Irving Layton

[tomsakic]

More pics at CTV Canada - http://www.ctv.ca/servlet/ArticleNews/s ... hub=Canada

[PhilMader]

My parents were post War immigrants to Montreal (1951) and I was raised and schooled there till the age of 12 in what was then the other Jewish ghetto, (not the traditional one) , that of the Snowden district.

The uniqueness of Jewish life in Montreal was not only a consequence of the rich matrix of culture and activism and commerce created by its sons and daughters but also the result of a comingling of cultures, especially with the Anglo-Celtic and French Canadian mainstreams. Jewish immigrants of the 20th century arrived in Montreal to find a city filled with French Canadian joie de vivre combined with a deep stirring Catholic religiosity and spirituality, though sometimes from that same place came occasionally a cold stare at them of hatred and even street violence.

Back in Eastern Europe, the Russian Czar wanted two things of their Jews: to starve and to vanish, but in that Quebec port city, the Scottish and English Montrealers set them up in their classrooms and gave them a basic education and, above all, a love of the English language, and for that we are deeply indebted. They too may have put up barriers to us but we learned to climb over them. Meanwhile our fathers and grandfathers earned a living from selling goods from door to door.

My father, like Irving Layton, plied the trade of peddler in the working class areas of Montreal where sometimes a child could be heard yelling..." Hey mom , your Jew is coming!!" The perilous metal staircases of working class houses grew from the ground high into the air like metallic cocoons, but in Montreal's harsh winters they were more like icicles, and that is what they had to climb with their valises full of goods, day after day.

I would like, as well, to dedicate this poem I dedicated to the memory of my father, Julien Mader, to the memory of Irving Layton.

MY FATHER

And as I danced and sang beneath
The willow tree, kicking up the dust
With small child's feet in the
Hot noon-time of chocolate
And candied playlands
And wide-eyed school yards
My father broke his back beneath
The same scorching sun
Climbing up and down impossible staircases
Selling his weary
Goods from door to door.

And on the day of rest
I rode his tired back
A midget cowboy
Rejoicing in the desert dreamland
Of our ordinary abode.

I was the spark that cleansed your blood
The wash of wine that flushed the dross.
"My son, my son, do not leave me."
But I did.
I left you like all good sons
One day must.

And at the moment of your last child
Abandoning your hard-earned house
It must have torn into you
Like no other memory
Like some other kind of cruelty.

And as I sang and danced
Beneath the willow tree
He broke his back beneath
The same scorching sun
Climbing impossible staircases
Clutching an impossible star.

[Tchocolatl]

What can you expect in a "new world" constructed on the destruction of the culture of the autochtons by Europeans, anyway?

(However British were real gentlemen, compared to other European rulers, and this can never be denied. (But the time was to colonialism. Colonialism is a hum-hum thing). They were business men first, their colonial activities were not cruel but based on efficiency - they used the energy of their "slaves" for their profit, which means they need their energy and help their potential to develop at some point - but not much than a trained horse, if you know what I mean. But, all their "kindness" did not stop Irving to fight his ground and push them back on their Island, though - this only to stress that I have difficiculties with self pity (the all-good-person againts the all-bad-world)be it for individual, or a group, particularly when this self pity exclude compassion for the miseries of other individuals and/or group and/or when another individual or a group is taken as a skape goat to sacrifice to the gods to ends the sufferings (generally caused by the beliefs of the individual and/or group. P.S. : As far as I know (I'm not sure though, I'll check) French Université de Montréal was the first to open his doors to Jews - before the Anglo did - but the language of the rulers was English and most immigrants (I understand them) choose to join the group which seems to have the most potential in term of power. Why not?Times are changing and times are changing fast. What was true 10 years, even 1 year ago may be obsolet now, it would be too sad to fall in the trap created by our sole mind not tuned on present time and reality - I think that what is important and beautiful in the work of Layton is this huge cry and its battle of words againts injustice where ever he was seing it - end of the lecture )

To come back to Irving Layton and the due respect for him, I think it is existing and not the contrary. Well. If I don't bring those articles (and there is more) here, it seems nobody will do. So. (warning : they are not equally interesting - some are much interesting, some others of little interest, but they are all a tribute and/or they contained some info about IL and they show how he is recognized).


http://info.branchez-vous.com/Arts/060108/A010812U.html

http://www.cyberpresse.ca/article/20060 ... 0/CPARTS02

http://www.parl.gc.ca/Information/about ... m?param=37

http://www.collectionscanada.ca/quoi-de ... 247-f.html

http://www.mri.gouv.qc.ca/_scripts/Actu ... 74&lang=fr

http://www.lelibraire.org/detail_actualites.asp?cat=1

http://www2.canoe.com/artsetculture/act ... 10649.html

http://www.tv5.org/TV5Site/lf/actualite ... b83csl.xml

http://www.gg.ca/media/doc.asp?lang=f&DocID=4650




This one I find it particularly interesting :

http://www.erudit.org/revue/meta/2000/v ... 2080ar.pdf

[Kevin W.M.LastYearsMan]

Jarkko, Thanks for posting that story from the Gazette. I hadn't seen that one. Good article, and "Our Man" still knows how to dress.

Phil, I enjoyed your poem and descriptions of your life, and father in Montreal. I suppose if it was me walking down the street the kids would say, "Mom. Your mutt is coming."

Kevin

[Tchocolatl]

This poetry of Layton was such necessary - it is so true. The anger, the rage. Flamboyant memories to be sure that nobody can deny or forget (forgive is another story - but forget : never) about the unbearable, the unspeakable. The horror I feel in the contact of this part of History, is that it was so "ordinary" people. The almighty authorities in front of what most people follow without a second thought. Brrrr. How could they have done this? I still can explain, really.

In this regard I like also this poem of Keith Barnes :

This is Leather

This is the smell of holster revolver
not the smell of flesh but the boot the belt
- this is noone's particular nightmare -
pores that breathe no more polished air shined out


This is the faint but distinct deodor
of those who can't smell their flesh anymore


It is the soap on the knuckles that rap
the starch in the pressed shirt that covers the arm
which flexes the thumb to press the button
or trigger slam back the bolt fly cartridge


This is the fresh (and keeps you fresh all day)
smell of those who no longer stand their flesh
It is the buck smell of the uniform
the smelless innocence of the team


And this is the smell of authorisation
This smell in the hand is paper : carte blanche

Source : http://www.keith-barnes.com/themes_en.htm

[Anne]

http://www.macleans.ca/culture/art/arti ... 554_119554

January 10, 2006

Irving Layton: the world, the flesh and the devilish poet

He linked Canada, poetry and passion unlike anyone else before or since

ROY MACSKIMMING

It's hard to imagine Irving Layton without his memory. The combative poet was a great lover and hater who never forgot an insult or a beautiful woman -- and commemorated both in irascible or adoring verse. But Layton spent his last days in tranquil forgetfulness. Once Canada's most renowned and controversial poet, he died from Alzheimer's disease at 93 in Montreal on Jan. 4. He was an oft-married man whose turbulent love life became as notorious as his poetry, yet at the height of his creative powers in the 1950s and '60s, Layton transformed Canadian literature through the brilliant sensuality and emotional power of his writing. More than anyone before or since, he got Canadians excited about poetry and the possibility of living with passion.

This was no mean feat in a society deformed, as Layton saw it, by repressive Christian gentility. He was a bawdy champion of the erotic when sexual mores were frozen in convention. In poems such as "Divinity" and "The Day Aviva Came to Paris," he openly worshiped at the altar of flesh. His caustic satire flayed equally the prude and the philistine. Rejecting an ivory-tower notion of poetry, he claimed for himself the mantle of Hebrew prophets and insisted the true poet "addresses mankind at large, not small coteries of the sensitive and frightened."

Layton was also a moralist who exposed passion's dark side -- human cruelty and evil. He might have been a mere scold or self-promoter -- he entitled his autobiography Waiting for the Messiah, the chosen one being himself -- if he hadn't written so superbly. Under the bombast and braggadocio lay a rare gift that produced a fistful of enduring poems. Many of the best are in A Red Carpet for the Sun, which won the Governor General's Award for poetry in 1959. Layton drew on a mix of traditional and contemporary styles, his oracular voice infusing them with startling imagery and mercurial rhetoric.

He was born Israel Lazarovitch in 1912 in Romania, the youngest of eight children in a Jewish family that immigrated to Montreal the next year. He grew up poor and tough in the teeming, multi-ethnic neighbourhood immortalized by Mordecai Richler. From his aloof, otherworldly father, Layton acquired his love of the word. From his domineering mother, he learned to be "vituperative, fierce and unaccommodating," as he described her in a memorable poem.

Intellectually restless and ambitious, but emotionally insecure, Layton was in his 30s before he discovered his true calling. Montreal was the cockpit of modernism in English-Canadian poetry, and Layton fell in with the city's young, quarrelsome poets. His early work appeared in the magazine First Statement, edited by fellow free spirit John Sutherland. Layton fell in love with Sutherland's sister Betty, a talented painter (they were half-siblings of actor Donald Sutherland), and married her a week after his divorce from his first wife. Supporting Betty and their two children with an assortment of teaching jobs, Layton found happiness in composing poems: "Never before had I known such ecstasy, such release and joy." He wrote prodigiously, producing over a dozen collections in the '50s alone.

With his burning romantic gaze and leonine mane, Layton was the archetypal poet -- and a media star. He made wonderful copy and even better television, becoming a frequent panel guest on the CBC's Fighting Words, where he fired off provocative salvoes on politics, religion and morality. An inspiring teacher, Layton mentored younger writers, including Leonard Cohen and Al Purdy, with an exceptional generosity of spirit. His first-born son, Max, once referred to these proteges as his father's "spiritual sons." The difficulty of being his natural offspring became clear when Layton's younger son, David, produced Motion Sickness, a memoir of life with father. Born to Layton and his long-time third partner Aviva Layton, David depicted his upbringing, not without affection, as awash in emotional chaos, his aging dad as monstrously self-absorbed.

This dark filial view reinforced the unflattering image painted earlier by Layton's biographer. Elspeth Cameron unsparingly detailed his fraught relationships with women, including Harriet Bernstein, who at 30 wed the 66-year-old poet and became mother of his youngest child, and Anna Pottier, his final partner, who ended up leaving him. Cameron's portrait reduced Layton to an overindulged mama's boy, a crude peasant on the make.

Such negative reassessments were perhaps inevitable. Both the sexual revolution and feminism had overtaken Layton, rendering his attitudes and behaviour undeniably sexist. But none of it erased his stature in the eyes of his followers. When he turned 85 in 1997, already stricken with Alzheimer's, Montreal's literary and Jewish communities packed the Centaur Theatre for a giant birthday bash. It was Layton's last public appearance, an evening of readings, nostalgia and testimonials, and it overflowed with love. He was declared "the soul of the city." Leonard Cohen stated: "We have among us tonight one of the greatest writers the West has ever produced."

Layton, his mane now snow-white, looked on in wonder and smiled slowly. "Glorious," he said, when asked how he felt. "I'm trying to keep my head from swelling."

[lizzytysh]

Yes, a beautiful photo and article, Jarkko. The article you've posted, as well, Anne. The kind that elicit genuine appreciation and give a sense of the man, both the good and the bad, yet memorable... gloriously memorable.

I really enjoyed these two sentences:

This was no mean feat in a society deformed, as Layton saw it, by repressive Christian gentility. He was a bawdy champion of the erotic when sexual mores were frozen in convention.

and Leonard's position of class:

Declining to relate anecdotes that "don't bear repeating," Cohen insisted "what bears repeating endlessly are these poems that live and will continue to live."

I look forward to reading the links of multiple articles that you've posted, Tchocolatl.

Phil ~ I've hesitated to comment on what others have written, on this Layton thread, itself; however, since some comments have gone in that direction, I want to tell you what a clear and sparkling piece you've written as the lead-in to your poem, and then the poem itself, so tender and poignant, and true, from a man's eyes looking back to his father through his childhood. Really beautiful and a wonderful tribute to your father, as well as to Irving, regarding the environment from which they both came.

~ Lizzy

[Tchocolatl]

The articles, they are more or less all the same, Lz, it is just to stress to Phil that Layton is not the "poor misunderstood not respected guy" that Phil did think he was, just because of this (just one) dark article. There is enough real sad things in the world Phil, I really hope you enjoy that Layton is worshipped as he deserved. And think about it : it is a very great luck for him that he lived here, because he would never have the freedom to express his idea in Romania. The bright sides of all this exist, dear.

P.S. as for this comment about the repressive Christian gentilly etc. I feel a little concern - who would not. And I laugh because I know that Richler and Leonard Cohen were censured by their own Jewish community, but never by the Christian communities of Montréal. Very funny, though to read this

This said, I pay a tribute to Layton, the poet, with a minute (at least) of silence.

[icecreamtruck]

You can also hear some of Leonard's Eulogy and his post funeral comments at the CTV website. Choose the 2 min version.

[lizzytysh]

Thank you for that valuable link, icecreamtruck. I've just come from there. So good to hear Leonard's words and Irving's words, in their own voice... not that I haven't heard both before, but especially now.

~ Lizzy

[PhilMader]

Liz,
Thanks for your kind articulate words re: my last posting. I much appreciated your eloquent support with regard to the nastiness of Stephen Marche's literary obituary, which, sadly, is the only remaining link on CBC.ca to Irving Layton - which, considering the number of positive articles put up by that website, speaks volumes in and of itself.
The CBC began with an insult and ends with an insult.

Liz, I did complain (under my nick Ted T. Edwards) to the CBC Ombudsman and the reply is below:

Dear Mr. Edwards:
>
> I write to acknowledge receipt of your communication, which I have
> shared with Greig Dymond, Senior Producer of CBC Arts Online.
>
> Yours truly,
>
> Vince Carlin
> CBC Ombudsman
>
----------------



tchocatl, I think it good that you put some perspective where needed on my comments. I do have a quibble with regard to your explanation of why Jews went so readily anglophone.

My mother was Parisian (Jewish). In the early 1950s, she wanted to put us into the French school system in Montreal, but, in those days that system was so confessional, so deeply Catholic , that it would have compromised her childrens' identity. The Protestant anglophone system, though still profoundly immersed in British Empire lore (that had little to do with us) and demanding Protestant praying and hymn singing of its pupils, limited religious elements to about 45 min. per day.

This seemed much more acceptable not only to her but to generations of Jewish immigrants. Well...once one was educated in the English tongue and culture, it made it very difficult to then quickly swerve back into the Montreal French stream of life.

[PhilMader]

tchocolatl,
Thanks for the many French links re: Layton. I will surely look them over.

best, Phil

[PhilMader]

Kevin.
Thanks for your kind words re: my poem and related.


best, Phil

[lizzytysh]

Dear Phil ~

Your father loved you dearly, with his days of rest being his days of love, devoted to your childhood need for a meaningful life with him. You've very movingly reframed what you can see now, but couldn't see then. He deeply loved and worked very hard for you and the rest of his family.

It's atrocious that the CBC would leave such a horrifying obituary in place, much less allow it to be the only thing remaining. Pure insult. It begs exploration of whatever 'politics' were roiling beneath for years. There's more than meets the eye [already more than enough to burn], with that being their official, final 'say' on Irving's death and life.

Going by the "Ombudsman"'s curt response to your complaint, saying nothing, it's clear that the CBC is well practiced at callously making a person feel invisible. Their acronym might as well be CBC ~ Curtly Broadcast Callousness.

That's a very interesting explanation you've made on the impact of the Jewish, immigrant people coming up against the French school system, so steeped in Catholicism. I imagine it from my own perspective of being raised Christian, and briefly investigating conversion, but finding myself so alienated by some of its tenets that I simply couldn't. The chasm would have been so much greater, were I Jewish. What you've said makes a lot of very common sense.

Musia Schwartz ~ I have footage of her with Irving and Leonard, which I'm sure you've seen. She so clearly loved him. With such devotion through it all, when so many others distanced themselves, for whatever rationale or reason, she was there for him to the very moment of his end. It's a travesty to consider that she would be eclipsed during such a crucial time of closure for her. Yet, for such a person, so well known to be an intimate part of his life for so many years, to not even be mentioned. How can that be!?! What does that say!?! It's unthinkable. I cannot imagine such cruel exclusion.

I saw Leonard briefly hug and speak with Irving's latest wife, who left him because it was too hard on her to watch his deterioration. Enjoyed him during the good years, abandoned him during the bad. Where was Musia? The woman who loved him. Love is a verb. An action word, even in its passive form of staying; rather than its active one of leaving, carrying away all those good feelings from the past. I know a certain amount of compassion is due his latest wife, just because... yet, my compassion searches for Musia. Perhaps, we'll hear that... in Irving's devotion to justice, that after all these years, his own, loving and devoted, loyal caretaker and friend has not, in his final hour, suffered the greatest injustice of all. Pray she simply prefers her privacy.

~ Lizzy

[PhilMader]

Lizzy,
Once again, your understanding is cherished.

best, Phil