brian's poetry journal

2012-02-14T23:43:00.001-05:00

A Single Plant

Feb 14 2012

I am ashamed to say

I have a single plant.

I’m sure I knew its name.

once.

But I recognize it

from shopping malls, office hallways,

where it survives the benign neglect

of coffee spills, and cigarettes

half-smoked.

A sturdy ornamental

with succulent leaves,

dull green

with dust.

It has survived

because it thrives in extremes

of wetness;

prefers its feet dry,

with a rare intemperate soaking.

Like a tropical downpour

in some exotic locale

where its ancestors would have flourished.

So we suit one another.

An anonymous plant

attention lacking,

and me

its feckless master,

who should not be entrusted

with living things.

Today, it was drooping badly

leaves bleached and dry.

So I was amazed, and gratified

how quickly it filled out

before my eyes,

rising-up turgid, and bright

with a single exuberant dousing.

Who knew

a rooted plant

could actually move

Like watching asparagus shoot skyward

in season.

I felt redeemed,

as if the governor had called

with a last-minute reprieve.

Moral hazard

attaches

to indestructible plants,

rewarding men like me

for such lax stewardship.

My undeserved companion

cheering up the place,

free of rancour, and blame.

But sadly

still unnamed.

2012-02-12T21:37:00.005-05:00

Snow Day

Feb 12 2012

My breath turns to fog

heat off.
I sleep best in cold
well-nested,
held down
by the reassuring heft
of bedclothes,
stacked impossibly high

Trees creak, windows rattle,

as a north wind blasts

and the mercury sags

even lower.

Heavy comforters

tugged-up about my neck,

feet tucked snugly

body muffled.

Cocooned

undercover.

The clock is turned

to face the wall,

curtains drawn.

School closed, work cancelled, roads

impassable.

Or so I hope.

I am lighter than air,

the force of displacement

tugging me up

into wakefulness,

as the weight of lassitude

draws me back.

I grasp at fragments of dreams,

burrow into the heat

of the bed.

On the luxurious cusp

of sleep,

I teeter between

desire

and need.

The urgency of the world recedes,

these sacrosanct walls

impregnable.

A snow day

has been called,

or did I dream it?

Either way,

let sleep reclaim me.

Let busyness wait

Let snow

blanket the world.

2012-02-07T20:34:00.000-05:00

Steam Rising

Feb 07 2012

The road ascends

roughly north.

Away from the temperate shore

into thin astringent air.

There is open water

on the big lake

all winter long.

In the calm

steam rises

from its dense black surface.

But here, trees are sparse.

The cold has a sharp

relentless edge.

And heavy silence

amplifies

my footsteps.

It stays light, these days.

But dusk comes quickly,

and night falls

like a heavy door

slammed shut.

They say we tend in one direction

I’m not sure which,

switch-back, and circle

to and fro.

Deep dry snow,

sinking over my boot tops

stumbling uncontrollably.

I burrow in

deep and warm.

Until morning

I hope.

When we pass

our names are written in stone

which we presume will last.

Mine is written in snow

by frozen hands

going fast.

Perhaps, at dawn

you will see my breath

retrace my path.

2012-02-03T22:58:00.003-05:00

The Neighbour’s Dog

Feb 2 2012

The neighbour’s dog

died last night,

at home

on a soft blanket

in his usual spot.

Hard breathing

dwindled, then stopped.

He was old, cantankerous

we never got along.

But still, it’s sad

I can feel their loss,

imagine my own beloved dog

abruptly gone.

How we love our pets

and how unworthy this is thought,

compared to all the other loves

that fill up our lives

and try us.

But we understand

the indomitable bond

between animal, and man.

They somehow scraped away

at the frozen earth

crusted snow,

and placed him in a shallow grave

marked by rocks.

A modest plot

in the shade beside the house

where a lifetime of pets
are buried,

letting nature reclaim

what’s left.

We will never know

the cause of death.

No heroic measures

were taken

at the end,

to salvage an extra day

a precious hour.

We are merciful with our dogs,

dispatch them with dignity

terminate their suffering.

Act like the compassionate God

we deny ourselves.

The end of life

is hard.

Even an old dog

who is blind and deaf

and in mute distress

leaves a scar on our souls.

But in the spring

a puppy will appear,

or so I’m told.

We shrug off

sadness and loss

and carry on.

Not a replacement, of course

but a needed start.

And when he comes

all of us

will feel years younger.

The way an old cantankerous dog

adjusts to a new pup,

whose joy

is contagious.

Up, and running

as if he’d discovered

the antidote

to age.

2012-02-01T22:54:00.001-05:00

Other People’s Lives

Jan 31 2012

You can only imagine

other people’s lives.

You think you know your own.

You overhear her on the phone.

One end of a conversation

she will carry on

until too old to care,

and no one cares

to listen.

Electromagnetic waves

propagate out

at the speed of light,

slowly decay

to the end of time.

The banalities, profundities

the news that changes lives,

going out into space

long after she’s died.

You have a rich

inner life.

The critical voice

that’s partially yours.

The endless chatter

that whispers

and roars.

The maddening loop

of constant correction,

like a broken record

again, and again.

The voice of reason

you choose to believe in

to make it make sense.

I speak softly

am rarely paid attention.

The phone rings

and a message is left

implied

unsaid.

Awaiting your call

of triumph, regret.

The crackle of distance

conducted for miles,

the tinny compression of wires.

In a voice

that never lies.

2012-02-01T22:52:00.000-05:00

The Raven

Jan 31 2012

According to a reliable source

Charles Dickens kept a raven

as a beloved pet.

I have long regarded the raven

as my totemic animal,

so I am impressed.

That the great man

was also fond of them.

That Poe’s iconic poem

may have been provoked

by this exact bird.

But I would never keep a raven

captive.

Too intelligent an animal

to confine to its perch,

when it should be out

making mischief —

sliding down rooftops

tormenting dogs,

keeping watch, on walkers

too oblivious to stop,

caustic comments dropping down

on top of them.

In winter

a raven’s spectacular blackness

is even more defiant.

It is an outcast

strutting on high-tension wires, perilous eaves,

ice-crusted branches

skeletal trees.

Inspiring writers

who capture its essence

in free-fall, and flight.

Who understand

that held, even lightly

the beauty will die.

2012-01-27T21:40:00.006-05:00

Tooth Fairy

Jan 27 2012

The tongue pokes, probes

won’t let go
of the spot.

Hones in

on the empty socket,

where the rotten tooth

dislodged.

You worry away at this.

The least distraction

and your tongue is back,

poking and prodding

straining to bottom-out.

The strangely electric touch.

The metallic taste of blood.

The absence, where something was.

You irresistibly tongue

the naked gum,

delightfully firm, yet compliant.

It thrums with relief,

on the cusp of grief
and pleasure.

And like punch-drunk love

your gap-toothed smile

beams guileless, into the world.

The child inside

sheepishly peeking out.

2012-01-24T23:33:00.002-05:00

Reading the Season

Jan 24 2012

When you’ve lived in a place

long enough

you know what wind,

what weather it brings.

You read the seasons

like a dog-eared book,

revisiting

a memorable part,

picking-up at the start

of another year.

You are tuned to the light

to birds in flight

the fat, and the lean.

You are rooted in land

which you feel bone deep,

as the planet turns

and the heavens sweep.

It was perfect, today.

High pressure

scoured the place clean —

blinding snow,

wind-whipped

into frozen undulations,

blue sky

soaring high as space.

The wind has died

and only my footsteps

break the silence.

My passage, inscribed

in the squeaky crunch

of snow,

the fine paper crust.

I shield my eyes

for signs.

I do not feel the cold.

I will book-mark this day.

Pen a note

in the empty margin,

leave my mark

on an untouched page.

2012-01-17T23:44:00.002-05:00

Penmanship

Jan 17 2012

We were graded on spelling, neatness

penmanship.

By the time I entered school

the stern guardians of English
who always smelled of chalk dust and lavender
had relented
permitting ball-point pens,

sparing us the mess

of ink, and nibs.

While my envied older brother

was far enough advanced

to have mastered the fountain pen,

a substantial thing

with the immense appeal

of mechanical parts.

The modern world

rushing into the space age

had little patience
for blotters, ink stains.

Picking up a pencil

the very first time

I gripped it backhand,

and have stubbornly clung to this habit

ever since.

I write like a leftie,

contorting my wrist in a tight overhand curl

smearing ink.

Grade school teachers scolded and scorned,

but couldn’t break me.

My printing is chicken-scratch

cursive horrible,

signature

easily forged.

I have heard that an early sign of dementia

is regression,

notes written in a childish hand

that betrays infirmity —

the hesitation, and tremor

the simplified sentence

the glaring grammatical lapse.

But for better, or worse

my hand-writing has always been bad.

So when my time comes

it will be hard to tell

just how diminished I am.

A rare letter

recently arrived from my dad.

In a month, he will be 90

entering the 10th decade of life.

His scrawl is barely legible.

The effort looks painfully cramped,

as if the letters had shrunk

along with him,

like the closet of suits

he no longer needs

nor fits.

His hand-writing was never elegant,

but I could always tell

it was his.

Now, this looks like the work of a stranger,

decrepit, hunched, pinched.

But though his hand wavers

and his mind wanders

I can see his will is strong.

He writes me long-hand

on creamy paper

in dark blue ink.

Direct, and unsentimental

just as I remember him.

He wrote his own father every week

without fail

until the old man’s death.

A Sunday ritual, a means of connection,

when a long distance call

was a big event.

Now, every few weeks

we speak by phone.

That is, when my mother remembers

to call him over

say hello.

2012-01-12T21:04:00.003-05:00

Uncertain Ice

Jan 12 2012

Even in January

I couldn’t be sure

of the ice.

The complex strata

of freezing,

like geology

in real time.

Top-down

there’s fresh snow, uncertain crust.

The sound of foot-steps

muffled.

And bottom-up

bedrock ice.

That began as a glaze

on a brilliant lake

one October morning,

nascent ice, near shore.

I cannot explain

the unearthly sound it makes,

tinkling like tiny crystal chimes

in the preternatural stillness.

Easily shattered

until one cold day, it lasts,

hard-pan

impervious.

Next, the crunch

of crystallized snow.

Remodelled

by pressure and thaw,

like a stratum of rock

deep beneath the surface.

But it’s the layer of slush

that throws me off,

hidden, in the middle

in-between.

Where liquid water

has no right to be,

and wet feet

are deadly

in cold this deep.

Every step

as if I’m falling through.

Black water

awaiting me

underneath,

dense, and airless.

Which will never freeze;

however deep

into winter.

2012-01-04T22:29:00.002-05:00

Garbage Day

Jan 4 2012

Once a week

the garbage truck comes.

The big machine

stutters down the street,

squealing to a stop

lurching lot to lot

stuck in 1st.

A powerful truck,

just itching

to let it rip.

Big men, with sturdy gloves

hop on and off,

impervious to cold.

The bored driver

in his over-heated cab,

viewed through murky glass.

Leaving random cans

scattered up and down the curb,

like neighbourhood drunks

who had staggered home

but couldn’t quite manage

the driveway.

And covers, hastily dropped

or precariously tossed

atop their cans,

looking rakish, casual

tipsy.

We are high on stuff

addicted to newness.

Which means the garbage men

are never done

each and every Thursday.

Whisked away

out of sight, out of mind.

And the empty receptacles

left behind,

give a pleasing sense

of completion.

Empty bottles clink

as they lift and heave,

shatter

in the compacter’s jaws.

Which always keeps

its secrets.

2012-01-02T20:41:00.001-05:00

Rapid Advance

Jan 2 2012

I am stuck behind the grader.

The stink of diesel

seeps into the car.

The engine, pounding out power

clatters, and roars.

Ignored

by the smoking man

sitting high up over me

enclosed in glass.

The massive steel blade

is churning up snow.

It peels-off, unfolds

in a smooth continuous arc,

hardening fast

in a wall of dirty white.

The road, scraped flat

is an easy drive.

So why am I

so itchy to pass?

Because all I have is speed.

Because I feel so inadequate,

in my cramped compact car

behind this massive machine.

A supplicant

among the powerful.

The small man

who feels he must act

as if he’d conquered France.

But trapped like this

I can’t even be bad,

over-compensate, drive rashly.

The high-pitched whine

is pushing 1st.

The choking fumes

are getting worse and worse.

And I am Napoleon, cocksure,

marching into Russian winter.

2011-12-30T19:44:00.001-05:00

Precious Metal

Dec 28 2011

This anniversary

is 65 years.

They must look back

proud, but astonished.

My parents, married

in the last century

go gamely on.

A small ceremony,

suitably modest

owing little to God

all the witnesses gone

by now,

but still, they keep their vows.

No milestone number.

No precious substance

to commemorate 65.

So I will call it steel,

the tensile strength

that holds against

temper, and minor transgression.

That is not compressed, or deformed

by the pent-up storms

of argument

annoyance.

Some might say

duty

force of habit

fear of change.

So is this inertia

or is it love?

I don’t mean infatuation

consuming passion.

I mean the grown-up love

of fondness, attachment,

that only comes

with the passage

of years.

A weld so tough

2 become 1.

Solid steel, just a little rust,

drop-forged, hot-rolled

well-honed.

Strong enough

to last a lifetime.

I originally wrote this as “63”. (My counting ability leaves something to be desired!) Of course, the poem works much better that way, since “3” rhymes with “steel”, and “63” is suitably uneven: more like the number you pass on the way somewhere than the destination. Furthermore, I consulted Wikipedia, and apparently there is a precious metal for 65 — the Blue Sapphire. On the other hand, so few people make it to 65 that hardly anyone knows this, and even fewer care. So in the end, “65” works almost as well. …And one can hardly let those 2 extra years go unrecognized!

2011-12-30T19:42:00.000-05:00

Suds

Dec 28 2011

I have not blown bubbles in years.

Perfect spheres

that disappear

into insubstantial air,

a little pop

of wetness.

Dish soap, and breath,

blowing through my plastic wand.

Small ones sail off

at the mercy of wind.

Big ones wobble

don’t last long.

Surface tension, and iridescence

squeaky with light,

a giddy froth.

I have been doing dishes for years,

yet nearly forgot.

2011-12-27T20:53:00.007-05:00

Out of Phase

Dec 27 2011

When you are a child

everything is as it should be

no matter what.

A green planet

that circles a yellow sun.

A single moon

that comes, and goes, each month.

Later, you will realize

your parents have a life of their own.

The teachers do not live at school.

Bad people

look perfectly normal.

If there were 2 moons

the tides would pile up-and-up,

swamp us

as we slumber.

Blue moons

would happen more than once,

miracles

become ho-hum.

We’d sing romantic songs

still croon

our soft seductions,

but in the brightness
feel humbler.

Too shy

to get undone.

Still, their light would shine on us

half a world away,

we’d both look up

and see the sky

the same.

Sharing a view

may be small consolation,

a multiplicity of moons

confusing.

But try to see the lunacy

of 2 full moons,
of intersecting phases.

Still, I am grateful

things turned out as they should.

A sliver of moon

I foretell for you

half a world apart.

A yellow sun

that lights you up

wherever on earth you are.

In my mind’s eye.

And all the more

at night.

2011-12-26T20:15:00.004-05:00

Small Fruit

Dec 24 2011

Small fruit

is intense,

sweet tart crisp.

Does not expend itself

in the gaudy glitz

of bigness,

showing-off.

Like a beautiful girl

who let herself go,

the ingénue

who lost her freshness,

blousy, soft

debauched.

There is the peak of perfection,

the elegant stem

and delicate blush,

redolent

and on the cusp

of ripeness.

Before corruption

worms its way in.

The apple of his eye

he cannot resist.

There is low-hanging fruit

to sate appetite,

forbidden fruit

to arouse
his desire.

Teeth, tongue, lips

breaking through the glossy skin

then rich flesh, sinking in.

To the hard nub of seed,

containing all that’s needed

for life.

The esoteric knowledge

of DNA,

that may, or may not

breed true.

A moveable feast

of small fruit.

Because less is more.

And sure to leave

him wanting.

I almost always select small fruit. It's usually more flavorful, if less gaudy: more nuanced, concentrated, intense. I was reminded of this while reading a recent New Yorker article about apple breeding (the SweeTango, in particular). Which gave me the first 2 lines. From there, the poem pretty much wrote itself.

I'm not sure what it is about apples, but this is my second "erotic" apple poem. (The first was Red Delicious.) Although I suppose the Garden of Eden might explain things. That is, if the corrupting knowledge was sex. (After all, it may have been the dawning of self-consciousness, self-awareness. Or perhaps the questioning and resentment of God's presumed omnipotence.) ...Although, according to the article, the Biblical apple of Adam and Eve was more likely a pomegranate than an apple!

2011-12-26T20:07:00.000-05:00

Space-Age Material

Dec 5 2011

In the small vestibule,

where my breath condenses

in the frigid air,

and frost has formed

on the clear glass door

in curlicues

and lacy patterns.

Where the floor is strewn

with boots and toques

abandoned, scattered.

Mittens, mismatched

gloves, one-handed.

And where you can smell the cold

that swept-in, as I entered

like an arctic blizzard,

I stand

fingers numb,

can’t unlace, unzip

unbutton.

Congealed beard

dripping, running.

This small cubicle

my mother used to call

the decontamination chamber.

Enclosed, self-contained,

like a space station airlock

sealing-off

the frozen vacuum

from the warm bright interior.

So here I stand

waiting for the temperature to rise

pressures equalize,

eyelashes thaw, beard soften.

Waiting to regain

manual dexterity,

extricate myself

from these heavy protective layers

of space-age material.

And enter into a blast of heat,

dry winter air, the smell of cooking

that will not be vented

‘til spring.

I could see the place forever

walking home

along the bleak rural road,

the lighted window, plume of smoke.

A tiny outpost

in a vast and trackless space,

like a small star, in the distance.

Just one, of millions,

but growing bigger and bigger;

looming large

preparing to dock.

Unless my trajectory is off

just a bit

— a near miss,

and I would go drifting on

into infinity.

A tiny astronaut, falling farther and farther,

oxygen, close to exhaustion

the cold

seeping in.

A frozen body

tumbling through the cosmos

non-stop.

A simple winter walk,

lost

until it thaws

next spring.

2011-12-23T19:26:00.000-05:00

Season’s Greetings

Dec 23 2011

The British say “Happy Christmas”.

This strikes our ear like a minor chord,

a confusion

of holidays.

How terribly British —

understated,

the proper distance

for strangers.

Here, it’s “Merry”.

The forced gaiety.

The jolly elf

stuffing himself

with pillows,

some liquid refreshment.

But this makes sense.

Because “happy” is complicated.

We think we know what we want,

then waste a lifetime

learning

what makes us happy.

While merriment is easy to fake.

Like the obligation

to get wasted

on New Year’s.

The celebration

of some arbitrary date

in undifferentiated winter.

“Season’s Greetings” is always OK.

It does not presume faith

or festivity.

Its meaninglessness conveys

the perfect balance

of non-committal

conviviality.

So praise

the rebirth of light.

Kiss her

under the mistletoe.

Resolve to find meaning

and contentment.

Make merry,

and let the happiness

take care

of itself.

2011-12-22T20:18:00.002-05:00

Inscribed in Stone

Dec 22 2011

“You shall not covet your neighbour’s house; you shall not covet your neighbour’s wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his donkey, nor anything that is your neighbour’s.”

The broken rule

lay shattered

where it had slipped from my grasp.

Rules are meant to be broken

I consoled myself.

The golden rule

we melted down for cash.

The fatted calf

my neighbour’s ass

I’d always secretly coveted.

The 10th commandment,

that banished even thoughts

of envy,

his wife, his ox

his anything.

The first thought crime

of an Orwellian God,

who is devoutly believed

omniscient.

I admit, I am flawed.

My mind

is a law unto itself

resists all jurisdiction.

And who among us

isn’t?

The game is fixed

the rules rigged.

The winners win,

the rich

get even richer.

Where they smugly sit

secure in the myth

of self-made men.

2011-12-20T23:39:00.001-05:00

Hard Water

Dec 20 2011

My water well is going on 30.

The steel pipe, still holding

straight down

into fractured rock.

Where the temperature

is constant,

darkness

absolute.

It is topped by a steel cap

that long lost its lustre,

now a rusted earthen dun.

Lifted off, I peer down to bedrock,

letting sun

come flooding in.

Where light

is unnatural, alien,

perhaps awakening

the bowels of the earth,

dormant
for a million years.

Hard water, inky black

seeping into the shaft.

How long

since it went underground?

Since it was warmed by sun,

gave life

or drowned it?

The well has been bad;

silt, perhaps

a shift in the strata,

tilted, compressed

collapsed.

Up it comes

tasting cold, metallic,

water that fell from the sky

some summer long past.

All this time

in the lifeless airless depths,

sweet water

waiting to quench me.

Then spread into vessels, capillaries, cells,

like a river

churning through its delta.

Branching out,

sinking

into the rich alluvial soil

of my flesh.

2011-12-16T22:38:00.001-05:00

Best Before

Dec 16 2011

A carton of milk

half full

expired.

At the back of the shelf

shadowed by leftovers.

Best before.

I squint, contort

reaching in,

when the sour smell

hits me cross-eyed.

Pasteurized, pure

half-empty, turned,

this is surely some kind of miracle.

Virginal milk

bubbling with life.

2011-12-15T20:55:00.003-05:00

Half Right

Dec 15 2011

The end of the world came

and went.

He had proclaimed the date,

then fretfully awaited

the apocalypse.

The second time he’d missed.

Just half wrong,

because the world will end
it's the date that eludes him.

If not divine intervention, then tectonic change
if he lives that long,

in a cosmic fireball

burst of gamma rays.

So all his worldly goods

are gone

and he must rely on providence.

The kindness of strangers
the grace of God.

Skyscrapers hum, streets are bustling

the sturm und drang.
Intrigues of the schoolyard

going on and on.

So while he adds up the begats

parses prophecy,

interrogates Scripture

for hints and signs,

the world is indifferent

the end is nigh.

He will predict again;

sure, this time.

If only he had realized

that with every death

a universe ends.

So he will be half right

6 billion times.

2011-12-14T17:25:00.001-05:00

Closed For the Season

Dec 14 2011

I slip into the park

in winter.

How odd, to be alone

where it was green,

busy, buzzing, lush.

No one wants to trudge

through thick wet snow.

Or be exposed

to the skinny limbs of trees,

stripped down

to bone.

The ground, the sky

are both a lumpy white

— concrete, left to set,

the dull weight of lead.

The land is at rest,

restoring itself

in this cool dormancy.

Summer’s excess

cold sober,

perhaps contemplating its regrets.

A brief sojourn

in this white asylum

for the badly behaved

and over-heated.

A strutting crow

caws accusingly;

a murder of crows

joins in.

Do they close the park

this time of year?

Some unwritten rule

I have transgressed?

Black mischievous birds

are contemptuous

of seasons.

They own the place

all year.

2011-12-10T19:56:00.000-05:00

No Harm Done

Dec 8 2011

The well-kept distance

averted glance.

Malicious whispers

snickering laughs.

Moms shield kids

herding them past,

or cross the street

and never look back.

Refused food, service, gas,

graffiti-tagged

and broken glass.

Even their trash

went uncollected.

Until it came to talk

of burning crosses

brake lines cut.

From objects of fun

to vandalized, shunned

run out-of-town.

Rumour was

they were carriers.

Some virus, or bug

but wouldn’t succumb themselves.

Or was it some vile idea

that could subvert the good people

of this God-fearing town?

We’re entitled to protect ourselves, after all.

So we resented being presented

as credulous peasants

armed with pitchfork, and torch,

fire-breathing preachers

exhorting us on.

I mean, who’s the underdog here

who’s been wronged?

In the end, they left on their own

no harm done.

So now, we can let out our daughters

after dark

disarm our sons.

Thank God

we were spared

from who knows what.

2011-12-01T20:08:00.001-05:00

Hungry for Sleep

Nov 24 2011

I burrow into sheets

quilts, duvets, and fleece,

huddle underneath

heavy comforters;

a thin-skinned infant

clutched in fetal warmth.

But must eventually emerge

into the cold dark world

of morning.

Its leaden sky

gun-metal light,

wet snow

thin blanket of ice.

Hungry for sleep

craving sweets

my reserves are low.

Then after work

I again return

to dusk,

its sullen skies

and stingy light,

ruts of frozen snow.

Stumbling through days

in a sleepless haze

I am an automaton,

going through the motions.

While friends have returned

from getaways

red from tropical sun.

Who, for the rest of winter

will never adjust,

chill cutting right to the bone.

But still

I can’t help but imagine

hot dry sand,

underfoot

between my toes.

Even as I chose to stay

stoic, and staid.

Smug to have endured

adversity,

a snob of weather.

Including those postcard days

that have me wide awake

— the brilliant light

and cobalt sky,

the blinding white

of perfect virgin snow.

When a high pressure system

blasts its way in,

and sleep

can happily wait.

2011-12-01T19:47:00.001-05:00

My One Great Adventure

Nov 24 2011

I find I am living in the future.

Not a grim green-house planet.

Not flying cars.

Not disembodied brains

floating under glass

on life support.

But when there is way more past

than looking forward.

Like a long road trip, unplanned,

that began

with bright-eyed hope

on a well-scrubbed morning

travelling light.

Plenty of time

to accumulate baggage.

Where I went without maps,

slept badly

in flea-bag motels,

depended

upon the kindness of strangers.

Towed, ticketed, and limping-in

out of gas

on thumping flats.

Exits missed

and hitch-hiker lifts

and stuck

in icy ditches.

The body dented and dusted and spattered with bugs,

rust

bubbling-up

just under the surface.

Until the novelty wears off.

The drudgery

of making time, and mileage.

The radio on

with the same sad songs

of love, and loss.

They come in strong, then fade as quickly,

passing in, and out, of range.

Because I was not Kerouac

or Hunter S. Thompson.

There were no gonzo riffs

psychedelic trips,

or even a hint

of excess.

Not at all

what I started out

expecting.

Because at the end of the road

the future is much like the past.

Except for new gadgets

to distract us;

and that all of a sudden

everyone

seems to have gotten that much younger.

Now the old car is grounded,

and I have settled down

with only minor regrets.

Not much left

of the stuff I once valued.

So I will leave

much as I came —

with a minimum of fuss

and baggage,

helpless

unselfconscious,

in a natural state of undress.

At best remembered

by the next generation

before the future completely forgets.

A journal, some photos

all that are left

of my one great adventure.

2011-11-28T20:14:00.000-05:00

From the Head

Nov 28 2011

Bean bag chair.

Mattress on the floor.

Bare bulb

dangling on its cord.

I must be dressed

as well,

black turtleneck

generic jeans.

Unmentionables

underneath,

so I won’t.

This minimalism

is not a pose.

A sulking phase

of adolescence.

A dead-end man

perversely seeking attention.

And just as you’d expect

my music is a cappella,

from the head.

Distilled down to next

to nothing.

But not heartless

or gutless.

Because in the still space

in between,

in reverberance, and overtones,

in diminuendo notes

suspended on air

that seem to linger

forever,

I can spend

all I own,

expend myself.

Somewhere in there

eyes closed,

where it’s more decadent

and rococo

than you could ever imagine.

I’ve spoken lately about my preference in music: spare, minimalist, acoustic. Slow. Not over-produced. Lots of space.

This is similar to poetry, where less is usually more, and where all the power is in the momentary pause, the empty space. You notice this most at a line break, where the sense or sound of a word lingers, and sticks.

And this also reflects my values and lifestyles: a tendency to live in my head, a preference for uncluttered surroundings. I know this cheap shot at materialism makes me sound either an adolescent idealist, or a hypocrite, or both; but it’s true: the desire for and attachment to things often feels like a burden, not the source of comfort and security we’ve been led to expect.

Anyway, my eye was caught by an ad in the Arts section of the paper, something to do with “minimalism”. I’m not necessarily a fan of all forms of minimalism in the visual arts (abstract minimalists like Rothko leave me unimpressed and unmoved), but the notion of minimalism in general has an abiding appeal for me. And seems to me an inevitable corollary for someone who is good at living in his head.

This is where the poem began. Of course, such a theme demands to be complemented by a spare writing style – a minimum of words and complexity. This is something I pretty much always aspire to; and often fail at. So I’m not sure if I succeeded here. I do realize that the piece gets more descriptive and wordy towards the end. This is intentional: I allow the character to become more expansive and animated, opening up as he begins to retreat into himself.

You’d be correct if you took the black turtleneck to be not only a reference to the generic hipster, the self-styled bohemian (not at all me, but it’s a familiar trope), but also a small homage to the very recently deceased Steve Jobs (of Apple fame), who always appeared in his familiar black turtleneck and jeans. Has anyone, in recent memory, been a more successful advocate of simplicity and elegance in design? So what better example of minimalist beauty than his work.

2011-11-23T20:31:00.009-05:00

Portal

Nov 23 2011

In the strip mall

where my hair gets cut

the vacant storefront

has finally been filled.

But I’m sure another plate glass window

will soon go dark

papered shut,

so these cheek-by-jowl shops

will again smile jaggedly

— a tough guy

in a rough neighbourhood

with a tooth knocked out.

There was The Bagel Nosh

Shawarma Shop

bulk cheese outlet,

Kebab-Stop
Iron Wok

Hawaiian Pizza.

All-you-can-eat,

until they were eaten out

or driven by

on the way to KFC.

The asphalt is heaving, crumbling

faded black.

In summer, it bakes,

turning off the main road

over the sidewalk

onto the lot.

The whole earth

paved over.

In winter, there’s nowhere for snow,

ploughed into mountains of dirty white

honeycombed ice,

adorned with crumpled wrappers
discarded cups.

Soggy butts,

still blushing

with cherry lipstick.

Once a month

I am transformed

into a well-groomed man.

I sit in the red pneumatic chair

and look at myself

reflecting back and forth,

shrinking, receding

all the way out

to the vanishing point.

Where I disappear,

too small

for human eyes to resolve,

for the physics

of light, and mirrors.

A small strip mall,

that could be bulldozed

and no one would notice.

But there, for a moment

that mirrored wall
was the smooth silvered surface
of a reflecting pool

opening up to the infinite,

and I peered in at myself

falling
into a bottomless black hole.

Imagine

contained in this shabby shop

a portal out to the universe.

Which quickly closed,

returning me to earth

in time for lunch,

well-trimmed

neatly parted.

Next time, perhaps

I’ll take the plunge.

2011-11-20T19:13:00.004-05:00

Snap Frost

Nov 18 2011

A shadow dance

with fall.

From rain to snow, and back.

Flirting with winter

in a sheer white dress,

a mere glimpse

to tempt us.

As hot and cold as the bashful boy

who must asks a girl to the dance,

first time, both.

From frost-bit tongue

to verbal flood,

tumbling out at once.

From blushing flush

to drained of blood,

numb

with exposure.

Cold black rain

hurtling hard as nails

softens into flakes,

filling the air

lightly touching down.

Covering up

the scarred surface of earth,

the sins of neglect

as the season’s end

has me caught, once again

unprepared.

After all these years

why am I still surprised

by cold dark winter?

Suddenly here

in virgin white,

before frozen ruts

and soiled slush

violate its beauty.

A transient dusting,

as much a caution, a tease

as that first slow dance,

before I could feel

even slightly at ease

with girls.

We tried hard not to touch,

clammy hands numb

backs stiffly clutched

at a safe distance,

as if the mercury had dropped

suddenly.

A snap frost

before the harvest is in.

And an early winter

in the school gym.

2011-11-16T19:31:00.000-05:00

Marriage Bed

Nov 15 2011

When infatuation cools

and love blooms.

When grief turns to mourning

and morning to night,

and we lie together, holding tight

in the glow of 2 am,

we occupy separate worlds –

two solitudes

in one familiar room.

The impenetrable inner life

that defies even us.

That others never touch.

You think you know someone,

the marriage bed

the morning light.

I don’t mean the intimacy of sex

or how she brought out the best

of your many selves.

But when you were at your worst,

afflicted with doubt

insecure.

I expected too much, projected some other

onto her.

And she, in turn

is also disappointed;

not the ambitious man

she would have preferred.

But loss makes all this trivial,

the recrimination, regret

intemperate words.

Of course, the only end is death

so you’d think we’d eventually learn.

But the gut doesn’t listen to sense

the heart the head.

So we lie together

in the marriage bed,

tightly spooned.

Not the cooler edge

where I feel exposed, defenceless;

but down in the centre

where it’s slightly depressed

and our bodies fit,

pressed skin-to-skin.

As close as we can get.

The boundary that keeps us out;

the heat

inviting us in.

My apologies to Rilke, for stealing “2 solitudes”. But it’s just too perfect to resist. Really, the whole poem is right there.

This is about the difficult challenge of marriage, of true intimacy, of impenetrable skin. Perhaps the fallacy of romantic love itself: how idealizing the other, how projecting our own needs onto them, sows the seeds of failure. Yet how we cling to what we have, nevertheless.

I’m imagining a couple who have lost a child. But really, it could be any kind of loss.

I quite like the hollow in the marriage bed. This says everything about familiarity, intimacy, longevity. And also why I chose Marriage Bed as the title.

2011-11-16T19:18:00.005-05:00

Dinner Rush

Nov 15 2011

The sound of wine

as I pour,

my eyes

do not leave yours.

The deep red liquid

sloshes up,

'til the rising pitch of glug-glug-glug

hits the perfect note.

Both half full.

The place overflows,

the white noise of voices

tapping forks.

The anonymity of crowds,

at which we mouth our disapproval

yet still seek out.

So we can speak

freely here.

A middling wine,

given time to breathe

open up

smooth out the roughness.

Half-empty glass.

The clatter of dishes
convivial whispers

a boisterous laugh.

An earnest waiter

reciting specials,

a platter crashed.

And a tipsy old man

navigates tables,

like a listing vessel

that’s leaking fast.

As instrumental jazz

spools from the speakers,

a chair scrapes back.

I say I’ll have

the same as you,

a gesture of trust

a nod to deference.

Which you promptly over-rule

as unadventurous.

And now

your food untouched

I default to topping up my glass.

You pass,

the back of your hand

cupped demurely.

We could be an old married couple

still in love,

who can sit in perfect silence

together.

Or we could be far too young

to have nothing left to say;

or to have said

something regretted.

Here, in the ideal setting

for awkward pauses

grinding stops.

A brooding silence

where there’s too much room for thought.

Immersed

in this pleasant babble

of flushed patrons

and harried waiters

is like a warm innocuous bath,

in which I’d gladly vanish.

I feel as if I’m underwater,

straining for breath

hearing my heart in my head.

Yet dry

barely able to swallow.

A horrible thirst

no wine can quench.

This started with the idea of filling a wine glass by sound: the rising pitch of glug-glug-glugs. Which immediately became pouring for two. This sound motif became the ambient sound of a restaurant; and the narrative drive the usual romantic complications.

I like the use of countervailing images, such as noise & silence, empty & full, wet & dry. The wine breathes. The man gasps for air.

2011-11-05T19:37:00.005-04:00

Hand

Nov 5 2011

Your hand is warm.

As a captive bird

loose-boned, and tiny

enclosed in mine
holds unnaturally still.

The soft flutter

of a muffled heart.

The calm acquiescence

of prey.

Except your hand in mine

controls me

with supernatural strength.

As if I were a blind man

holding on.

And even could I fly

I'd surely stay grounded,

a bird of prey, a lethal raptor

content to be fed

by hand.

2011-11-05T19:31:00.000-04:00

A Room of My Own

Nov 2 2011

I began by knocking down walls.

As if light

could purify the building

let me see clear.

Every direction

out.

What goes on in a house

behind closed doors,

the ghosts of owners past

the taint

of unhappiness.

A warren of small dark rooms

and narrow hallways

heavy with stale air.

I imagined dead rodents

the urine of cats.

I would not go so far as to raise the roof,

yet never feel confined

in this ample space

this cozy room.

Glass, floor-to-ceiling

kept fastidiously clean,

so I can barely distinguish

in from out.

Life in a tree-house,

all green and dappled light

the palette of seasons.

Birdsong, at sunrise.

But in the still of night

inhuman sounds

under cover of dark.

An owl, perhaps;

but I picture something fierce and black

stalking

through shifting shadows.

Hard woods, flat finish,

soft salmon

sanded brick.

One grand room

open concept, simple plan,

a single man’s

modest castle.

Because when I was a kid

my bedroom was shared,

wedged up against the roof

in a small thin-walled duplex.

Cookie-cutter homes

that welcomed soldiers

back from war.

Because we all need a room of our own,

and get there, eventually.

Looking out, content in my aerie

of soaring glass

expansive vistas.

And free to look in,

no slouching beast

no hidden secrets.

But in the dead of night

inquisitive eyes

can see clear through.

Will I drop the blinds, kill the lights,

vanish

into blackness?

It’s surprising how windows conceal

as much as they give,

reflect, as well as transmit.

According to your own

inclination,

the angle

sunlight falls.

A building, a house, a home.

It all depends

on seeing through walls.

2011-11-01T20:18:00.001-04:00

Island

Oct 31 2011

I am reading

in my accustomed chair

in a warm pool of light.

Late afternoon

in early fall

when night sneaks-up.

Surprised, to find myself

in cool dusk,

an incandescent cone

peering out.

Edges blur

objects merge,

the room

turns coarse-grained, porous.

I am marooned

on this agreeable island

of tightly circumscribed light,

cocooned

concentrated

sharp.

If I move

the illusion will break,

words

become incomprehensible.

When I return to the page

letters drift

into twilight air,

settle down

in random mounds

of alphabet.

Careful, stepping over them

I venture out,

leave the protected shore

navigate darkness

feel my way to the door.

And in a sudden flood of light

my private Atlantis

is no more.

This is a very agreeable state, indeed: in my hermetic rarefied bubble, undistracted, sharply focused. I resent intrusion. But like most magical spells, it can be broken; and once broken, hard to revive.

Day can disappear, while I am oblivious to the passage of time. There is this feeling that if I disturb this pool of light, this tightly circumscribed cone, there will be no return.

But once I’ve noticed, it may be too late, and I start feeling impatient. The darkness seems decadent, degenerate, or even threatening. My bubble is lost.

2011-11-01T20:16:00.005-04:00

Proof

Oct 31 2011

In the portrait photographer’s studio,

where light is used

for contrast

illumination

concealment.

Where the dark-room arts

can fashion truth

steal human souls.

Where your face becomes you,

becoming, or not.

And even the devout don't believe

are made in the image of God.

The famous portrait of Churchill

as scowling bulldog,

when Karsh snatched away his cigar

snapped the picture.

Captured

in immortal black and white.

When I realized

he wants your hands in the frame.

Which tell as much about the man

as anything.

Because poker-faced

he gives nothing away.

But clasping hands

you can read him blind-folded.

I will grip the arms of the antique chair,

knuckles clenched

stretched white skin.

I will prop them under my chin,

and then regret

appearing so pretentious.

I will brandish a pen,

the writer at work

thoughtful, pensive.

A cheap ball-point BIC,

as usual

the well-chewed end

ink-stained fingers.

A portrait of the man

that will be hung

in a place of prominence.

Who must trust the photographer

with his life.

This poem began very simply – as do most! I heard it said that a good portrait photographer wants to see your hands.

Hands are, or course, a powerful symbol. Even though the idea has been discredited that tool use separates us from the other animals, the opposable thumb still distinguishes us. And hands bear all the evidence of a life. They are our conduit to touch, to the highest intimacy. Even the word – manos – reveals the impossibility of disentangling one’s humanity from oneself. So this should have been self-evident all along: you can’t capture the essence of a man without showing his hands!

The statement immediately brought to mind Karsh’s iconic portrait. Me, I’ve never sat for a picture like this. But I think I would revert to the awkward self-conscious adolescent, who isn’t quite sure what to do with his hands!

2011-10-28T19:58:00.003-04:00

Carry On

Oct 27 2011

I jog on grass

on cinder paths

in manicured rows.

Granite stones, and marble

flashing past,

fresh cut flowers

that will not last.

How many years

to weather this rugged rock,

names and dates worn-off

to a smooth dull finish?

I sometimes stop

and trace a stone with my hand,

the cool surface

inscrutable words,

families, forgotten

ancestors lost.

I gather they frown

upon joggers

in this public place

full of private sorrows.

So I tread softly

and carry on.

In one far corner

where the ground drops off

into dense brush

a frugal creek

I come across smaller stones, set oddly closer.

Children do not die

nearly as often now.

But back then families were large

and seemed more accepting of death,

early ends, almost expected.

I take my time, and read their ages,

sentimental inscriptions

cherubic angels.

A small cemetery

within a large graveyard,

within a middling city

that carries on.

And where I jog,

until I go to my rest, as well.

I do not mean

to be disrespectful.

I believe I honour the dead

with effort, and sweat

a life well-lived.

And think of the children

loved, and missed.

I no longer jog. And I only jogged there a couple of times, at most. But I still remember the poignancy of coming upon those small stones, in an overgrown corner, set slightly off. I love exploring old cemeteries, deciphering the old headstones. As for me, I’d rather be thrown into a cardboard box and buried in the forest, at the foot of a tree. No grave marker necessary.

2011-10-28T19:53:00.002-04:00

One Free Hour

Oct 27 2011

The clocks will change,

that precious extra hour

we banked in spring

reclaimed

interest-free.

Then the lake will freeze, snow deepen,

until the longest night of the year

when spring seems barely possible.

But in the tropics

neither north, nor south

there are only two seasons —

day, and night.

Precisely 12 hours, on the equator

day in, day out

month after month.

Just hurricanes

to break the monotony.

In the doldrum heat,

where underneath, there’s rot

and the soil’s exhausted

and you can set your clock

by the sun.

No deep freeze

to reset the earth.

No season of rest

and latency.

No burrowing pests

killed by killer frost.

I know the living is easy

weather, an afterthought.

But at what cost?

No long hot summer

to measure out our lives.

No mid-winter night

with its glimmer of light

that proclaims the world reborn.

No extra hour

on a Sunday morn,

cocooning closer

and doing whatever we please.

In this illicit hour

we needn’t account

to anyone for.

A poem of gratitude for 4 distinct seasons.

And a rare poem, in that I conclude with a preposition – not just a line, but the entire piece: a very weak word with which to end. But the word “for” not only works with the rhyme (reborn/morn/for), it flouts grammatical correctness, and in so doing creates a feeling as free as that illicit hour.

2011-10-26T20:51:00.005-04:00

Skipping Rocks

Oct 26 2011

How many tries did it take

to skip my first stone?

At an age

when wonder was possible.

Before the world would become mundane

stopped surprising me.

Rocks sink,

and an unsuspecting boy

could also drop

through insubstantial water

and drown,

diving blind, unsupervised.

The treachery of water

as I had been told;

yet not always so.

A gentle chop to the surface

the ripples a purchase

for rocks,

smooth and cool in my hand

from a million years

of washing up and down the shore.

Or a dazzling mirror, as hard as tempered glass

that can counter-act

the law of gravity.

My record is 7,

until it stutters to a stop

and vanishes

for another million years.

Like Zeno’s paradox

the arrow that goes half the distance, then half again

and never gets to the end.

At least as far

as theory goes.

And the rock

losing distance with every skip,

and me imagining

it never quite finishes.

An unsinkable rock

that may be out there, still.

Now, all grown-up

I sometimes feel I'm that smooth flat rock

skipping across the water,

the mirrored sky

the glare of light.

But never breaking the surface

penetrating deeper.

The perpetual mystery

of the bottomless lake,

its cold dark depths.

I don’t remember how many times;

but I recall feeling triumphal.

That I had acquired

this compulsive knack

that would serve a lifetime.

That I had the power

to overturn the laws of nature,

if for just a second, or two.

A mere child

toying with all the rules.

When the entire world

was delightfully new.

2011-10-24T22:00:00.003-04:00

Something Is Out There

Oct 22 2011

Fall is fleeting, here.

Summer ends abruptly,

and winter comes

with an early snow.

So this uncertain season

is all the sweeter;

as common things are cheap,

as we seek out

the rare, and ephemeral.

Leaves turn briefly,

trees, stripped clean

in the first big blow.

The sun is low, shadows long

and nights hang on

as if darkness

will overtake the earth.

This is the season of in-between

chores all done

last leaves raked-up,

and we’re given permission

to eat, and sleep.

The air is sweet

with wood-smoke,

the light is pure, and soft.

Time to wonder

about a hard winter

an early thaw.

But the dog

is piss and vinegar,

hackles erect

at the door again,

this dog who rarely barks.

Deer, on the move

and something is out there,

beyond the cedars

that mark off my yard

from the darkened forest beyond.

A cordon of green

on guard.

She charges

like a cannon shot,

a born predator

honed for pursuit.

But with the sense to stop

at the property line, the circle of light

barking furious.

The deceptive cedars,

a single row of majestic trees

evenly space, manicured neat

that mask the wild wood,

where creatures lurk

and even the dog demurs.

Will go
no further.

Out there,

where winter comes

that much earlier.

The season of hunger and cold.