Poetry

POB11\Y 325 de Quat'Sous en avril 1971, dans une mise en scene d'Andre Brassard. II s'agit sans aucun doute de Ie plus belle piece de l'annee. Quatre personnages , un couple dans la quarantaine et leurs deux lilles s'entretiennent et se chamaillent dans un double dialogue qui se deroule de part et d'autre avec un decalage de dix ans, decalage qui est savamment supprime pour certaines confrontations. « Un petit chef-d'ceuvre de cruaute " ecrit avec justesse Michel Belair, mais chef-d'ceuvre dans lequell'ecrasant pessimisme des Belles-sreurs 6nit par laisser percer une petite lueur d'espoir. Michel Tremblay passede au plus haut point Ie genie du dialogue vivant, et son don se manifeste egalement dans sa traduction et adaptation d'une piece du dramaturge new-york.is Paul Zindel, ... Et Mademoiselle Roberge bait un peu... (Lemeac, 95, $2.50) au dans ses Trois petits tours (Lemeac, 64, $2.50) consacres II la vie de chien des gens du • showtime •. Le th~tre de Jean Barbeau est plus directement « engage» que celui de Tremblay, sans etre pour cela plus pres de la rcalite quebecoise. Son Chemin de Lacroix, suivi de Goglu (Lemeac, 74, $1.50), est certainement Ie plus rl,ussi des ouvrages de theatre inspires par la Loi des mesures de guerre, et l'inculpe Rodolphe Lacroix, arbitrairement detenu, interroge et torture, traduit une souffrance collective. Le meme desespoir se reBete dans Ben-Ur (Lemeac, 108, $1.75), dont Ie personnage principal, BenoltUrbain Theberge, ayant essaye en vain de sartir de « sa swamp» (p.25), se refugie aupres des heros des bandes dessinees dont il fait collection. Signalons linalement sallS la rubrique charitable de theatre experimental Il suffit d'un jour (Lemeac, 92, $1.50) de Renald Tremblay, dialogue haletant entretenu par les quatre visages d'un seul personnage anonyme. (DAVID M. HAYNB) POETRY Understand lirst that I won't even try to cover the waterfront. Even last year the territory was so wide that through exhaustion and inadvertence I lost sight of 26 titles. This caused chagrin to John Newlove, whose book The Cave was among the lost; but so were Nowlan's Playing the Jesus Game and Nichol's The Cosmic Chef, One better than Newlove and the other worse. My apologies to all ignored authors. The best I can do this season is to list all books received;' a glance at their number will begin to 'See pp. 339-41. 326 LE'ITBRS IN CANADA explain why it's impossible to mention each, let alone attempt a balanced judgment. Instead for a change I'll accept the reviewer's prerogative, urged on me by a sympathetic editor, and pause over only the books which interest me one way or another. I take my text from Louis Dudek: Poets have become unamiable, untamable, innumerable, unnameable. The last two epithets, for the moment. Such a Rood of published verse (and I'm dealing only with the books actually sent in for review) does a disservice to poor poets and good ones alike - premature exposure on the one hand, and on the other the risk of being lost from sight. I'm not quite gloomy enough to apply Gresham's law. Matters have doubtless stood much the same in other times, relative to a smaller world (remember all the dull poets whose sole memorial is The Dunciad); and I'm more inclined to believe with Mill or Arnold that truth or quality will survive in the long run, winnowed by critics and discriminating readers. But for the discriminating reader here and now, it is harder than ever to resist the impression of tiny talent time at vanity fair: a horde of lispers and bawlers elbowing for the spotlight, egged on by fond publishers and other pro-moters of culture (including teachers of creative writing, heaven save us), and never a voice advising them to keep their work nine years, and see if it rots in the drawer. Dudek's 'untamable' might be taken to imply an invasion of strong passionate creatures too proud for any yoke. Ah, says the dreamer, in the juvescence of this year what tigers spring? A few...