Phil Hall : Voting

 

 

 

 

My parents weren’t political—they reacted without much planning.

My father stayed in school through grade three—my mother had gotten her matriculation—grade eight.

Even a Farmer’s Almanac in the outhouse was held away and studied like a binding document—warily.

I liked how they were when they voted—to them voting was serious—they had been invited to participate—each X was an equal X—they understood the fairness of that.

Voting was also a private gesture—theirs each alone—and also somewhat of a game between them.

The week before voting day—they would try to trick each other into revealing who they planned to vote for.

They thought that if they voted differently their votes would cancel each other out—so then there was no reason to bother voting.

My father would make jokes about which politician my mother secretly fancied.

My mother watched my father closely—she knew the kinds of men he respected and the kinds of men he hated.

This was the late 50s / early 60s—rural Ontario—Diefenbaker—he wasn’t a good-looking man—but the protruding teeth and the wavy hair and his tallness all spoke in his favour.

He had an impressive—even legendary—memory—and he could be funny—sly in his comebacks.

He respected everyone he spoke to—both of my parents admired that about him—it was easy to imagine Diefenbaker as real—as someone people actually knew—out west.

Dief’s second wife was a prairie school teacher—with expensive hair because she had to go to so many ceremonies. Her name was Olive.

Pearson was more like the Veterans Affairs representative who came by for tea and a smoke every few years to see how my father was doing.

Pearson was certainly a bureaucrat—but he didn’t seem two-faced.

He was like a teacher—a preacher—or a relative who had moved away and done well—so that no one knew about him or his family anymore...

It was hard to tell which of these men my mother liked best—and it did come down to personalities—not policies or parties—I think Diefenbaker was the one for her—though she’d never say.

My father voted as if he were feeding some animal through a fence and was mindful of his fingers—but he voted—he was thankful for his disability pension.

Although he hadn’t earned it by getting overseas with the other boys. A drunken fight in a park on the eve of shipping out had left him with a leg broken in seven places. Shame.

My mother voted—she got dressed up to do so—as if she had an appointment with an official.

She wanted to behave appropriately—settle the issue—and get home again without embarrassment—and without making my father angry.

She didn’t have much that was her own—there was Bingo—there was her daytime show The Edge of Night—and she had this—after 1922 in Ontario most women could vote.

On election day—my parents would leave in the car together—slightly teasing each other—it was good to see—and rare—that affection.

We kids stayed home a half hour alone—mind yourselves—the polling station was at Angus Martin’s small house on the way to town.

When they returned—it was as if all of the Xs in the boxes didn’t seem equal anymore. My parents seemed smaller after voting—a bit used—duped.

The results weren’t followed. All that governing—the Government—had nothing to do with us.

Democracy means that you matter—one day every four years.

But when Churchill died in 1965—our old TV was left on all day—it had doors that could shut away the screen—there was still something indiscreet about a TV.

A train carrying the great man’s coffin trundled repeatedly through British villages—hamlets and whistle-junctions.

A short trip—from London to Oxford—I’ve learned since—but repeated and repeated—in black and white that day. To endless commentary.

It annoyed me—the ritual—the repetition—the preempting of my Westerns. The whole day had a before-you-were-born tone to it—which I also resented.

By then, my mother and father had already had the myths kicked out of them—they had no power. Or trust.

They didn’t renew themselves in books—the way I have learned to do. They weren’t religious.

They weren’t community-minded folks. They fought with family—but had few friends otherwise.

Their genealogy had been lost—poorhouse disgraceful—unimportant officially—they had no connection to the British Isles.

The play in them was almost gone—except when found in drink—or if babies were held.  And I saw it a bit on election day.

Each time there’s an election—that old simple myth of the community circle—or of the town hall meeting that might really change things—still flares up in faces.

Again for awhile there’s that old—just maybe! So we pretend to believe in the hope we see briefly in people around us—and others try to see the same in us.

On election day—or at funerals—the possibility of that discredited idea: shared responsibility for the collective—is awakened.

Sure—representation past the local is too dissipated not to be a trick—our choices are manipulated and turned to math—to stats.

We are duped by fanfare—then as now—and our sloppiest hold-over beliefs are counted—banked on—bought and sold.

In the English countryside—for Churchill—people lined the tracks—they made V-for-Victory signs—they cried and waved goodbye—and waved goodbye—all day...

Still—here in Canada—from Long Beach to St John’s—we hunger for public servants who remember our first names—and the names of our children now grown.

We expect humble dignitaries—who ask after our parents—and are sorry to hear—real people—to represent us as real—and even as sacred—against all that isn’t.

My walking stick has punctuated the road to your door—this onion in my hand is for you—it is from my garden—thank you for your confidence in me—how can I help?

Though it sounds maudlin to say so—there are no candidates like that anymore. If there ever were.

We each might hold up a more recent example or two: Tommy Douglas, Elizabeth May...

My father—as he watched Churchill’s train go by—looked angry and ashamed—as if he were being challenged and failing.

My mother stood in the doorway—watching—in her hands a tea towel and a wet glass—not drying it.

 

 

Ph . Otty Lake . 2025

 

 

 

 

 

Phil Hall's [photo credit: Paul Elter] most recent books are Vallejo's Marrow and Devotion (both in 2024). He has also recently published a children's book, Searchers (2025). Guthrie Clothing—the Poetry of Phil Hall (2015) is available from Wilfrid Laurier University Press. He lives near Perth, Ontario.

 

Allegra Sloman : An elaborate scaffold of meaning(s) : on David Dowker

 

 

 

 

 

David Joseph Dowker was in his 70th year when he died on 5SE in North York General on March 24, 2025, subsequent to a fall. The staff wanted to know if I was family, and I would say, without emphasis, that I was his ‘oldest surviving friend’. The 17th was the day they called me and put the phone in Dave’s hand. They knew he was dying, although it seems now that Dave did not.

The most skilled poet I ever knew had been reduced to monosyllables, and he could no longer enunciate. The phone cut out after two minutes. It was clear that would be our last contact; it was a blessing to know it was coming, for I was as prepared as I could be.

He had a premier sound system and collected music. Everywhere he lived, the floor would groan under the weight of his book collection, which was gobsmacking in its breadth and erudition.

I saw Amy Clampitt read at Harbourfront because of him. I read Paul Blackburn because of him, and wrote my first long poem, ‘In Colours Unsuspected’ for Blackburn, because of Dave. Dave wrote like a Tolkien dwarf hammering out one precise blow a day; I’m prolix. Dave, without saying much, pruned words and fixed my line lengths and modelled consistency in punctuation. He encouraged me to read things aloud. His unflagging support and refined criticism helped me to progress as a writer.

The last time I visited was in 2017, the year the beautiful, kind and accomplished Joanne Volk died abruptly of cancer, after being misdiagnosed for a year. He was profoundly depressed after losing his life-partner, and immobilized by it. He himself was diagnosed with a blood disorder, which was a contributing factor in his death,  and he endured treatment and malaise with fortitude and few complaints.

In later life he was published by Book*hug and his work appeared in various journals.

If you’ve read this far, you’re likely a poet. Please make a will and think about what you want to have happen with your works – your creative legacy – and your books – the ideas which allowed you to make such a legacy – after you die. And if you have pets, make provision for them too, because re-homing Pippin from 3200 km away was a challenge.

There’s a photo from the 90s from Now Magazine showing poets at a reading in Toronto. The poet reading has his pants around his ankles; Dave, holding a beer, has his back to the camera.

Brain pan hammered into a pure sound. Thrust
into the big and baffling without benefit of
a parachute. Who charts the scatter pattern?
Present carbon configuration fragile but necessary.
Postulate a homunculus at the base of the spine
or a dormant virus whose period of hibernation
ends at death.

David Joseph Dowker, from ‘Machine Language’

 

 

 

 

Born in western Mi'kma'ki in 1958, settled in S'ólh Téméxw since 1996, Allegra Sloman works across a broad range of word forms, including written correspondence with friends and family, delivering homilies for Unitarian services, ranting, poetry, an online word generator called the 'thousand sided dice', a conlang called ‘bih-bah’ based on the sounds basketballs make going through hoops, SF tetralogies, bluesky skeets, open letters, teaching a cat English (30 words and counting), songwriting (folk, filk, setting Yeats to music), stand-up comedy, essays, a weekly newsletter, half a million words of fanfic, parody, and short stories.