-by  Richard-Yves Sitoski

In subsequent days, many of us will come forward to relate how important Andrew Armitage was to them as a friend, colleague, and pillar of the heritage and arts community. Because I never got the chance to spend much time with him, it is primarily in the last instance that I knew him. In this regard, plainly speaking, his contribution to the region will doubtless never be equaled.

I, of course, did have a professional connection to Andrew. As Poet Laureate, I will be forever indebted to him, for he was a sponsor of the program and one of the driving forces behind the position—a position unique in Canada, so far as I can tell, in that it is funded privately; it was important to him that the laureateship be truly by, of, and for the community, independent of both public and private sector interests. I have done my best to remain mindful of this throughout my activities.

Moreover, Andrew played an indirect and unintentional role in getting me the job. I’ve always loved local heritage. Through his many works, I came to discover Grey and Bruce counties in all their historical richness, and I learned enough to compose a book of poems on local anecdotes for Maryann Thomas, our mutual publisher at the Ginger Press. This book started me off as a poet and eventually led to me becoming Laureate.

It never occurred to me that as part of my duties I would need to undertake the solemn task of composing an elegy for a man who did so much for the region and who influenced so many people. I only hope that what little I have offered here can be considered adequate tribute.

Elegy for Andrew Armitage

There are roses still abloom, covered in snow,
and I too bristle at restrictions,
at times and places for things.

But the book I read at 16
is not the one re-read at 50,
though it’s not the book that changed, but me.

And the town you found in ‘71
is not the one you left in ‘21,
though it is the town that changed—

because of you, and because of your books.
Because it took someone from away
to seize the hereness of here,

to return to us the stories we didn’t know we had,
to give us books that cause us to change
though they do not.

Because you wrote more words
than many of us have read,
and read enough to exhaust a language.

Because you forgot more
than many of us will know,
and you scarcely forgot a thing.

Know then that there are worse examples for living
than roses blooming white with frost.
Let their ceaseless growth

inspire us all to write our life
and fill, as you did, entire days in the span
between the ticks of a clock.

And let their irrepressibility in a late season
impel us to read the world voraciously,
as you did, following the endless text

down the boundless page
to the grace that awaits us all
when the covers are finally shut.

photograph of Andrew courtesy of the generosity of John Fearnall