plodded on. I got to hate the formal study of poetry. Analysis & complicated prosody seemed reductive. I got the lowest mark I've ever received in university: a D from Irving Layton LAYTON'S CREATIVE WRITING CLASS Layton's creative writing class was another story. I remember the anticipation of seeing him that first night. He walked in, lit a cigarillo and welcomed us to the workshop. He was nattily dressed in a thick corduroy jacket, shirt and tie, dress pants - a mix of coordinated browns and greens - and polished dress boots. He was impressive. He was famous. He was, despite my later difficulty with his bombastic and dogmatic side, a Canadian literary hero taking large risks with his art and life. The class was held for 3 hours in the evening, tables arranged in a semi-circle, with 12 or 15 students. In this context Layton was casual, ready to improvise and take us through the mechanics of the craft, answer questions, prod us into useful criticisms of each others' work, and make editorial comments, or tell stories when he saw the opportunity. He would always read each student's submission out loud, and because of his sonorous voice, could give weight to even the worst sentimental doggerel. But if the poem or story was bad or flawed, he wouldn't let us leave until he or someone admitted to it - usually the writer. This criticism may have been a crushing blow to some, but his summaries always seemed fair. Negative comments never came without encouragement. He wanted the best from us, and the best for the poem. He gave me an A. DURING THE COFFEE BREAK, MARQUITA CREVIER During the coffee break of the first class I lit up a smoke in the corner of the hall. I can't remember how we began talking; maybe she asked for a light. But I do remember immediately sensing her odd beauty and manner - and a kind of simultaneous fear of her attractiveness: A small, wispy, dark woman, with flowing dark hair, fine features - delicate - a kind of worldly 40's movie star look. None of these adjectives seem accurate, but her physical appearance seemed to contain and reveal all you could simultaneously know and not know about her fragile soul and being. It seemed that nothing would be hidden from anyone allowed to enter the spell. She was mysterious, and seemed haunted to say the least. That night she asked me if I wrote poems, and asked to see the manuscript I was working on, which I handed her on the spot. She came back the next week with great praise for my work. In our conversations over the next year I found out that she had had a book accepted by Faber and Faber while living in England - but a breakdown and lack of interest in being published at that point in her life broke the deal. She was a friend of Irving Layton, and a one time lover of Leonard Cohen. Her husband was way ahead of his time - a computer programmer; her first husband, a famous sociologist. She was very much recognized on the scene, yet I saw very few of her poems, published or otherwise, and tho impressed with their craft and depth, was myself starting to write in another direction. I do remember that she vigorously promoted my work and threatened one magazine editor by saying she'd pull her poems unless my submission was accepted. In 1967 Marquita was hospitalized for a recurring mental and emotional disorder and we lost touch. Her book was eventually published by a small press. Montreal poet Artie Gold tells me that Marquita suffered a debilitating stroke and eventually took her own life. But her great attention buoyed me against my personal difficulties of that first year - and she was, for me, an angel of poetry and a medium of encouragement for its pursuit.