Collected Poems, Vol. 7: 1987-88

Thomas M.F. Gerry is an English professor at Laurentian University.

This instalment of the collected poems reprints two of Souster’s
books: The Eyes of Love (1987) and Asking for More (1988). The latter
was reviewed in CBRA 1988. Reprinting his poems in volumes of
collections, selections, and two-for-one formats is evidently
Souster’s strategy for amplifying his shy/quiet voice; collections or
selections have appeared in 1956, 1964, 1967, 1972, 1977, and seven
times more since 1980, when this series began. Other books, such as
Double-Header and The Colour of the Times/The Elephants on Yonge Street,
reprint two earlier single volumes. Alas, little in Souster’s verse is
remarkable besides its publishing history.

The Eyes of Love contains verse written during the early years of his
marriage, 1946–47; the second section of the book centres on Raymond
and Susi’s 40th anniversary. The combining of poems from such distant
eras is a risk, Souster says, because he had fewer illusions when he
wrote the later lines, although they are just as “heartfelt.” From
the early days to the later, Souster has been, to some degree anyway,
conscious of the severe limitations of his poetry. He notes that when he
and Susi first got together, “my only loves were myself / and the
white stallion I rode / so hard my spurs cut her, / that old bitch
Poetry. . . .” This changing of metaphorical horses in mid-dogsled
race is not, perhaps, the most unsatisfactory feature of Souster’s
writing, though the inattention to detail and the lack of imagination in
the (infrequent) use of metaphors are typical. The writing asks for the
reader’s attention on the basis of its focus on minutiae: “The
Pillow,” “The Bench on the Side of the Hill,” “Our House,”
“Holding Hands in Bed,” “Making Pasta Together”—nearly all of
the titles are like these. When a poet chooses to focus on these little
matters, the poems must offer something of interest, a new way of seeing
or expressing. Souster’s verse does not repay the loan of attention.
His self-deprecation doesn’t help much either: “They say you can’t
teach / an old dog like me new tricks, / but surely he can work at
beefing up, perfecting / his better ones, giving them / that extra spit
and polish, / so they shine daily, even sparkle, / in the eyes of his
mistress.” Why do publishers keep on (and on) reprinting these
so-called poems?