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Civil Elegies, and Other Poems by Dennis Lee read pdf on iphone

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So much is gone now, bright and suicidal,so much is on the verge.What good are words among therock, the glittering wreckage?Fallout falls; the empires breedthe nightmares that they need.The only word are livesFriend. Friend.- In a Bad Time, pg. 19* * *If I take up space in the silence, master, friend -let it be, we all live here and do not matter.So I did my shabby trick again; weboth saw it happen, I wont get away with it.And nothing is enough. I did not say thatfor content, it was a greeting.No listen, I still dont know but what does thatmatter? Listen. It is. It is. It is.- Words for the Given, pg. 27* * *Often I sit in the sun and brooding over the city, alwaysin airborne shapes among the pollution I hear them, returning;pouring across the squarein fetid descent, they darken the towersand the wind-swept place of meeting and wheneverthe thick air clogs my breathing it teems with their presence.Many were born in Canada, and living unlived lives they diedof course but died truncated, stunted, never athome in native space and not yetcitizens of a human body of kind. And in Canadathat specialized in this deprivation. Therefore the spectres arrive, congregating in bitter droves, thick in the April sunlight,accusing us and we are no different, though you would not expectthe furies assembled in hogtown and ring me round, invisible, demandingwhat time of our lives we wait for till we shall start to be.Until they come the wide square stretches outserene and singly by moments it takes us in, each one for nowa passionate civil man, until itsends us back to the acres of gutted intentions,back to the concrete debris, to parking scars and the four-square tiersof squat and righteous lives. And hereone more, I watch the homing furies arrival.I sat one morning by the Moore, off to the westten yards and saw though diffident my city nailed against the skyin ordinary glory.It is not much to ask. A place, a making,two towers, a teeming, a genesis, a city.And the men and women moved in their own space,performing their daily lives, and their presence occurredin time as it occurred, patricians inmuddy York and made their compact together against the gangs of the new.And as that crumpled before the shambling onset, again thelives we had not lived in phalanx invisibly strainingthe square and vistas, casting back I sawregeneration twirl its blood and the revels ridingriderless down Yonge Street, plain men muchgoaded by privilege - our other origin, and criedMackenzie knows a word, Mackenzieknows a meaning! bu it was not true. Eight hundred-odd steely Canadiansturned tail at the cabbage patch when a couple of bullets fizzedand the loyalists, scared skinny by the sound of their own gunfire,gawked and bolted south to the fort like rabbits,the rebels for their part bolting north to the pub: the firstspontaneous mutual retreat in the history of warfare.Canadians, in flight.Buildings oppress me, and the sky-concealing wiresbunch zigzag through the air. I knowthe dead persist inbuildings, by-laws, porticos - the city I live inis clogged with their presence; theydawdle about in our lives and form a destiny, stillincomplete, still dead weight, stilldemanding whether Canada will be.But the mad bomber, Chartier of Major Stret, Chartiersaid it: that if a country has no past,neither is it a country and promptlyblew himself to bits in the parliament john, leaving as civil testamentassorted chunks of prophet, twitching andbobbing to rest in the flush.And what can anyone do in this country, baffled andmaking our penance for ancestors, what did they leave us? Indian-swindlers,stewards of unclaimed earth and rootless what does it matter if they, ourforebears flesh and bone were oftengood men, good men do not matter to history.And what can we do here now, for at last we have no notionof what we might have come to be in America, alternative, and how make publica presence which is not sold out utterly to the modern? utterly? to thesavage inflictions of what is for real, it pays off, it is onlyaccidentally less than human?In the city I long for, green trees stillasphyxiate.The crowds emerge at five from jobsthat rankle and lag. Heavy developerspay off aldermen still; the craft of neighbourhood,its whichway streets and generationsanger the planners, they go on jamming their mapswith asphalt panaceas; single menstill eke out evenings courting, in parks, alone.A man could spend a lifetime looking forpeace in the city. And the lives give way around him - marriagesfounder, the neighbourhoods sag - untilthe emptiness comes down on him to stay.But in the city I long for men completetheir origins. Among the tangle ofhydro, hydrants, second mortgages, amidthe itch for new debentures, greater expressways, in sober alarm they jam their works of progress, asking where in truththey come from and to whom they must belong.And thus they clear a space in which the full desires of those that begot them, great animating desiresthat shrank and grew hectic a the land pre-empted their livesmight still take root, which eddy now anddrift in the square, being neither alive nor dead.And the people accept a flawed inheritancean they give it a place in their midst, forfeiting progress, forfeitingdollars, forfeiting yankee visions of cities that in time it might growwhole at last in their lives, they mightbelong once more to their forebears, becoming their own men.To be our own men! in dread to livethe land, our own harsh country, beloved, the prairie, the foothills -and for me it is lake by rapids by stream-fed lake, threadingnorth through the terminal vistas of black spruce, in abitter, cherished land it is farm afterfarm in the waste of the continental outcrop -for me it is Shield bu wherever terrain informs our lives and claims us;and then, no longer haunted byunlived presence, to live the cities:to furnish, out of the traffic and smog and the shambles of dead precursors,a civil habitation that ishuman, and our own.The spectres drift across the square in rows.How empire permeates! And we sit downin Nathan Phillips Square, among the sun,as if our lives were real.Lacunae. Parking lots. Regenerations.Newsstand euphorics and Revells sign, that notone countryman has learned, thatmen and women live thatthey may make thatlife worth dying. Living. Hey,the dead ones! Gentlemen, generations ofacquiescent sprectres gawk at the chromeon American cars on Queen Street, gawk and slump and retreat.And over the square where I sit, congregating above the Archerthey crowd in a dense baffled throng and the sun does not shine through.- Civil Elegies, 1, pg. 33-36

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