At the memorial of Judith Merril the first two speakers spoke of how hard a person she was to love.
Speaking ill of the dead is about the lowest thing a person can do.
At the memorial for my wonderful friend Kai Wolfram people spoke of what a terrible person he was.
His mother was sitting there with her heart broken.
When I spoke on both occasions the people who had spoken before gnashed their teeth.
At Judy’s wake the people in charge said, “We were not going to let you speak but are we glad we did.”
At Judy’s wake I drew on Rumi:
THE CORE OF MASCULINITY
The core of masculinity does not derive
from being male,
nor friendliness from those who console.
Your old grandmother says, “Maybe you shouldn’t
go to school. You look a little pale.”
Run when you hear that.
A father’s stern slaps are better.
Your bodily soul wants comforting.
The severe father wants spiritual clarity.
He scolds but eventually
leads you into the open.
Pray for a tough instructor
to hear and act and stay within you.
We have been busy accumulating solace.
Make us afraid of how we were.
Translated by Coleman Barks.
The people before had both spoken of how you could be talking to Judy and she would suddenly fly into a rage, demanding you leave.
I said, “Judy was that tough instructor. I loved her for it. Judy never flew into that rage with me but I have flown into it with others. I know why she did it.”
Kai Wolf.ram had an enormous gift as an artist.
Unfortunately he went to THE ONTARIO COLLEGE OF ART AND DESIGN where it was murdered.
He was physically a stunningly handsome man.
He became a drunk.
He drank himself to death.
As did my friend Tim Slater at whose wake at my home I saw Kai for the last time six months earlier.
Booze and drugs.
In my teens when I decided to take on the life of the artist I realized booze, drugs and sex was what destroyed artists.
I was not about to give up on sex but booze and drugs have never been a lure.
Last night several people were here. For one it was his birthday.
Suddenly the rage that those who had spoken ill of Judy came over me.
I was astounded by the fury of it.
After they had left I asked myself, “What the Hell was that?”
The answer came…
“Cú Chulainn.”
This is what it is to be a poet.
THE TORONTO STAR has murdered the name of Alice Munro.
What happened to her daughter was terrible.
No argument there.
When she should have been told of it Alice Munro was not.
That was held back from her.
THE TORONTO STAR is on the way out the door.
Soon it will be no more.
People go to psychiatrists seeking approval, which, of course, psychiatrists can not give them.
A psychiatrist can only give us a bill.
A priest can give us absolution.
When I was being interrogated by the police following my arrest I was asked, “Have you heard the saying, ‘He who harms one of these little ones…””
I finished it with, “Better a millstone was tied to his neck and he be cast in the sea.”
I added, “Though your sins be scarlet they shall be white as snow.” (Isaiah 1:18)
The officer said, “We don’t accept that here.”
There is nothing like being accused of harming children by one of the gang that murdered Sammy Yatim.
There is a power in true forgiveness that is beyond measure.
Pilate had Jesus beaten to a bloody pulp not because he wanted to punish him but because he thought that if those who were demanding his crucifixion saw him in such an awful condition they would temper their demand he be crucified.
It did not.
Justice without mercy is not justice.
I looked up Cú Chulainn.
The hour has come and is here now.
I pray for our oppressors that the punishment will fit the crimes they have committed.
Alice Munro?
It used to be that writers and poets had to die to be forgiven.
Now they are yanked from their graves to be damned.
–Reg Hartt
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