First Crack

Ronald Charles Epstein is a Toronto-based freelance writer and published poet.

As anglophone observers examine Canadian culture for signs of rigor
mortis, Christopher Levenson, editor of Carleton University Press’s
Harbinger Poetry series, introduces new poets to bookstores. The list of
first-time authors published by Levenson includes Craig Poile, an Ottawa
bookstore co-owner whose poems have appeared in such prestigious
literary journals as The Malahat Review and Queen’s Quarterly.

Poile is not a card-carrying (American) New Formalist, but his verse is
intelligent, restrained, and even metrical. In this postmodern world, he
follows Louis Dudek’s suggestion to “Write the first poem / with
some order in it.”

Adherence to traditional standards does not turn the poet into Miniver
Cheevy, although he establishes his intellectual credentials with
classical references to Anthony, Cleopatra, and Hadrian. In “New
Year’s Letter (1994),” his erudition is balanced by Charlie
Brown’s lament “My own dog, gone commercial!” from the annual A
Charlie Brown Christmas special. The poet may be determinedly
old-fashioned, but he refuses to become an anachronism.

Poile coyly but pointedly “outs” himself. His attitude recalls
Wayland Flowers and Madame’s rendition of “Ten Cents a Dance.” The
latter, instead of singing “a queer old man,” glances at Flowers,
her ventriloquist. Since the poet has no wooden surrogates, he points
the loaded phrases at himself. In “Lives of My Cell,” he notes that
“Desire has led me to men / doubled my distance from fatherhood.”
When a house tour reaches the kitchen sink, in “Accommodations,” he
observes that it “is the perfect size to bathe a child.” When gay
artists come out to general audiences, wit counters the “yuck
factor.”

“Media,” the final section, deals with such accessible topics as
ex-lovers, exercise classes, and ant infestations. Such familiarity
offsets the detached verse found in the other sections. Much of this
book is soi-disant, especially for those who think that the expression
is French for “arid.”