new essays on Joanne Page/Bronwen Wallace/Sadiqa de Meijer and Anne Carson,

Curiously, I've been working these essays on poetic form lately, the second of which has now posted, "Short Talks: the Anne Carson Lectures," over at my substack (it had been a paid-only post, but I released it after a month or so; free to sign up for the free posts, at least). There's a prior essay there as well, most likely the first in what might become a series, "Field-notes: a mothertalk," a piece subtitled "on Joanne Page, Bronwen Wallace, Sadiqa de Meijer + my mother," with a further I seem to be working on Don McKay's 1975 collection Long Sault, in case such intrigues, articulating my thoughts on the accumulative long poem. I'm sure I'll post that over to the substack as well, once I complete the thing. Might there be a book in here, somewhere? Where might I head next?

Ongoing notes: TIFA Small Press Market/Meet the Presses’ Indie Lit Market (part three, : Sadiqa de Meijer + Ben Berman Ghan,

[MLA Chernoff at the Meet the Presses Indie Lit Market, receiving copies of their brand-new above/ground press title]

Again, this blended sequence. [see my first post on such here; see my second post here]. Will we see you at the ottawa small press book fair on November 22? Will we see you at the pre-fair reading on Nov 21 at Anina’s Café?

Kington/Toronto ON: Presented as Kingston poet and non-fiction writer Sadiqa de Meijer’s Joanne Page lecture at Queen’s University, October 29, 2024, is the chapbook-length Fieldwork (Toronto ON: knife│fork│book, 2025), which becomes a curiosity, given how recently her collection of essays, In The Field (Windsor ON: Palimpsest Press, 2025) [see my review of such here] appeared. “I remember only one conversation with Joanne Page,” the piece begins, “although we saw each other before and after. This encounter happened at the edge of City Park in Kingston. She looked at me, squinting against the sun, and said, We read your essay, we all read it and thought it was really good, we were surprised at how good it was. She was on the organizing committee of Common Magic, a conference celebrating the life and work of Bronwen Wallace. I had submitted a piece about reading Wallace’s work during my early years of living in Kingston and had called it ‘Arguments With The White World.’”

This lecture feels, in many ways, an extension of that collection, offering her thoughts on writing, Page’s work and Kingston thoughts, and thoughts through and around writing and thinking, all prompted by the Page Lectures, and the work of the late Kingston poet Joanne Page (d. 2015). In case you were unaware, the Lecture series was originally founded by Phil Hall during his tenure as writer-in-residence at Queen’s University in 2012, with lecture chapbooks, the “Fieldnotes,” originally produced by Maureen Scott Harris (with lectures in the series by Don McKay, Phil Hall, Daphne Marlatt, Elizabeth Hay, Stan Dragland, etc.), a series since moved onto Kirby’s knife│fork│book. It is rather striking how far de Meijer has come as a writer of non-fiction prose over the past few years, able to weave such musical thinking across such a stunning prose lyric, one heartfelt and grounded in curiosity. As she writes:

This lecture was written. I wrote it in a series of rooms that have left their quiet tracks. The kitchen was sunlit and my mind accelerated. The chair was uncomfortable and I disputed myself. I answered the door and a phrase was lost to me. I used the fast pen, my fingers pushed buttons. Knowing the text would be read out loud, I wrote differently than I would for an essay, because you as the listening cannot insert your own pauses, or read the same line two or thee times over. I didn’t make them, describing occurrences from another millennium and country—writing is miraculous in its dissembling of space and time. I couldn’t tell you what I intended without it, because my mind is unpracticed in what an oral culture would require. We live where settlers attempted for hundreds of years to eliminate orally transmitted languages like Ojibwe and Kanien’kehá:ka, and this was also a violence against the profound linguistic capacities of their speakers. Writing is rigid.

 

Guy Elston (with Jeremy Luke Hill to the left) announcing Hill's 'Microchimaera' (Baseline Press), as the winner of the 2025 bpNichol Chapbook Award

Calgary AB/Toronto ON: The latest from Calgary writer Ben Berman Ghan, author of a novel, two collections of stories and a novella, is the chapbook of poems Behold the Dead (Toronto ON: Anstruther Press, 2025), providing an interesting stretch of literary genre. Might a full-length poetry collection be far behind? Ghan’s poems stretch across narratives, allowing line breaks and silence between lines, attempting few words but across distances. With meditative elements of breath, staccato pulse and hesitation, composing open space as carefully as he places words. There aren’t many examples off the top of my head of prose writers that move into poetry—the late Alberta writer Robert Kroetsch, certainly, and Kemptville, Ontario writer Michael Blouin come to mind—and there are elements of Ghan’s lyric still firmly held in a foundation of prose narrative, although one he works to punctuate with open space, as the two-part poem “Annihilation” begins:

My body is a river

annihilated

in the hungry eyes of men.

 

Black waves hide a word, a body:

            Dissolve. 

                      Drown.

 

Becoming is the cruellest sensation. 

 

Bloody mouths

drinking in.

 

Joanne Page (d. February 20, 2015)

Sad news from Kingston: after an extended illness, Kingston poet Joanne Page has died. She was the author of three poetry collections: The River & The Lake (Quarry Press, 1993), Persuasion for a Mathematician (Pedlar Press, 2003) and Watermarks (Pedlar Press, 2008) [see my short review of such here].

In 2012, while writer-in-residence at Queen's University, poet Phil Hall founded a lecture series in her name.

A short interview exists here at Open Book: Toronto. A larger author bio exists here, at the Kingston Writers Festival website.

Her obituary, from The Globe and Mail:

PAGE, Joanne
(nee Bowles)

On February 20, 2015, at age 71, Joanne died in the home she loved in Barriefield. Beloved wife of Steve, cherished by Geoff, Ian and Vero, doting 'Grandma Joanie' to Zoe and Elliot and 'Bean' to Anna, loving sister to Patsy (Jim). She will be deeply missed by her extended family and her many good friends. She had a natural talent for friendship, and cemented it with voluminous correspondence both written and verbal. She touched many lives.
   A talented painter in her early years, Joanne spread her wings when she and Steve moved to Kingston. For five years she wrote the 'In Other Words' column in the Whig-Standard, dispensing wisdom and common sense on feminist issues of the day. From there she turned to poetry, with 3 published books (the last of which - Watermarks - was nominated for a Trillium Prize). Sadly, the onset of metastatic breast cancer cut short her writing life. Joanne was an active participant in Kingston's literary community, and in 2014 Stan Dragland, delivering the annual Page lecture at Queen's University (a series named in Joanne's honour) celebrated her work and its ongoing contribution to Canadian literature.
   We were able to keep Joanne at home until the end thanks to the devoted caregiving of Jean and Ana, and the palliative care-at-home program (Dr. Connidis) Thanks also to Drs. V. Mohr and G. Linn for being anchors for the past 5 years. In lieu of flowers, donations in her name to the Cancer Centre of Southeastern Ontario (through the University Hospitals Kingston Foundation, 55 Rideau Street, Suite 4, Kingston ON K7K 2Z8) would be appreciated.
   As per her wishes cremation has taken place, and no funeral service will be held. Her life will be celebrated at an event in the spring.
   In care of SIMPLER TIMES CREMATION SERVICE 613-389-7223 /613-382-3683 On-line condolences www.simplertimes.org

Phil Hall, Notes from Gethsemani

The mouth wide open in wonder & amazement

*

I have killed a bug on the page I am reading

Like a shooting star—the smear of its innards—starting amid the text—& stretching into the white margin

I do not know what kind of bug it was—nor did it know what force befell it

As if the bug had been walking on a tree (the page once)—& a shadow covered it

The page as bark—the valued smear—it takes the page—back

The smear aims off—away—out from the text—the smear animates my reading

The smear—the spill—the dog-ear—the line in bold that is also underlined—then hi-lighted

The whole book has been hi-lighted—owning—it’s about owning

To underline one passage is to help you locate it again

But to underline almost everything—is to say—look I read this I read all of this I come in to the exam room bright yellow

Having yellowed many dense passages I shall never return to again

*

Originally presented as the “Inaugural Page Lecture—in Honour of Joanne Page” on November 14, 2012 as part of his writer-in-residence tenure at Queen’s University in Kingston, Ontario, is Phil Hall’s poem-essay chapbook Notes from Gethsemani (Vancouver BC: Nomados, 2014). “Think of what a page is—of what a poem is—what / they hint at being,” he writes, near the beginning of the thirty pages that make up Notes from Gethsemani. Award-winning Perth, Ontario poet and editor Phil Hall has been increasingly blurring the distinction between poem and essay in his work, most recently in his eleventh trade poetry collection, The Small Nouns Crying Faith (Toronto ON: BookThug, 2013) as well as through his previous, Killdeer (Toronto ON: BookThug, 2011), his work of self-described “essay-poems” that won the Governor General’s Award for Poetry and the Trillium Award, as well as being shortlisted for the Griffin Prize. The lecture-poem Notes from Gethsemani was composed, it seems, quite literally as notes during a retreat: “At the Abbey of Gethsemani—in Kentucky—May / 2012 // I was allowed a week of access to the monks’ library / & archives // To consider Thomas Merton’s personal library—to / contemplate the nature of rare library collections— / paper—page // To have the Abbot’s permission—to be allowed into / the book vault—to feel the door shut behind me— / us—a pressure[.]” Hall’s meditations on the page, text and the physical act of placing works upon various medium float, ebb and flow in a variety of directions, exploring the relationships between form, mechanism and distribution in a way that hasn’t been done before, or so well. Early on in the poem he writes: “Before it is written on—the page is a skin—a / surface—a weight—a bond—a field—a zone of / potential // Once marked—any skin is reduced—is as if / domesticated—fenced—lined—harnessed by ink & / rhetoric—it becomes readable—it becomes page [.]” Discussing Phil Hall and the Joanne Page Lectures in The Kingston Whig-Standard (posted October 17, 2013), Wayne Grady wrote:

As a poet, Phil is interested in the way writers relate to the page. When he was writer-in-residence at Queen’s University last year, he received an endowment from the English department to institute a lecture series dedicated to that very topic.

“I’m very proud of that,” he says, because he sees the series not only as a lasting legacy of his time there, but also as a way of honouring Kingston poet Joanne Page, after whom the series is named.

“The Page Lectures will be loosely based around the subject of the page,” he says, and will be given annually, by men and women alternately. He himself gave the first one last year.

“Every year,” he says, “I go down to the Abbey of Gesthemani, in Kentucky, on a kind of retreat.”

Sketched as a series of notebook entries, Hall’s poem writes out the physical act of writing from the mark on the wall to the page to the computer screen, and the nature of what that physical act requires and means: “Anyone who thinks that violence is not an element in / marginalia—not a factor in marking up a text[.]” Including textual examples by Susan Howe, Erín Moure, Ronald Johnson, George Bowering, Laurie Duggan, Souvankham Thammavongsa and Michael e. Casteels, Hall explores a fantastic meditation through his mastery of the essay-poem, weaving and meandering a variety of inquisitive and even folksy byways: “The fences that were captivity narratives—are in / Howe’s hands—a logjam of squeakings // The slash that will become the scar is what Derrida / calls différance—or pure trace [.]” Hall might entirely be one of the most thoughtful and inquisitive poets we have, able to explore questions and terrain that had, until now, not even occurred to others; and all in a way that would make any reader wonder: why not?

*

Page backwards spells a new word—egap—& we half-understand such e-words now

There is an egap in our relation to writing on paper this day—perhaps it has always been there

Example—what of the strangeness of electronic signatures—the hand has not been a shadow or weight on that page—the written has been photographed & clipped & pasted

There is an egap between the legend of John Hancock & the legend of rag-paper

Or what of the persisting cult of the signed copy—what is treasured is the evidence of the maker’s body having been a shadow over that copy of that book—she wrote it & was here & left a tracing

(Like the bug on my book left a tracing)

We want the page & the body to have proximity—& this is being taken from us

At Gethsemani—the sign says—silence is spoken here

*

Steven Heighton, Work Book: memos & dispatches on writing

W.B. Yeats believed that we turn our arguments with the world into essays, our arguments with ourselves into poetry. But is his idea—for all its neat symmetry, its epigrammatic authority—true of all writers who work in both forms? Giving the question some thought, I realized my own arguments with the world, and with myself, are more likely to gel into a form that's neither essay nor poetry.

Before I settle on a name for the form, let me explain why I use it. The brevity I can't seem to force on my fiction (I'd love to write four page stories, or 150-page novels) or even on my poems (I admire the haiku, but my natural leanings launch me onward for another ten, twenty, fifty lines), I bring automatically to these inner “arguments,” which take the form of short, tight paragraphs, epigrams, memos. (“Foreword”)

The thing that really appeals about Steven Heighton's new Work Book: memos & dispatches on writing (Toronto ON: ECW Press, 2011) is that it is exactly what he says it is, a collection of short notes, memos and otherwise dispatches on writing itself, boiling down from what most write of, the “writing life,” into something far more helpful, with far more depth and meaning. With five books of fiction, five collections of poetry and a collection of essays already under his belt, Heighton's concerns are less about the adventures and other considerations that come with being a writer, delving directly into the act of writing itself. Some of the titles will give a sense of where this small collection is going, whether “Memos to a Younger Self,” “Memos to a Writer a decade deep in the craft,” “On Reading: fifteen memos to myself,” “On Criticism” and “On Poetry,” for example. Here is a sampling of some of his notes: “Poets or fiction writers who publish criticism are always striving to clear the ground for their own work.” (“On Criticism”); “Let failure be your workshop. See it for what it is: the world walking you through a tough but necessary semester, free of tuition.” (“Memos to a Younger Self”); “Always start by giving a book the benefit of the doubt, as if broaching the book of a known master. This is a reciprocal gift on your part, a generosity the writer has earned over the year, or years, of work it has taken to complete the thing. For the first twenty or thirty pages, even if it doesn't seem much good, stick with it and its author. It may be as unsuccessful as it looks, or it may be something new—something you have to learn to read.” (“On Reading: fifteen memos to myself”).

Certainly, there would be admirers of Heighton's work that might be frustrated by Heighton's lack of talk about more specific things, whether the vagaries of the Kingston literary community he's been part of over the last number of years (including Mary Cameron, Joanne Page, Eric Folsom and the late Tom Marshall and Bronwen Wallace), or even more specifically about his own works, the way George Bowering wrote the essay “Parashoot!: Diary of a Novel” about composing his novel Shoot!(Toronto ON: Key Porter, 1994), a piece collected in his own A Magpie Life: Growing A Writer (Toronto ON: Key Porter Books, 2001). Instead, Heighton has boiled down what he sees as the most important lessons he's learned in his years of writing into a series of small notes, each providing their own light upon his published works if you know where and how to look. Given the sheer amount of “How to Write” books that exist in the market, often given far closer reads than most literature, Heighton's slim volume will seem like a godsend, as an experienced and successful literary writer imparts to readers and writers alike some of the lessons he's learned, most likely the hard way.

There can be just one final arbiter of your work. Refuse to appoint anyone else as your judge and appraiser, executioner, potential approver—the one reader, fellow-writer, critic, editor, or publisher whose acceptance of your work will stand as an ultimate verification, a proof of arrival, relieving you of that imposter-feeling every artist knows (a feeling that simply shows your aesthetic conscience is still active). Resign yourself to the road, there's no arrival. There's no map either, come to think of it, but the sun is rising and the radio is on. (“Memos to a Younger Self”)

The only piece in the collection that could be considered more of a straight essay is the last in the collection, “On Trying To Wear Al's Shirts,” presented originally at the University of Ottawa during a conference on the work of the late poet Al Purdy, reprinted in The Ivory Thought: Essays on Al Purdy (Ottawa ON: University of Ottawa Press, 2008):

I remember saying to Eurithe, shortly after Al's death, that I thought Al was a man who had always taken death very personally. And she said, “Yes, I think that's true.” I will add that I think his life's work in poetry was a way of talking back to death, to time and gravity—the gradual attrition of the flesh. In fact, Al competed with death—not just with other poets, mentors, and himself. I sense that for him this vying with death was the ultimate competition. And the beautiful fuel of his poems.

Alberta dispatch: The Banff Sessions

How to introduce suffering in a lemon?
How to ensure that allegory is not fatal?
If the lemon weeps, out of love
deny it. Begin to pray. Begin to feel
at home in the cosmos. If the lemon were a mountain species
accompanied by a very long profile – a window
or the origin of human sensation? Pain will define the outline
the heart, the mind, the soul will imitate this material inadequacy – will force
the human action? Ignore the waterline. Become pastoral
for the lemon. Territory
that knows itself – a finite tile
of yellow. And when the wind rose to fill an air there began
no other setbacks.
— Lynn Xu, from “Je vous attends,” The Walrus, May 2008

As Michael Holmes wrote in his “Notes Towards an Operational Poetics” in the anthology side/lines: a new Canadian poetics (2002), “When your spouse says they're going to Alberta to improve their writing what they're really saying is ‘Honey, I'm not satisfied; I'm going to have an affair.’” How many relationships have started or ended because of going off to the Banff? An old friend from high school, Franco-Ontarien director/playwright Patrick Leroux, returned to Ottawa in 1994 from the Banff Writing Studio and told us he’d met an English poet from Burnaby, eventually introducing us to Stephanie Bolster, whom he, years later, married.

As part of my residency at the University of Alberta, I spent a week at the Banff Centre for the Arts, given my own private space to get work done in one of the Leighton Studios. My own private writing retreat. For years, Canadian writers have been willing to give their eye-teeth for such an opportunity, whether for the writers studio itself, or simply for the solitude of work in such a breathtaking environment. A list of faculty and alumni reads almost as a CanLit who’s who, including Caroline Adderson, Ken Babstock, Don McKay, Jan Zwicky, Tom Pow, Marlene Cookshaw, Janice Kulyk Keefer, Fred Wah, Robert Kroetsch, Laura Lush, John Lent, Elise Levine, Stephen Heighton, Lisa Moore, Méira Cook and Sina Queyras. As Edna Alford, Associate Director of the Writing Studio wrote in her introduction to Rip Rap: Fiction and Poetry from The Banff Centre for the Arts (Banff AB: The Banff Centre Press, 1999):

For nearly seven decades, writers have been gathering in the shadow of these mountains to learn more from various masters. One of the first teachers was Hugh MacLennan and one of those early students was Robert Kroetsch.

In 1972, W.O. Mitchell became director of the Writing Program. It was, he insisted, to have no element of the creative writing programs being set up in universities, no formality. At Banff, writers were to write “without the pressure of performance.” Like a mediaeval scholar, he gathered writers around him and talked to them and showed them ways in which to free their captive ideas.

It was a summer program then and high-school students as well as mature writers came to sit at the feet of the master and to work their way into the craft and art of writing. Poetry and prose, drama and writing for radio, all had a place and all, with variations, continue to thrive in Banff.

Adele Wiseman agreed with W.O. Mitchell’s view of formal writing courses. When she took over as director in 1987, she brought her own distinct ideas and built onto what was already in place. Her vision was primarily to create a community of writers in what had become the May Studios. Working individually with editors, writers would be encouraged to be independent artists confident in their own voices. Adele had a sharp editorial eye and was often able to make invaluable suggestions to a writer but always with the admonition, Remember, this is your work.

I'd been to the town of Banff before, but not the Studios, nestled further up these mountains. I was there for an evening in 1999 at the beginning of a five day date (Banff, I suppose, still living up to its reputation). I barely remember a thing, but for the woman I was with, the mountains, and the first time seeing a digital countdown at a crosswalk (they seem to be everywhere, now). I remember her taking me through the Banff Springs Hotel, as we wandered the lobby and high-ceilinged rooms. I remember having a pint in a cowboy pub, staring lost in her deep blue eyes.

During the construction of the Banff Springs Hotel, the general manager of the Canadian Pacific Railway, Cornelius Van Horn, arrived and realized that the kitchen overlooked the valley, and the guest rooms had a view made up of immediate trees. Who would have made such a plan? The construction was quickly halted and plans changed to correct it.

I am thinking about a woman in Edmonton, and these months of involvement. Does that make me the only writer here who doesn’t appreciate the enforced solitude? I am neither open for new love or escaping an old one. I am already in one; whatever I have, it will make or break unrelated to these mountain scenes. As Kingston poet Joanne Page wrote in her poem “How You Might Like Alberta,” “not a place to overwhelm / but be taken by,” and ending with the lines:

and I would stay forever if I could
within this blue, this a cappella.

It reminds me of a Maya Angelou quote I read recently, “A bird doesn’t sing because it has the answer, it sings because it has a song.” There is so much this has to do with singing.

Construction crew outside my writing studio at all hours, machine noise competing with the solitude of space this week was meant for, cutting into attention. It’s a compelling environment, but it wasn't meant for me. What I need for work is not a solitude as such but public spaces, human activity. I write long-hand in coffee shops, pubs and food courts, not in self-retreat clacking away on a computer. I left the farm when I was nineteen for a reason, to remove myself from such a series of solitary silences. I have spent enough of my time alone.

Every day I leave my writing studio for the sake of construction crews. Every day I abandon the solitude of my round log cabin for the sake of the cafeteria, the restaurant, the pub. Am I simply not meant for this? Myrna Kostash was at the Banff Centre as well, conducting a non-fiction workshop, with the workshop in the mornings, the one-on-one consultations in the afternoons and reading their materials during the evening. At lunch or at dinner, we would trade stories and she would introduce me to yet another, new young author. Where do they all come from?

They say the first inhabitants of Banff were the first nations people around 11,000 years ago, arriving in the Bow River Valley and eventually becoming the Cree, the Kootenay and the Blackfoot tribes, long before the Europeans and the rail pushed them back.

In his book Canadian Literary Landmarks (1984), I read John Robert Columbo's passage on some of the literary associations with Banff, mentioning Canada's best-selling author in 1900, Ralph Connor, penname for the Rev. Charles W. Gordon (1860 - 1937). He was known best for his novels about Glengarry County, where he too grew, not far away from where I did, and in the same church, built by his father, a Presbyterian minister from Scotland. As Columbo writes:

William Arthur Deacon asked him about these early years when he was researching A Literary Map of Canada. Gordon replied in a letter, September 21, 1936: "During my three years missionary experience in the Rocky Mountains my Headquarters were Banff. My own Field reached from Field on the west to the Gap on the east. I was Clerk of the Calgary Presbytery, then the largest presbytery in the world. It existed from Revelstoke in the west to Swift Current in the east and from Edmonton to the United States Borderline."

From the pub, another building undergoing renovation, I watch a family of deer stroll through the campus, munching on a patch of grass. They seem entirely comfortable with the human population. Back on the farm, the rare deer we saw wandering through more jittery, unused to such interaction. There is snow filtering through the air, the impressive peaks. In my studio, a list of things left here for me (“What You Should Know About”) that include “Signs of an Aggressive Elk,” “If You Encounter a Cougar,” “If You Encounter a Bear” and “If You are Attacked.”

If You Encounter a Cougar

Face the animal and retreat slowly. Ensure you leave an escape route for the cougar.

Do NOT run or play dead.

Try to appear bigger by holding your arms up or an object.

Shout! Wave your arms or a large stick back and forth.

Throwing rocks may deter an attack.

Am I risking my life simply by being here? If you encounter a bear, it says, stay calm and don’t alarm the bear with screams or sudden movement. Calm behavior will reassure the bear.

Lie face down with arms behind your neck and legs apart.

In 2000, the City of Banff had to organize a forced relocation for the elk population, wandering through the streets for food without the threat of natural predators (held back by the town limits), and the numerous reports of attacks on the human population. Was this an improvement for the animals or for the people?

How many Canadian writers have already written about their time at Banff? Doesn’t this become, already, a tired old Canadian standard? The poet Sina Queyras from her first poetry collection, Slip (2001), from the series “Postcards from Banff,” writing:

Where are you tonight? The phone rings and rings, I haven’t energy
to hang up, fall asleep to the possibility of you.

We trade phone calls and letters, we pine; I pine among the conifers, I write her, among the Lodgepole Pine, in this round cabin furthest back, designed by architect Douglas Cardinal. The Metis architect Cardinal, who also designed the Museum of Civilization in Gatineau, Quebec, almost directly across the Ottawa River. In Banff, where everything connects. In Banff, my cabin in the woods with no corners.

In Banff, where my friend Laura Farina, a poet originally from Ottawa, says you can't even purchase a lamp, if you needed. She's been here since December, working for the Banff Centre Press, and we spent part of an evening re-acquainting at the pub. She was here, she said, to escape; what Banff seems best for. So much of this town tourist, she says, that to even live here, you have to drive out the twenty minutes to Canmore to pick up anything domestic.

In Canmore, just southeast of Banff, there is even a cairn that pays tribute to Connor, not far away from the Ralph Connor Memorial United Church, built in 1891. Does everything connect to everything else?
It was David Thompson and Duncan McGillvray who first explored the Bow Valley in 1880, wandering their way through what would someday be the town of Banff, a town within a national park, and the birthplace of the national parks system, but it wasn’t until 1886 that it became a real tourist destination, thanks to the advent of the Canadian Pacific working national rail. David Thompson of the North-West Company who named the Fraser River after his mentor, Simon Fraser, who lies buried in Eastern Ontario, near Cornwall.

Thompson, who would lose the 49th Parallel for four days in a blizzard, becoming the only man in history, perhaps, to misplace an entire country. Thompson, whose house in Glengarry County where he retired would become the county archive, with land deeds back into the 1770s.

The town of Banff, once remote, then not, and removed again, become the ultimate writing retreat for poets, fiction and creative non-fiction writers across Canada; becoming the legend of its own success. But what have I to retreat from?

In exile from my own exile. I am already in Edmonton, with a life behind me in Ottawa, on hold. Now I make notes among these Rocky Mountains, pining through the conifers at what I finally found in Edmonton, one more city behind.

In all of this, how I am supposed to be getting work done, getting writing, staring instead out the window at the mountains, the movement of clouds, birds and the distant highway. Everyone in the restaurant taking pictures of the peaks and river valley, as though they have not seen mountains before; there are enough pictures of mountains. Why not pictures of them too, to prove that they’d been?

Saskatchewan poet Eli Mandel even wrote of the same, when he was here, from his "Journal, Banff: The School of Fine Arts, 1976" collected in Life Sentence (1981). Here is a part of his entry for "July 20. Banff.":

The mountains still have nothing to say to me, other than touristy notions of the picturesque. Immense. What do they care? The slow thinking of mountains. For some reason, I look to the Andes with apprehension. They loom in my mind, dangerous forms. Threats to our family? myself? How does one live at 12,500 feet? How does one measure, take measure of, one's own humanity? Perhaps the mountains insisted that "Ghosts" be finished so that I could be free to meet their voices.

Day's routine, in a spectacular but by now familiar mountain setting, I have come here regularly since 1973. Walk to the road above Bow Falls facing the Banff Springs Hotel. Many shattered trees along the way. Strong sense of being on a mountain.

Later on in the same journal, writing "August 1. Banff.":

The politics of mountains. Not that they're high but elevated. A phenomenology of space. That explains why I am told not to go to Fort San next summer. It is a more demanding place, defining itself in particulars of prairie, not landscape but politics. Hence home to Wiebe and Kroetsch. To be at Banff is part of a high cultural setting. Elevated. Maybe the mountains do something to one's head. Curious though that Purdy, Marty, Suknaski focused here. All anecdotal. Low culture. And W.O., the raw western story-teller, though his poetics are Wordsworthian and not Coleridgean (as in Suknaski's haunted tales). Are these language differences? Vernacular as opposed to academic or literary. If so, an irony since I was not aware of my speech as high culture, though it obviously must be. There's something else too: not only need for drama, but, in story the character. Isn't it Bob K. who's always talking of western speech as story-talking. It's a story I haven’t told yet, though Out of Place has its story form and this one at Banff is pure paranoia. ("August 1. Banff.")

The politics of mountains. The politics of being an artist in these mountains, coming out as so culturally loaded. When they give them an "artist card," how can some of these kids not be affected, out the other end with first books, thinking it's all about them? Or, as poet and artist Roy Kiyooka wrote in his Transcanada Letters (1974; 2005) in a letter from Banff dated July 25, 1972:

as for the Banff School of Fine Arts it’s a summer re-
sort cum liberal arts school for rich N.A. kids with
the hugeness of the rocky terrain measuring their un-
flagging zeal. if i have learnt anything here its that
i dont need this kind of teaching gig nor do i need
these incomparable mountains.

I make notes, and spend hours staring out the windows. I sit in the coffee shop hours with notebooks, avoiding the backhoe and its constant machine noise. After couple of days I realize the disruption to my space, to my furthest Leighton Studio #7. Reading a copy of the Rocky Mountain Outlook (the Bow Valley daily newspaper), I discover that:

About 150 trees, including four Douglas fir trees, will be chopped down to make way for the relocation of an historic home, owned by hockey icon Glen Sather, to The Banff Centre.

About 50 trees will be removed along Buffalo Street so the house, built by renowned architect Walter S. Painter, can make its journey to The Banff Centre. Approximately 70 more trees will be cut down at the Centre’s Leighton Artists’ Colony.

Sather, general manager of the New York Rangers, has owned the home at 505 Buffalo Street since 1974, and is relocating it to make way for a new 5,000-square-foot home by the Bow River.

Town of Banff officials say that balancing the value of saving the historic 1913 Painter Residence against the environmental loss of several mature trees has proven challenging. […] The historic home is considered important because of its association with Painter, an American-born architect who designed the 1914 additions to the Banff Springs Hotel, the original Cave and Basin building and the Hotel Vancouver.

May, 2008
Alberta

Watermarks, Joanne Page

Saved By

In BC four hundred and something he sets forth
from Thurium with the notebook that will become
his little-known tenth History. He goes upriver
to a confusion of stopped tributary streams, and people,
a dwarf race dressed in skins who walk on crytal.
Their ways, he reports, are cloaked, their worship
hidden. From the sky white dust falls without end.
Herodotus is not amazed, merely cold. He leaves,
a struck bell peals in the valley. He will send
no word to Pericles of such bleakness. (A Brief History of Snow)

In her third poetry collection, Watermarks (Pedlar Press, 2008), Kingston writer Joanne Page seems to be working at a far higher rate than the gap between her first, The River & The Lake (Quarry Press, 1993), and her second, Persuasion for a Mathematician (Pedlar Press, 2003). Watermarks works a continuation of some of the themes brought out in her previous, writing out "dialogues" and "codex" in her Persuasion, again working through other voices, journal entries, lyrics histories and long expanses of sequential works, from pieces such as "A Brief History of Snow," "Sir John A. Macdonald's Last Season," or the entire section, "From the Hitherto Unpublished Journals of Miss Byrdie T., Inveterate Traveller and Champion of Lost Causes." Usually a poetry that plays with historical characters falls quickly and easily into a remarkable tedium, reworking and repeating what has already been said, but Page's poems reveal a wonderful freshness, as the exception that almost proves the rule.

The Cellular Memory
of Paint:

a painter's hand,
the painter's touch.

Brush breath on the pear
burns it gold

advancing the glowing shapes
by saturation,

laying white into the lily
tiny furrows of luster

through the underpainting
oyster shells, burrs of light.

Sipped edge of stone
point, point, weight and heft.

Behind, beneath
the many varnished layers

darker deeper
richest hyacinth.

Its assertion:
immortal bose and stone
and flower outlive us,
pigment's ever after.

There is something about Page's poetry that comes quietly and unexpectedly out of left field, a grace and maturity that can only come from a patience borne through years of experience. A watermark is what remains hidden, woven invisible in the sheet of what else, and Page's poetry seems exactly that, hidden below the layers of other poetries currently being written in Canada, unable to exist without, but unable to be seen by the untrained eye.

The long winter arrives early and stays late.
For weeks no one remembers seeing the sun.
Or stars at night. Hail or sleet or driving snow
Obscures the sky. Snow lays itself down in
Archaeological layers over the mica mines
Near Sydenham and lockmaster's house
At Kingston Mills. Near Jones Falls it stops up
the blacksmith's stack filling the forge with smoke.
The lake freezes to unusual depth giving off
Detonations in the dark. Ice throws up its glittering
Wall along the waterfront. Snow heaps itself
Halfway up doors and first floor windows
Until the city seems to sink into the white earth,
The spires of St. Mary's and St. George's last to go. (Sir John A. Macdonald's Last Season)