folio : Barry McKinnon (1944-2023)
: an elegy,
We are
present, but not here.
And yet, place is everything.
André du Bouchet, from Journals
1952-1956 (trans. Norma Cole
from beneath the wheel,
another gulp of draught, each sentence shadows,
Tumbler Ridge : the poem extricates,
Barry: one more round,
this
art of life,
*
the landscape reconstructs, reflective
, hypothetical
the way your body breaks,
is broken,
Cradock Peak, a letter
in the regulated sense,
*
I wanted to say something a dream
of
the pulp log,
downbeat, heart
into the written world,
*
to situate: transparency of orbit,
geometric: clarity , that great trove of earth,
angled,
upright
in
kinship
this elevation of 575 metres,
*
as your son remarked: a soft spot
in
a hard place,
still : it didn’t wear you down,
or at least as much
as you would claim,
*
to say something of photo albums
,
landscapes
the way the ridge rose,
land, or gold :
these books that held your influence
, and then some,
, clear & simple truth,
*
I wanted to say something:
before I was born: when you drove north,
those unfamiliar trees, & trestles,
gargantuan
peaks; a poem, set
in a hallow,
north, from the Vancouver Hotel,
and,
as you
once wrote: the promise
of
everything,
*
Fort George : as Simon Fraser , lingered
into
a colonial
present,
where did you land : upon
which
promise,
*
Prince George :
this princely son
of prairie
tallgrass,
, folded: heightened,
*
I wanted to say something,
to hear what Spicer heard
, or Creeley, across
that
dappled ridge,
one does not play,
one speaks, but only
to a particular
memory,
or what one might tell the wind,
its absence, when
it stops,
*
I
wanted to say, to see
what theory
missed,
black bears, power lines
& northern
lights,
the mountain surface rippled, ridged & bare
a managed forest, thick
, regenerating,
this elegy of retreat,
*
I wanted to say
something,
of your
eightieth year,
move that count backwards
by seven,
it all begins, you said,
where might it end
& then
continues,
*
one more round: where lyric confounds,
up to a single point
, and down the other side,
another beer : another
, contrast of
depth,
*
Barry, I wanted to say
something, of
value , of weight
,
something unimaginable,
beyond all the
elsewheres
of anyone else
who may have known
you,
most
likely
better, or far longer,
*
I wanted to say something
about lakes, &
wildfires,
the lyric
pulse
your long threads,
but an incline
,
parsed
the centre: your long poem
across
the millennium,
& not an unknown
that might not
have been
possible,
*
to say
what I may already
have
through other means
& venues,
places
this hum
prompting engine
light the
drive
this distance
gathered; not
an end, but
a
moment,
perhaps only : the simplest of truths,
*
through the long poem
, in that cool word
,
fragment
how you were born
, from the archive
looking both ways,
from long prairie
tallgrass , that first
intake
of breath
Calgary foothills,
from whence origins
, are not always
beginnings,
these handmade copies
of a means of voice,
*
too many questions , what could I ask,
, in terms of turbulence,
, like streams of
ash
*
I wanted to say something
,
on migration
, on putting your foot down
, held firm to
your roots, this
outpost,
Northern BC ; Alberta foundations
years, to your mouth
remove, that same
sky
, what foothills,
into purchase, tenure ,
footing,
atop Prince George rise,
aloof,
voice, soaked in speech
*
Barry , I wanted to say
something,
directly,
knowing full well
there
would be imitations
, your poem composed
the same season I arrived
, a dream
of what ;
beneath the earth, the hanging rock,
this hymn for many mountains,
*
I wanted to say
something
of your
seventy-nine years
, from Calgary to Montreal,
Vancouver to
Prince George,
a
job
that abandoned you
north;
a contour,
with a beacon , from another language
, held hard
into a destination, centre,
*
true
north
, a line around an absence
, to press into the folds
*
; to hold out
greeting , parting
the slowness, speeds of speech,
to write : what I can only manage,
*
across these
limitations
, inexhaustible
of geography, the long poem, the way
wood
counters
wood
the arm’s embrace,
another bus
in the stench of
pulp exhaust,
along Tumbler
Ridge,
into McLeod Lake , sand castles
, a mountain of
blistered thimbles
to stand,
therefore,
at the pinnacle of belief,
November 2, 2023 –
April 11, 2024
Orlando FL –
Ottawa ON
rob mclennan once had a chapbook published through Barry McKinnon’s Gorse Press, which is extremely cool, but he wishes there were more copies printed. He feels he has to hoard the remaining copies he has.
This poem is being published simultaneously as a chapbook through above/ground press.
photo
of Rae Armantrout and Barry McKinnon at Ottawa’s VERSeFest, March 2012, taken
by rob mclennan. other two photos from Orlando, November 2023, when and where the poem initially took shape.
