Lahey on Lahey

Anita Lahey speaks to Fiddlehead magazine about her new book Spinning Side Kick. She also offers up her top ten Canadian poetry books of the last decade.

Sunday Poem

PICASSO'S RADIO

Picasso's radio played music

that no one else had even heard yet.

Sitting in Paris in 1911

he was already listening to Bob Dylan.

He knew the Rolling Stones by heart.

He would say to Georges Braque, "Georges,

there's this really neat group called the Eagles,"

but Braque was busy playing Bach

on classical clarinet. "Gertrude," Pablo would say,

"you'd love this record called Blonde on Blonde,"

but Stein would give him a stony stare

and turn a deaf ear. So Picasso would go

back to his studio there in Bateau Lavoir

and turn up Beggar's Banquet loud, until Juan Gris

banged on the ceiling. Alas, when he moved

to bourgeois quarters in Montparnasse,

Picasso left his radio behind. He always wanted

to find it again, to tune into Tina Turner,

but some unscrupulous second-hand dealer

has hoarded it away in his basement

where every single night he listens to paintings

the world will never see.

From Dunino (1989) by Stephen Scobie.

Verbatim

"It’s an unwillingness to go along with what can, when you step back from it and take a hard, fresh look at it, be seen as a brutal primaeval agreement (what sort of halfway-sensitive creature could have put, on behalf of all of us, his or her signature to this?) that this is the rhythm the world is going to move to: things will be seen and then will be lost to sight, words will be spoken but at once succumb to silence, beings will be born and die, light will grow and then fade, all these will go, they’re already gone, just now they were here but no more. Why should this be?"

Don Coles explains the obsession with time in his poems.

Sunday Poem

THE SURPLUS MAN

I am the one who has not been killed yet

at war, by earthquake or street accident.

What shall I do

with these years that wave before me

like the sea before the pelican?

After mailing the flower of my words

with letters and sympathy cards,

when my future's been etched

like a swan on a school blackboard

do I explain my dreams

with whispers and touches, like a blind man

or leave them to flow down the sides of my head

like glue down trees at the equator?

Let my windows usher in

a little breath from the forest!

I'm about to suffocate.

My lungs strain to escape my chest

like an orphan's eyes.

My voice dies off like the thunder's,

having no future generation to sing to

nor any old mouth to return to.

Hey, builders:

prop me up with a stone!

I crack like walls mixed by crooked contractors,

collapse like snow hills under the spring sun.

If one could change countries,

like dancers in nightclubs!

From Joy is Not My Profession (1994) by Muhammad al-Maghut, translated by John Asfour.

"Less is More in These Sparkling Stories"

Over at the Globe & Mail, Jim Bartley reviews Daniel Griffin's Stopping for Strangers :

It only takes a page or two to conclude that Daniel Griffin values precision – a precision not of meticulous detail, but of economy, of the extraneous shorn away until a vital core is reached: a core of character, of an exchange of words, of a scene, a story. He gets, as many a new writer does not, that the less an author says, the more the reader can enter, must enter, the process of imagining. Rather than being told what is, you collaborate in its discovery.

To listen to Daniel read the title story of his collection visit his website.

Irving Layton's Last Poem?

"I found this in Box 31 of the Layton collection at Concordia University in Montreal. A clutch of pages stapled together; multiple drafts of a poem Irving Layton began, but never completed, towards the end of his writing. An invocation to the muse who was abandoning him. Twenty-five lines on lined paper, in the cramped handwriting of his old age; both neat, and, paradoxically, difficult to decipher. It was dated, with a question mark, early in 1989. Less than four years, then, after I had filmed him happily scribbling poems amid the ruins in his beloved Greece, for my film Poet: Irving Layton Observed. Now in 2001, I was trolling the archives seeking visual material for a new documentary on the poet's life. What struck me immediately was that the power was still there, even as the poet felt it slipping away: "my scribbles are as pale as a watermark." And the voice. This is no self-pitying plaint. It is the poet standing up to his muse and speaking his mind the way the Biblical prophets he so admired stood up to their God. Jocular, prodding, the poem, even in its uncertain state, gives forth the same wounded majesty as those ruins among which Layton paced, mouthing verse, almost 20 years ago."

—Donald Winkler

_________________________________________________________________

THE POET'S INVOCATION TO HIS MUSE

by Irving Layton

My alter ego, my diabolical other Self

where are you? A whole month goes by,

yet not a single peep from you.

Let me have it straight! Did you grow careless

from too long service? Or was it the tremors of old age

made you spiteful and prankish. You gone

invoking your attendance

my scribbles are as pale as a watermark.

No fire in them, no punch. Return, make my brain

boil again. Make it seethe with the blood

of electrified hitmen and of gallant warriors

dying in an odious cause. How many sheets

must I blacken before you [set?] a premonitory fire

to make my Self [shudder?] with familiar joy.

I'm serious, not even Coleridge's famous ode

on despondency cheers me, nor Shelley's moan,

marvellous and eloquent, while the bay's waters

around him sparkle and dance.

What hope for that mortal so lost to gloom even

another's misery fails to restore his self-esteem

[to rectitude?] with one of life's vital lies or illusions.

My case is desperate. Haul your ass over here

pronto. Abandoned, I'll sit here forever

like a paralytic, like a just-invented Frankenstein

waiting for that first charge to shock him back to life.

(Translated by Donald Winkler, with help from Anna Pottier. Photo by Terry Brynes. Originally published in Books in Canada, March 2003. )

Sunday Poem

LEAVING THE ISLAND

We’ve all gone now, left the place to the sheep

and the gannet, the puffin and the wren.

For decades only a mailboat of whalebone and oak

came and went from here. Then the tourists

arrived to see if we were more than myth in the Outer

Hebrides. We sold them tweed and spotted

bird’s eggs, let them look in on prayer meetings, count

the stones in the walls we built to keep out the weather.

When we prayed it was for a cease

to things: the wind, the war, the plagues.

In the end, the land choked us out, carcasses

of sea birds and layers of peat moss turned to lead

the constant fog, the solitude, the slippery grass

by the cliff’s edge, that impossible winter of 1929.

We left our Bibles open and handfuls of oats on the floor.

Locked our doors behind us. From this vantage point

our home was just a sketch of land that shrank into the sea—

the island’s sharp crags impossible to understand.

This land, so angry and so peaceful now, without

us. The feral sheep bleat into the evening.

Nothing to bother them but old age and the wind

that made us all walk like bent trees.

From Global Poetry Anthology (2012) by Talya Rubin.