Al Purdy (1918-2000) in conversation with Stan Rogal
lying
upsidedown by the water
waiting
for myself to happen
all the
unfolding summer
while
red willow roots waved
thru
the water like a drowned girl’s hair
I said
as slowly as I could “You’re red”
and it
was so and I knew
I knew
for the first time
that I
could invent the world
— from:
Pre-School
It was a quiet Saturday, late morning leaning toward noon. I had the TV on to check out the latest news, sports, weather and whatever passed for politics and/or entertainment these days, just to keep somewhat abreast of current events, meaning: what new folly was being implemented by the unpredictably predictable leader down south? Would the Jays get out of the basement in time to make another run for the pennant? Would the thunderstorm promised materialize or no? Which latest blockbuster movie would arrive to titillate the hearts and minds of the masses? Suddenly — as if to answer all these questions and more — the picture screen shuddered, the sound crackled, and the regular personality broadcaster was gradually replaced by the smiling figure of The Amazing Criswell, instantly recognizable by his blonde spit-curled hair, heavy make-up, sequined tuxedo and black bow tie. Somebody’s been reading my mail, I huffed, as it was only recently I had watched Tim Burton’s thirty-year-old film, Ed Wood, with Johnny Depp, Sarah Jessica Parker, Martin Landau, Patricia Arquette, and featuring Jeffrey Jones playing the character of The Amazing Criswell. I stared at the tube and Criswell stared back. He placed his hands on either side of his head, fingers spread between his temples and his cheek bones. He half-closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and — in a strictly corny trance-like manner — spoke to me in that measured stentorian voice of his: “Stan… I see you at the Wheatsheaf Tavern… today… at 2 pm … where you will meet and interview the famed Canadian poet Albert Wellington Purdy… Be sure to wear a yellow flower in the lapel of your jean jacket… The usual arrangements for payment will apply…” The screen again shuddered, the sound again crackled, as the image of The Amazing Criswell was replaced by the usual broadcaster.
I turned the TV off and stood there for a brief moment, pondering. I was aware that whatever powers-that-be who summoned me on such occasions sometimes (often?) had a definite quirky sense of humour as well as a strange bent for the theatrical, but this was maybe pushing it somewhat. After all, The Amazing Criswell was famously known for his wildly inaccurate predictions, such as: that America would be plagued by mass cannibalism; that the world would end August 18, 1999 (he died in 1982 so didn’t have to witness that failure); that all women would lose their hair in St. Louis between Feb 11 and May 11; that Mae West would become president of the United States and she and he would ride a rocket to the moon together. In truth, he was more of an entertainer than a psychic, more famous for his over-the-top false predictions than for any of his correct predictions, so why should I believe him now? Okay, he did accurately proclaim that John F. Kennedy would be prevented by “outside forces” from running for re-election in 1964, and it was in November of 1963 that Jack took a bullet to the head from a sixth-floor window of the Texas School Book Depository (or else from the grassy knoll, depending on whose story you wanted to believe), but, still…
Anyway, I’d never been delivered a bill of goods from these folks before. And the money for the interview was always delivered on time and in full, so I figured I might as well wash up, gather my gear, and make my way slowly downtown. I did think it was a nice touch about the yellow flower in the lapel. In Purdy’s well-known, often-performed poem, At the Quinte Hotel, he wrote: “I am drinking / I am drinking beer with yellow flowers / in underground sunlight / and you can see that I am a sensitive man…”
All I had to do was find a goddamn yellow flower.
It’d been a couple of years since my last visit to the Wheatsheaf, as it’s a bit out of my bailiwick these days, and it was nice to have the opportunity to re-visit. The Tavern has been at the corner of King and Bathurst since 1849, and you feel the history the second you walk in. A 2020 renovation gave it a contemporary sports-bar look but kept the bones that matter, the tin ceilings and the exposed brick, so it reads old and new at once. The reno added a stage and dance-friendly booths, which turned a classic watering hole into a room that gets a tad livelier on a weekend. It's part sports bar, part live-music spot, all tavern. Screens carry the game, the kitchen runs proper pub food, and on weekends a band takes the stage. I mean, if you want a real Toronto bar with no pretense, a cold drink, and either a game or a live music set, this is the one.
I stepped through the door and looked around. The place was busy. I didn’t see Al Purdy, but I spotted a vacant deuce just ahead of me with a barely-touched beer pint resting on a coaster and I figured, what the hell, as it was the only available seat in the house, it must be mine. As I sat, a glass of red was dropped in front of me along with a glass of water. Like I said.
I took a sip and noticed a bit of a disturbance at the end of the bar, a mob in front of the stage. When the sea of spectators parted, I saw the back of Al Purdy, legs spread, lanky frame slightly bent forward at the knees and shoulders, an arm extended downward, a finger pointing, looming over a body folded in the foetal position on the floor. Al next huffed, turned and strode toward me, brushing his thin strands of greying hair back with two hands. He was grinning when he sat across from me. I deserve this, he said, then drank half his beer and smacked his lips. Now, what can I do you for? He plunked his fists on either side of his glass.
Stan Rogal: You know who I am?
Al Purdy: I can make an educated guess. (He reached out a hand and waggled a finger at me). What’s with the bouttenier?
SR: (It was early September, still an array of black-eyed Susans in bloom. I had plucked one from a convenient park garden and stuck it in a buttonhole on my jacket). I was told to wear a yellow flower for our meeting. I assumed it was so you’d recognize me.
AP: Like I wouldn’t recognize a person of literary intelligence amongst a group of knuckleheads — and I use the term with the utmost respect — such as these. (He used his arm to sweep the room). Of course, the recording device on the table was another dead giveaway.
SR: And you’re also aware of your situation? (I removed the wilting flower and dropped it in the water glass).
AP: I assume by that you mean the fact that I’m dead and have now somehow arisen. A sort of present-day Lazarus, yes?
SR: And you knew this because how?
AP: No idea. I just knew when I landed here, that’s all. Like the awareness was planted in my brain. What about you? Any notion who’s behind this hocus-pocus?
SR: None whatsoever. I get all my info through intermediary means.
AP: And what do they get out of it? The ones in charge.
SR: Haven’t a clue.
AP: Does the interview appear anywhere? Physically, I mean. In the real world.
SR: Rarely.
AP: Then what’s the point for these jokers? Where’s the thrill?
SR: I tend to put myself in the shoes of Anais Nin, where she was paid to write pornographic stories for the private enjoyment of a wealthy businessman.
AP: Though in this particular circumstance, without the initial hoped-for stimulation and tumescence, followed by the ultimate release of sexual tension that pornography provides.
SR: Who knows? (I shrugged). The human mind is a twisty thing.
AP: If they are human, and do indeed exist at all. I mean, I could simply be a figment of your writer’s imagination, correct? Moreover, we could both be figments of some other person’s imagination, yes?
SR: You mean the old, am I a man dreaming I’m a butterfly, or am I a butterfly dreaming I’m a man paradox? (Al grinned and nodded). Maybe. And since we can’t answer that question, I suppose all that matters is that we accept that we’re here now, and move on.
AP: I agree. And I have to tell you, being dead isn’t half-bad. So far I’ve been able to beat men younger and stronger than me in arm wrestling, leg wrestling, and straight fisticuffs.
SR: (I studied Al’s face. Except for a few bruises and one slight blackening around an eye, he appeared to be holding up well). Any single cause for these interactions with the locals?
AP: Oh, the usual. They discover I’m a poet and decide I’m an easy target for their drunken sport. Perhaps if they had studied their poesy a bit more seriously when they were pups, they’d have realized that poets are a tough breed of animal, even if their prowess stems mainly from gut-wrenching fear and blind or misguided bloody-mindedness. (Al drained his beer and gave me a raised-eyebrows glare). Drink up son, you’re falling behind.
SR: (I followed suit. Two more drinks fell in front of us. I looked across the floor. The fellow that had been decked by Al was now staggering our way. He stopped at the table and offered Al his outstretched hand. The pair shook and the man shuffled back to his friends, arms raised in the air, fists pumping, triumphant, as if having survived against a foe greater than himself. I squinted at Al and shook my head). Strange. The whole male-macho thing.
AP: I agree, though, once in a while, you get a good poem out of it. That’s what matters.
SR: Yeah, your poem At the Quinte Hotel turned out to be a winner for you. In fact, I heard you read it live on a lawn at UofT way back when. I liked where you talked about impressing the bar patrons with a poem, bringing them to tears, calling it a heart-warming moment for Literature, but as soon as you asked any of them to buy you a beer in exchange, they went silent. The poem ends: “and it was brought home to me in the tavern / that poems will not really buy beer or flowers / or a goddam thing / and I was sad / for I am a sensitive man.”
AP: Yeah, well, amen to that. (We clinked glasses and drank).
SR: I guess we should get on with the interview part. What’s the reason you were given for being back in the land of the living?
AP: (He produced an envelope from his rear pants pocket and waved it in the air). This letter of explanation was on the table when I materialized. (He tucked it back). I have been asked to be the final judge for The People’s Poetry Award, presented under the auspices of — as you might have suspected, and no surprise here — The People’s Poetry Society of Ontario.
SR: The final judge? Meaning you don’t have to wade through all the entries.
AP: You appear to be unimpressed. Disdainfully so. Do you have a problem?
SR: I just find much of what is termed “People’s Poetry” is generally simplistic, sentimental, solipsistic, socially/politically manipulative, self-serving, and too serious by half. Never mind that the use of language and poetic tropes — when used at all — is borderline juvenilia.
AP: Don’t pull any punches now, pal, tell me how you really feel. (He laughed). As well as appreciating your excellent use of alliteration, I find I have to agree with you, though I’d carry it further saying most poetry falls under that same sad description. As Oscar Wilde said: All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling.
SR: True. Which makes me wonder why you were called upon for such a task. I mean, in many ways, you fit the role of a people’s poet. You always took the stance of the poet as tough guy and voiced a suspicion of non-drinkers, critics and academics. In your autobiography, Reaching for the Beaufort Sea, you said: "I've ridden the freights, been in jail a few times, done a fair amount of fucking, been unwise, silly, foolish, cowardly, braggardly, loud, etc. — a character of excess in most ways." Fine. Contrarily, you also said: “My reasons for writing at an early age were ego and fascination with words and their manipulation. Not a thought in my head about Truth or Beauty or immortal poesy.” In your poems you manage to combine the earthy-earthy side of your life experiences alongside the esoteric through your use of craft and language.
AP: (He sipped his beer, pursed his lips, took a breath and leaned in slightly). Careful, son, flattery will get you everywhere. (He grinned). Go on, I’m intrigued.
SR: Sure, no problem. You’ve got a sense of humour, which is a rare trait in today’s poetry. Getting back to At the Quinte Hotel, wherein you combine some of the features I mentioned: “And I notice that the bartender is a sensitive man too / so I tell him about his beer / I tell him the beer he draws / is half fart and half horse piss / and all wonderful yellow flowers.” Of course, you quickly discover that the bartender is not as sensitive a man as you first thought and he is not pleased with your assessment of his beer, as you go on to say: “[he] does not appreciate my exquisite analogy.” After this, the brawls break out. Again, the fighting is treated with a sense of ironic humour. (I raised my glass). Anyway, I’m on my soapbox. Forgive me. I’ll get off. I should be saying congratulations for being chosen. It must feel good to be remembered and recognized, even after a couple of decades.
AP: No, it’s okay. I used to stand on that same soapbox and kick against the pricks, to quote Beckett. Poetry can be a damned harsh mistress, patting you on the back with encouragement one moment, grabbing you by the nuts and squeezing the next.
SR: You see what I’m saying. I mean, in your autography, you referred to yourself as a poetry-writing factory worker with pretensions to culture, yet you — your poetry — clearly has one foot in academia by quoting Wilde and Beckett, while the other foot is planted firmly in the gutter, and you manage to balance the two; play them off each other. You consider things; you think about how words and ideas fit together and you’re just as comfortable saying in one poem: “Sometimes in these short lives / when our minds drifted off alone / moving in the space vacated by leaves / to allow sunlight to pass thru” as in a separate poem saying: “eyes that stared at you / like piss-holes in the snow.” You once said that the best American poets of all time were Charles Bukowski, Robinson Jeffers, and Emily Dickinson. That’s quite a mixed bag. Then again, so’s your own poetic style. Bukowski said of you: “I don’t know of any good living poets. But there’s this tough son of a bitch up in Canada that walks the line.”
AP: That was very nice of Buk, and we had a long close relationship, albeit by letter, when such a practice was fashionable. (He stretched a thin smile and grunted). Anyhow, that line I walked was more often of the two-edged sword variety. I was to have a book of love poems published alongside illustrations by a well-known artist. Until my publisher read the poems, telling me in bluntest terms that they were not in the least romantic; were, in fact, too hard-boiled and not love poems at all. (He mimed ripping up a contract and took a hit of beer).
SR: You could never be accused of being overly sentimental. In your poem Elegy for a Grandfather, you write: “and the scandal never grows old / of a happy lumberjack who lived on rotten whiskey / and died of sin and Quaker oats age 90 or so.” Shoot straight from the hip; take no prisoners; no retreat, baby, no surrender.
AP: Y’see? That’s it. Also, I was never asked to read in my hometown of Trenton until 1990. That’s after I’d received both the Order of Canada and the Order of Ontario. Why? Apparently, the general impression by those in power was that I used four-letter words habitually, to which my response was… (he leaned back in his chair, slapped the palms of his hands on the table, gave his face a stern look, and mock-bellowed): now this is gross calumny and criminal libel, not to mention it’s a fuckin’ lie. (He smacked the table top and roared with laughter).
SR: Leonard Cohen was fond of saying there are no dirty words, ever.
AP: Smart boy. A good poet; maybe a better songwriter. Is he still around?
SR: Passed, I’m afraid. Here’s a question for you, in your poem, One Rural Winter, you describe walking half a mile to the shithouse, where MacLean’s magazine provided the absorbing toilet tissue, and with your mind on the beautiful girl tacked to the wall, you managed to perform the necessary evacuation of the bowels, then “wiped and buttoned and zipped.”
AP: Anyone ever tell you you’ve got a pretty sharp memory for quotes and such?
SR: It’s a gift. Or a curse, depending.
AP: You must be a WOW at parties.
SR: Surprisingly, not so much. Anyway, did you ever ask yourself: is this too much information? Is this information fit subject matter for poetry?
AP: In a word, no. (He finished his beer and two more drinks arrived). I believe that we exist in a very tight-assed and restrictive society, especially around normal human physical functions. Not that much has changed over the centuries. In Jonathan swift’s 1732 poem, The Lady’s Dressing Room, our hero Strephon stumbles upon his sweetheart’s stinking chamber pot. He is aghast and disgusted discovering that: Oh, Celia, Celia, Celia shits! Swift was championed as a satirist of the norms of the day, while conversely vilified for his offensive and improper content. You can’t please everyone. And if you try, you please no one, especially yourself. I’m sorry, but I have to write the way I talk. Otherwise it’s complete and utter bullshit.
SR: Uh-huh. Noted Canadian formalist poet James Pollock, when asked to name one poet, living or dead, it seems everyone loves but him, replied: in Canada, Al Purdy. The emperor has no clothes.
AP: Hah! Never heard of him. And why should I give a rat’s ass about what he thinks of me or my poetry? It’s a free world. Everyone’s entitled to their opinion.
SR: (I chugged the remains of my one wine glass and swapped it with the fresh one). Back to the task at hand, how many books have you been asked to consider for this prize?
AP: (He checked his watch). Five. (He gazed across the room at a group of young men).
SR: Everything okay?
AP: Fine. Though I believe I have an arm-wrestling appointment with one of those fine gentlemen soon and I can tell that the table is getting restless.
SR: (I gazed at Al’s face. The bruises had cleared, not a mark on him). Bukowski said that most poetry lacked juice. Is that what you’ll be looking for? Juice? (Al and Bukowski shared much in common. Exuberant, antiacademic, prolific, scarred heavyweights, survivors, veterans of innumerable brawls, literary and not-so literary. Also, an appetite and burly love for strong drink and women, though in Al’s autobiography there was not a single mention of him straying from his long marriage with Eurithe, and I wondered if he was more talk than action in that department. Or if those more lurid details were kept out of public viewing due to the fact that Eurithe was still alive at the book’s printing, and would prove embarrassing to her, I had no idea. I was curious, naturally, but, as the subject matter was outside the purview of this present account, bordering as it did on the racy, the scandalous, and the sensationalist — as well as being above my pay scale — I didn’t delve into the topic).
AP: One lives in the hope. Beyond that, there’s the simple execution of the task.
SR: Someone walks away a winner.
AP: Exactly. Anyway, it was a pleasure being here, talking with you. (He extended a hand and we shook). I gather you’re a poet yourself, yes?
SR: Guilty.
AP: I assume I won’t find your name lumped among the five finalists.
SR: Unlikely.
AP: Good. Then we’ll leave it at that. I wouldn’t want to have to worry about anyone accusing me of favoritism because of our little talk here.
SR: Put your mind at rest.
AL: Fine. In that case, my eager opponent awaits. (A table had been set up in front of the stage with two chairs, one of which was occupied by a guy who could pass for an offensive lineman on the Toronto Argonauts, shirtsleeves rolled, arms muscular and tattooed, a Blue Jays cap on his head. Al stood, took a shot of beer, and hiked his pants). Wish me luck. Not that I’ll need it. (He winked at me, chuckled, and strode away).
I sat around for a few minutes while I worked on my wine. I suddenly recalled a film I’d seen, François Ozon’s Swimming Pool, where a publisher says to an unhappy novelist whose name had been omitted from contention for a literary prize: writing awards are like hemorrhoids, sooner or later every asshole gets one. Funny, I thought, and possibly true, though I’ve never had the pleasure, yet, of being that particular asshole.
Ah, well, there’s still time.
After some serious back and forth, Al managed to pin the other guy’s wrist to the table, which the guy didn’t take lightly. He leaned his big face into Al’s, spat a few choice obscenities, and poked a sausage-sized finger into Al’s chest. Being the street-fighter Al was, rather than argue needlessly, he sucker-punched the guy and knocked him and his chair crashing to the floor. The guy shot back up to his feet to see Al already dancing around the floor in front of him, spry as a bandy-legged young rooster, fists in the air, taunting.
I could tell, things were about to get serious. I sipped my wine and awaited the action. In his autobiography Al wrote of himself: “And I think I was a pretty callow 45-year-old back then, with too much ego and too little talent. So what does that make me now? Not much different, I think, except much older.”
Much older, perhaps, yes. Still, my money was squarely on the side of the poet.
Stan Rogal lives and writes in Toronto along with his artist partner Jacquie Jacobs. His work has appeared almost magically in numerous magazines and anthologies. The author of several books, plus a handful of chapbooks, a 13th poetry collection was published in March 2025 with ecw press. Co-founder of Bald Ego Theatre and former coordinator of the popular Idler Pub Reading Series.
