The Writers Circle

This page features work by the Writers’ Circle, which which meets one evening a month. Members and their guests with an interest in writing fiction, non-fiction, poetry and drama are welcome. Members wishing to be put on the contact list may check the LAMPSletter for contact information.


Martin Jones

Give me a city anytime!
A big, cacophonous soaring splash
of whizzing motion and
thundering symphony of loud and
lusting energy –
let me have a fierce sun rising
on a bold and splendid shovel load
of earth whatever its name may be –
New York or Rome,
Babylon or another.

Let me loose to stride the ways
of an arrogant metropolis,
by the sprawling sweep of
café-lined boulevards and
turquoise swathes of humming
harbour, drumming gray factory
and through flapping laundry-strung
and antique alleys.
Give me the sounds of the human
beast and its muffled roar
and the great percussion of traffic
and construction and
the simmering smell of curries
and hot peppered stews
by doors of greasy
backstreet eateries.

God, grant us this wild electric
hurly-burly that we love.

Give us the movie marquees
and theatre posters as we pass,
the ancient impregnable churches
and the cloud-gazing towers,
grant us the transcendent hours
lost to galleries and to concert halls,
and show us again those bistros
that we adored, where with friends
we drank and laughed away
grand cargo loads of time.

Lord, give us a city anytime,
and let us see it from beginning
to the end and every
human patch of earth
and all the stories it can recall,
the family passion and the fearsome drama,
the small victories ripped from loss.
Grant us energy and the years.
A perpetuity of lifetimes will not suffice
to comprehend such intricate kaleidoscopes
as these.
Give us again those cities that we love.

Fiddler in the Rain

Martin Jones

In the chill drizzle of a November night
by the Boulevard Saint Germain,
a man sits quietly on a city bench
as traffic flashes by before his eyes
and revelling crowds, umbrellas held aloft,
rush hurriedly past.

All is awash in the neon light
of a jewelry shop and brightly lit café,
reflecting off the slick pavement and
bathing the worn woolen cap
that sits atop the old fellow’s skull.
A violin case rests upon his lap
and his kit is beside him on the sidewalk,
an oversized department store bag
which might contain, at the very least,
a clean pair of socks,
a fresh shirt
perhaps some cigarettes.

Why he persists on sitting there,
is something to conjecture,
for the rain is beating ever more fiercely
on his soiled brown jacket,
on his violin case and belongings
and one would think
the old man might prefer
to take refuge with his fellow Roma
who are huddled under blankets
in the dry shelter of doorways.


The Shimmer of Democracy

Ellen Michelson

This short essay was awarded honourable mention, Royal Canadian Legion District “E” (Ontario) seniors literary competition, summer 2022. It’s based on events and experiences in 2004, when Ukraine faced and overcame challenges to its democracy. Since this essay was written, challenges to democracy in Ukraine and elsewhere have grown more, not less, intense.

“Ya,” she said, unfolding a piece of paper, then “Ya,” again. Now and then she said “Yu,” but mostly she said “Ya.”

It was the evening of December 26, 2004. All of us from Canada had given up Christmas. More than five hundred of us were in Ukraine, where Orthodox Christmas was celebrated in January. We came as official election observers for the Orange Revolution’s second presidential election runoff, after the previous effort was declared fraudulent. The two candidates were Viktor Yanukovich and the nearly-assassinated Viktor Yushchenko. A handful of us were among those watching this woman standing at a table in a polling station as she unfolded ballots, one at a time. We knew our fellow observers were doing exactly what we were doing right then, all over Ukraine, seeing ballots being counted.

We had watched the tall, transparent ballot boxes sparkle as they caught the light when they were upended and the ballots inside them mounded onto the table in front of her. Those ballot boxes’ beauty delighted me. Their literal and figurative transparency was a beacon to the world.

As the woman read aloud the chosen candidate’s name on each of the first few ballots, a current of understanding went through all of us. It was already dark outside, and after each ballot was examined, they all had to be tallied, and then the totals reported in person to the district, then further, so all could be tallied nationally. When she suggested reciting just the first syllable of each candidate’s surname, we all nodded in full consensus. In English, both candidates’ surnames are usually written starting with “Y”. In Ukrainian, which uses the Cyrillic alphabet, “Yanukovich” starts with the character that looks like a reverse “R” but “Yushchenko” starts with the letter pronounced “iu.” Hearing and understanding the difference made my whole body quiver with pride.

We were in Crimea, the peninsula stretching into the Black Sea at the very south of Ukraine. Yushchenko was the national favourite, yet the other candidate, Yanukovich, was more popular in Crimea. Those of us from Canada had split into smaller groups for the day, each with a list of polling stations to visit. We were to report how election rules were followed. Both we and the Ukrainians knew the eyes of the world were on all of us.

At every stop we met both candidates’ representatives. The respect each showed to the others, and to us, impressed us. Individual polling stations had unique problems they solved in mutually agreed ways. For example, windows in one location made voter privacy challenging. Wooden frames had been hastily constructed and curtains hung.

Starting early that morning we’d visited a variety of polling stations at institutions, municipal offices, even a military base. Everyone we spoke with, mostly through interpreters, was forthcoming about telling and showing how they were meeting requirements. We observers agreed on the clear sense that the Ukrainians prioritized teamwork over support for a specific candidate. They were keen to further democracy, and to show the world exactly how they were doing so.

>Years before, I’d volunteered in three or four Canadian election campaigns, and twice I’d sat in school gymnasiums watching ballots counted. A while later, I’d served as a volunteer English teacher in Ukraine, travelling around the country as much as I could. Never had I imagined combining these disparate experiences till they emboldened me to apply to serve as an election observer. Nor had I realized the extent of election observation around the world.

In Ukraine, members of our Canadian group met a few people, heard of others, who’d come as individuals to observe the election. Official observers like us must be invited by the host country. Unlike me, many members of our group had family ties to Ukraine. One member of our group had none, but had volunteered as an official observer in other countries and looked forward to volunteering elsewhere in the future.

I’d never before served as an election observer abroad, nor have I been lucky enough to serve again. A volunteer English teaching colleague, not from Canada, didn’t observe the Orange Revolution rerun. When she told me she’d been an official election observer in Ukraine years later, my first question was, “Did they still use those shimmering ballot boxes?” They did.

The whole procedure she described evoked the details of my experience. Waking up early on election day, visiting numerous polling stations, watching the count in one, following those bringing its results to a central location, observing how the information was transmitted further were not all the steps. Next her team assembled to discuss and compile its report, as did ours in 2004. Only when we had communicated our findings to our own leaders were we done.

The crunch against my back teeth as I bit into a cabbage-stuffed pastry, the sticky fizzy pleasure of swallowing red Crimean champagne are two of my many memories of delicious Ukrainian food and drink. On election day I must have eaten breakfast, no doubt found lunch, and someone likely shared snacks around the table as we worded our report, but my recall of consuming anything that day is nil. Before closing my hotel room curtains and collapsing under the bedcovers, I remember observing moonlight dapple over the Black Sea. A December dawn was due in several short hours. Every election observation, I realized, includes an almost twenty-four-hour non-stop stretch.

I had offered my presence, wishing to support democracy in Ukraine. Standing with my fellow Canadians as we watched ballots being unfolded, standing in the moonlight hours later suffused with both exhaustion and satisfaction, brought home to me how election observation furthers democracy worldwide. Canadians, I hope, will invite international election observers here and send our own elsewhere more often. Now, in 2022, Ukraine is fraught with bloody conflict. Some day, international election observers will be able to return. We will all be better for it.

The painting of Philippa Faulkner hangs in our Boardroom. It is by member, Bill Sherman, and as it predates her membership, she and her painting had a presence in the Club before women were admitted in 1985. She joined us in 1989 and remained a member until her death 12 years later.

This is a drawing by Arthur Lismer of member Peter Haworth, in the persona of the Marquesa Casati (1881-1957). She was the most scandalous woman of her day and a favourite subject of prominent painters and photographers. This drawing probably records a club event occasioned by the 1934 purchase by the Art Gallery of Toronto (now AGO) of Augustus John's portrait of Casati.

This is a drawing by Arthur Lismer of member Peter Haworth, in the persona of the Marquesa Casati (1881-1957). She was the most scandalous woman of her day and a favourite subject of prominent painters and photographers. This drawing probably records a club event occasioned by the 1934 purchase by the Art Gallery of Toronto (now AGO) of Augustus John's portrait of Casati.

Sculptor Janet Hunter and one of her works in her solo exhibition at the Club

Visual artist Andrew Sookrah with his portrait of singer and opera director Penelope Tibbles Cookson

Author and poet Molly Peacock with some of her books
Photo: Candice Ferreira


Jazz cellist George Crotty in a solo performance at the Club


Author and poet Molly Peacock with some of her books.
Photo: Candice Ferreira

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Administrative Assistant: Cornelia Persich
Archivist: Scott James