The reason Raymond Souster hasn't changed much as a poet in the last three decades or so—hasn't Developed, hasn't Extended His Range, hasn't Re-Assessed His Position—is that he started off in the 1940s doing what he wanted to do and has never stopped wanting to do it. What he's been doing, all these years, is writing hymns of praise to the Toronto he loves and to the professionals he admires. Souster is the most Torontocentric of Canadian poets. (pp. 75, 77)

In his new book, Extra Innings, there's a poem called "Old Woman on Yonge Street" in which the poet simply observes an old woman and marvels at her resilience. It could have been written by Souster in 1955—which is not to take anything away from its purely Sousterian beauty or from its abiding respect for its subject. There are poems that refer to the old Ford Hotel...