Dead Space
Feb 25 2017


I was told 
this was an old Finnish tradition.
That the small rectangular shaft
running up the middle of the bungalow
was not a drafting error
or a closet, accidentally boxed-in
but once held a living tree.

That this dead space
was filled with green,
tunneling roots
the zest of spruce
a blanket of needles. 
A tree, to shelter this home
as it sheltered me.

Like Norse mythology, some pagan god
the house deferred to Nature.
As if a reminder
to its planed lumber, kiln-dried wood
of their noble origin.
As if giving  thanks
for the sacrifice of trees,
an act of reverence
for life.

But, of course, a tree would die 
enclosed
deprived of light.
And nowhere could I find
any reference to this custom. 
So it was probably just bad construction;
a builder rushing
or cutting 
before measuring twice.

Still, the idea seems virtuous,
a living tree
in the heart of a house.
And humble, somehow.
That we are temporary.
That we share this land. 

It was axed, in the renovation.
A small bungalow
and I meant no disrespect.



This is a true story. In fact, until a few hours before writing this, I had no doubt that it was true of my former house (which had originally been built by Finns). But when the idea of the poem came to me, I googled just to be sure:  turns out, there is no mention of such an architectural tradition. And giving it more thought, a tree hardly seems practical; at least not without a glass roof and serious pruning!

Did the real estate agent (who was also a 2nd generation Finn) give me this idea? Did I confabulate it?

But true or not, I still love the thought:  a tree running up the centre of a modest frame house; something living -- and that will out-live it -- at its core.

On the death of a beloved dog ...


I haven’t written a dog poem in quite some time. Perhaps this is because I’ve already said what there is to be said; anything more would most likely end up plagiarizing myself. And this despite my new dog (almost 6 months old now) who is brilliant, and certainly deserving of poetry.

Today, though, I wrote a short prose piece about dogs. I’m including it in this poetry blog because it’s something I feel strongly about, and don’t think I’ve expressed is as well anywhere else. And also because it can be argued that any short piece, tightly written, can just as well be prose poetry:  after all, in non-formal poetry, there are no rules.

I just received an email from a friend, telling me that her dog had to be put down. This was a shock:  Bailey was old, but had been healthy right up until the last day. I immediately responded with this:



I’m instantly in tears reading that. I’m so so sorry. I can only think of what my neighbours said when their dog died:  we gave him the best life possible. It’s thin consolation; but what more can we do?

I know how morbid this sounds, but I have often thought of Skookum’s death:  of me comforting her; of losing myself in the depths of her trusting brown eyes (there are tears dripping on the keyboard right now ...); of her trust and innocence, as well as her blissful ignorance -- which is such a mercy, that she knows no fear of death. When she is gone, I will be the only repository of our times together. This seems especially sad, because she deserves more remembrance than that.  I think it can be difficult to properly grieve the death of a dog. Because the relationship is as deep and as valid as all the other loves in our lives, and yet it is regarded as somehow less legitimate in the eyes of others; or at least, those who are not dog people. It’s not, of course. The love between man (or woman!) and dog is beautiful and real and should be honoured as fiercely. 

Btw, thinking about death is not at all morbid. Because when we contemplate death, we love and value life all the more:  there is no drifting or taking for granted or petty complaining. It’s a good and useful exercise, dog or not. 

This is one reason I got another dog. I couldn’t bear the idea of not having such a loving, exuberant, and loyal companion in my life. As it is, Rufus is absolutely brilliant. And she and Skookum get along fabulously. It’s as if Skookum has taken years and years off her age. 

I know you were content to let Bailey be your last dog. That you thought being dogless would give you more freedom to travel, for one. Have you reconsidered at all? I can tell you that a puppy is the best therapy for just about any  hardship in life.

Apeirophobia
Feb 15 2017


Yes, there is a fear of eternal life.

Which shouldn’t surprise me,
because the list of phobias is endless, as well.
And who among us
isn’t neurotic with fears?
Perhaps most, those who appear the strongest;
like the swaggering Oz,
quivering with dread
behind his thick black curtain.

Are they imagining themselves in heaven,
exhausted by virtue 
fed up with perfect weather?
Reunited with their loved ones,
who also could annoy
and know them all too well?
Like a Thanksgiving dinner,
forced to sit
for everlasting life.

Or perhaps reborn,
living the same quotidian lives
over and over
and over again?
Or reincarnated
as who-knows-what,
the accumulation of sin 
the weight of karma?

And will we be
forever young?
Or become frailer and frailer
with slow inexorable age,
declining
as the universe thins
into a cold dark stillness?
Imagine, day after day
awakening in pain, confusion
black despair
with no escape possible;
confined
to a devil’s island
of perpetual torture,
the immortal body
a thick-walled fortress
nothing can break?

And yet, I fear death more.
There is the actual dying, of course.
But also the bottomless abyss
of the unknowable.
And then the carnal joy
of the embodied
I will desperately miss;
the exhilaration
of music and colour,
the working of muscle,
food, and touch, and sex.

Perhaps
we’ll achieve immortality
by downloading our minds to computers,
or suspending our brains
in chemical baths
wired-up to the world.

As if, in the afterlife
exactly now, 
I am 3 pounds 
of jelly-like material 
afloat in sterile glass;
certain
of my breathing, unthinking in-and-out,
the heft 
of this cheap ball-point pen
in my well-practiced hand.

The feel
of the smooth flow of ink,
these words
appearing on the page.
Because seeing is believing
in the gentle light of dusk.



A short article in the Atlantic on-line introduced me to this new word. My immediate thought, of course:  who doesn’t want to have eternal life?!! 

I started playing around with that, and then the poem led me into a technological form of eternal life, and from there into a rumination on the nature of reality. 

Because if everything was virtual, and consciousness a simulacrum, how could we tell? After all, isn’t seeing believing? Isn’t the touch of an object confirmation of its reality? We needn’t be disembodied brains floating in some chemical broth to appreciate the doubt implied by those question marks. Because even in our flesh and blood bodies, all of perception is, by definition, mediated; the world is, by necessity, presented at a remove:   incomplete information comes to us from the outside world, is conveyed  along nerves into the black impregnable box of the skull, and is then processed by our brains -- unavoidably influenced by experience and psychology -- into what we are certain is out there. And it is hard to dispute this reality, because it’s pretty much unchanging:   testable, reproducible, reliable; day in and day out. Nevertheless, who can definitively say that the world is not virtual, some elaborate simulation in some alien’s brain? ...Yes, there are serious philosophers who have speculated about the nature of consciousness in exactly this way!

I think this digression into virtual reality is not a digression at all, but rather completes the poem. Because while one may be worrying over the implications of an eternal after-life, what’s to say this isn’t it? After all, if we’re immortal, then aren’t we living it out right now, somewhere along that infinite trajectory? Even if it takes the form of a disembodied brain floating in some chemical soup being fed some kind of synthetic experience. So in that case, or whatever form it takes, it turns out that eternal life is pretty good, and all those fears unfounded!

Monumental Art
Feb 4 2017


The patina of rust 
was beautiful.
And more animal, than rock;
its curved forms
so oddly organic 
in such hard unbending stuff.
Weathered steel
I know is permanent
yet seems nearly without weight.

The brown was soft
and warm as well-worn cloth,
subtle shades 
of light, and dark
that made me want to touch.

Left to the elements
a  sculpture that  will always remain 
unfinished,
its patina changing
in a process of graceful decay
we live too fast to notice.

But still, towering over me
it feels essential, structural
a thing’s indestructible core.
Like the disinterred bones
of colossal animals
that once bestrode the earth.
Like the steel frame
of a bombed-out building 
still standing after the war.

Until the slow burn of rust
saps its strength.
Until the surface crumbles, core honeycombs-out.
Until the moment in time
dead-weight 
takes it down.