A manifesto on the poetics of Asphodel Twp.
Sadto hear, via the Canadian Bookbinders and Book Artists Guild (through a facebook post) that Canadian bookbinder Michael Wilcox has died. Back out in2011 (July, I think) we drove out to Big Cedar so Christine could interview himfor the CBBAG magazine, and she brought me along for the sake of the three-plushour drive, as well as for the fact that the Wilcox was well-known for hisgruffness. Wilcox was a Master Bookbinder, and had been decades been repairingbooks for the University of Toronto Rare Books Library, driving up to pick upbooks to take home for repair (I suspect he was the only one allowed to leavethat building with any of their materials).
Wedropped into his studio, and apparently the fact that I tagged-along allowedfor some stories he might not have told. Before the interview officially began,he showed us his studio workshop, including the incredible array of tools he’d hand-made.Given I’m unaware of most printing and book-repair tools (especially then), I keptasking him what various items and equipment were and were for, which wouldprompt him to tell a small story for each (stories he might not have told,Christine says, as she would have known what all that equipment was). It was aninteresting visit, and his wife Suzanne was delightful, and she said we couldcome back and visit at any time (he didn’t seem against the idea, but also notthe sort of thing he might have offered). I’m wishing we would have taken her upon that (although he and Christine did correspond quite a bit after our visit).
Here'sa poem I wrote them, after we landed back home (and yes, they did live inAsphodel Township):
A manifesto on the poetics of Asphodel Twp.
for Michael & Suzanne Wilcox,
Ihave forgot
and yet I see clearly enough
something
centralto the sky
which ranges round it.
William Carlos Williams, “Asphodel, That Greeny Flower”
1.
If Heaven, river. What greeny something. Shine,Kawartha Highlands. Lake, and early hum. Once, in the shadows. Glowingoutwards, temperate. Ontario syntax. Reassuring this, and self. A revelation,you. I see the world. Claw, in architecture. Bipolar lift, a tongue. A peacethe mind can breathe. Although the dark remains, small lights in favour.Celebration, soar.
2.
The mouth, at Cameron's Point. An acid-free layer.Craft: a promise, fold. Is this all nothing? Repair, a situation. Sorrow, and acock-eyed grin. In this room, this other room. A complicated, binding. Thismorning, Highway 7. Double-binding, surface of a still. Lovesick Lake, meetinghip to shape to shore to night. A glacier, made. Such frozen light.
3.
Asphodel, greeny flower. Surveyed in 1820, RichardBirdsal. To warm up, bottles under covers. All the uphill way. If it is,repeated. Notes, and highway. Hummingbird feeders, to keep from ants, fromblack bears. An empty bench, among. Back and forth, snow-scribbling. Some otherstar. The metaphor: cast iron, photo-legal. Walking. John Becket and his wife,five children.
4.
You left your mark. Combination of industry. Vaguelyseen, but can't cross. Waterskin. Go, central-eastern. The shores of Rice Lake,frequent. Burned away. Big Cedar, smoke. Yours, truly. Tell, no other story.Picked up, by useless clouds. Such well-bred manner, brush. Such lovely liquid.A leather casing, isolation. Those that have the will.
