A manifesto on the poetics of Asphodel Twp.

Sad to hear, via the Canadian Bookbinders and Book Artists Guild (through a facebook post) that Canadian bookbinder Michael Wilcox has died. Back out in 2011 (July, I think) we drove out to Big Cedar so Christine could interview him for the CBBAG magazine, and she brought me along for the sake of the three-plus hour drive, as well as for the fact that the Wilcox was well-known for his gruffness. Wilcox was a Master Bookbinder, and had been decades been repairing books for the University of Toronto Rare Books Library, driving up to pick up books to take home for repair (I suspect he was the only one allowed to leave that building with any of their materials).

We dropped into his studio, and apparently the fact that I tagged-along allowed for some stories he might not have told. Before the interview officially began, he showed us his studio workshop, including the incredible array of tools he’d hand-made. Given I’m unaware of most printing and book-repair tools (especially then), I kept asking him what various items and equipment were and were for, which would prompt him to tell a small story for each (stories he might not have told, Christine says, as she would have known what all that equipment was). It was an interesting visit, and his wife Suzanne was delightful, and she said we could come back and visit at any time (he didn’t seem against the idea, but also not the sort of thing he might have offered). I’m wishing we would have taken her up on that (although he and Christine did correspond quite a bit after our visit).

Here's a poem I wrote them, after we landed back home (and yes, they did live in Asphodel Township):

A manifesto on the poetics of Asphodel Twp.

for Michael & Suzanne Wilcox,

            I have forgot
                            and yet I see clearly enough
                                            something
            central to the sky
                            which ranges round it.

            William Carlos Williams, “Asphodel, That Greeny Flower”

1.

 

If Heaven, river. What greeny something. Shine, Kawartha Highlands. Lake, and early hum. Once, in the shadows. Glowing outwards, temperate. Ontario syntax. Reassuring this, and self. A revelation, you. I see the world. Claw, in architecture. Bipolar lift, a tongue. A peace the mind can breathe. Although the dark remains, small lights in favour. Celebration, soar.

 

2.

 

The mouth, at Cameron's Point. An acid-free layer. Craft: a promise, fold. Is this all nothing? Repair, a situation. Sorrow, and a cock-eyed grin. In this room, this other room. A complicated, binding. This morning, Highway 7. Double-binding, surface of a still. Lovesick Lake, meeting hip to shape to shore to night. A glacier, made. Such frozen light.

 

 

3.

 

Asphodel, greeny flower. Surveyed in 1820, Richard Birdsal. To warm up, bottles under covers. All the uphill way. If it is, repeated. Notes, and highway. Hummingbird feeders, to keep from ants, from black bears. An empty bench, among. Back and forth, snow-scribbling. Some other star. The metaphor: cast iron, photo-legal. Walking. John Becket and his wife, five children.

 

 

4.

 

You left your mark. Combination of industry. Vaguely seen, but can't cross. Waterskin. Go, central-eastern. The shores of Rice Lake, frequent. Burned away. Big Cedar, smoke. Yours, truly. Tell, no other story. Picked up, by useless clouds. Such well-bred manner, brush. Such lovely liquid. A leather casing, isolation. Those that have the will.