Neil M Agnew

Visitation will be held on Thursday, October 6th from 2 - 4 and 6 - 8 p.m. at the Thompson Funeral Home, 530 Industrial Parkway South (at Yonge Street), Aurora. Funeral Service to be held on Friday, October 7th at 11 a.m. at the Thompson Funeral Home Chapel. For those who wish, donations made to the Salvation Army would be appreciated by the family.

Neil passed away on the morning of September 27th in Newmarket Ontario. He was born in Weyburn Saskatchewan in 1924 and served in the Navy during the Second World War. He distinguished himself in the world of psychology as an author, researcher, lecturer, and founder of the Psychology Department at York University. His charisma, intelligence, and big-hearted generosity consistently inspired and sustained many of us. He is survived by his beloved wife Mary, his children Wendy and Tim and their spouses Richard and Trish. He will be sorely missed by family and friends.

Neil was a scientist and a poet. Before he joined the Navy, he was going to take over his Grandfather’s store in Weyburn, Saskatchewan – the first department store in the West. But the war changed all that. He returned with different eyes and decided to enroll in philosophy at The University of Toronto. The councillor was less than enthusiastic and convinced him psychology was the coming science and perhaps Neil thought it might help in the quest for world peace. He was a ground-breaker in peace research, and in the heady 50s and 60s, experimented with the latest ideas in human communication and understanding.

He was a deeply committed family man, but he was a magician with a pirate’s wit and a poet’s soul. So in his presence one always felt a touch of the miraculous and a friction of the contradictions that kept him so vibrant and young. It was thrilling being around him.

This is one of his poems that sheds a small light on his ability to tickle the universe and pull the tiger’s tail wit tenderness and grace. May we keep that flame glowing for our magnificent man:

The Institution’s Vagabond - 1963

A boy I know gives life to me

And I suspect to others too,

I wonder why?

He doesn’t really work.

He tightrope-walks the rules of great establishments,

and sometimes his foot does slip.

Now there are those who write him off,

but still, there remain some with power enough

to stay the institution’s heavy hand.

I guess this boy gives life to them,

Or summons up a memory or a dream

Of times when play was right,

Before the referees increased in number and in size so much

There’s little room for players or for play.

Perhaps I love this boy

Because he finds a spot to play

amid the crush of rules and doors.

He finds a spot and does a ringaround

With those who’ll pause

In their great search within the labyrinth,

a search for things of consequence.

A promise from the great establishment itself

says things of consequence are here.

At times I grab the boy,

and laughing he helps me in my search.

But not for long.

He’ll swing me up, and then he’s off

to find a spot to play.

I get so mad when in my search

He’s in the way,

and shout at him

“What would the world be like

if all we did was play?”

And when he sees I’m really sad,

he’ll cry with me.

But if I’m only mad,

He’ll look all serious,

and then he’ll laugh and laugh

and I could kill him then and there

except a giggle, way down deep in me, gets in the way.

And so I try to tell him what life is,

That play’s alright, but in its place.

He looks at me, and listens hard

and says I’m right, and that he’ll mend his ways.

And for a peaceful time he joins the search,

and doesn’t hinder me in mine

And time gets quiet and very long

And I reread the promise,

“Within these walls are things of consequence”.

And then I see the boy,

All clean and neat, and busy in the search,

and I rush up and grab him for a ringaround.

But he is stiff, and only smiles a bit,

and says he’d love to play

but hasn’t time just now.

He says he’s found a clue,

And chin out rushes off.

I look around and wonder what I’ve done,

and hear a poet whisper

“Not that they live, but that they live so dreamlessly,

Not that they die, but that they die like sheep”.

Rushing, I find the boy head down – the clue had failed.

I take him in my arms,

and love him back to warmth, and Oh! The glory

when he nuzzles back, and laughs and laughs,

and takes me for a swirl of ringarounds!

Now he’s back finding spots in which to play,

and so am I,

Little spots sprinkled throughout my day, my search.

And strange, at times the ecstasy of play

leaks out and echoes in my work, and in my walk,

and in my listening too.

Now I no longer strain to read

the promise of the great establishment.