Al Pittman: Collected Poems

By Al Pittman

From the publication of his first collection, The Elusive Resurrection, in 1966, to his death in 2001 at the age of sixty-one, Al Pittman stood as one of the most respected and admired poets in Newfoundland. This definitive edition spans nearly four decades of poetic production, reprints each of Pittman’s remarkable collections, and includes previously unpublished poems. The Collected Poems of Al Pittman at last offers readers the chance to appreciate this influential poet’s work in its entirety.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Breakwater Books Ltd
• Release date: Mar 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781550814385

Al Pittman

Al Pittman, one of Newfoundland’s most celebrated authors, was born in St. Leonard’s, Placentia Bay, in 1940 and raised in Corner Brook. He was a co-founder of Breakwater Books, the creative force behind The March Hare festival, and the subject of radio, television, and film documentaries. His most popular books include the children’s favorite Down by Jim Long’s Stage, the play West Moon, and An Island in the Sky: Selected Poems. In 2001, the year of his death, Pittman was awarded a Newfoundland and Labrador Book Award for his poetry collection Thirty-for-Sixty.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Al Pittman’s first book, The Elusive Resurrection, was published by Brunswick Press (Fredericton, NB) in 1966 with a foreword by Fred Cogswell. Seaweed and Rosaries appeared in 1968, published by Poverty Press (Montreal, QC), and included illustrations by Kenneth Pittman. His third collection of poetry, Through One More Window, was published by Breakwater in 1974 and incorporated drawings by Gerry Squires. In 1978, Breakwater published Once When I Was Drowning, a collection of new and selected poems drawn from his earlier books, which by that time were out of print. Dancing in Limbo appeared in 1993 from Breakwater, and his final collection, Thirty-for-Sixty, was published by Breakwater in 1999.

The editor and Breakwater Books extend their gratitude to Marilee Pittman for her assistance in the compilation and publication of Al Pittman’s collected poems.

EDITOR’S NOTE

Al Pittman published his first three books of poetry between 1966 and 1974, but those early books have long been out of print. His reputation and his influence have, to this point, rested almost entirely on the material in his last three books—Once When I Was Drowning (1978), Dancing in Limbo (1993), and Thirty-for-Sixty (1999). Once When I Was Drowning included new poetry alongside selected poems from Pittman's first three collections, many of them printed in revised forms. But a significant portion of his life's work has been all but unavailable to readers for much of the last forty years, and a complete retrospective has been frustrated until now.

This book brings together all of Pittman's published poems, from his six full-length collections, in a single volume. Typographical errors have been corrected, but every effort has been made to preserve the poems as they originally appeared. In poems that Pittman revised for later publication, the last published versions are included in deference to his final vision, but they are placed within their original sequence. On occasion, revisions were so significant they effectively constituted an entirely new poem. In these cases, both versions are printed within their respective collections.

1966

THE ELUSIVE RESURRECTION

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For Marilee

because I love her

THE BORDER

The brook was the border.

We’d gather there on our side

above the falls

on Saturday afternoons

our pockets filled with stones

carefully selected

from the roadside gravel.

They would form up on the far side

and soon the battle would begin.

Rarely did anyone get hurt

but only because our weapons

were inaccurate at such range.

If by chance we did draw blood

we’d jump for joy

all up and down the bank

and the canyon below the falls

would resound with our victory chants.

We never knew them by name

and never cared to.

I don’t know why we fought them.

The only thing they had ever done

to us was to return stone-throw

for stone-throw.

Their only offence was

they lived across the brook.

They hated us for the same reason.

THE BERRY PICKERS

Many a day we climbed

beyond the last hay-mown meadow

up the rock strewn face

where the Burnt Hills dipped

to meet the peopled valley

and as we groped our well known way

toward the summit of the first rise

to where the way was worn

and the travelin’ easy

we could see

through sun-squinted eyes

(where the trail opened above us

here and there

to give the climbers their bearings)

the white flour sacks

wrapped around sun-stroked heads

There were others ahead of us

but no worry

we had our spot

and they had theirs

where the squash berries green and firm

were waiting to be picked

by counted cupfuls

and dumped into Cream of the West bags

to be toted home to the kitchen cupboard

to ripen

or to be sold at doors

for 50¢ a gallon

THE CAPLIN SCULL

Round about June

depends on the tides

and things really

the caplin come

Pursued to the shore

by cod and such

in millions

the caplin come

Their purpose

is to spawn

among the beach rocks

but the cry is out

the caplin come

Last night

they rolled down ’long

thick as flies

the old man ’llowed

but now the water here

farther up the bay

seems silver

as the caplin come

Some use dip nets

and some seines

and more use cans

and even bare hands

are used to reap the harvest

spewing up on the beach

The caplin come

a thousand tables

share the feast

and plants work overtime

to meet the demand

of those who’ve seen the sign

fresh 37¢ per lb.

and ask

the caplin come

To give birth they came

a lesser purpose

would never suffer them

to come so close to shore

Damn good

Fried just right

EBB TIDE

Why

does daylight

dearest

bring remorse?

Is it because you think

your lovely sins

can be concealed

in darkness

or is night

your particular weakness?

Does the sea

wash upon Sable’s shore

less after sunrise

than before?

THE CEREMONY

Mid shadows

of dusk

we lay

on floor-sprawled blankets

each of our bodies

a willing receptacle

for the other’s warmth

Tales from the Vienna Woods

went unheard

drowned out

by a closer symphony

as we touched

and tasted love’s defiance

and unveiled the soul

of this sweet sweet alliance

A TIME TO COME

And peace shall be ours

Not today

for yet the worthless task

is left undone

Not tonight

for voices in the dark

are voices of the dumb

Not tomorrow

’mid memories of yesterday

and the night that’s done

But in a time to come

every moment

shall be worth itself

And peace shall be ours

DREAMS

Ring-g-g-g!

But I don’t want

to wake up.

Ring-g-g-g-g-g!

Oh Hell!

A POEM ENTITLED

FATE YOU BASTARD–HOW COULD YOU

Fate,

you bastard,

how

could you?

BEYOND THIS PLACE

Must I remain

forever

in this empty valley

forever

shouting my loneliness

to a heedless space

only to have my cries

rebound as echoes

from these fortress walls

There is a place beyond

where love is

not in memory

or thought

but as it should be

shared in reality

There’s where I belong

but this valley

is wide

its border steep

and all its paths

lead to peril

So I must remain

to carve another way

through the thicket

and the stone

a way beyond this place

never more

to be alone

TO MARILEE

Come take my hand

and lead the way

as walk we

through the world

Sip with me

the morning dew

in fields

of buttercups unfurled

Let me stroll

through forests wide

carpeted with fern

and savour just a portion

of that for which I yearn

Lead me over

stepping stones

across a rippling stream

to where we’ll find

the star-lit way

to the land

of which I dream

Let me gaze

on mountains white

with snows

that never melt

and talk to you

without confines

of all I’ve ever felt

Take me to where

oceans clear

wash upon untrodden sand

This world as is

is much too much

or not enough

Come

take my hand

AFRAID OF THE DARK

Three days ago

we crucified a guy

called Jesus

A real radical

from up Nazareth way

Man

you should have heard

him talk

You know

one of those characters

out to change

the world

Like what’s to change

He had

a lot of guts though

Anyway

today we found

the stone rolled back

and I got scared

crazy

Search me

what in Nero’s name for

but I ran

into the tomb

to hide

Now it’s night

and the stone

is back in place

I can’t get out

NO WAY BACK

They laughed

as friends do

there together

on the sun-bathed beach

and talked

of life and love

in remote tones

and romped

as friends may

there among the waves

and then

decided hand in hand

to stroll downshore awhile

They did

and fell in love

and loved

and were happy

as lovers sometimes are

until waves

lapping at their feet

told them

time to return

and as they walked

a little apart

each tried

unknown to the other

to retrace the footprints

on which they had come

but the tide

had erased them

and no way could they find

their happy

friendship spot

OVERHEARD IN A TAVERN

My catholicism

must go

very

deep

because

I can’t

even enjoy

being in love.

CONCEDED

I was all set

to argue

when he said

that the world

was in a sorry

mess

but then

he kicked the dog

lying in his path

and I agreed

NIGHT

The wings of night

are fast approaching

soon the day will be dark

and we will retire

and return

to the nightmare world

Where dreams

gleam brighter than life

We shall draw the sheets of anguish

over our hearts

and conjure up our pleasant pleasures

Which upon waking

we can’t even remember

And we shall drift

without aim

through the maze

of our warped world

And chase our elusive quarry

down the unmapped caverns

of our sleep

And hope another night

to grasp and keep

what in reality

was

before the horizon darkened

in the shadow

of the wings of night

BAPTISM

How I should like

to return

to the fields

and lie a while

with new-grown hay

whipping my face

in its breeze-blown

gentle way

And stepping stones

follow a living stream

in winding cataract fashion

down to the sea

And taste the salt

sprayed my way

by shore-crashing waves

And lift my eyes

to the mountains behind

my heart to the sky above

And taste once more

the sweet life

that knows no confession

And is

in itself

a sacrament of the living

A POEM UNWRITTEN

One evening recently

when inspiration

was at a premium

I thought I’d write a poem

on Fredericton

But

I don’t much like

writing about death

so I decided

to leave her immortality

to another

more tolerant poet

SHADES OF IRVING LAYTON

For a long time now

I’ve wanted

(Layton like)

to write a poem

with the word

thighs

in it

Now

I’ve done it

NOT WITH A BANG

Commuters spawn shoppers

along the underworld

sidewalks

to covet

and to buy

unnecessary things

to fill the gaps

their lives have left

for them to fill

And choir boys

in angel garb

chant Gregorian

in practice

for a coming sacrifice

to the god

Another sod is turned

Another meal is burned

And children in nurseries

wait to be picked up

by vaguely familiar mothers

to spend the night

at their own addresses

While downtown

weary of the day’s commerce

transforms itself

into an instant Babylon

And rivers run

to generate power

for the mills

for which the trees grow

A silent kiss

is passed to someone

who misses it

behind the smoke

of evenings in apartments

where love is only a joke

to be laughed

or sneered at

above nylon knees

and filter-tipped ashtrays

All the young cannibals

do a dance

on their way to bed

to nymph the night away

Another tragedy told

Another paper sold

And the dishes left for later

Give a little

take a lot

and wonder

what to do tomorrow

before today is done

ON THE COLLAR

Just off the seasick shore

the restless motor boats lie

leashed to the collar

and prance and kick

upon the waves

like a herd

of wild white horses

straining to break their halters

to be off

to where the combers roll

to ride the wild Atlantic

THE CAUSE

Warrior

if you could tell me

what it is

you’re trying so hard

to conquer

or defeat

perhaps I could honor

your valiant charge

and when it’s done

place a wreath

in loving memory

on your grave

THE UNBURNISHED YEARS

Here I sit

rusting away

between

the covers of a book

trying to acquire

someone else’s

education

And the degree

they’ll grant me

someday

won’t even attest

to having succeeded

in that

It will mean

nothing

but that

I’ve punched in

the required number

of years

Actually I think

I should get

a Ph.D. in Perseverance

or an M.A. in Cowardice

for putting up with it all

this long

God

what a waste of time

THE HILLS WERE LIARS

He lived in the valley

Reviews for Al Pittman

[Suzanne Martin · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

His poetry spoke of real things. Family, friends, nature, experiences. He was my poetry professor for several semesters and my favourite professor ever. He came alive in the classroom. He made me want to be better. I loved his work in all genres. I read it still forty years later, over and over and never tire of it. He was great fun to share a few beers with as well, with other professors and other students, a classroom away from the classroom. I will miss him always.