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A poet dies.   

Is it dust to dust and that’s it?  Or is there such a thing as a lasting legacy?  What can we learn in the aftermath of an art-committed life?    

Does a life have meaning? 

Andy Suknaski grew up in Sitting Bull country in southern Saskatchewan.  He remained there, in his shack, working at his kitchen table, writing drafts on brown Safeway bags:

…this is my right
to chronicle the meaning of these vast plains
in a geography of blood
and failure
making them live. 

Suknaski’s Wood Mountain Poems has been described as a “timeless classic of Canadian literature”. 

The memorial service meant a 1500 mile journey to Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, but never mind.  Nor am I a poet, but never mind that, either.  I would forever regret missing the celebration of this beloved artist’s life. 

“He spoke of himself in the lower case.”

“He always spoke of eternal things,”

A dozen people stood up at Suknaski’s memorial to savour his memory.  A portrait emerged of a loner, fierce and sincere, demanding but above all, generous. 

Meeting Andy, he’d enquire, “What are you reading? What are you writing?”  He cut to the chase.  He would examine you over his tinted aviator glasses.  I’d had the pleasure, myself.

Years ago, I shot a National Film Board documentary about Suknaski.  I remember that stare.  Yikes!  No, he wasn’t finding faults, it was worse than that!  Andy was looking for the best. 

He seemed to be taking responsibility for the enlightenment of those he lived among. 

“Knowing Andy, I got a sense of what it was like to live the life of a poet.” 

Sukna