Afterlife - April 24 2024

 

Afterlife

April 24 2024

They picked the carcass clean;

from fresh meat

down to bone

in less than half an hour.

No reverence

no service of remembrance,

but a wake of vultures

swarming a kill

with fierce efficiency.

And in flight, a kettle

circling high overhead,

peering down

with keen avian eyes

for their next expired meal.

But this group of vultures

have settled on the branches

of a stately tree;

a committee of birds

too gorged to fly,

soaking up the sun

wings spread wide.

They are not beautiful, by any means.

But then, the world was not intended

to please human beings,

our aesthetic sense

of how things should be.

Instead, these useful creatures serve.

Their wakes are not sad affairs

of condolences and tears;

they’re a celebration of life,

with drinks all around

and toasts to the departed.

Like Irishmen

who know how to party,

accept the fact of death

and believe in an afterlife,

giving a send-off

to one of their own.

A fight may break out

there will be songs,

the buffet

will be stripped clean.

But with vultures, unlike their counterparts

there is no Irish blarney

no gift of the gab;

no tributes

or pious speeches,

no inside jokes

or witty repartee.

It’s what they do

as eaters of carrion

that is their eulogy;

that in the cycle of life and death

the only chance of a hereafter

are the gleaners of death.

I was listening to a fascinating podcast (link below) about the devastating loss of vultures in India due to the toxic effects of common drugs. The story was told in the context of Zoroastrian funerary practices, but the loss of the ecological services of such an essential animal has widespread harms, not just in nature but in animal husbandry. So not only was I reminded of the importance of this often scorned creature, I also learned that there are 3 collective nouns for vultures, depending on what they do. As someone who takes delight in language, this proved irresistible!

https://99percentinvisible.org/

The Age of Noise - April 23 2024

 

The Age of Noise

April 23 2024

Krakatoa

was the loudest sound on earth

we know of.

When the crust cracked open

the planet shook,

and the end of the world

seemed to have come.

Perhaps

in the distant past

the noise was even louder;

in the age of volcanoes

when earth was at its hottest.

Krakatoa

a thousand times over.

While now

in this age of noise

it feels just as unbearable;

ash raining down,

gases exploding,

volcanic thunderstorms.

Especially noise

we can’t control.

The thump of a stereo.

Loud footsteps overhead.

Screens right and left,

where talking heads

shout across a table,

and breaking news

and ads for beer

are both turned up to max.

The machines

that constantly throb, buzz, clatter,

the grinding gears,

honking horns,

endless pointless blather.

So when I found this peaceful refuge

I felt sublimely relieved;

the quiet

I’ve been seeking all my life.

Who knew, there is no such thing.

Not when the sounds of my body

seem so much louder in the silence.

Not when I’m kept on edge

from breath to breath

and between each beat of my heart;

the thin thread

that’s one more second of life.

No absolute silence

when there’s no escaping

the noises in my head.

When even the dead

speak to me,

and that inner voice

refuses to be stilled.

When the white noise

I could always tune out

comes through loud and clear,

and even the song I love

gets stuck in a loop

I’m unable to unhear.

Krakatoa resounded

for over 3,000 miles

and the whole world heard.

While these sounds from inside

are mine alone,

yet louder, somehow.

All the worse

because I don’t know how to silence them

have nowhere to escape.

In this age of noise

it’s volcanoes erupting

one after the other

blacking out the sky.

Considering how much noise we inflict on the planet (as well as on ourselves!), it's nice to know that nature still has the better of us. Even at our loudest: techno, jackhammers, jet engines, hydrogen bombs.

From the April 22 & 29, 2024 New Yorker:  What Is Noise?

https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2024/04/22/what-is-noise

Taking What is Given - April 22 2024

 

Taking What is Given

April 22 2024

Earlywood

in mild springs

and long summer days.

After months of scarcity

standing dormant in the cold,

the tree, in its greed

is drinking up the sun

and growing fast as possible;

a fat band

of pale golden wood.

While in the contraction of fall

and dull ascetic winters,

a frugal ring of latewood

is dense and dark;

thin

beside the generous band of blonde.

So ring after ring

the tree steadily grows

in sync with the earth,

taking what is given

and no more than it needs.

We are not trees, of course.

We always want more,

as if we lived

in perennial summer.

We sprout quickly,

live fast,

then topple in a minor gust;

that is, if we’re lucky enough

to reach a ripe old age.

While a tree seems permanent;

rooted firmly

where the seed landed

the sapling flourished

and it grew strong and tall,

standing high overhead

where it seems, at least to us

eternal as the landscape.

The way you hardly notice

something that’s always been there.

Still, we grow dark as well.

The plump baby

with its milk-fed skin

and golden hair

has turned wizened, mottled, shrunken,

spirits dulled

back bent

gait shuffling.

There is a darkness

that comes from having lost,

from the banality of evil

you can’t help but witness

from living a life

in the real world.

Not everyone dies a cynic,

but I know I will.

Our latewood is also thin.

Skin turns to paper

bones become brittle,

and after long enough

there will be no more summers

to make us strong again.

No memory

encoded in our rings.

No forever

rooted in place,

standing firm

as if the sands of time

were barely a trickle,

human lives

flashing by

beneath our watchful gaze.

For some reason, even though I can easily picture a cross-section of tree rings, I never twigged to the terms earlywood and latewood.

This seasonal pattern of growth, this slowness, and this living within its means immediately struck me with its nobility, and also with how different it is than the way we lead our lives.

A tree records its history in cross-section: horizontally, in space. We’re also light and dark, but our history is longitudinal and over time. And with us, isn’t recorded at all. It’s only present in memory and consequence.

War Games - April 21 2024

 

War Games

April 21 2024

You get the picture.

Ram-rod generals

in epaulettes and ribbons,

overseeing

the theatre of war;

a big table

perfectly to scale

where toy soldiers play.

Sticks pushing battleships,

troops advancing,

camouflaged tanks

attacking from the flank.

War games

      ... tit-for-tat

               ... the lunacy of MAD.

But on the field of battle

there are no strategies,

or even tactics;

it’s brothers in arms,

sweat and blood,

kill or be killed;

steaming guts

spilled out in the sand.

But the further away

the easier it looks.

Sanitized dispatches,

casualties

reduced to numbers

like profit and loss.

I think back to Dr. Strangelove

and the secret bunker

under the Pentagon,

in which the telling line

no fighting in the war room

is guaranted a laugh.

Generals who have fought

never want war.

The call to arms

comes from well behind the lines;

the pencil pushers

politicians

and yellow press,

the contractors and lobbyists

with dollars in their eyes,

the ideologues

who answer black-and-white

with ready platitudes.

But not the mothers.

Not the veterans,

who are all damaged

somehow or other,

even if their bodies are whole.

And not the pacifists and lovers,

which is absolutely everyone

who’s ever fought.

Who know

that in war

everyone loses,

because in the end

even the victors

who raise the flag and throw a parade

never truly win.

This actually started with thoughts of baseball, of all things: that the further you are from the field of play, the easier it looks.

Then that image of the general staff gathered around iconic table somehow came to me. I thought of war-mongering commentators, contrasting them with cautious generals, who came up the ranks and know first-hand the horrors and cost of war. It’s hard not to think of these things when it seems the world is at war — Israel/Hamas; Russia/Ukraine; Sudan; and the smouldering conflict in the Congo we rarely hear about — especially when it wasn’t so long ago we were talking about “the end of history”.

The dark comedy Dr. Strangelove may be my favourite film of all time. George C. Scott and Peter Sellers chew up the scenery in the most delectable way. So it was very satisfying to get that reference in. One of the most memorable lines of all time!

Stopping Short - April 20 2024

 

Stopping Short

April 20 2024

We’re still in the dark

as the subway slows to a stop

in the busy underground station.

The last car

left in the tunnel

when the train stopped short.

Weary commuters

pour out,

while those on the platform

press ahead

or are pushed,

and wedged together

edge through the doors,

coming out the other side

like warm soda through a bottleneck,

fizzing out

in all directions.

Where they narrow their eyes,

searching for seats

then dashing off to claim them,

before dropping down

with an audible sigh.

The electric motors pulse

on hold,

as if constrained

and keen to make a break.

Until a chime sounds,

doors whoosh shut,

and the idling train

jerks into motion.

But I missed my stop.

The forgotten car

left in the dark;

me

and this company strangers

stuck in our seats.

This is how it feels

to be helpless and unheard.

But how life works

most of the time

for most people on earth.

And how it feels

to let go.

To be taken for a ride

and cede control.

To be made so late

time doesn't matter any more.

When all I can do

is lean back in my seat

and rest my head.

Let my eyes drift shut,

lulled

by the clickety-clack

of subway track

heading who-knows-how-fast

who knows where.

Watch the tunnel racing by

a few inches from the window

in the eerie half-light;

as if we were still

and the world in motion.

Dorothy H. - April 18 2024

 

Dorothy H.

April 18 2024

I met him once

but only in passing;

a brief introduction

then briskly on his way.

Nevertheless, I’ve always been bad at names

and don’t remember his.

What I do recall

is a cool glare;

narrowed eyes

that seemed to be sizing me up,

a vaguely hostile air.

Or is this all retrospect;

how memory is shaped

by subsequent events?

The man

who killed my beautiful friend

in the bed they shared

one horrible night.

At least a gun would have been merciful;

but he used a knife

and took his time.

I was told

that in the aftermath

he killed himself.

Although I never cared

how he met his end;

suicide, or life sentence

he was dead to me already.

In fact, I still don’t know his name.

I fear there are too many men like that.

The possessive kind

who are jealous and insecure.

Men who kill their feelings

by drinking too much

or taking drugs.

Men with more testosterone

than love.

They call it femicide.

A legal sounding word

so clinical

it seems to sanitize a heinous crime.

Because even fresh blood

is hard to get out.

And not even the sharpest knife

cuts clean.

This article about raising awareness about femicide (see the link below) brought up memories of Dorothy, who was my friend and colleague. It happened in a distant city. I learned of it late, and it struck me as inconceivable, utterly out of the blue, something that happened to different sort of people than her: a strong, worldly, highly accomplished professional woman.

The en passant meeting seems clear to me. But I’m suspicious enough of memory (in general, and mine in particular!) that it may very well not have happened. But the “dead to me” part is very true. Although I have to add that suicide was probably better than the slowly turning wheels of the criminal justice system, endless appeals, and early release. The only clean thing about the whole horrible affair.

I’m not sure “epidemic”, as in the article, is technically correct. The word implies a dramatic increase above historic trends. But neither men nor intimate relationships have changed. So perhaps it’s always been like this. It’s just that no one thought to notice.

https://globe2go.pressreader.com/article/281706914729103

Dead Horses - April 16 2024

 

Dead Horses

April 16 2024

A faded photograph

in sepia tones

of an erect young man

who would soon go off to war.

A prairie boy

who had never seen the sea

about to set sail

in the early morning dark.

The sparse moustache

he so proudly nursed

wasn't doing much good;

he still looked too boyish.

A formal photograph

of an earnest young man

in a badly finished uniform

one size too big;

the great uncle

who would never return

from the war to end all war.

My father treasured this.

And tried hard to pass on

his strong feelings that came over him.

Part of a letter also remained;

hand-written

and speaking of death

with an eloquence one wouldn’t expect

of a man so young.

The last one he sent.

I know my father

was deeply affected by this,

the sense of duty

and chilling premonition

that letter contained.

Not to mention the bravery,

especially in our current age

when heroism is scarce

or claimed by imposters.

He clearly saw himself

as the keeper of memory;

after all

who else was left

to honour the self-sacrifice

of a great uncle who died

with no children of his own?

Or was this an older man

questioning his own mortality;

a search for meaning

at the time of life

when death

which had always been hypothetical

has started to seem real?

A thought

that makes more and more sense

the older I get.

War didn’t end, of course,

despite the miserable trenches

and millions dead.

Young men

going off to war

whom no one now remembers.

Unknown soldiers

in unmarked graves

in unconsecrated fields,

their remains mixed

with what's left of dead horses

buried in soil

seeded with blood.

But one great uncle

who died for his country

has yet to be forgotten.

A photo on a mantelpiece.

A father

who rarely showed emotion

with a catch in his voice.

And a son

who only vaguely knows the story

and lost track of the artifacts themselves;

but still honours that young man

in a commemorative poem

about a pointless war,

a promising life

cut tragically short.

A Cynic Looks Up - April 15 2024

 

A Cynic Looks Up

April 15 2024

After the storm

as the clouds began to part

I looked up

and saw the sun shining down

like a kindergartner's drawing;

beams of light

radiating out

through a mist-filled sky

like an incandescent crown

around the sun.

As if the energy of light

had materialized.

As if the gates of heaven

had opened up.

As if to say

in a time of existential stress

that this too shall pass,

just as storms

come and go.

Early spring

and the leaves had unfurled

green, fresh, firm.

Tiny water droplets

clung to them,

so perfectly spherical

and lustrously clear

they seemed to emit light

rather than reflect it.

I turned my back to the sun

and a rainbow appeared

arcing high overhead.

A child’s painting

come to life.

All that was missing

were the unicorn

and pot of gold.

I thought of Noah

being reassured

after the flood had drowned the world;

God’s pledge confirmed

that from then on, we would be spared

no matter what;

a sobering reminder

it was up to us

to judge ourselves.

Or was there nothing prophetic here?

Just a wonder of nature

among the many others;

the everyday miracles

that no longer seem miraculous

to our jaded eyes.

Who knew

that along

the preschooler had it right.

And the cynics like me were wrong;

that with our blinders on

we'd ignored the signs,

allowed despair

to crush the childish wonder

even we once felt.

A piece in today’s New Yorker contained this short description of the end of an arduous hike. Not that the article had anything to do with hiking (it was actually about the search for personal longevity — the “compression of morbidity” at the end of life). But the image sparked an urge to riff, and so I did.

My calves started to burn. I felt a knot in my back. White clouds veiled the sun, and a few ethereal rays came through. It looked so much like the entrance to TV Heaven that I half expected a deep voice to boom from above.

(No Time to Die, by Dhruv Khullar
https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2024/04/22/how-to-die-in-good-health)