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-- Into The Void --
A Biography
by
Peter Oliphant
Die Sonne tönt, nach alter Weise, so
Began old Faust’s decline through youth to woe.
The sun is singing as of old. Indeed,
It sings in spite of us and seems to need
No breath, no audience, no hall, no voice –
Indifferent to God, to random choice,
And to the void beyond the stellar light
Awaiting all when time shall cease its flight.Introduction
This narrative begins with what I feared.
The God I thought I knew had disappeared.
And Nothing took His place. I felt despair.
And so I wrote to give my feelings air,
A therapy of sorts. I’ve finished now.
Returning to the start, I feel somehow
Refreshed. I offer to my children this
Biography, and greet them with a kiss.Childhood
My natural mother’d already borne two girls,
Her husband’d left but not before his pearls
Conceived a boy. A doctor Richardson
Arranged adoption. Two old people won
A son at fifty-five. The doctor thought
It helpful medicine for a woman distraught
By serious depressions, thinking care
Would cure what drugs could not.They could not spare
Much money’n 1928, and worse
Would come. Her husband’s business was a curse
She carried, moving in an ancient truck
Pianos, furniture and football gear
For the Argo’s. Yet she managed through her fear,
Her paranoia, and she loved her son
Far more than husband. There was not much fun
But lots to do. I learned to read at three
And helped with chores. I learned to pray and see
My father’s faith, United Church, as strength
Against the onslaughts that went on at length,
My mother’s tirades against all he did
Or didn’t do, and how my father hid
From them in silent hurt at work, at church
And at his brother’s house near Silverbirch
(A Toronto street, our home) where he played cards.I shared in this. While memory discards
So many incidents, there still remain
The trips from Union Station on the train
To Sunnyside, not far, but at the end
The amusement park, now gone,
where we would spend
Our Sunday afternoons. On other days
We’d go to the Museum where the maze
Of rooms seemed endless, full of oddities,
The little oil well, mummies. I would tease
The compass loadstone off its north-south lay,
And inward learn what silent Buddhas say.My mother taught me music, opera
Each Saturday, and incunabula
Provided Shakespeare, Bunyan, Wordsworth, Keats
And Tennyson. We could not pay for seats
At concerts; so our radio was tuned
To song,. Our tree at Christmas was festooned
With lights and baubles, icicles and snow,
But no one came to share with us its show.The five-cent movies fed my fantasies
With Popeye, Mickey Mouse, the courtesies
Of wealth, the thrill of musicals and dance.
The war approached when I was ten, and chance
Brought news into the schools, and Hitler spoke
To puzzled children wondering if a joke
Was being told; his voice is with me still,
A shrill haranguing like a dentist’s drill
Or like my mother in an angry fit
Because my father’s business had not lit
The lights her dreams demanded.For her age
She was a lovely woman. On a stage
Her auburn hair and slender form, erect
And lithe, would have produced a good effect.
She sat, it seemed for hours, to comb that hair.
It reached her hips, and she would have me share
The combing and her other chores, and I
Became a mother’s boy, defensive, shy
And ill at ease with other boys. They played
Their games of hockey and baseball. I stayed
Sometimes to watch, but often had to go
Back to imaginary chores to show
My love for mother. She protected me
From street-bred harm, but what she failed to see
Was her emasculating hold. And so
I played with girls. It gave delight to show
My cleverness to older people, who
Appreciated it and praised the two
Who raised me. How it pleased my mother! She
Had almost no one as a friend. To see
Her handiwork successful was her goal,
And I was moulded to that end. My soul
Has felt the need for more, but I am glad
For all she taught. No one more perfect had
That care. She did her best.I’ve hinted at
My father’s care – avoiding scolding that
Was frequent, bitter and unfair. He tried
So hard, but was not smart. He never lied
Or cheated. Even when he felt most jailed,
Commitment to my mother never failed.
His Reo truck had slatted sides. Its cab
Contained a tank for gas. He cranked
It til he parked and left it, and he thanked
His lucky stars it never failed. Of course,
In later years it seemed antique, of horse
And buggy times, but fear of banks and loans
Prevented growth. My mother answered phones,
But angrily. His customers were few,
But loyal, prices good, and people knew
His strength. He had a special customer
And friend, a furniture upholsterer.
He’d take me with him there, then disappear.
I never figured out why I felt fear,
Or was it jealousy?I helped him when
I’d grown enough. When I was maybe ten
He took me to the Argo’s room, where they
Were showering after play. I cannot say
How it excited me to see such men
Undressed and playful!Also, about then,
We often went to The Toronto Star
To watch the presses, sometimes from afar,
And sometimes on the floor. The huge machines
Were run by warm and friendly men whose jeans
Were thick with ink. We watched some set the type
And others cast the leaden moulds. The ripe
And heady smell of men, machines and lead,
Their snatching at each others’ clothes – it bred
Arousal even when so young.I knew
My father’s body and his smell. A few
In-bed-together times, and maybe more,
Were early memories. Who they were for,
His need or mine, I do not know. Nor do
I know how far it went. When we were blue,
Recovering from my mother’s rage, it seemed
OK to cling together as if doomed
In shipwreck.From an early age I worked,
For we were poor, and destitution lurked
Around the corner of each day. I sold
Old Liberty from door to door as bold
As I could be (not very). At Kew Beach
The library had me shelving books, and each,
Almost, I read. Because they trusted me
They let me read the adults’ books. So free
I felt among the loving women who
Had custody of riches that so few
Seemed to enjoy as much as we. Louise
Took special interest in me. To please
Her I was led to be a polymath and grew
As close to her as to a mother, too
Much so. Indeed, I though I was in love.
We talked together about God above
And earth beneath and everything between
Including sex, still new to me, unseen
So far (I was not twelve), but very much
Preoccupying me. I took a clutch
Of books to help me understand so strange
A curiosity. It did not change
My longing; nothing did.But other things,
Less troublesome – my love of music brings
New experience. I joined the choir
At St. John’s church. Within me the desire
To sing grew strong. The English organist
Who led us trained us well. I never missed
Rehearsal. Morning prayer and evensong
And eucharist were new to me. Along
The way I learned new possibilities –
To breathe more deeply without fear, to please
Without pretence, to find that work with boys
Permitted friendship, and to learn the joys
Of music. After church I’d sit with him
As he extemporized or played a hymn
As Bach elaborated it. His wife
Was Glenn Gould’s first instructor, and her life
As mother spilled into our lives. We went
One summer to their cottage where we spent
A week in blazing sun. Our burns were sore,
But her attentions made us ache for more.
Each week the church’s carillon would ring
The ancient changes. If the wind was right
We’d hear them blocks away. They’d raise the sight
Of that old Gothic pile and make me hear
Again strong Marbecke’s chants. I came so near
To God those days.Of course, my voice would change.
But still I sang, and fortunately my range
Just dropped. My teachers liked my remade voice.
They planned a G & S. I was their choice
For lead. My mother would not let me go
Until the last and then it was too late. The show
Was set. I sang ‘O Canada,’ and then
‘There’ll Always Be an England’ at the end.
This was 1941 and I
Was thirteen.As I grew I grew more shy,
But I was big and strong. I held my own
In schoolyard fights, and therefore left alone.
Cliché – I wandered lonely as a cloud –
In truth, I wandered anywhere allowed,
Where fences weren’t too high, along the beach,
The boardwalk, bluffs and Kingston Road to reach
The golf course where I caddied once or twice.
I wandered day and night. Not always nice –
I was attacked by bullies once, got mired
One spring in spongy clay, had my heart fired
At my first sight of real-life fucking.God,
I hated home, the rule of spare the rod
(A shaving strap) and spoil the child, but most,
The obligation to repay my host –
The mother who had rescued me from harm,
From orphanage. This cant became a charm,
A blackmail tieing me to useless chores,
Just so I’d be around the house. The floors
Were polished endlessly for this.(I must
Be careful. Thoughts like these emerged as lust
Became obsession, as my cock engorged
And puberty rebelled, before I forged
Restraints to melancholy and despair.
I had a happy childhood and my share
Of love or I would not be here. I’ll try.)My uncle and my cousins lived nearby,
As I have said. My cousin Carrie’s age
Was such I might have been her son. When rage
Engulfed my mother, Carrie understood.
She did not criticize. Instead, she would
Help me develop skills I’ve treasured. She
Directed Sunday School. She had me be
Her aide; I ran the slide projector that
Displayed the hymns. And many times I sat
Beside her at her loom; she taught that skill
To me. She baked such apple pies I still
Can taste their bitter sweetness; thus, I learned
To cook. She taught me how to type. I yearned
To play piano; they had one and she
Arranged for lessons. So, she set me free.
She ran youth programs for the church, a camp
Called ToBoWoBo, and she put her stamp
On something called Boys’ Parliament. She sent
Me to the camp; a counsellor whose bent was men
Seduced me there, not that I minded then
Or since. The Parliament I did not know,
But heard her presence praised. She left a glow
Wherever she might be, and my glow flared.
I know her sisters, Edith, Sara, shared
Her care for me. My mother was well known
As ‘difficult,’ Now, what I see was sown
Was separation of my loyalties.
So, I became a host of vanities,
But lacked the ego to excel, the will
To persevere, the self-control that still
Eludes me. Thoughtful I became,
Was sought for counsel by my peers, the same
Who wouldn’t be my friends, and tutored them,
Had sex with some of them, had them condemn
Me, walked alone to school. My teachers thought
Me very bright, much brighter
than the marks I brought
From school, but I was lazy and preoccupied.I’ve named no names, and I have tried to hide
Whatever might offend. I need not say
What’s obvious between the lines or sing
A mournful tune. I’m proud that I can bring
These memories without complaint. I’ve sieved
The dirt to tell the truth and smile. I’ve lived.I have not dwelled on sex, although it meant
A lot to me. Details would bore. I went
Too far too fast, my morning paper said,
Suggesting such preoccupation led
To problems. Yes, it did. The only one
In public school was with a neighbour’s son,
A catholic, who told about our plays,
And I was ostracized for Satan’s ways.
It made no difference. My father said
I shouldn’t do it, but no more was said.My rabbits caused more fuss. They burrowed deep
Beneath our gardens, (We forgot to keep
Their hutch’s floor protected.) and they made
A nest next door. Its roof was thin. We played
Above it, ignorant that it was there.
The woman of that house became aware
Of it by falling in while hanging clothes.
Escaping lawsuits, we got rid of those
Offending beasts, but not without some tears
And much rebuilding of the yards. No fears
Of further falls, but after that my life
At home becomes a blur, as if a knife
Sliced sections from a tapestry, repairs
Left holes and scars in fabric that still tears.High School and University
The war began in ’39. I went
To high school two years later. War had sent
The able men away. So, those who taught
Were women or old men, not that I thought
This bad. The empathy of women and
Experience of men were mine. The land
Was cleared for ploughing. I was in demand
Because I loved to learn, and most of all,
I loved to sing.The Glee Club every fall
Won prizes. I soon joined, was thought the best,
Encouraged, given leads, and passed a test
Sir Ernest gave to join the Mendelssohn –
A two-part fugue by Bach, sight-read the one,
He played the other. What a joy to sing
St. Matthew Passion every year in spring,
Messiah before Christmas, and to learn
The meaning of ‘great man.’ He made us burn
With admiration for those works. One night,
To start rehearsals for the Passion, quite
Unnoticed he sat down, began to play
The opening of the great chorale to stay
Our chatter. We joined in and, choked with tears,
We sang it through. In all my later years
No mystical event was more intense
Than that sublime encounter, that incense
Of mind and heart and voice, where all as one
Adored.The teacher treated me as son.
Roy Wood was not a great musician, but
He cared, like all fine teachers drove no rut,
And found each day some joy to share with us,
Some musical discovery, and without fuss
He fathered us, encouraged me, and tried
To have me give my life to song, belied
My fears, had me auditioned, gave me praise,
Arranged a solo concert, sought to raise
My self-esteem so I could match my will
To my desires. He failed. I mourn it still,
Though quietly. Regret has disappeared,
And guilt. “You have to earn a living,” they
All said. “You can’t with music.” In that day
Perhaps their fears were true.Jack Yocom ran
The last event. Returned from war, began
New life by teaching English, staged a fling
With Gershwin’s songs, picked four of us to sing
Close harmony. We were a wow and basked
In the applause, and at the end were asked
If we would sing for radio, sing ads,
Commercials, ditties to endorse the fads
The post-war world awakened to, and I
Demurred, the moment passed, I heaved a sigh,
Reduced my love to hobby, and survived.I told you earlier how I connived
To read the adult books before the age
Allowed. The opera began my rage
For languages and school continued it.
In public school The Loom of Language hit
A nerve. I browsed in Latin, German, Greek
And French. In high school I went on to seek
A greater fluency, and I became
A “brain.” Two other boys who shared the same
Opprobrium became my friends. We skipped
PT, talked politics and music, ripped
Most everything apart. We weren’t that smart,
But lonely. One said that since Mozart art
Had died, in later life got rich and took
To politics. Betrayed, he died. His book
Made no impression. Gowan went to law,
Went west, and I lost sight of him.I saw
A woman for a while. She taught me much
About the body and how it responds to touch.
But I was driven less by lust than rage
And, when I’d conquered, lost desire – a page
Of life of which I am ashamed. I saw
Her recently. Remembering that flaw
Of love, I almost asked her pardon, failed
To move, and lost her once again, impaled
On memory.A student teacher came
To teach us grade twelve French. He called my name
And heard my voice, decided he would teach me more
Than French. He thought that I should “know the score.”
Had me read Corydon by Gide, endorsed
My feelings, called them sane. I was not forced
To be his boy – he was exotic, taught
More sex, took me to Montreal and brought
Real life, I thought, into my life. Of course,
His interest waned. It may be that remorse
Moved him to marry, as I found he had
In later life. In all, it was not bad.
Sometimes it angers me, remembering it,
But other times I call it just another bit
Of learning that I had to do.My closest friend
Was Bill, a lonely boy, an angry blend
Of lust and love, lust for his girl and love
For me. I tutored him and watched above
The stairs to warn him lest someone should come
To interrupt his fucking. I was numb
In fantasy desiring him and yet
Afraid he might give in. His mother set
Him on. She’d boast about his penis’ size.
One night she offered me his bed, a prize
I dearly wanted, yet refused. We both,
Embarrassed, saw our friendship wane and, loath
To face the truth, we went our different ways.The principal at Malvern let us graze
Wherever interest took us. Mr. Clark
Believed in honour, lacked a guard-dog’s bark,
And finally was fired because he failed
To baby-sit his students. Some just sailed
Through high school, others played, dropped out or missed
Exams until they left, but none dismissed.
I loved it; only those who wanted to
In class, no drones to feed, and teachers who
Enjoyed their work and us.I had to find
Some work to stay in school. I did not mind.
It gave me independence, so I thought,
And offered an escape from home where naught
Could stem my mother’s rages. They grew out
Of age, frustration, envy, anger, doubt.
Now I am seventy I sympathize,
But then I could not, would have won the prize,
If there were one, for heartlessness. Somehow
I knew and so began escapes that now
I see became addictive sex. I cruised
The school, the streets and parks and was amused
That others did not act as I. I made
Some friends this way, but I made most afraid;
My hunger was too great, and so I clung.
So, I became a loner and among
The other students either was reviled
Or honoured, never one of them, a child
Of moodiness and promise. Suicide
Was dreamed and written of, but never tried.
It was the theme of my first published work.
Rereading it, I think the hero was a jerk,
But at the time it seemed OK. The theme
Recurred from time to time; a distant gleam
Of hope beyond despair, thank God, forestalled
Such foolishness.Enough of that!
I called,
Responding to an ad, a shoe store where
They wanted help, then spent the weekends there
From nine a.m. to ten p.m. And thus
Began five years of fitting shoes. I’d fuss
With men and women, flirt with some
But never make a date, though some would come
To ask for one. Two weeks one summer I
Was placed in charge and no one questioned why.
Yet I was very young. I learned a lot
And earned enough to stay in school. I bought
An old Victrola, studied scores, composed
A bit of music and a song, and dozed
Through school. My marks were adequate. I won
Some language prizes, cruised and had some fun,
But I was lonely. Sex did not make friends.
The ones I got to know had other ends
Than friendship on their minds.Until I met
Three men from St. Bartholomew’s. They set
Some limits, asked fidelity, revered
Its curate, William Crummer, who had reared
A strong community of love around
That church, in later life like Newman found
The need to switch to Rome, whom, when he died,
Some thousands with their love beatified.
So from United Church to Anglican
I moved. That confirmation I began
A second life. It paralleled the first
Which still continued with its lust and thirst
For danger and for fame.One of these men
Was Gerry, soft and warm and awkward when
In company, but loving, giving, lost
Somehow in childhood when his father tossed
Him to his mother, hungry then for love.
We sang together in the choir. We’d shove
Each other playfully like children, flirt
But not have sex but once when he was hurt
At heart en route to Montreal. We thumbed
Our way. At night just east of Kingston, numbed
With sleepiness we rested on the hill
Above the town. To comfort him….I still
Remember how inert he was.We were
Naïve. The Y was full. They sent us where
Hall lights were red. We slept like logs. Next day
Near noon, while walking, we were asked to stay
For lunch – a woman beckoned us and gave
Us food. We thanked and left her with a wave.
Did she want more? At university I formed
A group for madrigals and Gerry warmed
It with his tenor. The soprano was
My future wife. We raised a little buzz
Of praise around the campus, then we fell
Apart, lost touch. I’ll never know how well
He lived his life as priest. In his mid-years,
While in New York, he took his life. What tears
Of loneliness he must have shed before
He died, I only guess. God rest his soul.Another of this trio played the role
Of mental gadfly. Alex was a Brit,
Sent here from war. In many ways he never fit
In any mould. He graduated and
Became a Benedictine, took a stand
Against modernity and left for bland
Career at CBC and marriage to a wife
I’ve always counted friend. In his mid-life
He died, I think of spiritual grief.The last
Of these three friends was lover, but he passed
So quickly through our lives, we hardly knew
What moved him, except sex.We seemed the few,
The closest to our friend, the priest, and for a while
United with him in our love of God. I smile
In my old age at our simplicity.
God grant I may regain such graced felicity.These were my friends in my last year of school
And first at university. I’d won
A bursary, and so I entered Vic
In modern languages. I had the trick
Of tongues and it was fun. For a short while
I tended shuttles in a spinning mill
At night. Fatigue and noise destroyed my health.
I had to stop. I found what little wealth
I had begin to disappear, my shoe store pay
Inadequate for daily needs. The way
I found escape was no-cost sex. In May
I found a wrecking job. The very day
I started, I departed, scared to stand
On houses falling down below me and
Afraid of fellow workers. Then I learned
The Hydro wanted painters, and I earned
What seemed a fortune climbing towers. The men
Were also students, most of them, and when
Our boss suggested living out of town,
I was delighted, roomed with Bernie, talked
Philosophy and God, and sang and walked
And fell in love. But he was straight. One night
I wanted him so much; with second sight
He said that Satan hovered. In my shame
I never felt the same again. His name
Is branded in my memory. He said
That I should be a Jesuit and he fed
My spirit. After many years we met,
A brief encounter I can not forget,
Because I wanted so to say how much
He meant to me, and somehow thus to touch
His heart.When I returned to Vic that fall
I transferred to philosophy, a call
To honesty, perhaps. I over-spent
To live in residence. My money went.
I had to leave. By then my future wife
And I had met. Her parents lived a life
I envied – Gordon specialized in French,
His wife in cooking. They began to wrench
Me from old habits, clothes and friends. He played
Piano, she translated. People stayed
With them of great renown, philosophers,
Musicians, saints.One memory still stirs
My blood. Jacques Maritain had come to stay
One night when we’d been out to walk and play
Together. As we came back through the gate
My body tingled and I had to wait
A moment just to catch my breath, his light,
His aura was so large and shone so bright.
He taught me how to scramble eggs next day,
A gentle, loving man, so like Vanier.Her father was both strong and hard. He’d won
The légion d’honneur for work he’d done
In wartime in Intelligence. His wife
Was soft and gentle, seemed to live her life
Obediently – in fact, was also tough.
His love was hidden. He appeared so rough.
She knew what I did not and managed all with love.
Her strength was covered with a velvet glove.Marriage
Their daughter was my wife. She died this year.
Our life together was both love and fear.
Eleven years, four children, much respect,
Then thirty-seven more I don’t reject,
But sometimes wish were other, not for me,
For her. But judgment’s up to God. I see
So poorly.We were young at twenty-two,
And I had still one year of school to go.
She worked that year. I found a job next spring.
My dream had been to enter publishing:
Copp Clark accepted me. I parcelled books
And peddled texts to schools, cast eager looks
On editing, got some to do, enjoyed
The work, but not the travel selling, toyed
With writing, cruised a lot, and discontent
Arose. And then one dreary day I spent
In browsing, came across a book that cast
A spell, Montgomery’s Auditing. At last
I felt I understood the business mind,
He wrote so well. And so, I had to find
A way to be “CA.”By then our first,
Named Ann, was on the way and Carol nursed
Her. Birth was hard, a breech delivery
And botched episiotomy. When she
Was free of pain we moved where rent was low,
Though tension-filled. I wished it were not so
So many times. Her father’d gone to teach
At UBC. Their house was large and each
Of us could live somewhat apart in it,
Us in the basement, they above. It fit
Our needs and we were grateful. He was hard
To live with, though. They had a great big yard
With fruit and vegetables, a lot of work.
Of course I helped, but hated it. I’d shirk
It, if I could. (My mother’d punish me
With gardening.) He got me to agree
To merchandising. Simpsons hired me.
For eighteen months I stayed, but could not see
How I could last in sales. I moved again
To Woodwards, where they wanted me to train
In bookkeeping. That settled it. The choice
I’d made at last matured. I’d found my voice,
And Clarkson Gordon hired me.(I know
I sound compliant. We were poor, and so
I had to pay attention to my host
To warrant his support. I’ll never boast
Of this. Indeed, the memory brings me shame.)I loved the firm. It bore a noble name
And nurtured gentlemen. Its local group
Was small and so became a loyal troop
Of workaholics. Study took much time
At night and I began to teach, to climb
Toward a partnership I’d never get.
We traveled north where “sun did never set”
To audit mines and three of us combined
To win top marks on our exams, then find
That two of us would have to move - too small
An office for such “brains.” I felt a call
To go back home.In fact, I could not bear
The strain close-quartered with three children’s care
And felt I needed space to spread my wings.
I fought with Carol’s father. (Still it stings
Remembering my ingratitude.) I was
Distracted seeking love in ways the laws
Forbade. I loved my wife. I really did,
And tried to please her, but my body hid
A different need, a need I could not stop.Not that Vancouver years were wasted. For
Her father taught me better bridge. The lore
Of cooking was her mother’s gift. And I
Began commitments to non-profits. Why?
My father was a Liberal who earned
A pittance during polls. From him I learned
A little politics, began to care
About abuse. Religion seemed to dare
Some action. International affairs
Made me its Treasurer. (The title bears
So little weight elsewhere.)We made one friend
Who lasted. Geoff was friend until the end
Of his short life, an intense man who made
A fortune, then was born again. He played
The markets, owned a cable company.
His only child, a girl, was never free
To play like others; brittle bones deformed
Her from an early age. Our hearts were warmed
To see her father’s care for her. His life
In later years was with a second wife -
We saw him less. His funeral was held
On Bloor Street at St. Paul’s – a funny meld
Of suits and wierdo’s, Liberal friends, respect
And comedy, the people you’d expect
For one so generous.Reflecting then,
Vancouver was a lonely place, and when
We came to leave, I welcomed it, but she
Left home regretfully. We were not free
Of it quite yet. Her mother became ill
Of cancer and so, much against my will,
She took our four small children and went back
To care for both her parents.I lose track
Of when it happened, but toward the end
I fell in love with a young man, a friend
Of my best friend at work, and when my wife
Came back I broke, confessed my double life,
And looked for help. We separated, she
To marry my best friend and I to be
With Bob, where I am still.This took some time,
From ’58 to ’61. My crime
I recognize. I did not then. I cruised
Without compunction, with a conscience bruised
Somehow and dead to what I did. And yet
I loved her and my children, did not let
Them down financially, changed jobs, worked hard,
Too hard perhaps, but held a loser’s card.I will not tell her story here. In prose
I’ve tried but fear to harm her name with those
Who loved her, not because she did a wrong,
But poorly chosen words, like ill-sung song,
Can jar the nerves, elicit doubt, and raise
A question best unasked. What should be praise
Becomes unsettling. How I did admire
Her stamina and strength! Our shared desire
Was parenting the children, but the work
Was hers and John’s. Though I tried not to shirk
Responsibility, I was not there.Bob
Enough of that. I had another care –
To make a life with Bob. It was my wife
Suggested I move in with him. My life
Has shown her wisdom. Thirty-seven years
Have passed since then with him. There’ve been some tears,
Not many, and our tastes so mesh, we share
Both theatre and music, jointly care
About the arts and politics. Our lives
Have been a joy, with each the other’s wives
And husbands, and yet fully free to be
Ourselves. We grew to love, to give, to see
The beauty in each other, and each day
It grows. We talk of death. We hope we may
Be buried side by side in ground or urn.
He’s gardening now, this moment, as I turn
Computer pages, study rhymes and write
This testament of love.Intermission
I have a fight
Within myself. Should I go on to talk
About successes? I am sure to balk
At boasting. Or about religion’s role,
Important still, that filled a hole,
That void from which this rhyming work arose?
I’m reading Ginsberg. Without fear he goes
Where prudes were shocked. My history’s been the same,
Both born late 1920’s, and both came
Unrooted in society. And still
I feel it. Unlike him, who found the will
To be one thing, I vacillated, searched
And failed and searched again, and so I lurched
From one thing to another – music, song,
Religion, work, around again – not wrong,
Just restless-rootless.Let’s get on with it.
The Man
Toronto offered much besides just work. I sang
With Willan, Roland Pack, and with a gang
Of singers from St. Thomas’. One event
Stands out – a Schütz motet. That night Pack went
To Holy Trinity and three of us
Sang Apperite in that glorious space.
The joy of it! Reverberating there
I heard my voice enhanced by theirs. I grieve
Sometimes what might have been. I have to leave
That subject or I’ll grieve again. What use!And politics. First, Walter Gordon got
A few of us together as he fought
For Pearson, drafting plans for medicare – .
Exciting work with some great men to share
It with. The Liberals won. I got involved
In riding work, and our small group dissolved.
I don’t remember how, but I became
A member of a caucus group. No name
Attached to us, but we wrote speeches, notes
For Wintermeyer, hoping that the votes
Would follow, but they never did. I sent
A paper to the Kingston Conference,
Became the treasurer of candidates’
Associations, canvassed, and the fates
Made me controller of the Trudeau Fund
Ontario. How many men I dunned
For contributions! Later, I became
A riding president, always the same
Demands – to win. I worked on that
At every level. Several times I sat
On presidential councils and was Scott’s
Financial officer. It brought me lots
Of praise, but nothing else. I wanted to
Belong, but never did, no matter who
I courted (sycophant).Another way
I spent my time was charities. I’d say
“Accountant.” They’d say “treasurer.” And thus
I joined the Ballet board, survived the fuss
About Miss Franca, helped it grow, and learned
A great deal about boards. It seems I earned
A reputation. For I went from board
To board – for Indians, for city life,
For dancers, for the homeless, to the strife
Of music egomaniacs, to care
Of textiles. On the whole, I liked to share
Responsibility. I learned to say,
“I need your help,” and people came. They’d stay
And build beyond my strength, and so I’d leave
And mostly without pain. Of course, I’d grieve
Sometimes, but not for long. To build was fun,
To leave release from stress, my helping done.Religion came and went. The music mattered most
The early years. I sang in quite a host
Of choirs, most Anglican. The last was in
New York – St. Anne’s – where from the din
Of that great city twenty years ago
I found both peace and friends. The after-glow
Remains; I loved those churches. Then my life
For four years came apart. There was the strife
At the UNDP, my getting out
Of Price, in Kitchener my being caught
In corporate shit, then fired. I needed help
And got it unexpectedly. My yelp
Was heard. I found myself one Sunday near
Our Lady’s church, went in and felt some fear
Of Catholics, heard Bolton’s sermon, went
To him and thus began a heaven-sent
New life. John Peladeau S.J. became
My therapist and guide. It seems so lame
To call him spiritual director. He
Was father, friend and lover, giving me
Not sex, but agape. Twelve years I met
With him, then suddenly he died. He let
Me know parental care I’d never had,
Or so it seemed. I’d never been so sad.
That seems so trite and yet it’s true. I’d not,
Or had not dared, experience grief. I’d thought,
Not felt, but then I did and I still do.
His influence continues. I went through
Director training at his wish. And since,
I’ve guided many. I’ve had many hints
I do it well, but all is due to him
Or Him.So, now I sing a catholic hymn,
Yet feel outside – disordered, no, in spite
Of papal teaching. Different, yes, a right
I share with everyone. Dismayed at how
The church proclaims that all the world should bow
To Christ. What’s missing is respect for those
Of other faiths. Our creeds, our stories pose
Perplexing mental problems – not less strange
Our god than Hindu images that range
Across the moral sky, and not more kind.
Religious wars go on; no global mind
Can stop them, so it seems. And no more blame,
No less, adheres to anyone. The same
Stark cruelty infects us all. My mind
And heart conflict. I feel that I find God
At church. I think it’s nonsense. So, I plod
Each Sunday forth and back, and hope that I
Can integrate what’s left before I die.About my work. In 1961
I won a teaching job that looked like fun,
Continuing education in my field
Across the country. In two years the yield
Was great and I got bored. I went to Shell,
A senior analyst. It worked quite well
Until I proved a staffer, not a boss
And thus was unpromotable. This loss
Hurt deeply. I enjoyed my work and loved
My boss. But, I was qualified to go
To any staff-like job, since I could show
Good reason why I had to move. I went
To Indian Affairs. Trudeau had lent
Support to this. A friend had hinted “don’t,”
But I was stubborn, thought my gayness won’t
Preclude success. And I was wrong, I guess.
The cold war years have never had redress:
Their bigotry and ignorance, their fear
Did untold hurt. I lasted half a year,
And then was dumped. Less valuable than before,
I joined Price Waterhouse. Still feeling sore,
I started work in Montreal, but then
Returned to Toronto and Bob. And when
I’d settled, found absorbing work, a home
He’d newly purchased, and the cash to roam
Around the world, if so I wished. The firm
Was good to me. Ron Hogan was a firm,
But sympathetic boss. He taught me much,
And I became a good consultant. Such
A judgment seemed confirmed, except that I
Was thought dependent. I could never fly
As high as I’d have liked – a partner, yes,
But two mistakes I made amid great stress
Caused me to fail, and I resigned. I went
To Kitchener, a turn-around. It sent
Me round the bend. Commuting and the strain
Of senior management led to the train
Of things I’ve talked of – to John Peladeau,
A quasi-Jesuit life and strength to grow
Again with Bob. We formed our firm. It grew,
We prospered, ministered to artists who
Are mostly poor, and slowly built a name
That’s recognized and brought a little fame
To us. And it’s been fun. We work so well
Together, have some steady friends who tell
Of us with comfort, and are happy.Now
I end. There’s much I have not told, but how
Can one rehearse a life. My greatest gift –
Four children that I love. I hope they’ll sift
Through this remembrance and discover that.
My life has run a course, though never flat,
That has been good. I pray the same for them
And for their children. May they say “amen.”Peter Oliphant
November 12, 1999It’s time now to begin anew.
Life’s poetry cannot be through,
Though stanza one is read.And stanza two is not begun.
The moon has just eclipsed the sun
And resurrected dread.A dread whose roots are deep in ground
And hidden from the angels’ sound.
They might as well be dead.Not dead, they spring to sudden life
When leaves react in helpless strife,
When struck by what is saidBy God. They surge with lively sap.
I wait for that and meanwhile nap,
Though loathe to go to bed.I loath this inactivity,
Would strive for instant sanctity,
But heart and feet are lead.Yet heart returns to those who wait,
And I’ll stand waiting at the gate.
Give us this day our daily bread.November 16, 1999
My hands are lined. It strikes me now and then.
Elastic skin has gone. My cock still stands,
Reluctantly, it seems. A hidden Ben
Marks hours and days, last life, exhauting glands.
This trip to Vietnam, Laos, my stomach balked.
On several days I could not eat. I shat
And could not stop. It worsened when I walked,
But did not last. I slept, drank water, sat.
The strangest thing – I prayed, sang silent hymns
From childhood. Life reversed? Returning home?
I find that I regret my memory dims,
Yet what I cannot grasp, allow to roam.
And Bob is near. How much he means to me.
The river flows, but with him I swim free.March 1, 2000 in Bangkok
I have to write. I can’t just sit and dream.
The subject’s God. I don’t know how to pray
In words or silence. All instructions seem
So unconnected to my life. They may
Be relevant for others, not for me.
My craving is for sex. I’ve made of it
A god. I can’t resist its call. I see
The blasphemy and ask for just a bit
Of courage to deny its call, to hear
A still small voice within the noisy drain
Of cruising-dominated days, to fear
That dies irae humming in my brain.
I have to trust that wanting this is prayer.
And ask forgiveness that it’s all I dare.May 7, 2000
It’s hard to bring to mind a manly God
When music pablum sets an aural stage
Of wimpishness. There’s nothing there to prod
A lazy conscience, nothing of the rage
Isaiah felt against the greedy thugs
Who, as today, exploit and cheat the poor,
Depriving them of homes and needed drugs
While they grow wealthier, their money spoor
They drop on helpless ones that they revile;
Like Bangkok’s elephants, they stride the roads
And snuffle poor men’s food, while people smile
At their immunity to mahoot goads.
I’ve lost the theme. The music has none. Now!
‘Pick up thy cross, the Saviour said.’ But…..now?June 24,2000
For Patrick Duncan on his birthday
At seventy, Sir Patrick is a brick.
His lady love adores him, likes his wit.
Sometimes he lays it on a bit too thick,
But that’s OK, since every little bit
Is pure enjoyment of a life that’s rich
With friends, among them us, who love his jokes,
And many more, that like to make a pitch
For his affection. We’re such simple folks,
We like his ties, his smile, his gentle prods,
His ribbing us, himself as well, so warm
A man, urbanity itself, we sods
His oh so kindly butt. It does no harm.
And so we celebrate that one so fine
Has been a friend to keep us all in line.Bob and Peter
July 8, 2000To strain as structure without breaking it,
A fitting theme for modern sonnets’ art,
It seems to me. To exercise some wit,
To drive the form, yet not forget the part
Mechanics play, its flywheel steadies, leads
To equilibrium. Creative rush
Unleashed in “modern” verse is gush that feeds
Out mystic images and does not blush
At its excess. But who am I to talk!
This sonnet’s born in self-indulgent rant
To justify an introverted balk
At letting go, pretending what it can’t.
And yet to talk of God in poet’s prose
Is to be emperor without his clothes.July 9, 2000
The Cellar
When I do down that blackened set of stairs
My breath grows shorter, hesitates a bit,
But I go in that triggered door, dim lit
Inside and almost black at back. My cares
Evaporate as I begin the chase.
My eyes take time adjusting to the dark.
After undressing I soon find a mark,
A naked standing man; another’s face
Is buried in his pubic hair. I touch
His cock, enjoy his pleasure as it’s sucked,
Massage my own and cruise, see others fucked
And close to cumming, almost rub too much.
I need tofind a sucker, and I do,
And cum at last, and bliss at seventy-two.August 20, 2000
PARADISE UNMASKED
Old Milton sought to justify the ways
Of God to man, his mighty enterprise,
A scholar’s handbook on the use of words
In order pentametrical without
The use of rhyme – persistent rhythm, a drum
Whose beat arouses memories of war
To underline his tale of heavenly feud,
Which rhyme might temper with its stop and start
Insistence. Carried on his flood of words
I found myself agreeing, yet when all
Was done, agreement lacked. I felt the need
To justify the ways of man to God.
And this I’ll try, aware my skill’s far less,
My store of classical allusions nil,
Yet Biblically aware, aware as well
Of men’s and women’s inner lives, our needs
And fears, our weaknesses and strengths, alert
To politics and greed, which daily news
Disgorges, flames from Satan’s hellish home,
Perhaps, and even more aware of love
And spiritual height and depth, its length
And breadth, though claiming knowledge only as
A visitor, my own development
Awhile delayed by doubts which this attempt
May serve t’unblock. So, let my prayer invoke
What inspiration may require of thought,
Not only spewing words, but making sense.
Let superstition and imaginings
Be left behind. Religions, too, unless
They amplify the thought and not suspend
A natural doubt. For we shall question god,
The one whom Milton thought he’d justified.
At least, we’ll question what the Bible says
About this behemoth, this superman,
This monster of unbalanced acts and words.But let that be. The time will come to say
Such things, perhaps, when I have done, my views
Put forth, my prejudices known. Now let
Me once again invoke His help to see
As clearly as I can what man has done
That merits praise in spite of god. For this
Is my intent.But first a word about
Great Milton’s epic’s premise. God foresaw
What was to happen and prepared the way.
In other words, he knew the plot and set
The stage. It’s like a movie of a book,
Or like repeated versions of a play.
Or a spectator sport already rigged.
We know the plot of Hamlet;. what’s at stake
Is how it’s played. Was this God’s interest?
If so, it seems a trivial thing without
The tension of a game of chess, for there
Could be no replays. What was done was done
Once and for all. Once done, what power remains
To wrap in contemplation God’s great mind
Throughout eternity? Theology
Has ever pondered this conundrum. It
Is at the heart of questions about God
All knowing, powerful, yet saddled with
His own decision - man should have free will -
Thus limiting Himself, the Limitless.
Can such a god exist? The mind says no.
The common man says yes. Tertullian writes
Credo, quia impossibile est.
Augustine, too, thus reason languishes
And yet the church was built by common men.
Theology strives on in vain attempt
To reconcile illogicality
With logic. Reading Milton I am caught
In the same bind, suspending disbelief,
Enchanted by the story, feeling God’s
Been screwed, a tragic figure suffering flaws
Emerging from his own design, the world
And Adam, envious angels and free will.
Like Lear, his choices turned against him. Thus
The devil’s ever since been thought more real,
More int’resting than Milton’s pow’rless God.I guess I’m saying that I’m not convinced,
That Milton has not justified the ways
Of God to me. Let’s see what I can do
To justify the ways of man to God.
Not that I’ll ever know if I succeed.So, gather round me, Jung and Freud, and sing
Subliminal your canticle of hope.
Be with me, Spengler, Collingwood and Hobbes,
T’inspire historical analysis.
Let Rilke, Yeats and Auden guide my hand
Toward poetry sublime. And Merrill’s board
Gain entry for what ESP can bring..
May Ginsberg and O’Hara thrust their lust
Into my inmost self for warmth and pow’r
Behind my words. And love for him I love
Give wings to this endeavour ere I die.The theory is that God prepared the way
Dictating history to chart the way
To Jesus’ triumph, and we Christians pray
God’s will be done on earth just as it is
In heaven. So, we are to look to God
As guide and model, as a father guides
And models for his son. The Bible gives
God’s history to teach His lesson. What
A picture!After Eden, His first act
Discriminated against poor young Cain
With a predictable result. And then He blamed
And punished him. If Milton’s God foresaw…
Well, we are left before that paradox
Again. Should fathers emulate a god
Who spurns the gifts of one of his offspring
To choose those of the other? Vengeance comes
As one of God’s first lessons to mankind.
Unneeded vengeance, too. Yet in the mass
The priest still says, accept our gift as you
Accepted once your servant Abel’s gift.
So man is justified to God by mimicking
His treatment of His creature’s sons.Then next
We have the flood. Presumably the cause
Of God’s great anger was continuing strife.
The anger spawned as history began
Reduced most men to beasts. A pretty sight
It wasn’t. Who’s to blame? Not that great God
Who started it. So, blame the victim! Kill
Them all! An almost total genocide
Was God’s response. Ignoring that, we praise
His servant Noah in our liturgies.
Another lesson learned, however, from
An angry God.The first autonomous
Initiative of man was Noah’s – He
Got drunk. Then angry that a son had failed
To hide his nakedness, he cursed him just
As God had cursed poor Cain before. The tale’s
Both funny and absurd.And then, we have
Another siege of heaven. It’s begun
At Babel. God responded as before,
But less severely, merely setting up
Conditions for linguistic nationalism.
The outcome’s too well known in Canada,
Much more destructively in Kosovo.This theme requires a symphony in words.
Oh, words! You are too limited a chant.
I need a song, yet music has no part
In this glum history I write. I wish
It could be otherwise, but in this tale
Of inhumanity to man, I turn
Away from music, representative
Of all that’s good in man, creator, life-
Asserting, joyful man, to talk of God
As he’s portrayed in scripture. Can it be
That the real God’s like that? I don’t think so.
But now I must return to history
As it is given in the Bible. Stay
With me a while. We’ll see the victim blamed
And other crimes against what we call rights
Of man. No wonder, then, that history
Depicts revenge time after time against
The divine perpetrator of such wrongs.
Self-immolation was required of God –
But that’s the final biblical event
We’ll study. Let’s go back to where we were.For unknown reasons, God’s next intercourse
With man was choosing Abram as the one
To found a nation blessed by God. To aid
Him on his way, he had to learn to lie
About his wife, to let her be as wife
To Pharaoh, cuckolding himself, it seems.
Found out, he had to leave and started out
On that great journey to the land God chose
For him. Then God renamed both Abraham
And Sarah, and gave her a child. And once
Again he promised special favours for
The race begun by them. To separate
Them from their enemies (defined as those
Not chosen), they must mutilate themselves,
The men, that is, by God’s decree, their gift
To God their foreskins.Then we have the tale
Of Sodom and Gomorrah, how God dealt
With sinners, raining fire and sulfur on
Their cities, even though he’d just been through
A litany with Abraham – if ten
Just men were found there, he would not destroy
Those cities. Yet Lot’s family alone
Were more than ten. Yes, they were saved, but not
The towns, and poor Lot’s wife was turned to salt.The Bible next repeats the Sarah tale,
A little differently, for now she bears
A son in her old age, and he becomes
A test for Abraham. The tale’s well known,
How God demanded him in sacrifice,
Then just before the act, God intervened
Again to save the boy and Isaac lived
To carry on the race that God had blessed.
Was torture necessary to test faith?God prospered them, ensuring children to
The barren, leading them through unknown lands,
Protecting them from harm. Then we lose track
Of God, as Joseph gets to Egypt where
The stage is set for Exodus. There were
Angelic visitations, even doubt
About the wrestler’s name that Jacob fought.
Could it be God? To think so would reduce
Him to the level of his creature, but
The doubt is there. And wrestling…macho proof
Of God’s superiority? It seems
Unlikely. And it ended in a draw.So, now to Egypt. God reenters here
To lead rebellion. What a strange portrait
Of God emerges. “I will set you free,
But not before I play magician. I
Will harden Pharaoh’s heart, so he will not
Release you until I have plagued his land.”
And then a game. Whose magic is the best?
At last, God wins…with what a loss of life
To innocent civilians of that land,
With frogs and gnats, destruction of their herds,
With boils and hail. And just so God could boast,
“Now, go to Pharaoh. I have hardened his heart…
That I may show these signs of mine among
Them.” This display of senseless torture is
A second holocaust of God’s design.
It doesn’t end until the firstborn of the land,
Except the Israelites’, are dead. The flight
From Egypt’s also magical. The sea
Engulfed pursuing soldiers. Chaos ends
With God pronouncing ten commandments and
With many supplements, including how to build
The temple, how to dress, to sacrifice
(More killing here) and how and when to rest.There was a brief rebellion on the way,
Creation of an idol, with God’s vengeance swift
To follow. Thus, religious warfare had
Its genesis.Leviticus is full
Of God’s demands of which not many still
Make sense. Except that fundamentalists
Enjoy selecting those they favour to
Parade before those neighbours they dislike.
The next book, Numbers, carries on the list
Of laws and magical destructions of
The enemies of those God favoured. It
Becomes a tedious repeating of the same
Now this, now that, now loyalty, now death
Of the disloyal. And it ushers in
The first dictate to kill the children and
The women of the conquered cities, thus
Completing with commandments what would soon
Become tradition as the Israelites
Continued their incursion into what
Was destined to be theirs by God’s decree.
And thus was justified what now we call
Quite simply war crimes. How this century
Has suffered from such holy, grisly wars!
But not the first, and likely not the last.Let’s take our leave of the Old Testament.
There’s only more that’s much the same, except
That man’s disgust with sinful man begins
To flower as the prophets speak as if
They spoke for God against injustice, fraud
And perjury. It’s clearly not the same
Divine portrayed before, but God is still
And silent, maybe shamed that men possessed
A goodness his own history denied.Now, what to make of Jesus. That’s perhaps
A simpler task than what to make of God
As seen through Paul’s and other zealots’ eyes.
A simple reading of the gospels shows
That Jesus did not think he was a god.
He more than once declared inferiority
To God, the “only one who’s good”, the one
To make decisions how the kingdom will
Be peopled, who will rise and who will fall.
But this interpretation does ignore
The passages where Jesus says he’ll come
Again among the clouds to judge the earth.
It ignores, too, transfiguration and
The resurrection tales. Is it enough
To say that these are just addenda of
A century reflecting on his death?
There is no easy answer. Prejudice
Will govern what one chooses to select
And what refuse. And I don’t think I need
To make a choice, except to discard what
Seems incompatible with dignity
And goodness. That compels another look
At God.Paul and the catholic church contend
That Jesus was a sacrifice, the lamb
Of God, a victim who has died for all,
Propitiation for our sins, the son
Of God, begotten by Him, fully man
And fully God. God sent this son to die
Upon a cross an agonizing death,
So God might be appeased. Such child abuse,
Unthinkable in man, was to please God.
Even Jacob’s Isaac did not suffer so.
And add to this, that we are told that we
Should eat his flesh and drink his blood, brought back
To us in ritual, in order to
Help us remember. Are we cannibals?So, now, old Milton, you would justify
The ways of God to man, I the reverse.
In truth, I doubt that either’s had success.
No logic can explain your god, to me
Immoral, teaching immorality
By modeling it. Too often man’s response
Has been to follow. Yet there are good men,
Some atheists, Buddhists, Hindus, Muslims, Jews,
Yes, Christians, too. And Jesus. How explain
One we perceive as holy? How deny
His hold on our perception that the best
Of men are “Christian?” That’s to say, good deeds
Are what reflect religion’s emphasis
On works, not just on faith. And in the end,
All logic fails to explain God or man,
Or justify the acts of either one to me.What I miss most in this unknown between
Is friends I made – not friends, perhaps, but ones
In whom I could confide without concern
Or worry what they’d say. It’s Sunday now,
No church for me again. And yet I read
The lectionary daily, doubting all,
But loving all. It’s love I most regret.
I’m called objectively disordered. Can
I trust the God whom I’ve described above
To love as Jesus says he does? I must,
And yet I can’t, God help me. Help me, God.Completed October 29, 2000
Last night I finished reading Anil’s Ghost;
I woke this morning after dreaming that
Two men were fighting, trying to decapitate
Each other. I was watching, struggling host
Of fear and prayer. The evil of that world
Spilled into mine. The novel didn’t end,
It opened doors it did not shut, nor mend
The broken bodies it evoked and hurled
At my subconscious. Worst of all, it roused
A sympathetic echo. I have thought
Such thoughts and dreamed such dreams, and I have fought
To hide the shadowed demons that I housed.
I thought of Jesus on the cross, his pain
Was in this book. It’s said to be my gain.January 8, 2001
This morning fog had frozen on the trees.
A northwest wind had laid a lace of frost,
A mystical embroidery, a frieze
Of fancy, nature’s greeting card embossed,
A welcoming, it seemed, to have me here
On Jesuit land in Canada, in Guelph,
Where I have laughed and wept, felt joy and fear,
Found friends beyond all friendship, found a self
And lost, like melting morning frost, a faith,
A loyalty misplaced, a creed unfelt,
Ephemera. They vanished like a wraith
Departing from a corpse toward which I’d knelt.
The emptiness is winter, and I hope that soon –
No, no more dreams! It’s Lent. The Easter moon……March 10, 2001