Humans make art

Art makes us human  

In the Stations of the Metro 


The absence of these faces:

Petals on a wet, black plague.



Lucien Lallier


Cote Ste. Catherine


72 in 2020



How to translate them into my life?

Just thought

for fun

I’d do the math

pass the time

do something

to amaze me


I have spent

26,280 days

26,280 nights

630,720 hours

378,432,000 minutes

22,705,920,000 seconds

on this planet


I remember so few of them


Today I went to Beaconsfield library

to talk about some of those times

of exile and home

of home bittersweet home

as remembered in poems, plays and fiction

and make some money


I did


For my birthday supper

I had take-out sushi,

my taste buds’ trip to Japan,

with a candle to blow out


I did


It tasted moldy


Found out yesterday

I was nominated for a prize today



Went to Café Cleopatra

the oldest burlesque house in Canada

now a strip joint for the gala

where, Al Palmer, in the 40s,

in his book

Montreal Confidential



“if you’re looking for trouble

it’s the place to go.”


I did



the ladies walk the walkway

swivel, slink, shake, twirl, twerk, seduce

bucks from boys and men

for a sleazy dream come true

for a moment to remember

to forget



the new literati

pierced, tattooed, transed, indigenous

young and hip, shy and serious

and me

white-stubbled baggy-eyed and 72


My youth in a novel lies among

the underground of chapbooks

zines and comics


I am the past, present at the future

nursing my beer, my memories

my envy and relief


Came home and washed my hands

of any remnants of the corona virus

for as long as it takes to sing happy birthday to me


Can’t say it was a bad day

Can’t say it was great

I’ll tell you tomorrow morning,

when I start the clock again,

how much was gained

how much is lost


Toked some Blue Dream

and went to bed.



I didn’t get up to pee once

I didn’t have bad dreams and

restless-leg syndrome


I had a brilliant line,

like a single birthday candle just lit,

sing to me.


I can’t remember it


So begins this morning

the rest of my life.


March 11-14, 2020


Spring 2020 Tour


Wednesday      March 11, 2020       Beaconsfield Library                                                   1:00       Free. Open to the Public 

Thursday          March 12, 2020        John Abbott College



Tuesday          March 31, 2020        University of Szeged, Hungary

Wednesday    April 1, 2020              Eötvös Lorand University, Hungary

Thursday        April 2, 2020              Pázmány Péter Catholic University, Hungary

Tuesday          April 7, 2020              University of Debrecen, Hungary

Wednesday    April 8,  2020             University of Debrecen, Hungary

Thursday        April 16, 2020            University of Ljubljana, Slovenia

Monday          April 20, 2020            The House of Art and Literature, Pécs, Hungary      18:00     Free. Open to the Public 

Tuesday          April 21, 2020            University of Pécs, Hungary

Tuesday          April 28, 2020            University of Masaryk, Czech Republic


Of Home Game, Jack Todd of the Montreal Gazette says, ”Endre Farkas writes with the same meticulous aplomb whether he’s chronicling the inner workings of a soccer ‘friendly’ in Hungary at the height of the Cold War, the brutal oppression of the post-1956 police state in the country where he was born, or the burgeoning sexual and artistic freedoms in Montreal in the late 1960s. In Home Game, the sequel to his highly praised novel Never, Again, he deftly builds the suspense to almost unbearable levels, proving that the best literary fiction can also be a real page-turner.”

Home Game is a novel of return and the coming of age in the sixties. It is about change, being an immigrant/exile and having to make choices which have grave consequences. It is about friendship, family and the conflicts created by trying to do the right thing.

Launch of HOME GAME  at the Atwater  Library October 23, 2019

West Island Launch of HOME GAME  at TWIGS Café  in Ste. Anne de Bellevue Nov. 19, 2019






Our home, not our natives’ land


Let us rise and be worthy of our forefathers—

whose noble courage their hearts did fire

whose mercantile masters their pockets inspire

who left far behind their native shores

and braved the perils of the stormy seas

in search of tea, of silk and spicy nubile Asians

to seek the northwest route to China

but settled for Lachine.


Let us rise and be worthy of our forefathers

whose boats brought guns, rats and diseases

to this quelques arpents des neiges

to this land that God gave to Cain

who first bravely met the pagan Savage

and for God, King and country, toked peace pipes,

planted crosses, lied, signed and broke all treaties

to steal this land for you and me—

For again we need to stand on guard for thee.





True patriot love in all thy sons command.

Let us rise and be worthy of our French forefathers

who are now famous streets, parks, and bridges

who brought over those filles du roi to fill the cribs

with future first-round hockey picks

and those coureurs du bois whose great skills: snowshoeing,

paddling, portaging, smoking, drinking, singing,

spitting, and making babies

were surpassed only by their passion for chasing beaver.



Let us rise and be worthy of our English forefathers

who were famous streets, parks and bridges

whose accounting Scots kept the books and cash

in immaculate, pillared banks

whose starved-out Irish filled the factories,

taverns, churches and obediently, annually

made a fresh batch of babies

For again we need to stand on guard for thee.





With glowing hearts we see thee rise


Let us rise and be worthy

of our anthem that we do not know,

of our history that we do not know

of our geography that we do not know

of our languages that we do not know

of our arts that we do not know

of our culture that we do not know

of our immigrants that we do not want!


Let us rise and be worthy of our glorious Queen

who graces our stamps and cash

of our Governor General

who licks and spends our Queen        

of our Bloc Quebecois

who Caisse-Pops our Queen

of our Liberals

who pork-barrel our Queen

of our NDPs

who would socialize our Queen

of our Conservatives

who are afraid of our Queens

For again we need to stand on guard for thee.





From far and wide,

Let us rise and be worthy of our too few rich

of our few too powerful

who would be our leaders

whose ships fly foreign flags

whose factories are erected on foreign shores

whose profits are in foreign untaxed shelters

whose exploited foreign workers

dream of coming to these foreign shores

to be free and to do the same.

For again we need to stand on guard for thee.





The True North strong and free!

Let us rise and sit and be worthy to watch                                      


and listen to


and obey



Let us rise and be 86 cents worthy of America

selling us the American Dream

of America deep frying us into Ronald McShits

of America clawing up our minerals

of America chewing up our forests

of America sucking out our oil and natural gaz

of America guzzling down our water

of America kidnapping our citizens to be tortured   

For again we need to stand on guard for thee.





God keep our land glorious and free


Let us rise and go then you and I:

Autochthones, Francophones, Anglophones,

Allophones & mobile phones

Let us be Johnny Canuck terrorists

Let us start a Jihad. . .after the playoffs

Let us be armed to the teeth with used submarines

Let us use our weapons of mass destruction

Let us drown them in Newfie Screech,

Let us castrate them with PEI lobsters

Let us burst their eardrums with Nova Scotia fiddlers

Let us whip them with New Brunswick fiddleheads

Let us cholesterol them with Quebec poutine

Let us give them the Maple Leafs

Let us blast them with Manitoba winters     

Let us pelt them with prairie oysters

Let us stone them with BC pot.

Let us drive over them with our Yukon huskies sleds

Let us kick them in their Pentagon with our Northwest snowshoes

Let us saddle up our Royal Canadian Mounties

Let us mount our Bombardier skidoos &

bravely, without passports, ride proudly

into the declining Empire’s headlights.

For again we need to stand on guard for thee.





Let us stand on guard for thee




We stand on guard for thee



Feb 6, 2007



This is Part 1 of my ramble about getting to interview John Lennon & Yoko Ono during their Bed-In in Montreal.

Giving Peace a Chance

Fifty years ago today was May 26, 1969. Fifty years ago today John & Yoko came to Bed-In in Montreal. Fifty years ago I was 21.

Fifty years ago I published my first literary/hippie magazine, Ostrich. In case you’re wondering why I called it Ostrich, let me make a short story short. Here’s the last paragraph from my editorial in Volume 1, #3:


“The ostrich, contrary to popular belief, does not bury its head in the ground in times of danger. Rather, its keen eyesight serves as a sentry, on guard for dangers from within and without.”


I told you it was a hippie literary magazine. It looked hand-made. It was. It was how we wanted it, anti-commercial, anti-establishment. Of course, we also didn’t have resources to do it up snazzy, so we made it unsnazzy. And maybe we did it because the times they were a-changing.

It was during these changing times, May 26, 1969, that I interviewed John & Yoko and published it in Ostrich. We also published photos and excerpts from the ‘interview’ and a poem by John. It all came about through chance, serendipity, alignment of the stars and a little deception.

I was working at The Gazette as a sports reporter. I was the ethnic sports reporter who covered ethnic sports, namely soccer. I was also in my transitional phase from jock to hippie. I was a jock who played Junior A soccer and covered the major league.

However, as my hair and consciousness grew longer and deeper, my interest in sports moved from the actual to the aesthetic. I still enjoyed the camaraderie of jocks, the rush of the game, and the thrill of victory but I was also tuning in, getting off on the Beats, and experimenting with grass.


I remember when the two states – body and mind – joined for one glorious moment. It was before I dropped out in 1970 and moved to Meatball Creek Farm. It happened during a game in which I scored five goals while high.


I felt so inside and outside of myself that that I was beside my self. It was as though I was watching myself and knew where and when the ball would arrive before it did; knew exactly where it would be and what to do to become at one with the game. I was in the Zen moment; ‘it’ was doing it. They now call this state The Zone.

I got the newspaper gig through the team manager of my Junior A team, who worked at The Gazette and knew that I was in the Arts program at Sir George (now Con U) and needed a summer job. He used his influence to get me an interview.

The sports editor, a cigar smoking/chomping gruff man – a real cliché of a newspaperman à la Perry White – asked to see a sample of my writing. I gave him my honours essay ‘Meditations and Variations on Waiting for Godot.’ He glanced at the title, tossed it on the desk and asked me if I could spell and type.


I happened to see two guys (who turned out to be Pat Hickey and Ted Blackman) hunting and pecking on manual typewriters. I told him that I could do that but lied about my spelling. After all, I was an English major. I knew how to use a dictionary.Back then, The Gazette was in a battle with The Montreal Star for readership and was looking to get more ethnics to read the paper. Having a regular column about ethnic sports seemed like a good plan. I was ethnic, my name was ethnic, I played the ethnic sport, I could write English well enough and I could hunt and peck, so I was hired and given a press pass.

It was around this time that I got friendlier with a couple of guys, Allan and Allan, whom I knew only casually in high school. One Allan was into the Blues, the other Allan was into journalism à la underground. The three of us were also into getting high.


For some reason that I don’t remember – if you remember those days, you weren’t stoned enough – we decided to start a magazine, along with one of the Allan’s sisters, whom I had a crush on.

I think one of the reasons I was interested in publishing was because of LOGOS. LOGOS was a Montreal underground paper. It was messy, edgy and fun. I think it was located in an apartment on Duluth above a butcher shop. Aislin was one of its cartoonists.


Its most memorable issue was the one in ’68, in which they reproduced The Gazette logo with the “z” inverted. The headline read “Mayor (Drapeau) Shot By Dope Crazed Hippies.” It also claimed that one of the “dope crazed hippies” stabbed the mayor with a hypodermic needle.

I vaguely remember that an announcer on CJAD announced it as The Gazette gospel truth. I found a second source who also “seems to remember” that this was true. According to The Gazette, about fifty people called the switchboard thinking it was true.


LOGOS publisher Paul Kirby landed in jail and during the trial, in 1969, Drapeau personally testified that “nobody shot him or stabbed him with a hypodermic needle.”* Ah, the good old days of ‘Fake News’ with a social, satirical purpose.

Memories keep my mind wondering. Sorry.

I had a press pass, and a first issue of Ostrich was about to publish an article about marijuana by “The Mandala”, a couple of short stories, a couple of poems and a cartoon about the environment with the heading of ‘Time’s on my side’ by The Rolling Stones. I'm impressed how environmentally aware we were.

Just before we went to press, we heard that John and Yoko were coming to town to have a Bed-In for peace. Back then, everything was an “in”: Love-in, Sit-in, Be-in, so why not a Bed-in?


Allan said, but don’t quote me, “you have a press pass, I know a photographer, let’s go interview them.” So off we set to be a part of The Happen -(In)-g.

The Queen Elizabeth hotel lobby was crowded with perplexed business-suits carrying briefcases, trying to go about their coming-and-going among the flower-powered jeans and skirts, the tie-dye shirted, sandaled, army surplus canvass-bagged longhair boys and girls and their auras and scents of patchouli, wanting to see John & Yoko. It was the clash of the bland and the colourful counter-culture cultures.


I used my press pass to get Allan, Morrie (the photographer), and me past the loosey-goosey security into their suite. It was crowded with the famous and the unknown. In the middle of the room, reclining in their all-white bed, in their all- white pyjamas were John & Yoko. (John’s PJs might have been striped.) My first impression of John was that he was skinny and not as tall as I thought. His long hair and beard reminded me of Jesus with glasses. His saying, in 1966, that The Beatles were more popular than Jesus might have influenced my thinking that. Yoko was even smaller. Her wiry black hair fell like a cape about her delicate face. Her smile had a seriousness to it.


Even though they were considered “royalty,” I didn’t feel that they acted as such. Yes, they were reclined but it felt like you were at a friend’s bedroom party. People were sitting guru-like on the bed, on the floor, leaning against walls and doors, wandering about, chit-chatting and smoking. It didn’t feel odd. Maybe I’m seeing it through rose-coloured glasses. Probably. Probably, it seems odd now.

I don’t remember how long we spent there or what we talked about. I remember him asking me, “Hey man, how’s it going?” When I told him about the magazine, he said “cool.” Looking back on the notes in Ostrich, I see that John also said, “We’re all Christ, you know” and Yoko said, “The main centres of the world are Moscow, Washington, and the Vatican.” Allan was the one who asked him to write a few words. John drew a quick sketch of himself and Yoko. He also gave us permission to reprint a poem of his ‘Our Dad.’ I think it was from his book, In His Own Write. Reading it now, I must say, it isn’t a great poem, but the sentiments were right for the times. 

We spent a few hours mingling, feeling special, believing that love was the answer and peace was possible.


“You, you may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you will join us
And the world will be as one.”

Imagine © John Lennon

We’ve been sold the idea that war can end war. We’ve given war chance after chance and it always ended up leading to more war. It’s the classic definition of insanity, doing the same thing time after time and expecting different results.  Giving peace a chance seems like a sane alternative.  I think we need dreamers more and more because I don’t think we have a choice. Time is not on our side. Imagine that!



I left before ‘Give Peace a Chance’ was recorded. I had a soccer game to cover. I was probably the only one in the city of Montreal who wasn’t on the record.

as the breath is…


This poem has been around the block a few times. Sitting in a bar in Trois Rivières in the 1980s, during its annual poetry festival, a few poets, including me, were asked to compose a brief poem on a handmade paper coaster and then read it to the audience.


I had always been interested in line lengths in poems, usually referred to as beats, feet or breath. I always liked the measure of breath. Breath is best. It made sense that the measure of a line of a poem (an oral form) be measured in breaths not feet. I had also been working with dancers to whom breath was a concern. People take breath for granted. It’s an automatic function. The dancers made me conscious of its actuality and necessity. So breath was floating in my brain. And after a few glasses of wine or beer, not sure, I came up with the first draft of the poem.

When it came to reading it, I decided to “breathe” the poem. This is how and when the poem “as the breath is…” first had life breathed into it.


I had performed it a couple of times over the years before I met Carolyn Marie Souaid, another poet. I don’t remember why or when exactly she agreed to do it with me, but I remember how much richer the poem became. The texture, the meshing, the lyrical, the cacophony, was enriched because of her participation.


Recently, BV (Before Virus), Carolyn & I went into Studio Sophronik to record some poems.  “as the breath…” was one of them. The sound engineer, Greg Fitzgerald, who was used to recording music, didn’t know what to make of the poem. But he liked it. He asked if I would allow him to play with it. I have always liked collaborations, so I said, “of course.” A few days later he sent me an mp3 of it. I was blown away. The reverb, echo took it to another level. I listened to it a couple of times and filed it away, feeling that I would like to be able to perform this live.


Then came the plague. I knew that performing it live was not going to be possible. The option was online. For that I needed visuals. I had a bunch of photoshopped images that seemed to fit the bill. However, it would require the animation of stills. My go-to videographer, Martin Reisch, thought it might be too complicated to do in these isolation conditions. He suggested that he go through his archives and find appropriate clips to collage together and synch it to the audio. Again, the collaborative sensibility kicked in and I agreed.

So, to make a short poem long, the videopoem, “as the breath is…”, (a day in the life and death of breath) is a collaboration in isolation brought to fruition by the plague. “as the breath is…” is an artifact of this time.

© 2016 by ENDRE FARKAS. Proudly created with

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