Friday, January 06, 2006

Glutton of Life,, blog entries Jan 5 06

January 05, 2006

Irving Layton dead at 93. The poet and glutton of life, greatest of all the Montreal School of Poetry, winner of the GG for A Red Carpet for the Sun, Nobel nominee, greatest graduate of Baron Byng High, sole man on Earth born with the Messianic sign, has died. Thanks for the poetry, Mr. Layton.

posted by Capt. Renault at 02:16PM UTC [trackback] (9 comments total)

Poetically, and possibly appropriately, linked Cap'n. Any examples of his poems? Specifically the naughty bits please. - I keed! A Google of same yeilds the same non-existent Yahoo page.

posted by petebest at 02:40PM UTC on January 05, 2006

I can spell. No, I can. Shut up.

posted by petebest at 02:41PM UTC on January 05, 2006

Couldn't find a selection of his poetry online, but here's a nice little prose piece of his from the Dance With Desire collection. As much as Layton's poetry is lauded, he was a fine debater and essayist as well -- particularly his exposition on Othello, if you can ever dig that up.

posted by Capt. Renault at 03:02PM UTC on January 05, 2006

Let the philosophers rave on about the summum bonum and mystics about embracing God. They are still vertical humans and therefore even their adorations still have something aggressive about them. Humans in the horizontal position have always struck me as less likely to be violent and destructive. So I take my place beside the poets, and less arrogant than the philosopher or mystic, am prepared to find the greatest good and embrace God whenever I hold a woman in the act of love. Beauty eh?

posted by petebest at 04:26PM UTC on January 05, 2006

A respectful, if not entirely laudatory, eulogy. Globe and Mail Obit, with a few choice quotes, and an unpublished poem by Leonard Cohen, "Irving and Me at the Hospital".

posted by Capt. Renault at 05:01PM UTC on January 05, 2006

Berry Picking

Silently my wife walks on the still wet furze
Now darkgreen the leaves are full of metaphors
Now lit up is each tiny lamp of blueberry.
The white nails of rain have dropped and the sun is free.

And whether she bends or straightens to each bush
To find the children's laughter among the leaves
Her quiet hands seem to make the quiet summer hush--
Berries or children, patient she is with these.

I only vex and perplex her; madness, rage
Are endearing perhaps put down upon the page;
Even silence daylong and sullen can then
Enamor as restraint or classic discipline.

So I envy the berries she puts in her mouth,
The red and succulent juice that stains her lips;
I shall never taste that good to her, nor will they
Displease her with a thousand barbarous jests.

How they lie easily for her hand to take,
Part of the unoffending world that is hers;
Here beyond complexity she stands and stares
And leans her marvelous head as if for answers.

No more the easy soul my childish craft deceives
Nor the simpler one for whom yes is always yes;
No, now her voice comes to me from a far way off
Though her lips are redder than the raspberries.

Irving Layton

posted by islander at 10:46PM UTC on January 05, 2006

))) and thanks for the poem, islander!!! Capt. Renalt, thanks for the information touching the Montreal School of Poetry.

posted by beeswacky at 01:36AM UTC on January 06, 2006


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