The Poet

I didn’t know Hamish Grieve, didn’t even know his name until this week. To me, he was just The Poet.

When I moved to Belleville from the city, before I had even heard about Prince Edward County, I was wary of living in a small place, one city dwellers had warned me was devoid of culture.

They hadn’t looked hard enough, I suppose, because I found my people, in the form of the now-defunct Organic Underground. Self-proclaimed hippies, activists, weirdos and other creative people congregated in the cavernous cafe. While they were, indeed, part of an underground, they defined my experience of Belleville. It was a place where folks who judged harshly by a socially conservative outside world, were welcomed with open arms. It was just what I needed.

Later, when the Underground closed, many of those people moved to Sweet Escape, which briefly moved and became Urban Escape before shutting its doors for good late last year.

In each one of these spots, I would inevitably come across The Poet.

He was tall, maybe 6’5”, although he was also incredibly slender, which could have made him look taller. He had long brown hair and a long beard, and walked with an elaborately carved walking stick. His jewellery and his billowy clothing completed his look as some kind of prophet, wandering the earth, speaking the gospel to whomever would listen.

I remember the first time he chose me to talk to. I felt intimidated, thought he might have been insane, and as he began to speak, I was certain I’d hear the ramblings of a madman. Instead, he spoke beautiful poetry at me, wished me peace, and moved on.

I have since learned he was a gentle giant. He used his height to intimidate men who behaved aggressively toward women, especially those working and visiting these little cafes. He loved young children, and they loved him too, unaware of his peculiarity, just seeing a creative kindred spirit.

He was one of the more memorable weirdos from those cafes.

If there’s a place for weirdos in Belleville these days, I don’t know it. I’ve lost touch.

But a few weeks ago, waiting for a friend at the public library in Belleville, I saw The Poet stride in, carrying his walking stick. He walked by me, to two young women, sisters, sitting at a nearby table.

He spoke beautiful poetry to them.

I could see by their expressions that they felt the way I had the first time I met The Poet. At first unsure, intimidated, but then charmed.

That was the last time I saw him. Hamish Grieve died last Thursday.

There are people in Belleville who knew him, who were his friends and family. They will remember who he was as a whole person, someone I never really knew. To me, he was just The Poet.

I just hope he wrote as much as he talked. I hope that somewhere, there is a record of all that beautiful poetry.

mihal@mihalzada.com