13 April 2022

Ten Poems for National Poetry Month, Number 5: 'Sad End of a Noted Politician' by James MacRae


For the month, the fifth of ten poems
find interesting, amusing, and/or infuriating.

To think I once worked to celebrate this horrible man.

I first learned of John J. MacDonald – "James MacRae" – a few months after moving to St Marys, the small Ontario town he adopted as his home. That introduction came through The Four James, William Arthur Deacon's 1927 study of MacRae and fellow poets James McIntyre, James Gay and James D. Gillis.

The four are forever united by that book. Indeed, their very legacies are crafted by that book and its subsequent reissues, the last of which was published forty-eight years ago by Macmillan.

"Canada's Four Worst- And Funniest-Poets."

They're not the four worst, nor are they the four funniest.

It's all too easy to see the Four Jameses as being similar (Paper Lace), when in fact they were actually very different from one another (The Beatles). McIntyre, the most prolific, was the most grounded. Like so much of his verse, 'Ode on the Mammoth Cheese,' his greatest hit, was intended to raise a smile at country fairs. Deacon encourages us to laugh at it, when we should be laughing with it. Gay, a loving and loveable loon who thought himself Tennyson's rival, is the most fun to read. Gillis wasn't so much a poet as a prose writer. He's included for no other reason than to make for a great title.

The differences between these four men is most evident in their respective reactions to the 1880 murder of politician and Globe publisher George Brown.

Unsurprisingly, the tragedy inspired no verse from prose-writer James Gillis. James McIntyre writes of his sorrow in a poem titled 'Departed Statesman.' James Gay expresses great affection for the fallen man with 'The Honourable G. Brown.' James MacRae's 'Sad End of a Noted Politician' is something else entirely.

A different kind of loon than Gay, much of MacRae's poetry is taken up by hate thrown on women, strangers, Protestants, and Liberals. 

'Sad End of a Noted Politician' comes from The Poems and Essays of John J. MacDonald, (Ottawa: Ru-Mi-Lou, 1928), the poet's third and final book.

MacDonald's nom de plume is misspelled on the cover.

SAD END OF A NOTED POLITICIAN

On a cold winter night, cruel death in its might,
Deprives Mr. Brown of his senses;
Now the joys that attend all his honours must end,
And his long night of sorrow commences.

As he hears the decree, he determines to flee
To the gate of the dwelling of glory,
But that gate he finds closed, and his entrance opposed,
Although sad to his party the story.

Thus insultingly used, thus disowned and refused,
He goes on in another direction;
At that medium place, where the Papists have grace,
He asks humbly for rest and protection.

But in vain as before for thgat rest to implore—
He must follow his downward gradation;
With the devil despite he soon meets at the gate,
And there follows this sort of conversation:—
 
     G.B.—Disappointed and grieved, of mu comforts bereaved,
                 And my relatives all at a distance,
                 I have come to request of you leave her to rest,
                 And to ask your paternal assistance.

     DEV.—Oh! my corpulent friend, I your case apprehend,
                 And will grant you coveted pittance;
                 If you tell me the claim that you have on the same
                 You will gain to my dwelling admittance.

     G.B.—It is little you know in these regions below;
                You must think I'm a Papist or Paddy;
                As a Child if you prize the retailer of lies,
                I can certainly claim you for daddy.

     DEV.—You must still keep aloof till you give me some proof
                 On your noble and worthy exertions;
                 For I oft shall mistake if I venture to take
                 Every wandering stranger's assertions.

     G.B.—In my nethermost robes I have brought you some globes,
                You will find them a recommendation;
                     They will prove beyond doubt that I laboured throughout
                 In extending your own dominion.

     DEV.—By the stories they tell now I know you too well,
                 And to have one more prudent would rather,
                 For, exposing my plan by the course which you ran,
                 You have brought disgrace on your father.

                 For to win the applause some men for my cause
                 Some discretion and caution are needed;
                 But, regardless of this, you have acted amiss,
                 And my wise inspirations unheeded.

                 But your failings I feel have resulted from zeal
                 To encourage your partners in evil;
                 So forgetting your sin, you may quietly come in
                 But you must be exceedingly civil.

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12 April 2022

Talking Ted Allan with Dick Bourgeois-Doyle



The second of my two conversations with Leacock Medal scholar Dick Bourgeois-Doyle is now available here on Soundcloud.

The topic is Ted Allan's Love is a Long Shot – in its 1949 and 1984 incarnations – and why I believe the latter was ineligible for the award.

I first wrote about Love is a Long Shot in the 2011 Fall/Winter issue of Canadian Notes & Queries; then reworked the piece for The Dusty Bookcase book. I'm sharing it here for the first time:


NEVER SO DISTURBING

Love is a Long Shot
Alice K. Doherty [pseud. Ted Allan]
Toronto: News Stand Library, 1949
160 pages

Can a writer, even a deceased writer, be stripped of the Leacock Medal? It’s a fair question, particularly when one considers the late Ted Allan, who received the honour in 1984 for Love is a Long Shot. This slight, uninspired novel tells the story of seventeen-year-old David Webber and his sometimes ribald adventures tending the till in a thirties-era Montreal cigar store-cum-bookie joint. It features a cast of characters that are characters; each ultimately and invariably proving themselves loveable types despite earlier indiscretions. Readers familiar with Lies My Father Told Me, the 1975 film that earned Allan an Academy Award nomination, will recognize some of these folks, including David’s frustrated inventor-father and his ideas for moveable cufflinks and permanently creased trousers.

This is not to suggest that there’s anything deceitful here; not with the film, at least. The overlap between Lies My Father Told Me and Love is a Long Shot is trifling, and in no way makes the latter ineligible for the Leacock. The medal’s rules inform: adaptations are fair game, we need only discount works of which “significant or substantial parts have been previously published in book form.”

Like so many tomes, the 1984 Love is a Long Shot includes a list of the author’s previous works. Allan’s first novel, This Time a Better Earth (1939), is followed by The Scalpel, The Sword (1952), the commercially successful biography of Norman Bethune that he wrote with Sydney Gordon. There’s Quest for Pajaro (1957), the science-fiction novel Allan published under nom de plume “Edward Maxwell,” and his children’s book Willie, the Squowse (1973). Also included is a comprehensive list of Allan’s plays and screenplays. What’s missing is telling: an earlier Love is a Long Shot.

Published by News Stand Library in September 1949, two months before newspaperman Al Palmer’s Sugar-Puss on Dorchester Street, this Love is a Long Shot holds the distinction of being the first pulp noir novel set in Montreal. Its setting is a Depression-era city that’s as dark as the second Love is a Long Shot is light. Where in the remake David Webber gets his job through a helpful, good-natured uncle, our desperate protagonist—recently orphaned teenager Katie Doheny—is out of options. Like David, she takes a job in a cigar store that’s little more than a front for illegal gambling. The early pages of the girl’s bleak world are broken by fleeting moments of black humour—all of which Allan reused in his Leacock-winning novel. Here, for example, is the most memorable, a comic scene that features Molly, the wife of the cigar-store owner. It begins with a boast:
“Never wore a corset in my life. Never had to.” She swaggered out from behind the counter.  “If you don’t believe me, feel,” she said, offering me her hip.
     “I believe you,” I said.
     “Feel. Feel. Don’t be shy.”
     I touched her quickly with the tips of my fingers.
     She started to laugh again, a loud, hearty laugh. “How old are you?”
     I dug the broom into the floor, pushed hard and told her my age.
     “I bet you never had a man.”
The Molly of the 1984 Love is a Long Shot, also married to the cigar-store owner, is equally proud:
“Never wore a corset in my life. Never had to.” Weaving from behind the counter, she offered me her backside. “If you don’t believe me, feel.”
     “I believe you.”
     “Feel, feel, don’t be shy.” She wiggled her behind. I touched her hip quickly with the tips of my fingers. This made her cackle. You have to hear a woman with a bass voice cackle before you can believe the sound.
     “So help me, he’s blushing. How old are you?”
     “I’m twenty-one,” I lied.
     “I bet you’re still a cherry.”
Any further frivolity in the original Love is a Long Shot is soon overwhelmed by the noir. The greatest difference between the two novels lies in their depictions of organized crime. While the Leacock-winning Love is a Long Shot has the “syndicate” as a group of misbehaving boys, the 1949 original comes uncomfortably close to ugly reality.

Young Katie falls for “tall, rugged-looking, tanned” mob boss Hazen Black, a relatively young man rendered impotent by a life of debauchery. In what is surely one of the darkest scenes in Canadian literature, the appropriately-named Black masturbates while instructing his henchman Herbert to rape Katie:

Herbert grabbed me and held his hand over my mouth. I tried to bite it. “Go ahead,” Black was shouting. “Go ahead, damn it, go ahead.” His eyes looked insane. His breath was coming in short gasps, as if he’d been running. He was close to me, but hadn’t touched me yet. “Go ahead. Pick up her dress… do it, do it, do it.”

The original Love is a Long Shot ain’t that pretty at all—nor is it funny. Printed only once, in a fragile, disposable edition that credits the author variously as “Alice K. Doherty,” “Alice H. Doherty,” and simply “Alice Doherty,” it slipped by the judges of the 1984 Stephen Leacock Memorial Medal for Humour. The most one can say about the award-winning Love is a Long Shot that is that is was far superior to the previous year’s winner, Gary Lauten’s No Sex Please… We’re Married. Allan didn’t deserve the honour; the $3,500 cheque should have rightfully gone to fellow nominee John Gray, whose debut novel, Dazzled, had been issued by the anaemic Irwin Publishing. It’s a sad fact that the best novel Ted Allan ever wrote was one that he chose not to recognize. A cheap mass-market paperback issued under a pseudonym that the publisher couldn’t get right, it has been out of print for over half a century.  

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11 April 2022

Talking Joan Walker with Dick Bourgeois-Doyle


This past weekend I had the pleasure of speaking with Dick Bourgeois-Doyle of Canus Humorous about the life and work of Joan Walker (née Suter), whose memoir Pardon My Parka received the 1954 Stephen Leacock Memorial Medal.

You can listen to our conversation here at Soundcloud, or if you prefer, the transcript can be found through this link to Canus Humorous.

10 April 2022

Ten Poems for National Poetry Month, Number 4: 'You' by Ram Spudd Stephen Leacock


For the month, the fourth of ten poems
find interesting, amusing, and/or infuriating.

Verse from Ram Spudd, "one of nature's gentlemen," as celebrated in Stephen Leacock's Moonbeams from the Larger Lunacy (Toronto: Gundy, 1915).

YOU

                                          You!
With your warm, full, rich, red, ripe lips,
And your beautifully manicured finger-tips!
                                          You!
With your heaving, panting, rapidly expanding and contracting chest,
Lying against my perfectly ordinary shirt-front and dinner-jacket vest.
                                 It is too much
                                 Your touch
                                 As such.
                                 It and
                                 Your hand,
                           Can you not understand?
Last night an ostrich feather from your fragrant hair
                                Unnoticed fell.
                                I guard it
                                Well.
                                Yestere’en
                           From your tiara I have slid,
                               Unseen,
                               A single diamond,
                               And I keep it
                               Hid.
Last night you left inside the vestibule upon the sill
                               A quarter dollar,
                               And I have it
                               Still.


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07 April 2022

Ten Poems for National Poetry Month, Number 3: 'My Little Suffragette' by Thaddeus A. Browne

For the month, the third of ten poems
I find interesting, amusing, and/or infuriating.

Thaddeus A. Browne had a decades-long career as an Ottawa civil servant, though his Citizen obituary (9 March 1935) makes more about his standing as a literary figure.

I'm not sure that Browne was a widely known as a writer of poems and prose; I'd never encountered his name before buying The White Plague and Other Poems (Toronto: William Briggs, 1909). Of its twenty-two poems, 'My Little Suffragette' is the second to take on soldiers in petticoats. 

MY LITTLE SUFFRAGETTE

                         Little blue-eyed suffragette,
                         What for suffrage calling yet?
                         Stop your worry, cease your fret,
                              Don't you see the harm it brings? 
                         If a vote were given you,
                         Many things no doubt you'd do,
                         You might mould the world anew
                              As upon its course it swings. 
                         But I want to tell you this,
                         Winsome little suffrage miss,
                         You are keeping me from bliss
                              By your interest in such things. 
                         You have worried my poor mind,
                         You have been to me unkind;
                         Good it is that Love is blind,
                              Or he might have taken wings. 
                         What! you did it just to tease!
                         Little minx, give me a squeeze.
                         Love you give me ecstasies
                              What's your choice of wedding rings?
Remarkably, the poet did marry... though not until middle age.

 Thaddeus Augustine Browne
1878-1935
RIP