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The Tightrope Dancer
- GenresPoetry
112 pages, Paperback
First published September 9, 1978
3 people want to read
About the author
Irving Layton
86 books40 followersPoet, Teacher.
Born as Israel Pincu Lazarovitch, author Irving Layton immigrated to Canada in 1913, as a baby, his family settling on the infamous St. Urbain Street in the city of Montreal. In the heavily French-speaking province of Quebec, some locals were weary of English foreigners and Jewish families, however, the Lazarovitches adapted to the city where a great Canadian literary scene flourished, producing several English (Canadian) authors such as Mordecai Richler, Leonard Cohen and Louis Dudek.
In the early 1930's, Irving Layton received a Bachelor of Science degree in Agriculture from MacDonald College. In 1946, he received his M.A. in Political Science. He also began teaching English, History, and Political Science at the Jewish parochial high school, Herzliah, in 1949. He taught modern English and American poetry at Sir George Williams University (now Concordia) and worked as a tenured professor at York University in the 1970s. He lectured occasionally at McGill University in Political Science. He taught English and Literature at the Jewish Public Library.
Irving Layton often recited his works at readings and travelled the world doing so, gaining fame and popularity. Over the course of his life, Irving Layton received many awards and honours for his writing. In 1959, Irving Layton received the Governor-General's Award for "A Red Carpet for the Sun." He was titled an Officer of the Order of Canada in 1976. In 1981, he was nominated for the Nobel Prize for Literature by Italy and South Korea. He also received the Petrarch Award for Poetry.
Well loved, Irving led a full life surrounded by students, friends and family. He was married four times - to Faye Lynch, Harriet Bernstein, Annette Pottier and Betty Sutherland. He also lived with a woman named Aviva Cantor for several years. He fathered four children during his life named Max, Naomi, David and Samantha Clara.
Born as Israel Pincu Lazarovitch, author Irving Layton immigrated to Canada in 1913, as a baby, his family settling on the infamous St. Urbain Street in the city of Montreal. In the heavily French-speaking province of Quebec, some locals were weary of English foreigners and Jewish families, however, the Lazarovitches adapted to the city where a great Canadian literary scene flourished, producing several English (Canadian) authors such as Mordecai Richler, Leonard Cohen and Louis Dudek.
In the early 1930's, Irving Layton received a Bachelor of Science degree in Agriculture from MacDonald College. In 1946, he received his M.A. in Political Science. He also began teaching English, History, and Political Science at the Jewish parochial high school, Herzliah, in 1949. He taught modern English and American poetry at Sir George Williams University (now Concordia) and worked as a tenured professor at York University in the 1970s. He lectured occasionally at McGill University in Political Science. He taught English and Literature at the Jewish Public Library.
Irving Layton often recited his works at readings and travelled the world doing so, gaining fame and popularity. Over the course of his life, Irving Layton received many awards and honours for his writing. In 1959, Irving Layton received the Governor-General's Award for "A Red Carpet for the Sun." He was titled an Officer of the Order of Canada in 1976. In 1981, he was nominated for the Nobel Prize for Literature by Italy and South Korea. He also received the Petrarch Award for Poetry.
Well loved, Irving led a full life surrounded by students, friends and family. He was married four times - to Faye Lynch, Harriet Bernstein, Annette Pottier and Betty Sutherland. He also lived with a woman named Aviva Cantor for several years. He fathered four children during his life named Max, Naomi, David and Samantha Clara.
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Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews
January 17, 2022
Awareness of death's pull
into nothingness
begets tyrant and sadist
but the prod, the harsh shove of love
makes the defiant artist
dance on his tightrope
* * *
Flaunting
their pirate's flag of pubic hair
in cool pairs
the firm-titted girls
go past em
Or they sprawl on the sand
giving their marvels to the sun
My turned head
is a hummingbird
sipping the dark flower
between their thighs
* * *
We're in this
together, love,
like a head
in a bear-trap
My head
your bear-trap
* * *
You come to me
with your hair dyed henna red,
capped teeth, expensive rings.
You enfold me in your braceleted arms,
seeking safety and completion
in my head against your breast;
my smile, my innocent blue eyes
give you hope
and I feel your hunger
to make me your catastrophe,
your best excuse for rage
against nature's tyranny
as your womb does a somersault
against your quivering lips.
How can I help you?
You need a reason for living.
I don't.
* * *
They gather around him like pigeons
waiting patiently
for the bad news to drop from his mouth
The commiseration in the glances
they give him
is an accurate index
of their happiness
They pass their compassionate smile
from one to another
like a thin religious wafer
that lights up each face
The first scoop is the best
and like no other
But the flutterings can go on for hours
* * *
My sons, when you hear men
speaking angrily on streetcorners
about justice and human rights
make certain the doors are locked
and your pistol loaded
* * *
Whatever those amiable liars tell you
- anarchists theologians poets -
keep this well in mind, my sons:
men have been known to go
from ripping out a woman's breasts
or cracking a child's head
as if it were a hazelnut
to cracking jokes
(paranomasia intended)
to make all their banqueting friends
and relative
double up with laughter
and commend their wit
Do you think a mere untrained gorilla
could ever do that?
* * *
Only the rare few can live with doubt,
complexity that borders on chaos
They are the great-hearted sun-worshippers,
the true aristocrats, princes, and kings
A superstition is what the masses want,
the mental effluvium they call faith or belief
They yearn for an ignorance they can perish for
blithely or murder for with a good conscience
In our blood-stained era any broad strain
of Christianity or Marxianism will serve
Since for their immedicable ills and discontents
they need the solace of pie-in-the-sky, and always
They will demand relief from the horror
of seeing one's monstrous face in the mirror
And being that unique thing in the cosmos: a soul
forever tethered to an asshole
* * *
In some kinds of light
the human visage terrifies
with its script of egotism,
greed, smugness, imbecility,
the ignoble instincts surfacing
like mantling scum
around the eyes and mouth
I sometimes dream
of walking into a mountain village
and seeing around me
only headless bodies.
I put whatever face on them
that pleases me
and they all rise from their places
to bind my head with laurel
Whatever pious dunce believed
socialism, Christianity, Maoism
could reconstruct the human face,
make it pleasing and lovable,
never reckoned with this light
* * *
All I require
for my happiness
is a pen
and a sheet of paper
to put down
my unhappy reflections
on men
and the human condition
* * *
The rains of Molibos
are an underground monster
you can hear stirring
in the hot months of July and August
far below the fairness of ripening fruit trees
and when leaf and fern are everywhere
an indominitable
into nothingness
begets tyrant and sadist
but the prod, the harsh shove of love
makes the defiant artist
dance on his tightrope
- The Tightrope Dancer, pg. 15
* * *
Flaunting
their pirate's flag of pubic hair
in cool pairs
the firm-titted girls
go past em
Or they sprawl on the sand
giving their marvels to the sun
My turned head
is a hummingbird
sipping the dark flower
between their thighs
- Hummingbird, pg. 23
* * *
We're in this
together, love,
like a head
in a bear-trap
My head
your bear-trap
- Tell It to Peggy, pg. 34
* * *
You come to me
with your hair dyed henna red,
capped teeth, expensive rings.
You enfold me in your braceleted arms,
seeking safety and completion
in my head against your breast;
my smile, my innocent blue eyes
give you hope
and I feel your hunger
to make me your catastrophe,
your best excuse for rage
against nature's tyranny
as your womb does a somersault
against your quivering lips.
How can I help you?
You need a reason for living.
I don't.
- You Come to Me, pg. 35
* * *
They gather around him like pigeons
waiting patiently
for the bad news to drop from his mouth
The commiseration in the glances
they give him
is an accurate index
of their happiness
They pass their compassionate smile
from one to another
like a thin religious wafer
that lights up each face
The first scoop is the best
and like no other
But the flutterings can go on for hours
- Schadenfreude, pg. 42
* * *
My sons, when you hear men
speaking angrily on streetcorners
about justice and human rights
make certain the doors are locked
and your pistol loaded
- Before the Millennium Comes, pg. 54
* * *
Whatever those amiable liars tell you
- anarchists theologians poets -
keep this well in mind, my sons:
men have been known to go
from ripping out a woman's breasts
or cracking a child's head
as if it were a hazelnut
to cracking jokes
(paranomasia intended)
to make all their banqueting friends
and relative
double up with laughter
and commend their wit
Do you think a mere untrained gorilla
could ever do that?
- The Descent of Man, pg. 62
* * *
Only the rare few can live with doubt,
complexity that borders on chaos
They are the great-hearted sun-worshippers,
the true aristocrats, princes, and kings
A superstition is what the masses want,
the mental effluvium they call faith or belief
They yearn for an ignorance they can perish for
blithely or murder for with a good conscience
In our blood-stained era any broad strain
of Christianity or Marxianism will serve
Since for their immedicable ills and discontents
they need the solace of pie-in-the-sky, and always
They will demand relief from the horror
of seeing one's monstrous face in the mirror
And being that unique thing in the cosmos: a soul
forever tethered to an asshole
- Opium, pg. 67
* * *
In some kinds of light
the human visage terrifies
with its script of egotism,
greed, smugness, imbecility,
the ignoble instincts surfacing
like mantling scum
around the eyes and mouth
I sometimes dream
of walking into a mountain village
and seeing around me
only headless bodies.
I put whatever face on them
that pleases me
and they all rise from their places
to bind my head with laurel
Whatever pious dunce believed
socialism, Christianity, Maoism
could reconstruct the human face,
make it pleasing and lovable,
never reckoned with this light
- The Greek Light, pg. 74
* * *
All I require
for my happiness
is a pen
and a sheet of paper
to put down
my unhappy reflections
on men
and the human condition
- Beatitude, pg. 83
* * *
The rains of Molibos
are an underground monster
you can hear stirring
in the hot months of July and August
far below the fairness of ripening fruit trees
and when leaf and fern are everywhere
an indominitable
- The Monster, pg. 96
Read
December 18, 2015Irving Layton is a good poet. Not my favourite, but still pretty damn good. He incorporates so much history and mythology into his work and it's very sensual. This was an enjoyable read.
In fact, some of his poems are quite dirty. I tweeted this and one of his former lovers, who wrote a book about him, admonished me for it!
In fact, some of his poems are quite dirty. I tweeted this and one of his former lovers, who wrote a book about him, admonished me for it!
Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews