On Wednesday afternoon I had an appointment with my Canadian Poetry professor, George Elliot Clarke. I printed up four pages of the rough draft of the first half of my essay to show to him and slipped it between the pages of the notebook where I’d handwritten several pages of notes towards the second half of the paper, then put it into my backpack. I got ready to go, but when I was prepared to leave I had a little time and decided to pull my notebook back out to count how many pages my hand had written. It was about twenty-five. I put my notebook back in my pack and headed for St George and Bloor.
As I started rolling I realized that it was a very warm day and that I was wearing too many cold weather accessories. When I stopped at the Brock and Dundas light I removed my gloves and quickly shoved them into my backpack. I also untied the scarf that I wear on the outside of my hoody and was just undoing the long scarf that I wrap around my neck on the inside when the light changed. As I crossed Dundas, one end of the long scarf was dangling dangerously close to my spokes. Not wanting to somewhat re-enact the death of Isadora Duncan, I pulled it up with my left hand and held it until I got to the other side, then I stopped at the corner and put the scarf into my pack.
I got to the Jackman Humanities Building with plenty of time but I went up to the eighth floor anyway, and after using the washroom, I found George’s office. I could hear his voice waxing loudly on some topic relating medieval literature and politics, so it was obvious that he was talking to another student. While I was waiting it suddenly occurred to me that I had removed my essay from my notebook before counting the pages and I didn’t remember putting it back. I checked and saw that I had indeed forgotten the paper, but I wasn’t very upset about it. I was fairly confident that I could give George an outline of what I had in mind without him reading it. Plus I could always email the draft to him afterwards.
He went overtime with the other student by a few minutes and then poked his head out the door to see if I was there. I didn’t recognize the tall and pretty young woman that left his office so maybe she was a student in his African Canadian Poetry course. I guess I knew that it was okay to come in but I knocked anyway. George’s office looks like an overstuffed little library. He apologized for running past our appointment start time but explained to me that he had arrived a little late. He said that we could go a little past 16:30 to make up for it.
I started giving him an outline of my essay. He liked that I picked two thematically similar poems each from El Jones and Wayde Compton to compare, but we almost immediately began to argue (in a friendly way, of course) about my claim that Compton’s approach is better than Jones’s. He once again asserted that Jones is aiming her poetic message at a less academically sophisticated audience, which often consists of prisoners. I offered the possibility that maybe prison assemblies are a lot smarter than she thinks they are and that maybe she’s talking down to them. I contended also that if a prison crowd really does require a more straightforward message, that Compton’s “To Poitier” for example is just as simple as Jones’s “Paul Robeson”, it’s just more artfully written.
Still thinking that it was easy access for the listener that I was disputing, George brought up the name of a group of African American poets that were well known in the Black literary community in the 60s and 70s but not very much on the radar of White writers. I think that he was surprised enough that I knew who “The Last Poets” were, let alone that I was immediately able to start reciting their lyrics: “Night descends / as the sun’s light ends / and black comes back / to blend again”. His point was that their verses are easily accessible, while mine was that there is more than that involved that sets their poetry above that of Jones. There’s smoothness, a lack of awkwardness and a lovingly crafted presentation. I figured that since I had already set him aback by quoting “The Last Poets”, I might as well throw in another stanza: “Sippin on a menthol cigarette round midnight / rappin about how the Big Apple is out’a sight / You aint never had a bite! / Who you foolin? / Me? You?” He told me that he was impressed by my ability to quote them. I confessed that I was especially familiar with that piece because I had the soundtrack to the film “Performance”, starring Mick Jagger. He mentioned that The Last Poets are also featured in the movie “Poetic Justice” with Janet Jackson in the lead role. My point in quoting them was to show that they exactly illustrate my point, which isn’t an extolment of complexity but of depth and of an ability to turn a phrase creatively that I think is less strong in the work of El Jones than in that of The Last Poets and Wayde Compton.
As promised, George went past 16:30 with me and when we were finished he insisted that I could not leave until a tradition was fulfilled that has been going on for years. He told me that no student has ever left his office without the gift of a book. He explained that he still gets sent books all the time for him to review, even though he has long stopped reviewing books. He tore open a manila shipping envelope and pulled out a volume of poems to hand to me called “Disturbing the Buddha” by Barry Dempster. Then he drew it back and said he’d better not give that one to me because it might be an important title. From the same envelope, because they were mailed together from Brick Books he dug out one that he didn’t mind handing over. This was a play called “Après Satie” by Dean Steadman. I would have preferred the “Disturbing the Buddha” title that he’d almost given me, but I hadn’t expected to receive anything and if I really want the other I can get it myself. It was funny though to have George ungive me a book before giving me one and that moment was probably more memorable than the book he gave me even if I actually ever read it.
After unlocking my bike I decided to raise my seat a little more because I think it hasn’t been quite as high as the seat on the Phoenix. I fumbled a bit with my chain after wrapping it around the seat post and trying to lock it, when it slipped out of my hands, causing the padlock to fly into the middle of the sidewalk.
I rode east to the Remenyi House of Music to buy a couple of guitar strings. There always seems to be three times more staff than customers but I guess if they sell one piano they pay everybody’s wages for a week and everything else is just gravy.
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