Artie Gold wrote. And although he published only eight books, they were just the tip of the tip of the iceberg. Artie was always writing— on his manual Underwood, on the back of cigarette packs, on napkins, on the wall, on postcards to himself and to the rest of the world. He also sketched, sketches of the moment, the moment of a moment, like his poems, whose phrases and unsentimental melancholia left a permanent impression on your mind and in your heart. He and his poems made you realize that poetry, contrary to popular opinion, did matter.

Artie Gold was a poet who was sure of what he was. He paid rent in Fort Poetry. He had such breadth in his poems that he could leave you breathless and wondering “how did he do that?” There was a Bach-like complexity mixed with a Rube Goldberg playfulness in his poems. His poems were city flowers growing between the cracks of this concrete island at the strangest and most arresting angles.

—Endre Farkas

Born in 1947 in Brockville, Ontario, Artie Gold appeared like a supernova within the constellation of Montreal Anglophone poets in the late 1960s. Intensely devoted to poetry, having already discovered the work of Frank O’Hara, John Wieners and Jack Spicer in his teens, six books of his poems were published in each of the years 1974–79. Daunted by asthma, complicated by rapidly proliferating allergies and emphysema, he increasingly retreated from the world. At the urging of his friends, a Selected Poems was published in 1992, but only one further book appeared in print in 2003. Artie left the world on St. Valentine’s Day, 2007. His eight published books of poetry collected here shine like a beacon of Northern Lights across the literary landscape of the late twentieth century.