Sad news. Jay Macpherson,
a poet of eccentric genius, and one of Canada’s greatest writers, has died. Evan Jones and I quickly agreed she was one
of only a handful of poets who definitely had to be included in our 2010
anthology for Carcanet, Modern Canadian Poets.
Born in June 1931 in England, she remained a quasi-reclusive figure for most of her adult life, albeit a
professor at the University of Toronto.
It remains a mystery to me as to why she is not known as one of the last
centuries best poets – her work was as
if Stevie Smith had the academic mind of Northrop Frye. Her style – quirky, mythic, brilliantly lyric
and concise, inspired me when I began writing.
She showed it was possible to write intelligent, elegant, sophisticated
formal poems in Canada.
A poem for my mother, July 15 When she was dying And I was in a different country I dreamt I was there with her Flying over the ocean very quickly, And arriving in the room like a dream And I was a dream, but the meaning was more Than a dream has – it was a moving over time And land, over water, to get love across Fast enough, to be there, before she died, To lean over the small, huddled figure, In the dark, and without bothering her Even with apologies, and be a kiss in the air, A dream of a kiss, or even less, the thought of one, And when I woke, none of this had happened, She was still far distant, and we had not spoken.

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