Ben Robinson, As Is

 

THE ORIGINAL TREATY between the Mississaugas

and the British described the upper boundary of

the parcel as an imagined line from Lake Ontario

northwest to Deshkan Ziibi / La Tranche / The

Thames. To confirm it, Jones & co. set out on

foot from the lake, crossing the Speed and the

Grand before reaching the Conestoga. Realizing

their line would never meet the specified river,

thus could not close the perimeter, they turned

home to inform the Crown that the Indenture

entitled it to an impossible tract.

The latest from Hamilton poet Ben Robinson, following The Book of Benjamin (Windsor ON: Palimpsest Press, 2024) [see my review of such here], is As Is (Winnipeg MB: ARP Books, 2024), a collection that opens, appropriately enough, with a quote by the late London, Ontario artist Greg Curnoe: “It is a long distance call from London to Putnam (25km). / It is not a long distance call from London to Glencoe (50km).” The quote emerges from Curnoe’s infamous Deeds/Abstracts (London ON: Brick Books, 1995), and Robinson utilizes As Is with similar intent, even if far different approach: attempting to explore and articulate his own relationship to geographic space and its wealth of history, from his own immediate back through well before European occupation. Whereas Curnoe explored the specific Lot upon which sat his house, Robinson explores specific elements of his Hamilton, Ontario, where, as his author biography has offered in the past, he has only ever lived. “I push my son through our neighbourhood.” he writes, to open “By-law to Provide for and Regulate a Waste / Management System for the City of Hamilton,” “It’s just us / and the dog people. A three-legged chair on a lawn, / a box spring at the curb with NO BUGS spray painted / on it in black.” Through long sweeps of short lines and historical space interspersed with shorter, first-person lyrics, Robinson provides As Is the feel of a kind of field notes, moving across and through layers of personal history, the history of Hamilton, and the occupation of centuries. “He didn’t realize that in this country,” he writes, as part of “Remediation,” “when a white man / runs his boat into something, it gets name after him. / Fifty years later, randlereef.ca is adorned / with a logo of a tern flying low over water.” Composed as a poetic suite on and around overlooked and neglected histories, Robinson folds in and incorporates research and first-person observation, moving in and across time, references and intimacies deep and distant, from kept lawns and parenting to city founders, landscapes and boundaries, and what passes for history, passing notes like waterways.

Founder’s Day

It is not a metaphor
that the city’s original square

sketched by Mr. George Hamilton
was centred around a prison,

that though the jail’s wooden walls were sound
its foundation was so compromised

an inmate need only lift the loose board
in the corner to make his exit,

that once free, if he followed the main road south,
it would have led straight to the founder’s door.

London (Ontario) Calling : report from Greg Curnoe's studio, Doctor Who + Antler River Poetry,

In case you hadn't heard, I took a VIA train nearly two weeks ago to London, Ontario for the sake of a reading I was doing through Antler River Poetry, which is pretty exciting. Given the length of the train (five hours to Toronto; an hour's wait; two-plus hours into London), the series was good enough to provide me with two nights of hotel, so I didn't have to worry about reading on a travel-day. I wandered leisurely across a Tuesday west along lakeshore, into, through, and beyond Toronto suburbs and into the wilds of Southwestern Ontario. The new Joyelle McSweeney title (which lands properly in April), I should have you know, is astounding.

I can't even remember the last time I did a reading in London, Ontario (and I seem not to have done notes about such, although I know I read there circa 1998 or so) [but you saw my report on my prior reading, when I ventured in Toronto for Art Bar, yes?]. I spent the train ride there sketching out edits on my book-length genealogical essay (you are following along with posted excerpts of this work-in-progress via my substack, yes?), and the train ride home sketching out edits on short stories, along with moving through a small handful of previously-unread books as I stared out the window. Oh, the cold. Oh, the minus fourteen of London, Ontario.

Once there, I slipped and slid the two blocks from train station to hotel (which was chilly, admittedly, once inside), and had considered venturing out for proper food and a drink or two until I caught that the hotel had a CLASSIC DOCTOR WHO CHANNEL. How was I expected to leave the hotel after discovering that? I'd already been moving the past few weeks through the Tom Baker period, and managed to move further through Baker and into the Peter Davidson run. Some stellar stuff there. Interesting to see earlier stories that are later referenced in the reboot era (my knowledge of Doctor Who began with the 2005 reboot; I was vaguely aware of it as a youth, but I never quite managed to get into it then).

Wednesday morning I sat for an hour or so with coffee, bags and a notebook at a small place on the corner (working on drafts of short stories), and saw a car run a red light, which seemed stunning. Again, minus fourteen. Downtown London has an enormous amount of smoke shops, and businesses you need to ring into, and reminded me of downtown Winnipeg, or Vanier, with nicer/older buildings. I managed a couple of used bookstores, and even found copies of books by myself and Christine (and a copy of Jean McKay's Gone to Grass, which I finished reading while in hospital awaiting Aoife's birth); should I have picked them up? Cheaper than perhaps I paid for my author copies, most of them. Instead, I floated through the historical titles and picked up a couple of guidebooks from Upper Canada Village, hoping there might be some information there I require for my genealogical researches. I ended up at Moxies for lunch, which felt like nonsense, but most of the more interesting places looked a bit dodgy (including a pizza place that hadn't any windows, which is always a bit of a red flag). Stupid Moxies. The food was tolerable, and the televisions were relentless (Moxies requires a safe space, naturally, to allow no distractions while your soul slowly leaves your body). And then, I saw another car run a red light. Um, what?

I had mentioned to Penn Kemp a week or so prior that I'd made a pilgrimage to the late Greg Curnoe's house at the end of July [see my note on such here], not wishing to bother his widow, Sheila, by what would have been a random stranger ringing her doorbell. I lingered on the street for a bit, which I was content enough with, at the time. Kemp (who had been Curnoe's assistant during a brief period in her teens: if you want to know more about that, I recommend James King's 2017 biography, THE WAY IT IS: The Life of Greg Curnoe, although the writing is a bit dry, which was surprising for such a lively subject and subject matter) was kind enough to respond by arranging a visit to the house, and Sheila and Penn picked me up at the hotel mid-afternoon (and we saw another car run a red light: that's three I saw on that day alone doing such). Sheila was such a delightful, generous host, and we sat and chatted the three of us in the Curnoe kitchen for a while before she took me into the studio, where Greg Curnoe (1936-1992) produced some twenty-plus years of artwork before his untimely death. I was there for a couple of hours, and it was completely glorious. We chatted, gossiped a bit (ahem), and Sheila was gracious enough to offer me copies of the original "big little" duo The Great Canadian Sonnet (Coach House Press, 1970) by David McFadden, that Curnoe did all the artwork for (a single reprint edition was produced through Coach House Books more recently; you should find a copy if you can).

And, oh, this absolutely beautiful dollhouse Curnoe made for their daughter when she was young. Completely the kind of dollhouse that could only be produced by Greg Curnoe. Oh, Sheila Curnoe and Penn Kemp, thank you again for this kindness, this gift, of being allowed into this space. Pilgrimage, indeed. So very very cool. (I was abuzz most of the rest of the day, as you might imagine).

After being dropped back at the hotel for a quick bite (and further Doctor Who), one of the organizers collected me from the hotel DURING WHICH WE LITERALLY SAW ANOTHER CAR RUN A RED LIGHT; THAT IS FOUR TIMES I SAW CARS RUN RED LIGHTS IN A SINGLE DAY IN DOWNTOWN LONDON, ONTARIO. THIS IS CLEARLY A LAWLESS PLACE. The reading itself opened with "local opener" poets Sunday Ajak reading a couple of poems, followed by Katie Jeresky and Penn Kemp, who each read from their contributions to the three-poet chapbook (the third being Jessica Lee McMillan) Intent on Flowering (Rose Garden Press, 2024). Poet Kit Roffey was scheduled to be there to read from their recent 845 Press poetry debut, Civilian of Dirt (2023) [see my review of such here], but was under the weather, so publisher Aaron Schneider read in their stead (it is a really good chapbook debut, I should say). It was very good, also, to hear Karen Schindler read from her chapbook debut (I was startled to realize it was only her debut!) from Gaspereau Press, THE SAD TRUTH (2023) [see my review of such here]. And Tom Cull was there! Very good to meet him. And Jason Dickson! And Sarah Marie! And Tom Prime! It was a solid crowd, honestly.

And then I read!

photo of myself reading, by Misha Bower / Antler River Poetry

There was even a bit of a conversation after, during which host and moderator David Barrick asked a couple of us publisher-sorts (being Karen and myself as features, the evening had been framed as a small press event) about submitting, publishing and other sorts of things: Karen, myself, Aaron and the two Michelles (whom I had not previously met) from Rose Garden Press (I had a chapbook with them a while back; remember?).

After the reading, I convinced Aaron that we should head out for drinks, which was an awful lot of fun; he says we originally met at a pub once in Kingston, but I couldn't think of a time I was in Kingston out for drinks without doing a reading (he says there wasn't a reading; if there had been, he would have been there), so I have no idea when that would have been. Otherwise, it was good to spend time with him and get a better sense of him, his writing, his press, etcetera. I'm curious to see where 845 Press, and, for that matter, The Temz Review, goes next. He's doing some solid work.

And then it was back to the hotel for some more Doctor Who, which began again with first light. Peter Davidson!

And the train again, around 10am. Making notes and reading an interesting collection of collected writings by American poet and critic Susan Gevirtz, among other items. Back to Toronto, briefly. Back to Ottawa. All in all a glorious trip. Have you thought of heading out towards London?

Once upon a time in the West (of Ottawa, but still in Ontario, (part three,

[see part one here; part two here]

Friday, July 28, 2023: I should have mentioned our visit the prior afternoon to Story Book Land, to meet up with Andrea, a friend of Christine’s we haven’t seen in a few years, so we could meet their two-year-old, also. The three young ladies ran a couple of hours through the park, catching a mix of storybook characters, child-sized rides and a small waterpark. The focus was for an age group a bit younger than Rose (and there was at least one ride she was too tall for), but that was fine enough. Rose attended the two-year-old, and Aoife ran through a plethora of rides on her own (as I followed, although the rides safe enough that attendants don’t seem to be awaiting parental permissions to put kids through). There was even an assemblage of animals, including rabbits, and deer that screamed such screams as they must have stories told of them involving ghosts or demons (or both). Unsettling. But Aoife and I finally used that quarter we found at the Big Apple on DAY ONE of our big ridiculous trip to collect corn to hand-feed them.

This morning, on our way out of town, we hit that same park a second time, to meet up with another friend of Christine’s, who drove a two-hour stretch to meet up with us there, along with her own daughter, nearly as old as Rose. The three of them ran as a trio through multiple rides and even the water-slides. Does anyone remember the late Storyland park just outside of Ottawa, in Renfrew? It was similar to this place, except sans the rides or waterpark or train: simply (semi-creepy) fairy tale characters set in the woods that, after a number of years, had begun to erode. I think we went there as kids, and again, once Kate was small. It eroded completely not long after that.

From there we headed direct to Woodstock, to visit my Aunt Pam and Uncle Don, as well as my cousin Kent. A two-and-a-half hour drive. We passed so many small towns on the turn upon turn of highways, including Shakespeare, which I had no idea existed. Founded in 1832, it was renamed some twenty years later, after someone suggested renaming after the infamous playwright. We saw numerous cemeteries along the route as well, including a couple of cemeteries that had small square clusters of ancient white gravestones in a block, as though moved from some other site. Why are cemeteries, at least from out that way, moved at all? I would like an answer from someone on this.

Pam is the last of my mother’s siblings, and the next in line from my mother’s third-of-seven. Don was the minister we solicited to conduct our wedding, who also conducted my sister’s, as well, and a number of family funerals over the years. It was very good to see them without a funeral, and the weddings have become sparse and scattered as the further generations spread apart (and the first time they’d met Aoife, as well as the second time they’d seen Rose). The last time we were in their house was their fiftieth anniversary a few years ago, when I couldn’t get toddler Rose to stop running around (even though she was relatively quiet, she would not sit still, happily exploring the room at full speed). Apparently they considered her a delight! An equal, I suppose, to when I brought toddler Kate to their elder son (my cousin) Kayle’s wedding in London back in 1993 or so. And Pam even said we were staying in the same hotel! Which I wouldn’t have remembered. And then over to London! To crash at the hotel.

London, Ontario! The land of Greg Curnoe (1936-1992) and Christopher Dewdney’s A Palaeozoic Geology of London, Ontario (Coach House, 1974) and The Nihilist Spasm Band! Jean McKay! The origins of Brick Books and Brick: A Literary Journal! Oh, London!

Saturday, July 29, 2023: Woke, in London, Ontario. Everyone slept in except Christine, who had to be at her conference at 8am. The rest of our trio woke slowly, and lounged in our room. We lounged, went for lunch, and drove an hour to Norwich, to do some further visiting. We spent the whole afternoon as the young ladies met up with some pigs (they smell so bad! they said), ducks, chicken and even some newly-hatched quail. It was a good afternoon, before we headed back downtown to meet Christine and her conference for dinner at a local pub. I posted to BlueSky that we were there, and (semi-accidental) book blogger Sarah (literal_nobody) caught that we were in town, and asked if she could come get a book signed? Sure! And she spent the whole time delighting in our young ladies, and in deep conversation. The children wrote her poems and stories and Rose told a wealth of stories. Rose seemed very pleased to be involved in grown-up conversation.

Back at the hotel, ridiculously late, as our young ladies howled at the London moon. How many nights might it take, I wonder, to get them back into their normal sleeping routines?

Sunday, July 30, 2023: We woke in London, slowly. What did we do? It all seems a blur, now. We made sure the children had breakfast before a quick visit to the hotel pool as I packed up the car, given our 11am check-out. They changed, and we headed off. On our way out of town we made a quick stop at the late London, Ontario artist Greg Curnoe’s infamous house at 38 Weston Street—the same plot of land he wrote about in his infamous Deeds/Abstracts: The History of a London Lot (Brick Books, 1995)—for a pilgrimage, catching a view of the Victoria Hospital (subject of more than a couple of his paintings) en route. Do folk make art pilgrimages to hospitals? I suppose, I did see a bpNichol/Barbara Caruso work while visiting my father in the Heart Institute a few years ago [see that post here]. Since my twenties, the contemporary works by such as Curnoe or Roy K. Kiyooka have always been the ones I checked out first at the National Gallery of Canada. Have you ever seen that mural he did for the Montreal airport? There’s a whole story there. I think George Bowering wrote about that, somewhere (he helped install the piece, originally).

And we drove through Milton! That’s where Jason Christie is from!

And to Toronto, where we land at the airport-ish hotel to drop our things, shuttle to the airport and train downtown for the sake of a few hours wandering the Aquarium. Andy Weaver (famous Burlington poet) and his family were watching a Blue Jays game simultaneously, so we had originally thought (a week earlier) that perhaps that might be a time and space to meet up (we were literally next door), but that didn’t quite work out either. Ah well. We wandered the aquarium and then to the gift shop as the children argued, wandered back through the aquarium to the play centre, which they didn’t like, and back to the gift shop where the children argued some more. Everyone is tired! All my bones from the waist below have begun to ache. What has become of us?

And slowly back on the train and the shuttle to hotel, where we had room service and a quiet evening doing whatever it is we all do. I wrote out some postcards, and the young ladies did also. Should we check out the pool?

Oh, and this building is mine now. I don't care what it holds.

Monday, July 31, 2023: Leaving Toronto for Picton, where we are most likely overnight and dropping our young ladies. Everything moves slow. The theory is we drop the kids at father-in-law’s for the week as we head back ourselves Tuesday morning, so Christine can return to work. Presuming all works well with that plan, we’ll see them again come Saturday.

Paul Klinger, Rubble Paper, Paper Rubble

Rubble Paper, Paper Rubble was composed by visiting historical markers throughout southeast Texas and making graphite rubbings from the embossed text. At its heart, the project uses poetry to make and unmake local histories. The book also contains color plates featuring a series of alligator prints I made while in the field, and another is featured on the cover. These are prints made directly from the animal’s body, a kind of swamp treatment of gyotaku printing.

The rubbings are visual poems and landscapes that explore the musicality of the outside archive. While tracing the map of state historical markers to chart an itinerary, I started building strands of meaning in the markers I sought out. Transportation itself factored into the structure of the book. It’s a “roadside” book that captures voices only as they are passing through and attempts, out of that eavesdropping, to create a grammar of place. (“Artist Statement”)

As Texan Paul Klinger describes in the “Artist Statement” that opens his new book, his absolutely striking Rubble Paper, Paper Rubble (Austin TX: further other book works, 2013) is an incredible study of the physicality of words. Through some two hundred pages of concrete/visual poetry created through graphite rubbings, Klinger reworks the subject matter of local histories, and exposes the bare bones of the words themselves. The poems might reference specific dates, places, groups and even individuals, but are turned abstract from their meaning, and entirely concrete and situated in their execution. What are we to take from a particular page that reads: “THINLY / THE FATE / OF OTHER / NATIVE / AVOIDED / WHEN / A SPUR. / RAISED / ITS PRE- / HURRIEDLY / TO / SPIRIT / HUNTSV [.]” The author of (as he writes) “several chapbooks as a member of the Dusie Poetry Kollectiv,” he is also co-author, along with his wife, the poet and publisher Dawn Pendergast, of the chapbook Epithalamium, an ode to the unlikely marriage of Paul Klinger and Dawn Pendergast (little red leaves, 2012) [see my review of such here].

Produced as a series of overlapping texts, the book is constructed in nine chapters—Worshipful, Lumber, Hurricane, Seagoing, Conflicts, Shotgun, Pastoral, Her Ago and Cemetery—as well as “Alligator Suite,” situated between chapters five and six. Through what words Klinger selects, one could describe Rubble Paper, Paper Rubble as a variation of an “erasure” text, in that he erases simply by not choosing, and uses only the words presented to him on various historical markers. Given that part of the aesthetic of the work is a series of selected and reformed texts as graphite rubbings, it becomes difficult to replicate through type, here. As he includes in the fifth chapter:

and each chief

     made his “X”

  in its appropriate

             place

There are resonances throughout the collection with the work of the late London,Ontario artist Greg Curnoe. Throughout his career, Curnoe embraced the local, and went so far as to produce a work on the archaeological and historical facts of the plot of his land sat on, as Deeds/Abstracts:The History of a London Lot (London ON: Brick Books, 1995), as well as a book work made up of block texts, his Blue Book no. 8 (Toronto ON: Art Metropole, 1998). It’s as though Klinger has, in his own way, blended two threads from each of these titles (that he most likely has never heard of) into his collection, reworking history as language itself. This is a book that requires to be seen.