November 2026

In memory of Eric Ormsby, 1941-2026, poet, scholar, polyglot, essayist, ballroom dancer

Opening lines of an Ormsby poem: “A Freshly Whitewashed Room” (from “Time’s Covenant”, Selected Poems, Biblioasis, 2007. I turned to the page at random, though I could have gone to any of the book’s 280 pages for any number of lines and done the man proud) ….

I am sitting in the bedroom where Grandmother
Entered Calvary, where her halting breath
Prayed for the stiff-laced curtains to puff out.
I am in the sunny bedroom where she lay
So long ago, coffined in a cast
From chin to groin. How the pallid sweat
Fled from her flesh and smarted, made her
Itch with agony while I would read
The Life of Stonewall Jackson in a high
Annunciatory voice.

November 5-7, 2026: “Men could master the terrible randomness of fate only momentarily, and only by yielding to it. Human autonomy flared to light the voluntary act of acquiescence, as the war club or flint knife came smashing down. With the moment of self-extinction came the moment of self-possession.” In theory, at least, as per the Aztecs. From Aztecs: An Interpretation, Inga Clendinnen, Cambridge University Press, Canto Edition, 1995.

The Aztecs then. Whose culture was very much one of “imposed competition”. No one could ever feel secure, not even the powerful and the wealthy, not even the most honoured warrior – especially him. The god overseeing all this? Tezcatlipoca, the “deity of human destiny”. Liked to catch people at the top of their game. In point of fact, reality was dominated by evil, and evil was “hardship” – heat, cold, famine, fatigue, affliction. Whereas with respect to warriors, Hegsethian society of bigtime drinkers, there was only death or glory, the merchant traders a nation within a nation, kind of like our tech bros, and they were answerable only to the highest pinnacles of power, and not always then. But I digress, and what the world is on about is The Great Riposte, or Trump Rolled Back – for the moment, at least.

In any case, I would have thought the word “bouleversement” to be a word denoting some kind of man-about-town-in-the-know. Instead, image for yourself a homeless panhandler panhandling by the book. It is a word signifying dislocation, upheaval. And then the Dem’s massive oscillation which brings in its train a number of puzzlers, including the question of what the new-found majority ought to be for? How to answer? Thought you would never ask. From a source citing a poem by the Cynic writer Cercidas of Megalopolis (third century B.C., coiner of the epithet “stink-pig wealth”) on “the contrast of riches and poverty”, as follows:

Why has not heaven made poor the extravagant Xenon and caused to flow in our direction the wealth which he squanders on useless things? And since it is easy for a god to accomplish everything that crosses his mind, what, one may well ask, is there to prevent him relieving this dirty usurer, who’d die for a ha’penny, who lets his money out only to take it back, this destroyer of property, of his swinish wealth and giving a perishing hand-out to the fellow eating a bare minimum and filling his cup from the common bowl? Surely the eye of Justice has been blinded! &c.

Then again, keeping an eye on the ever leaping, twisting rabbit, the vaunted White House exodus – it may not be biblical, but it is Ecclesiastes, that everyone is dust, given that to which we all barrel towards. Mr Miller, eh? More prominently in the mix, as if the presidential bowels had not fully evacuated?

Postscript I: Apparently, Columbus learned maize farming on this day in 1492. Also on this day, the Gunpowder Plot was foiled in 1605, and the English parliament was not blown up. Carpenter was not arrested, hand caught in the munitions cookie jar.

Postscript II: Terse Lunar: … …. ‘Pessimistic? Who, me? Trump is more dangerous than ever, and it looks like the Dems are going to be totally pro-Israel. And there won't be time enough, and the resources, whereby the criminal elite will be made to pay for the sins of the past two years. Steve Miller, if that is not a statement of intent what is? Pessimistic? What, me?’ … …. And there was a time when you were Mary Poppins? Well then, have it your way. … …. ‘‘I don’t think it’s any time for reconciliation. The criminals have got to pay for their crimes. The likes of Kristi Noem need to be tarred and feathered. Hegseth will be the fall guy for Iran, but will he ever be made to pay for his crimes? I doubt it.’ … …. Yes, you, me, he, she, it, and the dog, and the fleas who service the mutt, all doubt it. However … …. ‘Bought a storage device for my computer and after several hours could not figure it out. I have to get the computer man in again. The bastards don’t even provide instructions with the device. You have to go online and listen to someone incomprehensible. Incidentally I recommend porridge with sliced pear and pomegranate seeds topped with yoghurt.’ … …. Recommend apropos of what? The next computer hell? The next executive order? Yet another lone operator? … …. ‘There’s an early legend entirely manufactured by early Christian writers that Aristotle, frustrated at his inability to explain tides, hurled himself in the Euripus Strait and drowned himself. It was a deliberate smear by the Christians against those who, according to them, placed human reason above religion. This morning, after reading how Trump has withdrawn financial support to countless scientific institutions, the animus against Aristotle begins to sound awfully familiar. "Water, water, everywhere” although Coleridge turns everywhere into two words.’ … …. Only two? Why not ye old baker’s dozen?

Postscript III: Cornelius W Drake of Champaign-Urbana, honk if you think all of America has gotten to be a golf course, and that this is the true import of “transactional”. Will Greenland be the next golf course? You say you have had the rare sighting of a fiscal hawk? Honk away, kemo sabe. As for Drake, well, here is Drake: … …. ‘Trump's current unhingement will seem mild compared to his being cornered by endless Democratic investigations. [Miller?] Hurting people has always been the point, and Miller has always been in charge. New title, same management.’ … …. How is that for tying a yellow ribbon around an exploding device?

Postscript IV: Talking Avocado: … …. ‘As for the U.S. midterms, well, it does bring hope. That is, it could have been many degrees worse. Maa, or Percival the goat, as in, what’s this about Miller Time? Even Percival knows it’s best to take long walks, watch “Slow Horses”, sit in a dark room and look at [one’s] own pretentions. [Or not]. And onward I scrawl. Novelize. The prospect of winter brings fantasies of Sicily. I have begun reading Rebecca West's “Black Lamb Grey Falcon”: 1200-some pages. Might finish by spring.’ … …. I myself have read the thing, am contemplating another go-through through The Complete Proust. What, am I at last put out of whack?

Postscript V: Rutilius: … …. ‘Proust’s style? Citing from Lost Time, Lectures on Proust in a Soviet Prison Camp, Józef Czapski: “He (Proust) claimed that any kinship between his sentences and German sentences was neither accidental nor a sign of weakness, but rather a reflection of the fact that contemporary German sentences most resembled Latin sentences.” There it is in a nutshell. Well may you ask: what’s in what nutshell? Or that he (Proust) added: “…the clarity and brevity of the ‘French style’ was a relatively new development”. And the one place in which Proust ignored fashion was with respect to the do’s and don’ts of contemporary literature. Otherwise, I’ve got nothing. The weather? Sunny and cold. So What’s-His-Name got taken out to the shed, if not the woodchipper. Couldn’t have happened to a better guy. Bit of a pickle for him. Lost the plot, say what.’

Postscript VI: Sissy Gadzilla: … …. ‘I suppose the craze for the TV series “Slow Horses” has come and gone, but at the behest of a Polish cousin I’ve been, as it were, binge-watching the scenarios. There was a patch right at the end of season 5 in which a weasel gets his comeuppance. Very satisfying. So much so, it felt like a fairy tale. Because, do weasels ever see the sweet side of justice? Will there be impeachment at levels of Force Five or even trickle-down? Another damn tempest in a teapot? There will be cupcakes in the oven. French horn is on the new divan, every inch of the latter item corduroy….’

Postscript VII: Trail Mix: … …. ‘I was not elated, but I was relieved. Talking the mid-term result. Ten years of insidious drek, and one has gotten punchy. A friend of mine stateside said she went to her super mart and encountered grins all around. Even here in a Montreal coffeehouse suitable remarks were to be heard. Otherwise, someone at the next table over asked what it means to be a Heideggerian. A new congressional sub-committee in the offing? But what’s this? A whispered rumour attaining full clamour? Or that a brief heady moment (mid-term again) has found its apotheosis (already?) in a new outbreak of dread along the lines of a beer commercial? Miller brew time? Or handheld ligature? Self-garrotment?’

ADVISORY: “Blue Neptune”, a collection of poems by Norm Sibum is listed on Amazon.

RECEIVED: “The Quantum of Happiness. Two Scottish Islands: The Isle of Lewis and South Uist”. Marius Kociejowski, Armchair Traveller, Haus Publishing, 2026.
(The first few pages of which so far sparkle, like a glittering sea.)

James Sutherland-Smith Poem Department:

From “Pavucinka Cobweb”, Horská lucerne, 2026

“Pact”

Across the bay is a wooded hill
where lions were hunted to extinction
three thousand years ago through pine,
cedar, olive, holm oak, maple.
A clear track carries over the summit,
ravine with nests of vipers, firebreak
with scorpions under loose rocks,
but in the dusk it fades with the light.

Here plastic cups and condoms float
above mussels whose shells have yellow rims
in water flickering with bands
of green, lilac, and indigo.
We’ve promised to swim one last time
through all of this and not look back.