al purdy: the last picture in the world

a rainy evening has led into a rainy day. a small joy - spending part of this day with my to be becoming 75 year old dad and my to be becoming 77 year old mum.

the rain got me to looking around for something that would speak about rain in a way that would resonate with my readers. well, i'll begin in the beginning. around the time i was finishing high school i had an extraordinary teacher who taught english. one of his courses was on canadian literature and while i have never been passionate about canadian literature, i can trace whatever i do appreciate about our own writers to his unpacking of the mysteries of a nation that quietly succeeds at so much without advertising or bragging. (well not too much!!)

one of the writers he shared with us was al purdy. al lived hard and was a really talented poet who said it like it is/was. among his friends he included the american writer charles bukowski. for those of you familiar with bukowski’s writing and readings of his writing, you’ll have an insight into al’s persona. of al, charles once said: "i don't know of any good living poets. but there's this tough son of a bitch up in canada that works the line."

here’s an excerpt from al’s poem, “man without a country” . . .

i am learning what a strange lonely place is myself
reflecting the present reiterating the past
reconnoitering the future
these are my history
the story of myself

this next poem was written at the site of canada’s earliest known visitors from europe, l’anse aux meadows where the vikings apparently landed around a thousand years ago. married men will wince in recognition of similar scenarios when they read this. married women will grimace in recognition of their own sorry remembrances of holidays gone bad. and this is the connection with rain.

over the hills in the rain, my dear

we are walking back from the viking site,
dating ten centuries ago
(it must be about four miles),
and rain beats on us,
soaks our clothes,
runs into our shoes,
makes white pleats in our skin,
turns hair into decayed seaweed:
and i think sourly that drowning
on land is a helluva slow way to die.
i walk faster than my wife,
then have to stop and wait for her:
“it isn’t much farther,”
i say encouragingly
and note that our married life
is about to end in violence,
judging from her expressionless expression.
again i slop into the lead,
then wait in the mud till she catches up,
thinking, okay, i’ll say something complimentary:
“you sure are a sexy looking mermaid dear!”
that didn’t go down so good either,
and she glares at me like a female vampire
resisting temptation badly;
at which point i’ve forgotten
all about the rain,
trying to manufacture
a verbal comfort station,
a waterproof two seater.
we squelch miserably into camp
about half an hour later,
strip down like white shriveled slugs,
waving snail horns at each other,
cold sexless antennae
assessing the other ridiculous creature —
and i begin to realize
one can’t use a grin like a bandaid
or antidote for reality,
at least not all the time:
and maybe it hurts my vanity
to know she feels sorry for me,
and i don’t know why:
but to be a fool
is sometimes
my own good luck.

l’anse aux meadows, nfld.

the canadian broadcasting corporation (cbc) has a really nice set of radio clips of al reading and speaking about his life right here. my favourite clip is entitled “concerning ms. atwood” a tongue-in-cheek poem about canadian author margaret atwood. the background to this is that the first time they met, purdy dismissed margaret as “ an academic”, to which she responded by spraying him with beer which he then returned in kind.

to read about al’s writing philosophy have a wander over to the university of toronto site devoted to al.

finally, my favourite of all of al’s poems.....

the last picture in the world

a hunched grey shape
framed by leaves
with lake water behind
standing on our
little point of land
like a small monk
in a green monastery
meditating
almost sculpture
except that it's alive
brooding immobile permanent
for half an hour
a blue heron
and it occurs to me
that if I were to die at this moment
that picture would accompany me
wherever I am going
for part of the way