Lost Art - Jan 12 2025

Lost Art

Jan 12 2025

The subway rumbles through the dark.

On the blind turns

wheels screech, lights flicker.

And as if on cue, everyone sways;

a field of wheat

with wind rippling through it.

All eyes are studiously averted;

most, glued to their phones,

while the few technophobes

and those who forgot them

lost power

or can’t be bothered

either stare into the distance

or look up at the crawl of ads

designed to prey

on our common desires.

Surprisingly, someone has a book

perched primly on her knees,

wetting a finger

before turning each page.

But no one talks.

Too shy

too self-conscious

too walled off.

And because the culture of subway cars

is to keep to oneself.

No matter how closely pressed you are

to the sweaty man

strap-hanging beside you,

how cloying

you find the perfumed lady’s hair

that repeatedly brushes your face.

The claustrophobic democracy

of public transit

demands a certain etiquette

of silence

boundaries

forbearance.

And is best managed

by holding your breath

until the ride ends

and the subway doors part

with a whoosh of fresh air.

No talking to strangers.

No risking rejection.

No taking a chance

you might brighten someone’s day

while passing the time

engaged in chit-chat

a few laughs

a pleasant back-and-forth.

Of even heartfelt.

Because after all

to whom better to unburden yourself

than a random stranger

you’ll never see again.

The lost art of conversation

in a solipsistic age.

In a closed car

in the thick of a crowd,

speeding blindly

through a dark tunnel

alone with yourself.

In the weekend paper, Ian Brown contributed a feature article celebrating talking to strangers, striking up conversations: how good they’ll leave you feeling, and how surprisingly receptive random strangers can be to a well-intentioned question or opening remark.  https://globe2go.pressreader.com/article/282591678590979

Coincidentally, I’ve been greatly enjoying a new podcast (new to me, that is) — which, as I recall, I also mentioned in a recent post — called Stranger on a Bench. So it seems that this is becoming part of the zeitgeist. Perhaps a reaction to an increasingly solipsistic culture of cell phones and the internet.

I’m not at all shy (despite being very much an introvert), so actually find this quite easy. I often do it waiting in lines, and a can agree: it’s almost always a positive experience, and the good feeling lasts for a while.

Some Don't - Jan 11 2025

 

Some Don’t

Jan 11 2025

That you can feel unloved

yet still have been.

That you can have a happy childhood

yet have been an unhappy child.

That you can hate

but feel unworthy,

as if such a daunting word

overpowered your petty concerns.

And doesn’t “dislike” work well enough

for someone like you?

Perhaps your trouble

was a failure to surrender.

That you held yourself

at a distance;

never quite committing,

looking in at the world

nose-to-glass.

And consider love

in all of its valences,

of which romantic love

is merely one.

… And often too transient

to really count on.

Children, of course, grow up.

Although some don’t,

emerging damaged or stunted

or simply stuck,

arrested

at some early stage;

a caterpillar, trapped in its pupa

in some in-between state,

a man-child

without the cuteness.

Perhaps it’s conviction I’m lacking.

Because it takes passion to hate

while I tend to waver;

too ambivalent

too conflict averse.

And given to forgiveness

(even if forgetting can wait).

Not myself, of course;

I’m a hanging judge

when it comes to my own offences.

Self-love?

Not a chance,

not to mention too incestuous.

No surrender here.

You’ll find this quite a departure from my usual style. Less linear. Less narrative. More risky. More space for the reader.

I think the gate-keepers of academic poetry prefer this type of poem. Which, being a prose writer at heart, doesn’t come easily to me. That is, putting the left side of my brain on hold while giving the right side free rein.

Another poem that suddenly shifts; here, from second person to first. Never sure how well this works. Is it confusing? Cheating? Grammatically unacceptable? (Even though anything goes in poetry, my inner pedant squirms uncomfortably when I take such liberties!)

A Minor Thump - Jan 9 2025

 

A Minor Thump

Jan 9 2025



The dead porcupine

by the side of the road

had left a trail of blood

across the salt-stained pavement.

The frozen body

lying huddled in the ditch

still bristled with quills;

no defence against the car

that turned it to roadkill

on the dark winter night

it stood its ground.

The frozen body

will soon be gone

despite the cold,

consumed

by scavengers and squabbling birds

and roving opportunists.

While the next big snow

will erase the bloody trail.

The driver

will never notice the stain

near the right front wheel,

didn’t register

the minor thump

on the the long drive home.

As if nothing had happened.

As if the porcupine

had never existed,

and the desperate struggle to live

had been merely hypothetical.

An inconsequential life

and unacknowledged death.

If the universe began with the big bang

how should I make sense

of something out of nothing,

a cosmic spasm

that created space itself?

But what disturbs me more

is the more down to earth

something to nothing

that comes at the end.

A life, extinguished in a flash,

taking with it

all that came before.

And all the suffering

a quantum particle

that at the very same time

both is and is not.

Because how does one quantify pain?

And if something can’t be measured

does it even exist?

Two bright eyes

caught in the headlights

no one saw;

no bloody trail,

no struggle to live,

no dead body

left to rot.

Except for the brief glimpse I caught, driving past

when I braked for the deer

who out of nowhere

darted across.

And which I would have soon forgotten

if that quick glance

hadn’t given me this poem.

An epitaph

to a dead animal

by the side of the road.

As usual, in the mood to write but nothing to write about.

So when this image of roadkill appeared, I figured as good as anything and might as well riff. This is where it took me.\

I think it agonizes more over the futility of life than the extinguishment of death. Which, I know, is terribly nihilistic: that with no ultimate meaning and no memory, it’s as if we never existed. In plain declarative prose, this sounds very black. At least poetry softens it a bit!

Or maybe softens it so much that the reader gets a very different message from this poem. Who knows. Once you let a poem out into the world, it’s no longer yours.

Boiled Alive - Jan 5 2025

 

Boiled Alive

Jan 5 2025

It’s the word “feel” that throws things off.

The difference between sensing pain

   —  retracting, withdrawing, learning to avoid   —

and the emotional distress

that scars and alters you.

Between sensation

and sentience.

Like the lobster

I boil alive.

The swatted fly,

lying on its back, legs thrashing

I put out of its misery.

The cacophony

of bawling, shrieking, crying

wailing and whining

rising up from a world

of constant suffering.

An agony of sound

coming from some hellish depth.

Who can bear the thought?

Better to imagine

they do not feel pain;

that only us and ours

are refined enough

to really “feel”,

while the rest are mere automatons

who simply respond.

How else to survive

when life is zero-sum;

that to live, others must die?

Justifying ourselves

as not in-and-of

but above the world;

not mere animal, or beast of burden

but made in His image,

possessed of a soul,

awarded an afterlife.

That having been granted dominion

and eaten of the apple

of moral choice,

this elevated suffering

is merely what we owe.

Of course they feel. An instrumental response to a painful stimulus devoid of emotion? Then how does learning take place? Because it’s emotion that gives the experience salience, that burns it into memory. Why else would emotion have evolved, and what — if it didn’t exist — could possibly take its place? Or, more simply, what’s the point of feeling without also feeling?

Except for our beloved pets — whom we thoughtlessly anthropomorphize — we deny animals any sentience. Which is convenient, of course, since it saves us from any moral distress arising from our treatment of them.

Why do we persist in separating ourselves from nature, in denying our animalness? And what role does conventional religion play in this world view? Traditional animistic beliefs had a more humble view of our place in the world. But the great monotheisms elevated us, brought us closer to their God. We were given dominion, endowed with right and wrong, possessed of souls. Nature was to be conquered and tamed, not co-existed with.

I’m reminded of what passed for conventional wisdom in the early 20th century: that human babies do not feel pain; that anaesthesia was unnecessary. We look back amazed at such foolishness.

Yet we’re guilty of the same, and future generations will look back and be just as baffled by our obtuseness.

Things Fall Apart - Jan 3 2025

 

Things Fall Apart

Jan 3 2025

Dust bunnies under the couch.

The fridge

smudged with fingerprints.

The sink

sunk with dirty dishes.

Are things left undone

too easy a metaphor?

Especially the kitchen.

Where dishes pile up

and spill across the countertop,

sodden Cheerios

float half-submerged

in bowls of stagnant water,

and a scum line

rings the stainless steel

of the scuffed double sink.

While its taps are caked

in a crust of who-knows-what;

a grungy mix

of scale

dried-on soap

and unscrubbed human hands.

My mother, though

kept up with the housework.

Guests were impressed

while we were conscripted to help.

I think for her

a clean house was therapy.

That the act of cleaning

helped her feel in control;

an imposition of order

when she felt powerless,

surrounded

by signs of disarray.

Because there’s no changing the world,

but the small domain of home

is yours to rule.

So, am I just lazy?

Wilfully blind?

Or do I have my priorities straight;

that godliness can wait

and appearances don’t matter?

Perhaps, it’s that I’ve given in

to my inner nihilist.

That I’ve become resigned

to a world in disarray,

a universe

tending to its lowest state,

inescapably

falling into entropy

and maximum disorder.

So why even pretend?

Because in the end, it will all be a mess;

atomized

and meaningless.

But it turns out

the housekeeper was a good idea.

She putters, tidies, cleans,

while I am free

to indulge in philosophy.

And it turns out, I enjoy a neat house.

Not to mention

that my mother would approve;

if not my industry

then at least the result.

It even turns out

I enjoy the feeling of control;

the false front of order

contained within these walls,

the illusion

that things will go on

pretty much as before.

By now, the dishes have been done

and stainless steel scrubbed,

pillows fluffed

beds tucked

dust vacuumed up.

But no matter what

as fast as it’s removed

more just accumulates,

materializing

out of nowhere

as things fall apart

the centre does not hold.

Accumulates

as skin exfoliates

soil erodes

and giant stars explode,

showering down on earth

and into all our homes.

I’m actually much more my mother than the narrator of this poem. I keep a neat house. Disorder makes me antsy. Everything has a place. I enjoy the feeling of control, and clean when I need soothing.

No housekeeper for me: I know I won’t be satisfied; I like my privacy; and standing idle while someone else works makes me very uncomfortable.

But I’m also a nihilist. So in moments of despair, it’s hard to see the point of neatness.

And perhaps it’s a misplacing of priorities. One certainly gets the feeling of being a hamster on a treadmill (or is it a gerbil?!): cleaning and neatening, just to have to do it again …and again …and again. If something keeps getting undone and never gets finished, surely there are other things far more worthwhile. There is something to be said for wilful blindness!

The Good Stuff - Jan 1 2025

 

The Good Stuff

Jan 1 2025

When I cleaned out the garage

and left the good stuff by the curb

that I’d salvaged from the clutter

I was sure that soon enough

it would be gone.

The treasure hunters

who have an eye for the find.

The waste-not/want-nots

who just can’t resist.

And the gleaners and recyclers

determined to make do.

As well as the pack-rats and prudent,

because who knows

it could be of use.

And of course, the entrepreneurs,

who flip stuff for profit.

But there it all sat,

like the last kid

waiting to be picked

no one wanted on their team.

My abandoned hobbies

impulse buys

and ill-advised bargains

out there in the spotlight,

so every passer-by and neighbour

could silently judge.

Was I was hoping for a second life;

if not for me

then at least these inanimate objects?

Or perhaps some kind of redemption;

the sin of possession

and too much stuff?

But in the end, it was all just trash,

unceremoniously dumped

with the newspapers

kitchen waste

broken glass.

Leaving me to wonder,

what will future archeologists think

when they disinter the landfill?

Of the picture frame

good as new?

The hibachi

with just a touch of rust?

The baby buggy

with the missing wheel,

and the mountain bike

witch ancient mud

still clinging to its chain?

The good stuff

I left by the curb

that wasn’t worth the taking.

And no, cleaning the garage was NOT a New Year’s resolution. (I don’t do resolutions. And anyway, the garage is fine as is!)

One thing those future archeologists likely won’t understand are newspapers. Not when even I — a newspaper lover — read on a screen! But the word fit. And the remaining loyal (stubborn?) readers who still have ink on their hands deserve a nod.

Drafting - Dec 31 2024

 

Drafting

Dec 31 2024

Behind the plow

I see nothing of the dark forbidding night,

blinded

by the small nimbus of light

we travel in,

a stately procession of two

on a road buried in snow.

My headlamps

reveal a great yellow machine

of steel girders struts and beams

laddered together

with heavy-duty welds,

looking more insect-like

than technological.

Light up its massive wheels,

turning unstoppably

as the machine churns steadily ahead.

Their deep zig-zag treads

grip infallibly,

digging-in

under its brobdingnabian mass.

And illuminate the cab

perched high overhead,

its scuffed and battered plexiglass

too steamed-up

to tell if anyone’s even there

at the controls.

The reflective steel blade

flashes back at me

as it rumbles over the pavement,

groaning and screeching

and scraping it clear.

While I follow impatiently.

Because the plow is steady, but slow

and it’s easy to stray too close.

The flashing blue light

fills the car

with a ghostly glow.

The stink of diesel exhaust

leaks through the vents.

And as the dogged engine

grinds grunts and groans,

two high walls of snow

turn out on either side

with smoothly hypnotic precision;

like seeing the Red Sea part

in real time.

It’s after the storm

at 5 in the morning

and long before dawn.

No one is out

but us;

the plow, carving implacably away,

and me

riding in its wake.

I’m a cleaner fish drafting a whale,

who moves unflaggingly

with a flick of its tail

and couldn’t care less that I’m there.

Tempting, on the eve of a new year, to write about the horrible year about to pass, with a worse one to come. Trump, climate change, war, extremism — for a start — if you feel I need to elaborate.

So when a little snow started to sprinkle down and out of the blue this image came to me, I eagerly pursued it.

A poem that rests on mood, setting, and description. Nothing personal, confessional, political, or profound. So perhaps not as engaging as something more emotional and universal would be. Which means it depends on the strength of the imagery. Especially for those less familiar with real winters!

So, will the reader stay to the end, or give up on it? Will it invite rereading? Will revisiting this poem reveal anything new?

City Snow - Dec 31 2024

 

City Snow

Dec 31 2024

The palette of winter is grey.

Cars are covered

with salt, sand, and city slush

whatever colour that is.

Grim people

hunker down,

resigned to life in the shadows.

They trudge through grungy snow

in clompy boots that pinch their toes

and still let in the cold

while slip-proof soles aren’t really.

Crumpled uppers

are crusted in a whitish rime

of road salt and weather,

yet still aren’t high enough

to keep them warm and dry.

Folks

in puffy coats

are rendered shapeless, nameless, sexless.

They trudge ahead,

generic lumps

with backs hunched and heads bowed

gazing blankly downward.

As if a slow procession

of the walking dead

had occupied the streets.

So when they hug

there’s no firm finish, nothing to grip,

no body heat

to take or give.

And with mittened hands, or hand in glove

it’s hard to hold

or even touch.

But still, it beats summer bugs

muddy springs

and fall’s sodden leaves,

where soon enough

there will be mould;

allergies

at least until freeze-up

and the ground is covered in snow.

Because on a blue-sky day

in my bright red parka and rainbow hat

the world is remade;

primary colours replace the grey

and downcast eyes are raised.

It’s like walking through a Christmas card,

Norman Rockwell cover art,

a Dylan Thomas winter

in a big pop-up picture book.

I’m a kid

who doesn’t feel the cold,

waltzing outside

in bedroom slippers without a coat.

The little kid

peering out the window

at his first real snow.

Who took great delight

In snow angels and snowmen,

in digging out quinsies

and building snow forts;

late for dinner

while playing at war.

And the bigger kid

who took even greater delight

in tossing snowballs at passing cars.

In rolling over in bed

to hear the powers that be

declare a snow day;

as if the Governor

had pardoned a condemned man

halfway to the gallows,

shackles and chains

clanging with each step.

And now, I’m the one who’s in the drivers’s seat,

peering through a clear patch

in frosted-over glass;

a chiaroscuro world

of softened shades

and grey-on-grey.

At city snow

that starts looking soiled

as soon as it lands.