We probably talked a bit further, I gave him the scoop on process, discovered he was a published poet, told him no problem, I’d book him, and that was that. As it happened, David began to attend the readings fairly regularly. You could always tell when he was in the crowd, he had a big HAHAHA type of laugh and a slow, loud, handclap. He enjoyed the vibe and he enjoyed hanging out with younger, beginning writers. He was very supportive that way, and always took the time to introduce himself to readers who appealed to him. He was soon buddies with a group of regulars who were very active in the local literary scene, not just writing and reading, but publishing broadsides and magazines and starting up their own reading series’ in bars and coffee houses across the city. It was almost like stepping back in time to the vibrant sixties, a time David could well relate to. Who were these wild folks? I can only offer a short list and I apologize to the many people I miss: Jill Battson, Michael Holmes, Peter McPhee, Natalee Caple, Christian Bök, Bill Kennedy, Stuart Ross, John Barlow, Darren Werschler-Henry, Steven Cain, Nancy Dembowski, Nancy Bullis, Allan Briesmaster, Steve Venright…
Of course, the biggest treat was to hear David read in that mellifluously smooth, smoke-and-whisky-soaked voice. Famous for his poems about food — a simple bowl of peaches and fresh cream sounded like a bacchanalian feast from his lips — he was equally adept at discussing politics, music, art, pop culture, sex and so on, often moving from subject to subject in a manner that was sometimes decidedly abrupt, though appearing seamless. He had an active mind and a curious intelligence that showed up in his poetry in a way that resembled scanning various articles in a newspaper, or wandering aimlessly through a neighbourhood supermarket, say, Kensington: “I buy oranges & purple plums / & bright green avocado pears. / I was very moved by those / lines about the perfume maker you murdered.” No explanation. Simply a brain firing on all cylinders as it roams the ever-shifting terrain.
Times changed, and so did the scene. People grew older, either moved on or didn’t, the Idler Pub shut its doors, new faces appeared with renewed energy and bringing their own particular interests and aesthetics. David and I lost touch for the most part. The last time I saw him was in the Annex, several years past the heyday. We met in the middle of a crosswalk. He was dressed casually, even sloppily, and looked tired and worn. Still, he stopped me with that same big grin of his. I said hi, and told him his knapsack was unzipped and that things were hanging out the back ready to fall. He said he knew, he liked the careless, slovenly look. Not sure what he meant by that, but, okay. We talked as the traffic lights changed colour. Didn’t matter to him, but I said we better move on. He laughed, and asked me (out of the blue) what pub I was frequenting these days. Well, I’ve never been one who goes to a certain pub and gets to know the staff and regulars, so it was a moot point to me, but seemed important to him, so I said, Paupers. He laughed again. Yes, terrific pub. Serves a nice bitter and makes a great burger. He slapped me on the shoulder and we parted company. It was the last time I saw him. It was the last time I heard that smooth voice and big, life-affirming laugh. Which is maybe what I miss most about him. That laugh.
Cheers, David
