Dead Poets Come Alive at Christmas

Ho.Ho. Ho. 'Tis the season to be jolly, so give yourself a present that doesn't require having your eardrums assaulted by syrupy Christmas music played over tinny speakers or enduring a wallet-busting hangover come January.

Tuesday night (Dec. 13th) at Paupers Pub in the Annex at 8:00pm it's the ninth annual Dead Poets Night presented by David Clink. Among those reading will be Al Moritz and Cathy Petch. Dead Poets on the menu include Rimbaud, Octavio Paz and D. H. Lawrence. A good time is guaranteed. I know because I'm a regular attendee and read (in French) three poems by Apollinaire a couple of years ago, including his splendid Le Pont Mirabeau. I've wanted to read again but, alas, haven't secured a spot yet - are you reading this, David? If I do my choice of dead poet will be Ernest Hemingway. He wrote poetry? Yes, he did, but mostly kept it to himself. However, some was published in Hogtown in the 1920s, including that indescribable duo I Like Americans and I Like Canadians.


On Wednesday night (Dec. 14th) it's Novella Night hosted by Quattro Books as part of the Word Stage reading series. Readers include Carole Giangrande and Binnie Brennan, and the festivities get under way at 7:30pm at Dooney's Cafe, also in the Annex. I can't guarantee a good time, but I'd say it's highly probable if it's like the last pair of Quattro-Word Stage events I went to.

I've just finished a novella from Quattro, as it happens: In the Mind's Eye by Barbara Ponomareff. Even for a novella it's slim at 84 pages, and it has imperfections I could have done without- a little too much tell, not enough show; some inconsequential description that could have been edited out and replaced with the further development of Philip and Martin, two characters suffering horribly in their different ways; and some dialogue that was stiffer than a starched, detached collar. Even in hidebound post-WWI Toronto the Good surely no one actually got away with speaking like that.

Still, the novella has its strong points too, including the choice of such a fascinating era so different from our own it might just as well be 500 years ago not 91, and the trauma the Great War brought and which BP captures with precision. The author also does exceptionally well with minor characters, especially the poor souls trapped in the Hospital for the Insane. The plight of women - professional women - is also well done, too, but never seems preachy or bitter, which is no small achievement. Same thing with Mrs. Harris, a housekeeper. She's strongly written, even though she is a relatively minor figure as well. I also admired the scenes at various holiday cottages, capturing as they did the mix of release and repression that must have been characteristic of the time. And the second paragraph on the first page is one of the best short passages I've read all year by any author.

A third present might be Clara Blackwood's Arcana, a poetry chapbook based on the Tarot and recently published by Aeolus House. I haven't started reading my copy yet, but the book's premise seems intriguing, even if, like me, you're not a Tarot fan. And of course there's the pleasure of reading Clara's work.

Less of a pleasure, alas, is the Dec. 6th front page pic in the Toronto Star. It ran side by side a work by abstract expressionist Joan Mitchell and a "painting" by Pockets Warhol, a monkey of some sort, and asked readers to chose which was which. (I'm not bragging but I got it right in one second). A cutesy way to liven up Page one? Yet another beat down on abstraction? Who knows or cares? It's just not worthy of a serious metropolitan newspaper. Fortunately that fine painter and art teacher, Judy Singer (her public talks are excellent), wrote to the Star to complain. Art, which has a hard enough time in this city as it is, doesn't need this kind sniggering.

Quality Detected at Word Stage

Word Stage, presented by Quattro Books, got off to a cracking new season last night at Dooney's bar in Hogtown's Annex. Reading were Liz Howard, Claudio Gaudio, Margaret Christakos and Howard Engel. The highlight of the night was Howard Engel's appearance. Of course; I'm biased. I'm a huge fan of well written crime fiction and Howard has been producing just that for years. Since suffering a stroke Howard can't read what he writes, which seems desperately unfair since there's nothing like an author reading his own words for himself and others. However, veteran actor Paul Soles filled in admirably, reading from a work in progress that promises Howard's usual high standards and a unique narrative structure. Paul Soles, incidentally, if he's not working much these days, should be. Hesitant and awkward at first, providing him with better lighting (to see the MS more clearly) worked wonders and the Stratford veteran found his mojo. His accent for a Scottish aristocrat - a female character -was spot on in that trilly, frilly way Scots toffs speak. One more bit of welcome news from last night: There's a new organizing team at Word Stage, the founders deciding to hand the job over to fresher blood, including poet and playwright Sonia Di Placido.

Well, so much for the good stuff. Among the not so good is the Dooney's room itself. It's a shaped a bit like a peninsular and its acoustics are decidedly iffy if you're not close to the stage. I know it's difficult to find bars and restaurants willing to take on a reading series (Art Bar was punted from Clinton's because the weekly poetry event wasn't generating enough money for the Bloor West watering hole. Poets don't spend enough on drink. Who'da thunk it?) but scouting another location should be a priority for the new organizers. If they find one it will save the likes of the financially challenged, that would be me and lots of others, some dough. Last night a pint of locally brewed Steamwhistle cost eight bucks with tip. I won't be doing that again. Nor, I suspect,will the three students who shelled out more than $20 for three bottles of Heineken.

Where's that great novel?

The Sun Also Rises captured forever the expatriate American experience of the Twenties. The Great Gatsby remains the Jazz Age tale non pareil. On The Road is deservedly holy writ about the Fifties. So why hasn't there been a great novel about the Sixties?
It was with this question in mind that I bought Jim Christy's Real Gone (Quattro Books 2010) at this year's Word on the Street. Set in 1967-68, during the delirious Summer of Love, we're on the road (yup, that's right) with six friends in a "fishtail Plymouth" and heading to San Francisco. I'm going with them this weekend and the usual stuff of Saturday and Sunday be damned.
I'm only few pages in but already a couple of familiar figures have appeared. There's the hippie chick awash in rings and bangles, and bloody-minded "narcs" determined to find dope. Jim's book won't be the definitive novel of that remarkable decade, if only because it's a novella, but I'm holding it, perhaps unfairly, to a higher standard than I do other narratives. You see, I was there. And yes, I remember virtually all of it.