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The Least Important Man
The least important man was a boy in the 1970s. He remembers clubhouses, plastic soldiers, swimming lessons, rocket launches, a grandfather’s letters from World War I. Those days are long gone, now the least important man is grown up. He lives in the city. He suffers endless rush hours, he dreams of other places, he drinks cheap coffee and crosses streets and sees explosions on the TV news. But through it all he’s still thinking about that old life, and wondering what it meant, and asking in his quiet way how he might reconcile two such transient worlds with each other.
The Least Important Man is the second collection from Gerald Lampert Prize-winning poet Alex sober, self-sacrificing, and handsome, it’s a book for those who want poetry to reassert its dignity and authority in everyday life.
Alex Boyd is the author of Making Bones Walk (Luna Publications 2007) and the winner of the Gerald Lampert Award. He lives in Toronto, Ontario.
The Least Important Man is the second collection from Gerald Lampert Prize-winning poet Alex sober, self-sacrificing, and handsome, it’s a book for those who want poetry to reassert its dignity and authority in everyday life.
Alex Boyd is the author of Making Bones Walk (Luna Publications 2007) and the winner of the Gerald Lampert Award. He lives in Toronto, Ontario.
64 pages, Paperback
First published April 10, 2012
10 people want to read
About the author
Alex Boyd
8 books26 followersAlex Boyd's first book of poems Making Bones Walk (2007) won the Gerald Lampert Award. His second book of poems The Least Important Man was published in 2012.
He has written for The Globe and Mail among other publications and helped establish Best Canadian Essays.
His first novel, Army of the Brave and Accidental, a retelling of The Odyssey as modern mythology, was published in 2018. A review described it as "timely, original, and profound," and it was shortlisted for the ReLit Award.
He has written for The Globe and Mail among other publications and helped establish Best Canadian Essays.
His first novel, Army of the Brave and Accidental, a retelling of The Odyssey as modern mythology, was published in 2018. A review described it as "timely, original, and profound," and it was shortlisted for the ReLit Award.
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Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews
August 31, 2016
I'm not a fan of poetry; it's the reason this section of my goodreads site is so small. That said, I may have discovered a book of poems that might have been (1) written specifically for me, the non-poet, and (2) written specifically for me, the sci-fi/pop culture geek & history teacher.
It would be a solid enough collection even without the appeal to my geeky side: poems that read more like poetic short stories. Momentary slices of life, contemporary settings, requiems to the impermanence of all aspects of life. But then there are the love letters to my soul -- poems such as "1977", "Captain Kirk Love Poem", and "Rod Serling's Funeral, 1975". Just how many people would actually understand the last one, let alone appreciate it? The line starts here.
As for the history poems, they speak to me in so many fascinating ways. Poems such as "First World Wars", "Someday the Men with Hats Will Go", and "Orwell Robot" play with poignancy, but have sharp little corners sticking into both the here-and-now, and the soon-to-come.
Alex Boyd has provided a man who is usually oblivious to poetry with a selection of items that actually pluck at the guitar strings of my consciousness. A delightful surprise, to say the least.
It would be a solid enough collection even without the appeal to my geeky side: poems that read more like poetic short stories. Momentary slices of life, contemporary settings, requiems to the impermanence of all aspects of life. But then there are the love letters to my soul -- poems such as "1977", "Captain Kirk Love Poem", and "Rod Serling's Funeral, 1975". Just how many people would actually understand the last one, let alone appreciate it? The line starts here.
As for the history poems, they speak to me in so many fascinating ways. Poems such as "First World Wars", "Someday the Men with Hats Will Go", and "Orwell Robot" play with poignancy, but have sharp little corners sticking into both the here-and-now, and the soon-to-come.
Alex Boyd has provided a man who is usually oblivious to poetry with a selection of items that actually pluck at the guitar strings of my consciousness. A delightful surprise, to say the least.
January 24, 2022
You can't even make a decent fucking sword,
and it's a fat briefcase you jam between doors
to get on board, grey manta ray coat flapping.
The world was made for businessmen, the rest
of us just live here. They saunter down
the middle of grocery aisles, wanting,
come swarming boneless out of cracks (jerking
at stuck briefcases) like roaches, even where
people have sprayed to have them kept at bay -
the painter wanting his studio to himself,
turning to find a businessman lying bloated
and unhappy in the centre of the room, whispering
orders for another mountain to be levelled.
* * *
Houses at night know fear, know barking dogs
know the irregular orbit of cats, begin
the creak and settle, a kind of whale song,
swim quietly in formation, each window an eye,
feel the wide darkness as if it were water.
Houses know all kinds of dignity,
wait for old men to lie on park benches
like lizards in a rectangle of sun,
watch old women sweep the walk for hours.
They watch, more slowly, the change of leaves.
The Code for houses has been to know that brick
is stronger than bone - but worth far less.
Even a ghost, the echo of bone in rafters better
than nothing, than a hollow space,
when the glow of light and movement is like blood.
* * *
No one on the streetcar can explain
who picks up the two halves of the street
and pushes them along as we sit.
Someone holds a newborn delicately
as a candle, an old woman coughs regularly,
interrupting talk like a church organ.
No one knows who can possibly pay enough
to have all the unsaid swept up,
what collects around our feet like litter.
No one stops to think that placed here,
our small lives sit like eggs in a carton.
No one realizes time travel is easy,
we'll arrive at our future, no matter what.
No one heard I said goodbye to a woman
yesterday for the last time, stood and watched
her board a bus, and let her go.
I came out on the other side, she'd later say.
No one else spotted the dead spider
I found this morning in my apartment,
hung by its own ideas between my boots.
and it's a fat briefcase you jam between doors
to get on board, grey manta ray coat flapping.
The world was made for businessmen, the rest
of us just live here. They saunter down
the middle of grocery aisles, wanting,
come swarming boneless out of cracks (jerking
at stuck briefcases) like roaches, even where
people have sprayed to have them kept at bay -
the painter wanting his studio to himself,
turning to find a businessman lying bloated
and unhappy in the centre of the room, whispering
orders for another mountain to be levelled.
- To a Businessman at Rush Hour, pg. 13
* * *
Houses at night know fear, know barking dogs
know the irregular orbit of cats, begin
the creak and settle, a kind of whale song,
swim quietly in formation, each window an eye,
feel the wide darkness as if it were water.
Houses know all kinds of dignity,
wait for old men to lie on park benches
like lizards in a rectangle of sun,
watch old women sweep the walk for hours.
They watch, more slowly, the change of leaves.
The Code for houses has been to know that brick
is stronger than bone - but worth far less.
Even a ghost, the echo of bone in rafters better
than nothing, than a hollow space,
when the glow of light and movement is like blood.
- Brick and Bone, pg. 23
* * *
No one on the streetcar can explain
who picks up the two halves of the street
and pushes them along as we sit.
Someone holds a newborn delicately
as a candle, an old woman coughs regularly,
interrupting talk like a church organ.
No one knows who can possibly pay enough
to have all the unsaid swept up,
what collects around our feet like litter.
No one stops to think that placed here,
our small lives sit like eggs in a carton.
No one realizes time travel is easy,
we'll arrive at our future, no matter what.
No one heard I said goodbye to a woman
yesterday for the last time, stood and watched
her board a bus, and let her go.
I came out on the other side, she'd later say.
No one else spotted the dead spider
I found this morning in my apartment,
hung by its own ideas between my boots.
- No One on the Streetcar, pg. 59
April 7, 2026
Was alright, will be returning it to the free book shelf inside Morton.
Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews