Soundings
June 26 2016


The house had good bones,
a sound roof, firm foundation
beams of old-growth oak.

So when we stripped the wallpaper, layers of paint
sheetrock, plaster, lathe, 
dissecting down, age-by-age
like a mortician exposing flesh,
we found pipes of lead, frayed electric
seeping wetness, rot.
Sawdust 
thronging with ants.

Old papers, as insulation
in the nooks and crannies of walls.
The local broadsheet, day after day
preserved against all odds,
documents, diaries, journals
letters better-off burned. 

So the house has not aged well.
While time has mercifully softened
the dark culpable thoughts
of her dead inhabitant;
the writer, anonymous
her subjects
forgotten, and gone.
Confessions no longer crimes. 

It’s good to be reminded
that the guilt and regret
the pain and the dread
will eventually be rendered null,
that distance cleanses all.

Good to imagine
that you could gut the interior, pick-axe the rot
tear-down to virgin wood,
reassured
her structure is worthy
her bones still good.



I suppose this poem could be read as the yin and yang of nihilism:  in its negative sense, the feeling of futility that comes from knowing that all one’s passion and intensity will -- in the fullness of time --  be inevitably rendered meaningless; and in its positive sense, the  humility that comes from the nihilist’s amused detachment,  recognizing an individual’s  insignificance in a vast indifferent universe. 

More narrowly, I think the poem is about self-forgiveness and self-acceptance; about a flawed human being -- all of us, that is -- recognizing her own essential worthiness. 

I intentionally confused pronouns here:  both the writer and the house are referred to as “her”. Which may be a bit too clever for the good of the poem. Because the metaphor should come through clear enough: as usual, I need to trust the reader more, not hit him over the head! 

I was unsure about the 3 repetitions of  “good” in the last 2 stanzas. I could have used “nice” -- “as in nice to be reminded”; and I could have used “sound” -- as in “her bones still sound”. But “nice” sounds like an act of politeness, while “good” sounds more like a necessary and welcome corrective. And “good” in the last line offers a useful call-back to the opening, which gives the poem a satisfying sense of closure. 

“When Press This Button ...”
June 20 2016


I can just  imagine
the earnest young man
in the standard garb
of white dress-shirt,  dark pressed pants
hunched over a desk in a Chinese factory. 
Papers are scattered, dictionaries stacked
as he peers intently down,
one finger adjusting
the badly smudged glasses
slipping down his nose.
Each letter, meticulously composed,
like that queen bee
who was teacher’s pet.

Smooth enough
until the grammar clangs, a  word clunks.
Instruction-manual English,
which sounds so exact, polite
sure of itself
but is incomprehensible.

I know he meant well,
this earnest young  man
who can ask directions
order a hamburger
say have a nice day
while beaming and bowing
to mystified strangers,
but has never carried on
an actual conversation.

His work has an undeniable charm,
like letters home from camp
you find in a sticky drawer in your  mother’s small  kitchen
and read as a 40 year old
but is hardly of help.

Perhaps this is the future of language
or even its past.
Because politicians have been at it for years,
mouthing word after word
so it sounds like English
but leaves you scratching your head.

In the East, there is a culture of  deference, reticence
the suppression of self.
So if he and I  met
I know how impolite it would be 
to criticize his work.
I would simply smile, and bow my head,
thanking him
for his considerable skill.



Some sort of alchemy must have occurred when a  preoccupation with Donald Trump combined with  my new air conditioner’s instruction manual to gave rise to this odd little poem. 

Whenever I read this sort of stilted English, I always get the sense of earnestness conscientiousness this young man personifies.  And I also feel as if it’s a glimpse into a future world where all language is not only universal, but utilitarian:  a kind of pastiche/creole/ pidgin that makes a kind of rough sense, but has no elegance or nuance. 

The ending alludes to the intersection of cultures. I find the narrator very likeable here:  he brings a wry and generous humour to an annoying circumstance.

The poem achieves the kind of conversational tone to which I often aspire. It often sounds like a prose poem, despite the line breaks. I think this works particularly well with the bemused persona of the narrator, the dailiness of the theme. Although I suspect I may have gotten a little carried away in the opening stanza, as if this were a novel, and descriptions could go on and on.   Apparently, I still lack the discipline to trust the reader to fill in the fine detail!

Municipal Bench

June 15 2016

A formidable bench

is bolted to a flat concrete slab

that is set in the grass 

of my neighbourhood park.

It will not be moved,

just like those hard moulded seats

in fast-food eateries

where leisurely dining is frowned upon.

Not to face toward the sun.

Not to turn, and snatch-up,

scurrying off

in a sudden storm.

Not to view the toddlers, and their eagle-eyed moms

on the blandly modern

jungle-gym,

declawed of risk.

A fixed bench seat

on a rectangular slab

on nicely manicured grass.

The triumph of order

in this small patch of green.

But I feel caged, on its weathered wooden slats

hungering for wildness.

And while concrete can last 2000 years,

the sidewalks have cracked 

by weeds pushing-up from beneath.

The conceit of control

when contingency rules.

The impermanence of things

our lives are too brief

to fathom.

Once again, I find I’ve returned to this theme of man’s hubris, his belief that he stands apart from nature:  the manicured grass and straight lines of concrete set against the wildness and relentlessly encroaching weeds; the ironically named jungle-gym; the illusion of safety.

Hot Dog

June 19 2016

It was always hot dogs

simmering in a pot

of tired water.

Small globules of yellow fat

bobbing on top,

the dogs

plump, pink, circling.

This was lunch

home from school.

The white airy bun, a little stale.

Milk, in the usual tumbler

its clear glass dulled.

Who knew what was in

that chemical meat

its tight elastic membrane?

Anyway, kids only know what they know;

the order of things

seems pre-ordained

as permanent as home.

Familiarity, though, is little comfort

and I hate hot dogs today.

The snap

of teeth on skin

the first salty squirt.

The bland sweetness

of toothless buns.

And that unforgettable smell,

marinating in their own bath-water

over-done.

I saw a very unappetizing picture of a pale hot dog on a dry white bun. This memory immediately resurfaced: not just the biographical memory, but the sensory one. For a long time, lunch was boiled hot dogs. Later, very water Kraft Dinner. ...Maybe a nutritionally suspect childhood is what accounts for my small size!

(“Kraft Dinner”, btw, is a distinctly Canadian term. The same product is sold south of the border. But no one there calls it “Kraft dinner”; it’s just good old mac and cheese!)

The Thou Shalt Nots

June 7 2016

It has rained for days.

A cold wind

penetrating wool, slickers

window frames.

Saturated earth,

with tell-tale footprints

brimming full.

Leaves, plastered down,

trees, bearing the weight

of too much water.

The constant drip-drip-drip.

The driven rain

in sudden squalls

and sodden downpours.

But after the storm

it’s as if the air had been washed clean

earth reborn,

The sky, a luminous blue,

clouds

white, and weightless.

But mostly, the quality of light,

sharpening edges,

illuminating

with cool clear brilliance.

After the flood

God promised Noah

He would destroy no more.

Like the thou shalt nots

of His commandments,

all prohibition

interdiction

forbidden acts.

But what about the shalls?

The making of beauty, the doing of good?

The benevolent God,

who celebrates creation

beams down on His works?

Even a rainbow

in its immaculate arc;

hot sun

warming replenished soil.

As I’ve said before, even a devout atheist is free to use Biblical imagery. The capitalization is a mere courtesy.

This is really a contrast between the Old Testament God – who seems stern, and full of wrath – with the New Testament deity – who is more about forgiveness and love.

Or it could be read as a kind of pagan pantheism, in which “God” is merely a convenient symbol and the “covenant” a common cultural touchstone:  an expression of spiritual uplift at the beauty of the natural world – no superstition or dogma required. My preferred reading, of course!

I like how the gravity of the archaic "the thou shalt nots" immediately prompts the reader to complete the litany. This was originally "the do nots", which I thought might leave the reader scratching her head for second or two, trying to figure out just what I was getting at. 

 The Quality of Light was the original title. Because that’s where the poem began, and what I originally set out trying to capture in words. I glanced out the window at the sun breaking through a clear blue sky, and was taken with the clarity of light; as if the air had been washed clean of all impurities. I still think it's a great title. But really, how could I resist as cryptic and inscrutable a title as The Thou Shalt Nots?!!

Sliced Bread

June 5 2016

A blunt blade

scraping burnt toast.

The raspy sound, the tug of resistance,

the sweet caramelized smell.

The sink could be just as well a coal-bin

as black carbon

crumbles off,

a cloud of dark malignant dust

billows up.

In the subtle shades of doneness

I almost expect to see

a likeness of something or other;

the Virgin Mary

a bathing beauty

some darkly revealed truth.

I scrape down to golden-brown,

saving, reclaiming

nothing to waste

as my frugal mother taught.

Cold toast,

soft centre, singed edges

clattering onto the plate.

The greatest thing since sliced bread

is breakfast spent

scraping burnt toast.

Among the small pleasures to be found

in the humdrum day-to-day.

Such minor virtue

in the most mundane of tasks.

Glacial Erratic
June 3 2016

The weight of morning dew
makes the fabric sag
even lower.
Condensation drips,
zipper snags, and sticks.

My stiff body
squirms from the tent
like an act of birth,
head, shoulder, trailing leg
through the tight nylon opening.
Wriggling
from the sleeping-bag's clammy warmth
into brisk astringent air.

Crawling on all 4's
until I'm clear.
Into boots that are cold and wet
from the day before.
Into soiled clothes
that stink of smoke
and caked-on sweat.

Then, shivering
to tinder, kindling, wood,
spark, ignition, fire
squatting close.
Until the aroma of boiled coffee, slightly burnt
permeates my senses
as if for the first time.

A new morning
the same as all the others.
And as different as the vista
that spreads out before me,
sipping hot black java
as the sun dawns clear.

Sitting on a smoothly weathered rock
that seems improbable, here;
as if dropped
by some absent-minded giant,

skipping stones

an ice-age ago.

Undisturbed
for 10,000 years
on this gently lapping shore.

There was an article in the paper about the Sobey Arts Awards (2016). The finalists' work was shown. One painting, although slightly abstract, appeared to be of a woman wriggling out of a camping tent (Brenda Draney's "Night Sky"). It reminded me of the morning ritual in my canoe-tripping days, many years ago:  the hardship of cold wet mornings; the brilliance of a new day.

The description is detailed, mundane. But I like the busyness of workaday detail, the sense of habit and practice and ritual, the almost claustrophobic self-absorption. Because it sets up the ending, which abruptly zooms out, and sets this busy hour against the still immensity of time. I think this fits a recurring trope of mine:  the insignificance of  man, contrasted with the grandeur and indifference of nature.

The Smell of a Ripe Tomato

June 1 2016

The smell of a ripe tomato,

plucked from its vine

in the torpid heat

of high summer.

You hold it up to the nose, almost touching,

like a connoisseur

sampling expensive wine.

Inhaling, with his eyes half-closed,

then swirling and watching

and slurping and sloshing

and chewing and jawing

unselfconsciously

despite how foolish he looks,

absorbing every molecule

without swallowing a drop.

You can be a literalist

and reduce it to prose;

sweet, savoury, tart …

an earthy essence …

its green herbaceous stem.

Or resort to poetry

and say no more,

because the reader very well knows

how a ripe tomato smells.

As if grunting a small approving noise

and offering it up.

Because language cannot capture this.

Its rough approximations

are hardly adequate,

while meticulous detail

just erects a wall of words

pushing you further apart.

The smell of a ripe tomato

still warm from the sun,

a sticky dribble of juice

the blend of sweet and tart.

One soft slippery seed

caught between your teeth,

tonguing it absent-mindedly

until the basket’s filled.

I was wondering what to write when I passed the kitchen window, tomatoes ripening on the ledge:  the smell of a ripe tomato, of course.

Which became the title …and says all that needs to be said.

I’ve often talked about this – not only when discussing poetry, but in the actual content of some of my poems:  wondering what it is that differentiates poetry from prose; appealing to expressions like “less is more” …“show it, don’t say it” …“let the reader do the work”.

When I began writing, I loved piling on description:  like circling a diamond in changing light, and commenting on every facet. Now, with a few key words, I just try to point the reader in the right direction:  because writing is more powerful when the reader invokes her own experience; because poetry is stronger when it’s distilled, condensed, compressed.

Language is what distinguishes us as humans. I can’t imagine any kind of sophisticated cognition or abstract thought without it. But still, all language is essentially metaphor, and it is at best approximate. Words fail us. Words can obfuscate as much as clarify. Words have different nuances and connotations, depending on the reader. We aren’t always attentive listeners.

So this poem is a commentary on the inadequacies of language. I say as much, in the 2^nd last stanza. But I think -- by showing it, rather than saying it – I express this better in the final one. Instead of being reductive and analytical, trying to reproduce the smell of a ripe tomato through words (words like sweet, savoury, tart), the final stanza is all experiential and multi-sensory:  it invokes the reader’s own experience. Because this is how we remember things:  not as the sum of parts, but as an organic whole.

So in a sense, the poem is laughing at its own pretension: an entire page of words, when the title says it all in the first place, just as well!

Threat of Rain

May 30 2016

It was all about rain threatening

bad weather,

a soggy end

to a long week of work.

Really, rain a threat?

Because who speaks

for the morose, subdued

burnt-out?

Who like dull Saturday afternoons,

the steady patter

motionless air.

Who like windows frosted with mist,

little rivulets

zigzagging down.

And what about the earth

thirsting for rain?

Dusty roads wetted

creeks recharged.

Parched fields, greening-up.

So let the fetching weather-girl

with the perky smile, and décolletage

get a real job

selling used cars.

Just the facts, ma’am;

don’t editorialize, or judge.

When I will walk barefoot

and dance in the rain.

Or feel sorry for myself

in chilly greyness.

Or immerse myself

in a deep Dickensian read,

close to the fire

dog at my feet.

Or listen to baseball

as it was meant to be heard.

Late at night

on that distant highway

in a soft southern drawl.

The fizz of the crowd, the crack of the bat

the wipers’ rhythmic slapping.

Static, fading in-and-out

the dim dashboard light.

From a lush green field

in the sun, somewhere

still sparkling with wetness;

grown men, playing at children’s games

after a good stiff rain

had passed.

It’s always irritated me when the weather person presumes: just give me the facts; don’t decide what’s good and what’s bad.

And why so afraid of rain? We don’t melt. We have rubber boots and rain hats. Farmers love it, gardens need it. Sometimes a crappy day matches your mood. In poetry, it’s called pathetic fallacy. And in real life, it’s called misery loves company.

Because the rain gives you permission to cocoon. Because you know the rain will pass. Because it’s always sunny, somewhere.

And driving in the rain, at night, listening to baseball on the radio. Really, what could possibly be better than that?!!