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The Martyrology #1-2
The Martyrology Books 1 & 2
The first volume of bpNichol's magnum opus, begun in 1967 and continuing until the poet's death in 1988. The text in this volume is a facsimile of the 1977 edition of Books 1 & 2.
240 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1972
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110 people want to read
About the author
bpNichol
66 books20 followersBarrie Phillip Nichol, known as bpNichol, was a Canadian poet, writer, sound poet, editor and grOnk/Ganglia Press publisher. His body of work encompasses poetry, children's books, television scripts, novels, short fiction, computer texts, and sound poetry. His love of language and writing, evident in his many accomplishments, continues to be carried forward by many.
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Displaying 1 - 11 of 11 reviews
July 21, 2009
It's almost more of a meditation than anything else.
The pages are beautiful.
If you're a poet, read him, and then try writing like him. It's a good exercise.
The pages are beautiful.
If you're a poet, read him, and then try writing like him. It's a good exercise.
January 17, 2022
In his assessment of Surrealism, Georges Bataille made the following observations:
Bataille's statement about the absence of myth being perceptible "in the face of the one who lives it", "who once wanted no longer to live in dull reality but in mythic reality", provides an apt description of the writers active at the time (Surrealist and otherwise) who appropriated aspects of classic mythology; whose writing, however, contained "none of the meaning of a myth". These writers, who came of age between the first and second world war (or earlier), attempted to transcend a reality growing increasingly bleak, increasingly harsh. In the process, they founded a tradition that influenced future generations of writers, including bpNichol.
But whereas the Surrealists and their ilk aspired to a "mythic reality" that culled back to classic mythology, writers of the second half of the twentieth century (including bpNichol) culled back to a mythic status they attributed to the Surrealists and Modernists themselves. Daedalus is to James Joyce what James Joyce is to bpNichol.
The affinity bpNichol had for the Modernists is evident in his aspiration to write a magnum opus befitting Pound's Cantos or Zukofsky's "A". (Evident too in the opening quotation by Gertrude Stein: "Let me recite what history teaches. History teaches.")
It is worth considering whether or not bpNichol was motivated to write a magnum opus as a writer trying to establish himself in a country trying to establish itself; to write an epic that would be what The Divine Comedy is to Italy, what Pan Tadeusz is to Poland. Moreover, a country trying distinguish itself from the United Kingdoms, and perhaps trying to prevent cultural assimilation with the United States.
Unfortunately, bpNichol epitomizes Bataille's modern man, who "defines himself by his avidity for myth", who "once wanted no longer to live in dull reality but in mythic reality", in whom the absence of myth is perceptible. His Martyrology fails to achieve the goal of its Modernist magum opus precursors (though, to be fair, even Ezra Pound admitted that he had failed with his "Cantos").
Structured in nine parts, bpNichol modeled his Martyrology after Dante's Divine Comedy. Ultimately, it fails to offer any insight into the Canadian identity; it fails to provide anything in the absence of Canadian identity, except, with its brevity of meaning, absence itself. In his attempt to attain "the state of myth", bpNichol has only affirmed that the myth is unattainable to post-modern man, thus condemning him to absurdity. But not an absurdity that he treats in any meaningful way (like Beckett or Camus).
In bpNichol's own text, there is evidence of the poet's misgivings about the undertaking (underlined), thinly veiled as self-reflexive references to the act of writing poetry. In some cases, conveyed in the form of automatic writing (again recalling the Surrealists). But, as with the Surrealists, the finished product lacks direction, lacks insight into anything other than its author and/or its author's process. The result is a text that is too busy, too aimless, lacking any unifying themes, overshadowed by vague narratives following the lives of bpNichol's imaginary saints (Saint And, Saint Orm, etc...).
That's not to say the text is without its pleasures. Readers familiar with bpNichol will undoubtedly enjoy the playful tone that characterizes so much of his work. Personally, I find his style lends better to shorter form. He simply doesn't have enough to say to sustain a longer form, and the narratives he invents to substitute for substance often leave me cold.
Here are a few excerpts to illustrate my point...
(from Coach House Books)
If we state simply, for the sake of lucidity, that modern man defines himself by his avidity for myth, and if we add that that he defines himself also by the consciousness of not having the power to gain access to the possibility of creating a true myth, we have defined a sort of myth which is the absence of myth.(...) It is easy to accept that if we define ourselves as being incapable of attaining the state of myth which remains in a state of suspension, we define the root of humanity today as an absence of myth. And this absence of myth can be found in the face of the one who lives it (who lives it, you must understand, with a passion that animates those who once wanted no longer to live in dull reality but in mythic reality), this absence of myth can be found in front of him as infinitely more exalting than in the past, when myths were bound up with everyday life.
(The Absence of Myth, pg. 81)
The extinction of the possibilities of individualist culture coincided with a reminder of the brutal truths of a historical world. By its ambition, poetry - and, more generally, literature and art - as it unfolded, finally exceeded the limits imposed by the cultivated individual, the distinguished (rich or poor) bourgeois, constrained to isolation and to distinction. Between the two wars poetry ceased to be seen as the supreme honour of an isolated individual. From this perspective surrealism was decisive; it caused the poetic text to become the expression of common elements in a way similar to what was revealed by dreams. It was seen that features inaccessible to the majority, and the disregard for a reality that was independent of personal fortune, reduced the meaning of a written text to social distinction - in other words, to the void. On the other hand, liberated in principle from individual anxiety and generally from all inherited rules, modern art assumed elements in common with so-called primitive art. And the artists themselves were tempted to assimilate their work to the collective creation of exotic peoples. In particular, myths, analogous in certain respects to dreams, cannot be entirely separated from recent poetic findings. It is true that a modern poem has none of the meaning of a myth, but a myth sometimes has the same attraction as a modern poem.
(The Absence of Myth, pg. 104)
Bataille's statement about the absence of myth being perceptible "in the face of the one who lives it", "who once wanted no longer to live in dull reality but in mythic reality", provides an apt description of the writers active at the time (Surrealist and otherwise) who appropriated aspects of classic mythology; whose writing, however, contained "none of the meaning of a myth". These writers, who came of age between the first and second world war (or earlier), attempted to transcend a reality growing increasingly bleak, increasingly harsh. In the process, they founded a tradition that influenced future generations of writers, including bpNichol.
But whereas the Surrealists and their ilk aspired to a "mythic reality" that culled back to classic mythology, writers of the second half of the twentieth century (including bpNichol) culled back to a mythic status they attributed to the Surrealists and Modernists themselves. Daedalus is to James Joyce what James Joyce is to bpNichol.
The affinity bpNichol had for the Modernists is evident in his aspiration to write a magnum opus befitting Pound's Cantos or Zukofsky's "A". (Evident too in the opening quotation by Gertrude Stein: "Let me recite what history teaches. History teaches.")
It is worth considering whether or not bpNichol was motivated to write a magnum opus as a writer trying to establish himself in a country trying to establish itself; to write an epic that would be what The Divine Comedy is to Italy, what Pan Tadeusz is to Poland. Moreover, a country trying distinguish itself from the United Kingdoms, and perhaps trying to prevent cultural assimilation with the United States.
Unfortunately, bpNichol epitomizes Bataille's modern man, who "defines himself by his avidity for myth", who "once wanted no longer to live in dull reality but in mythic reality", in whom the absence of myth is perceptible. His Martyrology fails to achieve the goal of its Modernist magum opus precursors (though, to be fair, even Ezra Pound admitted that he had failed with his "Cantos").
Structured in nine parts, bpNichol modeled his Martyrology after Dante's Divine Comedy. Ultimately, it fails to offer any insight into the Canadian identity; it fails to provide anything in the absence of Canadian identity, except, with its brevity of meaning, absence itself. In his attempt to attain "the state of myth", bpNichol has only affirmed that the myth is unattainable to post-modern man, thus condemning him to absurdity. But not an absurdity that he treats in any meaningful way (like Beckett or Camus).
In bpNichol's own text, there is evidence of the poet's misgivings about the undertaking (underlined), thinly veiled as self-reflexive references to the act of writing poetry. In some cases, conveyed in the form of automatic writing (again recalling the Surrealists). But, as with the Surrealists, the finished product lacks direction, lacks insight into anything other than its author and/or its author's process. The result is a text that is too busy, too aimless, lacking any unifying themes, overshadowed by vague narratives following the lives of bpNichol's imaginary saints (Saint And, Saint Orm, etc...).
That's not to say the text is without its pleasures. Readers familiar with bpNichol will undoubtedly enjoy the playful tone that characterizes so much of his work. Personally, I find his style lends better to shorter form. He simply doesn't have enough to say to sustain a longer form, and the narratives he invents to substitute for substance often leave me cold.
Here are a few excerpts to illustrate my point...
you say goodbye or you say hello. you say both
not knowing the difference.
saint and moves with the circus from town to town
where the tents were
the grass is brown & the child
has only the memories
to return to
it becomes maudlin. death is simply
a way of giving up.
to saint and every gesture of his hand
is another nail that has failed
to hold
& the cold wind from the sea
is a mockery
or a joke
that should not be told
- Martyrology, Book 1, The Martyrology of Saint And, pg. 10
dedicate the poem to a whim
His mercy
He was always telling me "stand on your own two feet"
when i walked on all fours
saint reat
you've taken up with some chick called agnes
& won't listen anymore
& saint ranglehold
hell he never listened anyway!
how many ships were lost in his fucking storms?
the point is independence in the greater sense
obscure?
saint reat only saint and understands the honesty of chance
& he's broke
or starving
this is a real world you saints could never exist in
born in an imperfect reading of the stars you clashed
farther back than i care to remember
& this?
this is dismembering the heart's history
- Martyrology, Book 1, Scenes from the Lives of the Saints, pg. 5
may you be laid to rest in Shanghalla
someday
ranglehold
when will you come
home from the sea?
& you saint and from the hills?
i'm tired of fingering these old poems
stringing them into beads
saint reat & saint agnes
may you go down together from this nothingness
Nura Nal help me!
when will i see where emma peel has gone?
dick tracy's chasing
some murderer on the moon & you're strung out in Naltor
a long way from home
all these myths confuse me
too many saints & heros
Shanghalla take them away
may their heads be wrapped in threads
green
blue
grey
- Martyrology, Book 1, Scenes from the Lives of the Saints, pg. 13
saint reat this is all nothing
do you understand?
there are no myths we have not created
ripped whole from our lived long days
no legends that could not be lies
you were simply a man
suffered the pain of silence in your head
let your sounds lead you out of that dead time
were made a saint
for lack of any other way of praising you
- Martyrology, Book 1, Saint Reat and the Four Winds of the World, pg. 27
i was always too successful at disguises
knew which mask to wear & where
pulled on my prose & clothes each morning
stepped out of the bed onto the bare floor
open the door look for the morning paper
it's not there
& since i believe in god i confess it now for all time
the saints & angels &
pull on my socks & poetry
down to the kitchen & work
pass the time away
wait between breaths for the muse to strike
give me reason to breathe & pray for night to come
back to bed
dream
- Martyrology, Book 2, Book of Common Prayers, pg. 7
oh fuck it's raining
stick my hand into the sea
that's poetry
- Martyrology, Book 2, Clouds, pg. 21
it is the minute haunts you
final image of
the trapped phrase
smile differently
always tensions building in the poem to pass thru
impossible wall i do
need you now my fingers can't touch you
words slam the page
freeze
- Martyrology, Book 2, Clouds, pg. 26
end it here
there is nothing said
over
said
over
said
- Martyrology, Book 2, Clouds, pg. 30
when the silence comes
it is silent
when death comes
there is absence
you can't hear
for saint reat & saint orm
this formless poem
death was
when it came near
for saint and
these twelve lines
for understanding
a thirteenth for luck
a fourteenth to fear
- Martyrology, Book 2, Friends as Footnotes, pg. 5
as there are words i haven't written
things i haven't seen
so this poem continues
a kind of despair takes over
the poem is written in spite of
all the words i once believed were saints
language the holy place of consecration
gradually took flesh
becoming real
scraptures behind me
i am written free
so many people saying to me they do not understand
the poem they can't get into
i misplace it three times
this is not a spell
it is an act of desperation
the poem dictated to me by another will
a kind of being writing is
opposite myself i recognize these hands
smash the keys in
the necessary assertion of reality
- Martyrology, Book 2, Postscript, pg. 2
(from Coach House Books)
February 8, 2025
"the fading light conceals his hands
they are as still as hills
if hills are still this far inland"
The first two books of the Martyrology introduce the saint-words not only as mythological figures but as recipients of the poets invocations too. Introspection, mourning, history, and an extreme vagueness but with so many memorable verses and poems that keep on giving with more readings
bpNichol's works can be read at the official bpNichol archive.
they are as still as hills
if hills are still this far inland"
The first two books of the Martyrology introduce the saint-words not only as mythological figures but as recipients of the poets invocations too. Introspection, mourning, history, and an extreme vagueness but with so many memorable verses and poems that keep on giving with more readings
bpNichol's works can be read at the official bpNichol archive.
September 12, 2017
What's a poem like you doing in a poem like this?
There's so much play. There's sections that are just verse. And then there's a lot of mourning and forgiveness and internal sifting.
This is a long-poem that capitalizes on the strengths of the genre: you spend time with things and let them deepen, you move slow, and you wonder/wander.
I am so glad I've embarked on this poem's journey. The illustrations accompanying are also amazing. Grateful grateful grateful.
There's so much play. There's sections that are just verse. And then there's a lot of mourning and forgiveness and internal sifting.
This is a long-poem that capitalizes on the strengths of the genre: you spend time with things and let them deepen, you move slow, and you wonder/wander.
I am so glad I've embarked on this poem's journey. The illustrations accompanying are also amazing. Grateful grateful grateful.
October 6, 2024
According to Frank Davey's commentary on the poem that I'm reading alongside it, The Martyrology dates to AFTER Nichol's swearing-off of lyric poetry due to his worry that the results were too self-pitying, too sentimental. If these first two books of self-pitying and cloyingly sentimental poetry are the after, I'd hate to see the before! Good stuff to be found here to be certain (the Fasting Sequence of Book 2 in particular), but relieved that Book 2 ends by all but rejecting the entirety of what came before - sometimes you have to write through some pretty embarrassing stuff to get anywhere consistently good, but I'd usually advise against publishing that stuff as the introduction to your gesamkunstverk "life-long poem!"
March 1, 2024
Few people have the intellect and time to fully comprehend Nichols' genius. There are so many layers sitting just under the surface of the text, and spending any amount of time reading into these subtleties is particularly rewarding. A very worthwhile read.
February 2, 2026
most of this didnt make sense to me
likely i just dont have
the patience some of it tho
saints and canada and all
that feeling away and up
to remind me that i can
should at least maybe try to be better
see better or kind of look to do
something to match my world
likely i just dont have
the patience some of it tho
saints and canada and all
that feeling away and up
to remind me that i can
should at least maybe try to be better
see better or kind of look to do
something to match my world
Read
December 14, 2023the i is always clear
it’s just the we
forcing a retreat to memory
i define myself too often by what went before
it’s just the we
forcing a retreat to memory
i define myself too often by what went before
August 20, 2024
This book broke then fixed me. I never thought I could find such solace in confusion but I somehow am here. I loved it and I don’t know if it loved me back…
Read
January 28, 2013"i've looked across the stars to find your eyes
they aren't there
where do you hide when the sun goes nova?
i think it's over
somewhere a poem dies"
The collection moves from being a sort of interstellar gospel written from the end of time to a person grieving for a friend in the present moment. This is just the tiny tip of an iceberg.
they aren't there
where do you hide when the sun goes nova?
i think it's over
somewhere a poem dies"
The collection moves from being a sort of interstellar gospel written from the end of time to a person grieving for a friend in the present moment. This is just the tiny tip of an iceberg.
January 6, 2013
Sigh. Postmodern poetry.....I like the idea, I like the theory.....I don't like the reading.
Displaying 1 - 11 of 11 reviews