Tom Swift Remembered

September 9th, tomorrow, is the 6th anniversary of my father's death, from a blood-clot in hospital, while recovering from surgery on his brain for cancer. He was a kind, gentle, witty man, very shy, insecure, nervous. But he was proud of his rise from a working-class Irish-Canadian background to become the youngest director of admissions at a North American university, in the late 60s, after leaving behind a promising music career as a recording artist with Decca and London records. He did an excellent job at Sir George Williams, later Concordia, university. He put students first. He had a great voice, loved to sing, play baseball, swim, and was good with animals. He was very loyal to his friends, compassionate with students, and protective of his family. Sadly, he suffered from anxiety and depression, which he tried to deal with by drinking too much. However, after a difficult period in his Forties, and after a mild stroke, he sorted out his demons, and was happily retired, for a few years, when the cancer struck at age 64. By 66 he was dead. His funeral was a large event, with hundreds of former students, employees, colleagues, and friends, converging on the tiny quaint Protestant Church in St-Lambert where he had been married, almost exactly 40 years before. His illness was painful, slow, humiliating, and he faced it bravely, and head on, enduring several trying and innovative surgical interventions, having to relearn to speak after the first operation. Life is cruel. My father was kind. He is survived by his brother Graham, his wife, Margaret, and his two sons, Jordan and Todd, and their families.

Tom Swift, with my mother, Margaret, at my wedding, June 6, 2003, Co. Louth, Ireland

IQ AND THE POETS - ARE YOU SMART?

When you open your mouth to speak, are you smart? A funny question from a great song, but also, a good one, when it comes to poets, and poetry. We tend to have a very ambiguous view of intelligence in poetry, one that I'd say is dysfunctional. Basically, it goes like this: once you are safely dead, it no longer matters how smart you were. For instance, Auden was smarter than Yeats , but most would still say Yeats is the finer poet; Eliot is clearly highly intelligent, but how much of Larkin 's work required a high IQ? Meanwhile, poets while alive tend to be celebrated if they are deemed intelligent: Anne Carson, Geoffrey Hill , and Jorie Graham , are all, clearly, very intelligent people, aside from their work as poets. But who reads Marianne Moore now, or Robert Lowell , smart poets? Or, Pound ? How smart could Pound be with his madcap views? Less intelligent poets are often more popular. John Betjeman was not a very smart poet, per se....

Poetry vs. Literature

Poetry is, of course, a part of literature. But, increasingly, over the 20th century, it has become marginalised - and, famously, has less of an audience than "before". I think that, when one considers the sort of criticism levelled against Seamus Heaney and "mainstream poetry", by poet-critics like Jeffrey Side , one ought to see the wider context for poetry in the "Anglo-Saxon" world. This phrase was used by one of the UK's leading literary cultural figures, in a private conversation recently, when they spoke eloquently about the supremacy of "Anglo-Saxon novels" and their impressive command of narrative. My heart sank as I listened, for what became clear to me, in a flash, is that nothing has changed since Victorian England (for some in the literary establishment). Britain (now allied to America) and the English language with its marvellous fiction machine, still rule the waves. I personally find this an uncomfortable position - but when ...

"I have crossed oceans of time to find you..."

In terms of great films about, and of, love, we have Vertigo, In The Mood for Love , and Casablanca , Doctor Zhivago , An Officer and a Gentleman , at the apex; as well as odder, more troubling versions, such as Sophie's Choice and Silence of the Lambs . I think my favourite remains Bram Stoker's Dracula , with the great immortal line "I have crossed oceans of time to find you...".

E Y E W E A R, THE BLOG - FREEDOM MEANS BEING UNAFRAID TO WRITE WHAT YOU THINK

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