Tuesday, July 17, 2012


Shallow Lake
July 13 2012


At 3000 feet
the ocean is dead black.
Entire lives
gliding through this vast aquatic space
knowing nothing of light. 
As if the sun had departed, the planet gone dark,
in an exhausted cosmos
of burned-out stars.

But here, in this shallow lake
light filters all the way down.
Where an even layer of silt
lies undisturbed,
over waterlogged trees
becalmed rocks,
the pollen of countless springs.
It looks like an ancient ruin
through the green pelagic murk,
as well-preserved
as Atlantis, Pompeii.

Submerged plants
like some grotesque alien flora
strive sunward
on long exotic stems.
Bend back, parting
from the water I displace
trawling the bottom
holding my breath.

Where a cool layer rests,
persisting
in this heat-wave summer
like a remnant
of a long expired ice-age.
And I dive, again
all the way down
into bracing cold.

Reach out, and touch,
watch ancient silt
billowing up
from the muck and mush
of this soft-bottom warm-water lake.
I think of dust
on the lunar surface,
so finely preserved
for so long
until now.

Just 10 feet down
and I am Apollo.
Or the first explorer
of a dark continent
never seen by man.
Or an astronaut
in low gravity
and inhospitable air,
venturing out
on a strange green planet
circling a distant sun.


I like the way this poem moves on an imaginative trip through space and time. It goes from dark to light, from ice age to space-age, from claustrophobic dive to hypothetical cosmos, and from ancient ruins to a new continent.

I like the sense of this alien and timeless landscape, as close as a few feet down.

I like the depiction of man as intruder, who interferes, thoughtlessly and irrevocably changing things.

Quite a trip for a casual swim and a short dive!


Lilac, and Liquorice
July 16 2012


Down by the shore
on a flat spit of land
of sand, and gravel
and scrubby grass,
a small stand of plants
has rooted itself.
Actually, just one,
a metastatic clone
on subterranean runners,
consuming sun
colonizing soil.

Small white flowers
in delicate cones
rise knee-high,
redolent of lilac, and liquorice.
The intense fragrance overwhelms,
like an old lady
who has lost her sense of smell
and reeks of perfume.

You can hear the bees from 20 feet,
warning, swarming
foraging for food.
So I go slow
down to my rustic beach,
try slipping through
invisibly.

“Busy as a bee”
is no idle saying.
I admire their industry,
conscientious bees
who somehow make a living
in our short summer, up north,
then that much more
to last the winter.

So we live and let live,
keep a respectful distance.
The property owner
willing to risk eviction.
The invasive plant
which has colonized the spit.
And the band-saw hive
who ferociously gorge,
sweet abundance
in this window of warmth. 

Wednesday, July 11, 2012


After I wrote this, I remembered something similar from a few years ago. And when I checked, realized that I had chosen the same title. So I've included that as well. It's the second poem; newly revised, after revisiting it 4 years later. But I still don't like it as much as the new one:  it seems pretentious; takes itself a little too seriously.

Perhaps the most revealing thing about these two poems is the similar way I've used the dormant volcano as metaphor:  for the essential uncertainty of existence; the awful bargain life makes.




Solid Ground (2)
July 10 2012


Does it feel like this?

Perched on the rim
of a dormant volcano
looking in.
Scorched rock, sulphuric stink.
The blasted caldera,
where tough plants cling
to the cracked and lifeless surface.

You wobble
for one vertiginous second
peering down from the edge
into incomprehensible depths
of earth,
and wonder
is a volcano ever still?
Where cauldrons of magma rumble
and poison gas might erupt
in a flash of sudden death,
after thousands of years at rest.
So you choose to trust the experts,
who tut-tut
their reassurance.

But life is always precarious,
hurtling through space
on a molten planet
on its cool outer skin,
brittle as eggshell.
And precious air
which is just as thin.

You feel short of breath
and infinitesimal.
You feel a quiver
as if rock had shifted
under your feet,
filled
by deep subterranean sound.

And never again will you feel
on solid ground.




Solid Ground (1)
Feb 23 2008


You become complacent
living beneath a volcano;
its gentle slope, fertile soil,
dense green foliage.

Occasionally, the ground will shudder
sulphurous steam erupt.
And curls of toxic smoke
rise-up from the blasted caldera,
the charred rim
that’s been off-limits
since memory exists.
You glance up,
reassured that underground, the fire-god still simmers
content for now.

Entire lives have passed
beneath the volcano,
resigned to its rule.
The cruel symmetry of nature,
blessing us with riches
then making us pay
with blood, and treasure.
The fickle pleasure
of an immature god.

Everywhere, there are dormant volcanoes.
In acts of faith
and appeasement,
the zero-sum games we play.
In the risks we take
for comfort
and love.

But it’s so pleasant living here
where everything grows
in this verdant jungle.
Where succulent fruit
just waits to be plucked
from low-lying branches,
redolent, and ruby red
tempting us to bite.

Or where, left to ripen
the first gentle tremor
shakes them off.
Filling the air
with sweetness,
the sickly scent of rot.

The Manly Arts
July 9 2012


The neighbours are building
a big garage,
2 cars
2nd story loft.

Beginning at dawn
the industrious clatter of hammer and saw
diffuse across the forest,
the lush green wall
between us.
Hard work
in cool mornings.
And the off-colour talk
of men at work,
considered commands, contagious laughter
expletives, from high in the rafters
when the hammer drops.

They have drawn
on a large circle of friends,
like an old-fashioned barn-raising.
There are trucks parked haphazardly
and men who are new to me
beetling over studs
shouldering lumber.
Who are clearly at ease with construction,
well turned out
in custom knee-pads, and tool-belts
flush with toys.

My neighbour is the kind of man
who is handy,
enthusiastic
about manual labour
good with his hands.
But it is the son
who has returned from the coast
to take charge.
Who has surpassed his dad
in the manly arts
of carpentry,
the loading of bearing walls
the soundness of joists.

How quickly the boy has grown,
now a leader of men
and his father content
to let him.

I see the pride
in his mother’s eyes,
but ambivalence, as well.
I think she feels her age
watching her husband gently displaced
by this man-child.
And though uncertain
how he learned these skills
a mother’s fierce pride.

I hammer badly,
am not to be trusted
with power tools.
So I keep out of their way
watch, amazed
this building quickly take shape
on its firm foundation,
where once there were trees
and cool wet earth.

The place he grew up
to leave,
going out into the world
to make something of himself.
A good start
for this prodigal son.
Who now has come
full circle.

Sunday, July 8, 2012


Weekly Visit
July 4 2012


The measure of happiness
is difficult.

That I can recite this passage
before, and after,
and she will light up, entranced
smile her thanks
as if the very first time.

Her favourite lines
read back.
Flattered
I remember.

Yet I feel unworthy,
this reliable stanza
she has heard, and heard
and heard,
and thrills her still.
As if my credit
was undeserved,
her pleasure inauthentic.
That I had taken advantage
of her ingenuousness.

A man of sound mind
might envy this,
her singular focus
simple joy.
To be so completely filled
by these few familiar words,
while his head’s full of chatter
the constant distraction
of random thoughts.
But that’s not what I feel;
only fear
that I, too, may forget.

They say that as memory is stripped away
the true personality comes through,
one’s essence
preserved.
So I am touched
by her gratitude
love for language,
this beautiful woman
who no longer knows my name.
Who knew
happiness worked this way?

So pure, and unconstrained.
That a damaged brain
may soon forget
but feels as intensely.
That joy
may quickly vanish
but is no less worthy.

Because if the measure
of true happiness
is that it lasts,
then nothing counts.
Just more sadness
in the world.


Object of Desire
May 14 2012


I was caught off-guard
when she quickly slipped her bra 
over her head,
ducking out
as if shucking a T-shirt.

This seemed like cheating,
after fumbling with her fussy clasps
with my blunt clammy fingers.
And I secretly missed
how a woman reaches back
to unclip.

The saucy arch
of her body.
Shoulder blades
like small delicate wings,
moving freely
under smooth brown skin.
Her perky breasts, vulnerable neck,
flitting pulse
extended.

Done so matter-of-factly,
as if a woman’s bra
were not
an object of desire.
Not one more mystery
in the forbidden world
of girls.
Not skimpy, or sheer
under-wired, fortified, formidable
but simply practical,
an article of clothing
like any other.

Then quickly peeling skinny jeans
inside-out
snagging feet,
she sling-shots off 
cotton socks
and wriggles down her panties.
Awkward, self-conscious
rushed,
but nothing like that bra.
Which I would have loved to watch.
The beauty of a woman’s back.
Urgency
tempered by shyness.
Her wilful compliance,
smiling at me
as she surrenders herself.

But she was fast
and practical
and we couldn’t wait.
Next time
I will teach her to be slow
learn to be patient.

Instruct her in the male gaze,
the give-and-take
of temptation.
Gently explain
how creative minds
can improve upon nature;
the erotic arts
of anticipation
self-restraint.


The Past Was a Simpler Place
May 25 2012


The past was a simpler place.
Because we were young.
Because we know now
it turned out well enough.
Because we remember the good
and forget
when times were rough.

How we laugh
at the ghastly clothes
extravagant hair.
And cringe at our naïveté,
yet wish we could trust
as we did, back then.

And in 10 years time
they will mock our fashion sense
be even more ironic.
And reminisce, nostalgic
at how simple it was,
when the world was 10 years younger
and seemed to make sense.

Like us, getting too caught up
in the breathless importance of now,
the narcissism
of small differences.
Because 10 years
is too small to measure
in the history of life
the planet.

So show compassion
for the past
humility for the present.
And protect our future
from vanity, and greed.
Inhabit time
as if we were pagan gods   — 
immortal,
but deeply flawed.


Ungodly Height
May 10 2012


Most airplanes are painted white.
To make them seem lighter.
To ease our disbelief
in miraculous flight.

Perhaps this is what sustains
this massive machine
at such ungodly height.
The collective will
of sweaty palms
and tightly clenched teeth,
the concentrated thought
of a hundred souls
who all believe.
Who may have been schooled
in drag, lift, and speed,
seen planes ascend
with graceful ease.
Felt the power of wind
yet still can’t resist
the snake of doubt,
the hiss
of uncertainty.

Most miracles must be taken on faith,
waving incense
clutching amulets.
But here,
so near to heaven
with heathen admissions of death,
we console ourselves
with laws of physics
a shot of Scotch,
ritual cruising
the rite of taking off.
Where the drone of engines
is meditation
a balm.

Although for one heretical moment
I was overcome by a vision
of fuel dumped, altitude lost
luggage frantically tossed,
overhead bins
ransacked for carry-on.
A random congregation
of crew, and passengers
imploring the god of gravity,
desperate to stay aloft.

When the plane pitched, and dropped
and I swiftly barred the thought.
Because we must all devoutly believe
in this cramped aluminum container.
Only then
can sinners be forgiven,
the fallen, raised.


Air-Brushed
May 20 2012


The ad
on glossy paper
in a magazine baited with scent
I find cloying
and objects of envy
I find annoying
earnestly reassured
the reader
he is different, unique, heroic.

“Very” unique, I suppose
since we are all unique,
some just more so.
So kudos
for stating the obvious.
For tempting the vanity
I try to resist.

The thing is
we are designed to be different.
Each one
a biological experiment,
like Jell-O thrown against the wall
to see if it sticks.
Resilience
through diversity,
in a game of genetic roulette.

So when the asteroid collides
Wall St. crumbles,
that ostracized stigmatized misfit
we snickered about
in high school
might just rescue the human race,
like drawing aces
in a high stakes game.
Not different untouchable
but different with a self-assured strut,
as the magazine ad
so flatters us.

Or maybe there will be no calamity.
He just grows up, gets older
somewhere no one knows him,
and, unexpectedly
finds love.
Things change
and there he is,
a perfect fit.

She may not look
like the models in the magazine,
air-brushed, glamorous.
And their possessions
may not be much.
But at least they won’t be seduced
by ads like these.
Will not give a damn
about seeking status,
fitting in
or out
of fashion.

Just survive, and flourish.
A modest hero
who had no plan.


This is one of those infrequent philosophical poems, an occasional indulgence. They’re tough for me, because I prefer the small and particular, the microcosm; while these play with big and ambitious themes, and can too easily become presumptuous, sanctimonious, preachy.

But this one scratches a lot of itches.

It’s dig at the delusional  world of advertising:  the absurd universe of materialism, conspicuous consumption, and status; the tantalizing idea that some new possession will transform.

The pedantic purist in me flinches at the expression “very unique”. Yet it’s not actually redundant. We are all unique; but, as in most things, there are degrees. As someone who feels like an outlier – even, at times, an alien – this thought has particular resonance for me.

I’ve done a lot of physics poems, but not so much  biology; an odd omission, for a doctor. I love this idea that we are all genetic experiments, utterly unique (that word again!) mutations and recombinations just waiting to find our niche; all tiny individual insurance plans that guarantee the resilience of the species. So even the oddest duck among us may some day find himself a swan. There is an intrinsic tension in this, because by the most fundamental design of life, we are different. Yet we seek comfort in conformity and belonging. 

And to bring this full circle, advertising also embraces and exploits this paradox:  flattering our courageous individualism; yet appealing to that powerful drive to fit in.

And a couple other itches, as well. I hate scent in magazines (Actually, I hate it most places!) And the ending isn't just that way because it rhymes (not the only reason, that is!) Too often, we think inductively, looking back and finding pattern, purpose, even destiny. But if the randomness of genetics and evolution teach us anything, it's that nothing can be planned, there is no destiny, and the idea that human beings can control much at all is mere conceit.

Saturday, July 7, 2012


Old-Growth
July 6 2012


8 centuries
spared from fire
human greed.

Old-growth
in this dark cool cathedral
of massive trees.
Towering over
an ancient forest
of dark understory, complex soil
that teems 
with invisible life.

In dignified silence
this giant cedar survived
empire, wild fire
dire cold;
but now, barely grows,
its core
most likely rotten
cleansing little carbon
from over-heated air.
And in a stiff wind
may well have toppled
and snagged,
or crashed
through shattered branches,
returning to its soil.

So, have I romanticized this tree?
Did it serve, in any way
or just a monument to age?

There is beauty, for its own sake,
and we all knew
it was beautiful.
Immensely large,
gnarled bark, scarred with age
over-arching shade.

But most of all
it made us small.
Late to this place,
insignificant actors
in an intricate play
we barely understand
or acknowledge.

Only now, I think of this.
Because yesterday
it was felled, and carted away,
vandalized
under cover of dark.
This defenceless tree,
unthinkably long-lived
and regally indifferent
to man’s petty conceits.
A venal end
for such a venerable thing.

You can buy shakes and shingles
cheap.
But all our ingenuity
will never reproduce
an ancient tree,
an extravagance
beyond our means.
Time
which is not for sale.
And hardly the patience to wait.

Wednesday, July 4, 2012


When the Earth Stood Still
July 2 2012


A high haze
and the sun glares, relentless.
This heat wave
rolled in from the deep south
and stayed,
rippling off the pavement,
weighing down
torpid air, tinder branches
brown dejected grass.

I think of cold snaps
sub-arctic blizzards,
the flat gloom of winter
easy on the eyes.
Of spring,
green shoots, dew dripping
high transparent skies.
A brisk October’s
chill pellucid light.

But now, the earth stands still.
Sun, a million miles closer
heat that builds and builds.
“Just wait,” we chide,
a change of season, and we will pray for this.

Until it breaks
with black anvil clouds
the crack of thunder.
Hunkering down, it comes,
pounding rain
drowning out our voices,
power fried.

And in an hour, sun,
boiling off, steamy hot
air too thin to breathe.
“It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity” we say
nod in agreement.
Watch sleeping dogs
sprawled in the shade.