Al Pittman

“I don't talk about these men often but considering it's my Poppy Al's birthday it seemed apt. Even though I hardly knew either of my grandfathers I know that their legacy is indelibly printed upon my soul. I feel them in every decision I make. It's almost like they had unfinished business here and left me to figure it out. The calm southern comforts of my blue collar paw-paw set the foundations on which my person is built. He is the landscape, the valleys, deltas, and Arkansas bluffs, and hidden forests that my soul rests in. And my dearest poppy Al gives me the poetry and the language to pick a fight with the world and to love it all the way down to its gritty bitter dregs. It is the spirit of these two great men that fill my heart with kindness, love, and gentility and who's legacy condemns me to understand the world as it is and frees me from wishing for how it should be. It's a gift to have (even in death) these two gentle giants standing on my shoulders and helping me through this unfair world. I wish Al were here to regale me with stories of hitchhikers and dreamers moving through the fabric of our uncertain world foraging the at times unsure future of kindness and love that we find ourselves in now. And I wish my paw-paw were here to teach me surrender and how to be patient when the world seems so large and uncaring and how to breathe when the world seems an ocean. I love you both. Happy birthday Al you're 84 today and I know you know this but you'd be so proud of this family.”

Alden Houston
Al’s grandson

Al and Patrick Houston Sr.

Al’s Stone
(on the occasion of the dedication of the memorial stone on West. St.)

The threat of rain was no threat.
You covered us with a tarp of weathered words.
Bracing against cloud and mist,
A shroud of bodies leaning into ourselves,
We listened.

Herded in verse, we danced a dance of umbrellas
Our randomness was fixed:
Each doublet fused; we couldn’t get close enough to each other.
Isolation of individual surrendered for crowded company.
A sea of coupled pillars – amalgamation in articulation.
A confederation of compassion, of perception, of permeation.

We long for you and your words. Crave you.
And the closest we can get is this stone.

Happy birthday, Al
Pamela Gill

Happy birthday Al

5.

I have just celebrated my one hundredth birthday and am no
wiser still. Today I cautioned a boy eighty-five years younger than
I to walk on the left facing traffic. He had a perfect view of his
own death, saw perfectly the car crash into his middle, killing him
instantly.

Only the big problems have solutions. Like should we blow
ourselves up with chemistry sets or stop loving altogether. The
little questions are the hard ones, have no answers. Should I
have a sandwich now or wait ‘til supper? Will vitamin pills make
a difference? Should I apologize for my language?

There is a noise in the street. The people are up in arms about
whatever it is they get that way about. They wouldn’t listen if I
stuck my head out the window and told them not to be so silly, to
go on home and get drunk. They don’t know yet that the only progress made is made privately.

I say these things now because I am old and stupid.I speak more
stupidity now than I used to. Yet I respect old age. I respect it
because it is no different than any other. My todays are just as
forever as anyone else’s yesterdays were. See what I mean about speaking stupidity.

Know Thyself I used to believe as though it were possible. Yet I’m
as bewildered as ever and not nearly as well mannered.

The people are forming picket lines around my house. They are
shouting for me to come out. I suppose they think I should quit
my private nonsense and begin to pay some attention to their
public sort. But I’ve given up getting involved in my own down-
fall. It being not nearly as glorious a demise as I could have wished
had I not lived so long and if tomorrow were not a matter of light
tears or eternities away.

6.

Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess and she lived
happily ever after.

That’s a wish I have for my daughter.

(From Notes To No One by Al Pittmam)

ST. JOSEPH’S FEAST DAY, FOGO ISLAND

1.
Through this window
the iced over harbour
shimmers in spring sunlight
and sometimes
if you look closely
you can almost
see it melting

2.
Kyran playing in the yard
has thrown off
one of her mittens
takes up a handful of mud
and squeezes it
smiling to herself
as it oozes out between her fingers
with the sun shining
from her blue eyes
and her hair blowing
in the first spring wind

3.
Potholes and puddles
and water running everywhere
and mud
and sunshine and warm wind
and two old lovers laughing

Al Pittman
(Spring 1971)

March Hare 1998

We first met in 1965 in Montreal. I had just started dating Al. He wanted me to meet you. I knew you were a special friend the way he spoke of you. Almost in awe. He had moved from Corner Brook to Montreal to escape a few demons, who followed him there. I remember that night. We listened to a recording of Dylan Thomas reading “ Under Milkwood”. I had never heard of Dylan Thomas, the Welsh poet. You sat in rapture, savouring every word. It felt sacred.
I knew nothing about modern poets. I only knew poetry written by long dead English men. Al introduced me to poets like: ee cummimgs, Robert Frost, William Carlos Williams, Sylvia Plath, Alan Gingsberg. And the Canadians; Irving Layton,Leonard Cohen, Margaret Atwood, Milton Acorn, Dorothy Livesay, Raymond Souster, Alden Nowlan, Michael Ondaatje, Al Purdy, Earle Birney, Gwendolyn MacEwen. Many of whom you and Al formed lasting friendships with over the years.
What a ride it’s been!
After Montreal we returned to Newfoundland. You were teaching at Memorial University. We moved to Fogo Island for two years. Eventually, and most likely with you influence, Al was appointed to the English Department in 1972. Pat Byrne, Patrick O’Flaherty, Ted Russell among others. We became fast friends. Those years from 1972 to 1975,when we moved to Corner Brook were filled with music, theatre, poetry and friends. Some refer to that period of Newfoundland culture as a renaissance. Ryan’s Fancy at the Strand Lounge, Mike Cook’s plays, The Brother Byrne, Gerry Squires the artist. It was such an exciting time.
Breakwater Books was established. What an achievement! Fifty years ago. You introduced Newfoundland and Labrador literature to the world. You travelled around the globe. Sometimes in the company of dear friends like Al.
Your friendship never wavered. Loyal to the end. Al loved you fiercely. I’m sure when you meet again all Heaven will rejoice.

Poem and portrait of Al Pittman by Ken Pittman, Al’s brother

A wonderful collection of Newfoundland poets.

Newfoundland Poets, by Various Artists 10 track album

To celebrate World Poetry Day, we wanted to share an excerpt from a poem entitled "Brimstone Head", by Al Pittman. Art, in any expression, can be both rooted in history and act as a catalyst for change in culture. Newfoundland & Labrador is home to many influential artists and poets.

One celebrated poet is Al Pittman. He published six poetry collections, filled with striking imagery and sparkling wit. He worked as a high school teacher for some time on Fogo Island and penned a poem referencing Brimstone Head. He was one of the co-founders of Breakwater Books, a publishing house in St. John's, NL, and spent his last year as Poet-in-Residence at Grenfell College in Corner Brook.

https://youtu.be/axQ_4RY-ZYE
Happy birthday Pat Byrne

Clyde Rose and the Brothers Byrne The Brothers Byrne duo, Joe and Pat Byrne, perform Newfoundland folk songs; Clyde Rose recites his poetry. 1976Used under Creative Commons license from http...

Twenty-one years gone today. Seems like yesterday.

https://media.mutualart.com/Images/2018_09/03/17/173422120/5efc5340-147b-427e-9b10-4a5de1de72e8_570.Jpeg

media.mutualart.com

THE COST OF A GOOD CANOE

Mike and I used to talk a lot
one time about flying
in to Red Indian Lake
and canoeing all the way out.

We’d live off the land
and shoot rapids no one
has ever seen and sleep
on the river banks and fry
rainbow trout at sun-up.

We figured it’d take two weeks
to come all the way out like that
and we’d spend whole afternoons
sitting in the Port Tavern
making plans for when we’d really do it.

This summer when I went home
Mike and I talked about it all again
and went over our plans again
sitting in the same old tavern
Figuring on the cost of a good canoe
and what sort of supplies to take
and what would be the best time
of the year to go.

In the meantime fifteen years had gone by
but not once while we sat there
drinking beer and making plans
was there any mention of that sad fact.

Next summer when I go home
we’ll talk about the trip again
and make more plans for when
we’ll really do it
and someday if we are lucky enough
we’ll be old men who’ve been friends
for more than a lifetime
sitting in a tavern agreeing perhaps
how nowadays they don’t make canoes
the way they used to.

~ Al Pittman

Al wrote for theRyan’s Fancy TV show

Fancy That! Denis Ryan looks back on 50 years and the legacy of legendary celtic band Ryan’s Fancy Click here to view this item from peicanada.com.

Photos from March Hare 1998, in Corner Brook.

All Souls Night is the setting for West Moon.

West Moon is set in Newfoundland during the time of resettlement in the mid-1960s. Though the play explores some serious social, political, moral, and theological themes, it does so with a unique blend of pathos and humor. Though the characters are dead and subject to different degrees of despair, they come vigorously alive as we meet them, for a brief while, within the confines of their mortality. This is this first authorized publication of this work by one of Newfoundland's most highly regarded writers.

It's now easier to send Al Pittman a message.

Kyran and her Dad

Kyran’s poem about her Dad.

Kagan Goh sharing a poem entitled FIRST SNOWFALL dedicated to Newfoundland poet Al Pittman (1940-2001).

FIRST SNOWFALL

The initial excitement of first snowfall

has melted away like youth
a pure blanket of untainted memories
turning with the thaw of time
into a gray slush.

I shovel the walkway and steps of our house
knowing if the snow is not cleared
within the first few hours,
we risk being fined
by the local municipality.

All this snow reminds me of Newfoundland,
and our good friend Al Pittman and his family.

Living in Cornerbrook, a small town
dependent on a huge paper mill
forever spewing forth a permanent
chemical cloud looming over the fate
of the town like a bad hangover.

The workers dread the day
the mill will close, and Cornerbrook
becomes another ghost town.

Frost bitten with fear.
Another litter of innocents
suckling on the barren teats
of a pregnant mangy bitch,
only to be zipped up in a bag
and tossed into the icy sea.

Drowning them seems cruel
but to keep them in a land barely
able to sustain itself is even crueler.

Bones blown over by flurries.
A frozen hell where the elements:
fire, wind, and ice
fight an unending battle
for the domination of the soul

Fate is a fish floundering on dry land.

Survival uncertain as the seasons:
freezing and thawing,
giving and taking life.

I think of Al Pittman, the wild white
turning to gray bearded
Walt Whitman of Newfoundland.
His poetry as drunken as he often is.
Drunk on the rage of being alive.

Whitman sang the praises of the Americas,
celebrated the beauty
of the golden fields of rye,
the blue skies,
the merry brook,
the farmer and pioneer
the broken young soldiers
marching to the mighty machinery
of the Spirit of the West,
the American Dream.

Al’s poetry captures
the beauty of Newfoundland.
Its harsh, brutal winters,
windswept barren deserts of ice,
the seas frozen as far as the eye can see.

But within this icy wasteland
beats the warm throbbing heart
of the people of New Found Land.

It was this warmth that drew us to Al.
He invited us into his warm cozy house
and thawed our hearts frozen
by over-exposure to loneliness.

Although his poetry might lack the luster
of Whitman’s American Dream,
it’s steeped in the eternal struggle
to sustain our own dashed hopes.

Lanky, goofy, lovable and funny
stumbling through
the drunken jig of life,
rattling the skeletons in his closet
throwing open his doors
having nothing to hide.

He opened his heart to us
and filled our stale lives
with a breath of fresh air.

Every Christmas the mad poet
would break a hole in a chosen frozen lake.
Dive into icy sub zero waters naked
jumping out just as quickly as he jumped in
running around and drinking to keep warm.

He’d perform this ritual religiously,
invigorating himself
shocking himself awake
to remind himself
that this old dog is still alive.

He never once caught a chill.
so full of warmth
he had enough to spare and share
returning some to the land
from which he was born.
A bright Light of Cornerbrook.
A beacon in a snowstorm.

Al has since stopped,
not drinking
but performing these icy baptisms,
growing old and wizened.
His heart doesn’t tick as strongly as before.
But his spirit is still unwavering
and unaltered.

Shoveling the steps and sidewalk
of snow in order to avoid being fined
reminds me of when Al’s neighbors
sent him a summons
ordering him to cut his lawn.

His garden overgrown with daisies,
p***y willows, and wild flowers.
Al welcomed this motley crew
of flora outcasts and persecuted outlaws
to his garden, saying to them:

Stay a while.
Have a beer.
Let your hair down.

Grow wild,
while you can
before the icy snows
come round again.

Feel welcome.
Feel at home
in this garden I call my own.

But the neighborhood did not approve
of Al’s laid back ways.
Did not like the weeds he called friends.

They banded together in a conspiracy
to storm his Garden Paradise,
his Eden amidst the ice floes.

With the power invested from the municipality
aided by the blue monkeys of authority
they imposed upon him an unnatural order

to trim his hedges,
castrate the grass,
decapitate the daisies,
murder the weeds,
tear them by the roots
committing a sin
by deporting these flora refugees
to the compost bin.

Al was furious and would not be intimidated
by the cowards who wanted to clean up his act,
manicure his lawn,
sterilize and rehabilitate his Garden Sanctuary,
invade his sacred Privacy.

This was War!

Al put up a helluva fight
against this self-righteous army
of gardener fascists
and lawnmower manicurists.
Al would not change his garden for anybody.
Not even if commanded by God Almighty.

I think of Al now and then
and how long it’s been
since we’ve heard from him.

He’d probably be surprised to know this.
We never got to know each other well
He probably found me
withdrawn and uptight.
Rigid as a bank of snow slowly thawing.

I too sought this sanctuary
of this barren no-man’s-land.
Tired of fleeing from
crimes and misdemeanors
committed once upon a time.

Snow bound and cabin-fevered
I stood my ground
confronted my demons within.
When spring came
I emerged new-born,
redeemed
discovering within myself
a New Found Man.

Slowly but surely I let down my barriers
but I don’t think Al ever suspected
what lay beneath this glacier.

I think of Al every now and then
and how so very long it’s been.
He’s kept to himself as if ashamed
of his mistakes and wrong-doings.
But the things others saw as flaws
are the very things in him we adored.

So I clear away the sidewalk of snow
not bullied by rules
made by cowering conformists
or meddlesome neighbors.
I want the passage of our house
to be clear for friends and loved ones
who are always welcome here.

Today I cried when I heard
that Al Pittman died.
Ashes scattered to the wind
the seeds of his soul blown
to the Great Garden in the sky.

Let me water your the fertile
soil of your Imagination
with my tears of affection.

Dear Friend may your soul
be overgrown with weeds of happiness
spreading in the gardens of conformity.

Dear Friend come rest your weary bones
I’ll tuck you under this blanket of snow.

When spring comes around
sow your wild oats in fertile ground
and harvest the grapes from your own vine
make homemade wine
and drink with the Divine
in the Great Brewery in the Sky.

Let us raise a toast
to Al getting pi**ed drunk with
the Father, Son and the Holy Ghost.

Dear Al we miss you so.
I clear this path of snow
if you ever want to visit
as a ghost or a spirit
I want to let you know
the beer is cold

Let’s sit in the garden
and watch the wildflowers grow.