Dog Days

June 28 2013

In the dog days
of summer
she drops,

legs giving way

in each patch of shade;

a slack marionette

who clatters into scattered limbs.

On hard packed ground,

where parched grass

is beaten brown,

some bolting weeds

still green.

Or baked concrete

cooling quick.

She pants

like a hundred metre sprint,
winter coat thinned
but still a misery.

In late July
the dog star rises
and persists until fall,
constant as man's

faithful companion.
The season of little ambition,
curiously named

for Sirius
heaven's brightest star.
When bored kids
count-down

to the end of seamless days,
the unspeakable secret

no one ever admits.
And working people sweat

in airless offices,

secretly wishing to quit.

The dog
who is inhumanly patient
and whose days all are seamless
is content to wait
sprawled in the shade,

sun-downing eyes

drifting closed.
Until her master calls,
and life is full
of instant purpose.
Meaning as flawlessly clear

as Canis Major's unwavering star,

on August nights
laser bright

in jet-black sky.

I think of the English expressions that disparage dogs: work like a dog, and treated like a dog, and dog-tired, and a dog's breakfast, and dogging it. So it's nice that this exceptionally noble animal is honoured by lending her name to the constellation that contains the brightest star.

Which is where "dog days of summer" originates: the time of year when the sky's brightest star rises -- Sirius, in Canis Major. Although namesake constellation or not, the image of a panting pooch collapsing in the shade would be perfect for the torpor of the dog days, anyway.

The poem turns on the incongruity between an exhausted dog and the brightest star. But then it ends as a tribute to an animal I both love and admire; an encomium to loyalty and companionship and constancy.

It's been a very long time since I wrote a "dog" poem. (In fact, I wasn't even sure I had another in me.) So I think I've shown sufficient self-denial to have earned the self-indulgence of this one!

The Night the Moon
Was Closest to Earth
June 26 2013


The night the moon was closest to earth
the clouds lifted.
An act of grace
after day after day
of suffocating rain.

The moon seemed unnaturally large.
And so sharply etched
every imperfection was clear

to the naked eye.

A heavenly body
in a cynical world,
in fine-grained dust
and airless shadow.

Distance

was hard to figure

in the silvery light,

all glowing surface

a flattened world.

And gone with the 3rd

was the 4th dimension,

indirect light
stealing depth, and time.

As if only I
had been graced with motion,
gliding through a tableau
in magical light.
Should disturb
nothing

leave the silence untouched,
as in those sacred places
even sound would profane.

Until the howling began,
a cold shiver

running up my back.
A night when sound carries.
Or the wolves
padding on silent paws
are on the move as well.

The closest approach and the brightest full moon this year was June 24. I never expected to see much; but, as in the poem, the undifferentiated days of overcast and rain unexpectedly lifted, and I walked out in the middle of the night into this still silvery light.

I hope the repetitive line "after day after day" doesn't sound awkward or slipshod. I wanted to convey a feeling of both tediousness and undifferentiation: of going on too long, and of days dissolving into each other. So instead of something that slows the reader down with a lot of cognitive processing, such as "after undifferentiated days", why not draw a picture with simple words such as "after day after day": that is, show it instead of say it -- the cardinal rule of good writing!

The wolves weren't howling that night, despite the mythological moon. Perhaps it was too late, or they'd moved further away. But to give the poem some narrative force, and to reinforce this feeling of exceptionalism -- the suspension of time, the exotic light, the indefinable sense of menace, the privilege of moving through a motionless and slightly distorted world -- I thought I'd take the liberty of conflating that summer moon with the feeling of other nights, when the wolves are indeed at it: a feeling of primeval excitement, danger, and exhilaration.

I hope the poem leaves you with the feeling that the world consists of only the wolves and me, as well as an anxious sense that I'm being stalked. It may strike the discerning reader that this last stanza comes out of nowhere, and illegitimately transforms the entire poem. If you think that, I invite you to revisit the second stanza, and make note of the foreshadowing there: the unease conveyed by words like "unnatural", and "imperfection", and "cynical". And really, what else would you expect of a "lunar" poem but a bit of lunacy? (Or, for that matter, what more obvious trope than howling wolves?!!)

On the other hand, what's wrong with a little twist, the ending that comes out of nowhere? The poems that most affect me often do this: a final stanza (or preferably, a final line) that suddenly transforms the poem, slightly shifting the meaning of everything that came before. Such a poem is made that much more powerful by this ambiguity and allusion. Not to mention that such a poem invites re-reading, which I think is the sine qua non of a great poem: not only that you want to re-read, but that each reading brings something new.

I Watch a Leaf
June 23 2013


I watch a leaf
levitate
light as air.
Drift fitfully back to earth
like a luffing sail.

I admire
its symmetry, and detail,
intricately branching veins
fine serrated edge.
The luminous green
that will deepen, and dull.
Until all the colour
bleeds out
to its tough internal structure
of industrial brown.

Because the real beauty
of a leaf
is in its work,
the alchemy
of an infinitesimal machine
that transubstantiates sun
into fuel.
How elegant a tool,
to perform this sleight-of-hand
at room temperature
with such frugality;
no pistons crashing, no mountains of slag,
no cauldrons of molten steel.

The simple beauty
of chlorophyll,
shuffling electrons
as a magician manipulates cards.
An artist
of close-up magic.

This aesthetic
of usefulness
is its own peculiar beauty.
Unlike the beautiful surface,
which the bravest art
eschews.
Art
that does not depend
on shock, disruption, newness.
Art
too pure
to be made for the passing viewer.
Art
that refers
only to itself.

The beauty
of a leaf
unfurling from its bud.
And the pathos
when it's plucked,
such an exquisite piece
so casually undone.
Which is what all art
seeks to explain
is it not?

The wonder of life,
leafing out
as if gravity didn't exist.
The inescapable fall
we futilely resist.


Engineers have discovered something called "bio-mimicry". While the traditional way of making things has been characterized as "heat, beat, and treat" -- manufacturing on a large scale, squandering resources and energy, and generating a lot of waste -- nature does the same thing, but with remarkable economy and elegance. As it says in the poem, transforming substances "at room temperature / and with such frugality." In bio-mimicry, we try to learn from billions of years of evolution, from the experimental laboratory of nature.

Leaves are, of course, beautiful in the traditional aesthetic sense. But when you consider the hidden molecular world these tiny things contain, an even greater level of beauty emerges. If you discipline yourself to go about the world with a sense of wonder, the simple action of holding a leaf, or admiring one, can be filled with awe. I would have used the word "awesome" in the poem; but unfortunately, flagrant over-usage has debased that word, robbed it of its original metaphysical and supernatural meaning.

So beauty is not simply an aesthetic construct. There can be awe-inspiring beauty in utility. A mathematical proof can be beautiful in its economy and elegance. And a leaf, as well: so infinitesimally small and delicate, yet such an elegantly efficient machine. Actually, this is my favourite part of the poem. I hope the tension in this incongruity strikes the reader as well: that is, the juxtaposition of a delicate leaf with the brutal imagery of tools, industry, and machines; of slag heaps and molten steel and deafening sound.

I like this idea of unselfconscious art. Can there be beauty, without intention? Does beauty exist, if no human is there to see it?

And another question alluded to here: Is beauty essential to art? Because I've heard art defined not as something beautiful, but as something that is transformational: concerned as much with meaning as being pleasing to the eye, or ear, or touch. (I've also heard it defined as anything an artist makes!) And even if we agree that beauty is essential, can there be an objective, enduring, universal measure? Or is beauty necessarily subjective?

Maybe, as the engineers are discovering about process, the aesthetically-minded are discovering about beauty: it is ultimately to be found in nature, and our efforts are merely poor imitations of the real thing.

Of course, the poem doesn't explore all this. And it shouldn't: that's way too much work for one poem to do, and is better suited to the more laborious elaboration of prose. The main thing I set out to do was what most of my poetry sets out to do: close observation, and microcosm. I wanted to elucidate this remarkable hidden world; to exalt the everyday; and to express my appreciation for this unseen and unappreciated kind of beauty: that is, the elegant beauty of simplicity, function, and frugality.

If nothing else, the poem is an encomium to chlorophyll: a humble and unappreciated molecule, but by far the most important and revolutionary one in the history of life on earth.

Evening
June 20 2013


Evening

when summer heat lingers
and spiralling sprinklers
reassuringly turn,
phhhht 
              ...phhhht 
                                 ...phhhht.

Gossamer rainbows
in veils of spray.

The light is heavy,

as if all the gold

had settled out

closer to earth,

so the greens have deepened
shadows firmed.
Tiny droplets
cling to the tips
of fresh cut grass.
Like small transparent planets
that will not last,

in the concentrated season

of sun.

This time of day,
when this marginal part
of a larger world
is unnaturally still.

Where summer seems eternal

sprinklers lazily turn.

Things Like That
Don't Happen Here
June 18 2013


Could never imagine
anything like that

happening here,

said the slow-talking man
to the man with the microphone,

as yellow police tape
snapped in the wind.
The camera loved
the old man in over-alls,
flannel shirt
buttoned all the way up.

Doors never locked,
but firmly closed
curtains drawn.
Where we know each other's secrets
but no one talks.
And in the middle of nowhere
how a human body
is so easily lost.

It was all anyone buzzed about
for weeks,
glancing over our shoulders
uncomfortably.
Then conveniently forgot
when the whole brouhaha
about the mayor's affair
with the city clerk
came out of nowhere.
Caught
in flagrante delicto.

Busybodies
gossiping.
While all the rest
felt a cold sweat 
sudden heat,

nodding

disapprovingly.

The 17 Year Brood

June 4 2013

An eternity

in a bug’s life.

Even our beloved pets

will not live to see the next

brood of cicadas

emerge

on the first warm day

of spring

all at once.

17 years

in sunless underground

attached

to succulent roots,

moving only

a little deeper

in cool snug soil.

Where survival depends

on somehow keeping count,

day by day

for 17 years

in eternal darkness

in isothermic earth.

And then, in synchronized rebirth

emerge

into unaccustomed sun.

Where they fill the sky,

somehow privy

to the mysteries of flight

after all those years

rooted, and blind.

In a world thick with cicadas,

the piercing din

of their calls.

Such small delicate creatures

are not supposed

to live so long,

let alone be noticed. 

Because insects are fleeting

and insignificant,

and we, oblivious

as we go about living

our complicated lives.

As if

except for the bugs that bite, industrious bees

we are exempt

from nature.

So when the cicadas take over

  —  so long, we forgot the time before  — 

we are reminded

how fleeting life is.

And that after the planet is free of us

this is how it will look,

the earth, over-run

the sky, dark with bugs,

shrill

with their raucous songs

and frenzied mating.

Or bugs

inhumanly patient

coolly waiting underground,

methodically keeping count.

We’re too far northwest to witness the emergence of this year’s brood. I’ve only read all the headlines. And I certainly don’t remember the last:  even in our relatively long lives, 17 years is too much. So this is a remarkable story:  that these inconsequential little things could be so long-lived; that insects are actually getting noticed enough for the front page.

The metaphorical possibilities are obvious, but irresistible:  re-birth; the inscrutable intelligence of nature; the frantic imperative of survival and reproduction; the incongruity of something so delicate and ephemeral, yet so long-lived, and the metamorphosis of little grub-like things from underground into the purification of light and air and the freedom of flight.

What I find most instructive, though, is how rare it is for nature to seize our attention, to distract us even momentarily from our own solipsistic self-regard. All that can be hoped is that there is some wonder to accompany the irritation and inconvenience of being temporarily over-run.

We’ve all been told that whatever damage we manage to inflict on the planet and on ourselves, the cockroaches will survive. Most other insects as well, I presume. They may be relatively invisible to us; but insects remain the most numerous animals on earth, who were here long before us, and will most likely be after we’re gone.

(My apologies to all entomologists. I realize that they pull their hair out in frustration every time someone uses “bug” instead of “insect”:  that bugs are one small type of insect, but that most insects are certainly not bugs. In my defence, I’m taking poetic licence here, since the sound and brevity and connotation of “bug” makes it much more useful to me than the more technical sounding “insect”.)

Indigo Bunting
June 1 2013


A rare bird
appeared this spring.
My neighbour's feeder,
where squirrels steal in

all twitchy stops, liquid speed.

And underneath 

patchy lawn,

killed-off 

by spilled seed
generations of guano.

They were ravenous
after a long hard winter,
the small familiar birds
who dart in-and-out
on acrobatic wings.

Who all seem dull and grey
and leave me indifferent;
although, in a birdless world
I know I would miss them.
Perhaps not realize why, exactly,
except the quiet empty sky
would surely seem alien;
dangerous, even.

The cat, who is lazy and fat
eyes them warily,
predatory instinct
still intact.
In her coiled crouch, she stalks,
tail stiff, tongue flicking
eyes, darting quickly,
as coolly intense
as the born killer

she is.
While the dogs
pay no attention at all,
grounded animals
content with their place.

The rare bird was blue, iridescent
and unexpected
this far north.
The feeder tipped and swayed, with his weight
as he leisurely fed
all by himself.
While all the plain local birds
kept their distance;
even the squirrels deferred.

He was beautiful
and all of us noticed.
But in mating season
he will find himself alone,
a barren year
of fruitless searching.

He briefly appeared,
the rare bird
whom we admire
who brightens our lives.
The object of desire,
when all he seeks

is home.

True story.

I refrain from naming any of the other birds; since it's also true that I know nothing at all about birds, and generally pay no attention. …Although I assume it would be safe to say warblers, or sparrows; chickadees, perhaps?

However, I did do the minimal research necessary even for poetry (which, after all, makes no claim to literal truth) and found out that only the males are blue. I had originally written for a female bird; which works far better with “barren” and “fruitless”.  But, for the sake of accuracy (and to silence the nit-pickers!), I’ll leave it as is, and accept the less evocative allusion. In the same vein, I considered “magnificent” instead of “beautiful”. But I think the latter is a more visceral word, and gets closer to love than mere admiration. The more masculine “magnificent” may be regal, but “beautiful” seems more vulnerable. …I am still undecided.

It may be taking a liberty with the truth, however, to anthropomorphize the unusual visitor. Are birds capable of feeling loneliness and longing? But the double entendre of "rare bird" does get closer to truth. I often feel like a "rare bird" myself (most of us at some time or another feel that way, I suspect; but then some of us really are true eccentrics, rare birds!); occasionally afflicted with the same sense of isolation and exceptionalism as I imagine would an indigo bunting, this far north.