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

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...

Sad news.   David Cameron's fathe r has died.  As Nick Robinson observes , the Prime Minister has had an exceptionally stressful last few years: a child of his died two years ago; he fought an election; and has moved house; now he is grieving his father - one of the most painful of all human experiences, to lose a parent, as many of us, unfortunately, know from experience.   Eyewear wishes him peace and hope in this very sorrowful time.  My father's fourth anniversary is tomorrow - September 9th.  He died of brain cancer in hospital, after going through a very difficult period, over a year or so, with several operations, and many humiliations and challenges.  It broke my heart, it's been tough to get over that.  I am just now coming to terms with his loss - the good and bad of it - and all the memories and feelings that flood in.  So, I comprehend, as much as possible - as much as one person can try to feel for another - how Mr. Cameron is feeli...

The sale the other day of Action Comics #1 for a million dollars is both bound to raise a smile and a question. First, the nostalgia - my Dad once reputedly owned this comic, and sold it used for a nickel on St. Catherine Street, Montreal, when he was a little boy. Subsequently his mother threw out many other classic comics of the era, as he grew up. That's why these comics are so rare nowadays - spring cleaning and dog-eared over reading. That's the fun part. While I loved comics, and still do - and therefore am glad they are valued and collected - I wonder how many poetry books from 1938 are being bought and sold for a million in cold hard cash. Not many. I wonder, Eyewear fans - what book would you buy, if you could afford it, for such a mighty sum?

This is the third anniversary of my father's death from brain cancer. I miss him. I do feel his presence, from time to time. My faith is shaken, I confess. Tested but not lost. I am currently facing a diagnosis of having a disease of the oesophagus, which, while treatable, can lead to worse things, and has some painful implications. Not a great time to take up throat singing. There a few new poems for my father in my new collection, to be launched on the feast day of Our Lady of Sorrows. I noted in the weekend papers that religion might be "hardwired" into our brains. The ambiguity continues. Some will see this as proof of God's design, others of the strictly mechanistic explanation of the universe. To my mind, since love, taste, desire, sight, and all other of the things that make existence rich and deep, stem from the brain and its chemistry, it can hardly be a small thing for belief or faith to reside there as well. Since neuro-chemistry is part of the fab...

Today, September 9th, is the second anniversary of my father's death. I tend not to get personal at Eyewear , but the grief over his loss has shadowed these posts and pages these past two years, in different ways. Firstly, I turned to this blog as an occasional diversion from the darker truths of existence: beyond poetics, beyond (even!) art, lies mortality. Some may feel another life waits, on some other side. Or not. I feel there are ghostly presences, if not demarcations, and have, at times, seen a dead one walking, if only in dreams ( Orbison 's tremulous sanctum). Where is my father now? Not here, is the only answer. I think of him still, often, and he has become - death does this to perspective - both more clear, and yet, less full - sometimes I think I discern a pattern, a shape, a meaning. Then no. As with Milton 's wife, one wakes and sees the beloved has fled. I am only writing this because death and loss are universal, not particular - everyone has this line acro...

My father, Thomas Swift , pictured, who died just over 14 months ago, was born on this day in 1939. He'd have been 68 today. Thinking of him, I offer this poem, about him and my mother, first published in Winter Tennis (DC Books, 2007). Action Comics Tom Swift sold Action Comics Outside the Amazing Gladstone’s Theatrical Acts of Illusion To men and women in Forties hats Who’d pay a nickel for diversion, Some men stooping for Blackhawk, Women reaching for Plastic Man. Far beyond the magician’s curtains, A fighter pilot was sawn in half By a German’s ack-ack, or some "Jap" With a sneer would make the heroine Disappear with rope and a blackjack. All this action without applause, In the theatre of war, that long winter Sometime just after ‘44, when My mother was born, in Quebec, Unaware my father would sneak Up on ice skates and blind her eyes With mittens like the fold Gladstone tied round his assistant’s Pretty face, but not as cold. poem by Todd Swift