hill.

                        I turned me to the pillow, then,
                        To call back night, and see
                        Your worlds of solemn light, again,
                        Throb with my heart, and me!

                        It would not do—the pillow glowed,
                        And glowed both roof and floor;
                        And birds sang loudly in the wood,
                        And fresh winds shook the door;

                        The curtains waved, the wakened flies
                        Were murmuring round my room,
                        Imprisoned there, till I should rise,
                        And give them leave to roam.

                        Oh, stars, and dreams, and gentle night;
                        Oh, night and stars, return!
                        And hide me from the hostile light
                        That does not warm, but burn;

                        That drains the blood of suffering men;
                        Drinks tears, instead of dew;
                        Let me sleep through his blinding reign,
                        And only wake with you!

“Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art” by John Keats

This is the corner of Cedar and Pine Avenue; not sure of the name of the building in the photograph. 
https://www.google.com/maps/@45.5001995,-73.5856389,3a,75y,319.42h,115.67t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1soTIZKMkzySsSiH4-5JUChA!2e0!5s20090401T000000!7i13312!8i6656

 

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—

         Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night

And watching, with eternal lids apart,

         Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,

The moving waters at their priestlike task

         Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,

Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask

         Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—

No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,

         Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,

To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,

         Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,

Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,

And so live ever—or else swoon to death.

Hortus Conclusus at Le Grand Seminaire

Years ago, I visited Le Grand Seminaire, it is where my great great uncles, Fr. Martin Callaghan and his brother Fr. James Callaghan are buried. It is also where both men were educated in the late 1800s and I've always felt that attending this school was a great opportunity for both men; they were born into the working class, they became priests, educated men, and they served their community. A few years after this first visit I went on a tour of the seminary; it is located on Sherbrooke Street West near Atwater. From the street you can see the twin towers, built in the late 1600s, they were a place of safety when Indigenous people might attack the compound; it was where they would hide in the towers.

Note the image of Christ at the top left
of this image; this hortus conclusus corresponds
better to the garden at Le Petite Seminaire
in Old Montreal

 

On my first visit to Le Grand Seminaire  I walked around the grounds; there is a kind of enclosed garden or green space; you can see the stone walls that surround the place below. There is a rectangular pool, see below, that had been neglected. I suspect that access to the grounds is now more difficult as the old seminary has become quite a prestigious private high school. 

Le Grand Seminaire from Sherbrooke Street West






These twin towers can be seen from Sherbrooke Street West

Drawing of Le Grand Seminaire from 1600s

Front entrance; these photographs were taken in the 1990s

The grounds and parking lot

Historical photograph from 1905, the pond or basin in better days

Historical photograph from 1913



This is is the man-made pond on the grounds of the Grand Seminaire

Deletions from an Introduction for a Selected Poems (3)

 

In 1975 I published "The Insecurity of Art", an essay describing that poets need to begin from a place of not knowing, of insecurity, and this becomes a place of discovery. I write out of what I have experienced and sometimes this is also a place of darkness, we've all experienced darkness at some time in our lives: some are lost in a dark forest; others have descended to the underworld; and some of us had to begin life again in middle age, for nothing was as we believed. But darkness is also a place of creativity, of self-awareness, of rebirth and vision. And so I ask, what can be seen in the immensity of this darkness no matter how dark it is? It took me many years to know what is obvious to others; that tiny dot of light in the darkness is the discovery of love in one's life. It is greater than any darkness.

 

Farewell, Tree

We've just had some of the big snow storm that crippled parts of Canada and the United States; some people here lost electricity due to the strong winds but, overall, Montreal was spared the very worst of the storm. But what wasn't spared was a tree we had at the front of the house; it was never much of a tree and for years I had a wire connected from the tree to the wall of the house, to hold it just in case it fell over. 

Now the tree is gone. We planted the tree at least twenty years ago; farewell twenty years of growing, Tree; farewell to 20 to 25 feet in height, Tree. The tree didn't collapse, it broke under the weight of the snow. Then I had the job of cutting it up; which, against my self-doubts, I did. 

I was of two minds regarding losing the tree. I wanted the tree but not necessarily this tree . . . although better this tree than no tree at all which is what I now have. It was never a great tree, it was a good enough tree; it tended to thinning out, but a few years ago I topped the tree and forced the growth to the bottom branches and the whole tree filled out nicely. That improved the tree. A tree, even this tree, adds a lot to the landscaping of a house, remove the tree and you are no longer distracted from the house that needs painting, pointing, and general maintenance. And I am basically a tree lover and don't like to cut down any tree. Farewell, Tree . . .

I wasn't sure I was up to cutting up the tree; I'm not young, but I did it. And then, a few days after the tree collapsed, I noticed from a basement window chick-a-dees walking around under the cut branches of the tree, finding something to eat. They missed the tree. And later, outside, I saw chick-a-dees sitting on the cut branches, I felt like a traitor to the birds, but I wasn't, I didn't cause the tree to break, all I did was cut up the branches. But the chick-a-dees missed the tree. And then I remembered that I used to sit in our living room, just a few feet from where the tree had been outside, and I could hear chick-a-dees in the tree, they'd sit on the branches, they used the tree, they liked the tree, they were happy in the tree, and here I was cutting up the branches. So, now, the tree has to be replaced with another tree.

Farewell, Tree

Farewell, Tree

That's the tree, on the left, in October

That's the tree, on the right

And now I miss the tree. 

"These" by William Carlos Williams

 

January 2015

These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night and the heart plunges lower than night to an empty, windswept place without sun, stars or moon but a peculiar light as of thought that spins a dark fire – whirling upon itself until, in the cold, it kindles to make a man aware of nothing that he knows, not loneliness itself – Not a ghost but would be embraced – emptiness, despair – (They whine and whistle) among the flashes and booms of war; houses of whose rooms the cold is greater than can be thought, the people gone that we loved, the beds lying empty, the couches damp, the chairs unused – Hide it away somewhere out of the mind, let it get roots and grow, unrelated to jealous ears and eyes – for itself. In this mine they come to dig – all. Is this the counterfoil to sweetest music? The source of poetry that seeing the clock stopped, says, The clock has stopped that ticked yesterday so well? and hears the sound of lake water splashing – that is now stone.