By Post
Feb 27 2008


There is a letter in my mailbox.
Not a bill, my name misspelled in the see-through window.
Nor a flyer, stuffed-in.

A creamy white envelope
with a stamp she carefully chose,
addressed to me
in dark green ink
I instantly recognize.

Inside are neatly numbered pages
crisply folded in three.
The penmanship is exquisite, old school.
And I imagine quill pens with inkwells.
Or a serious little girl at a wooden desk,
two tight braids
tongue between her teeth
obediently repeating drills.

It begins with a sincere “My dearest . . .”
and concludes “As always, yours”;
heartfelt,
but proper for a lady.
There is a genteel intimacy
in these letters she shaped for me,
in the smooth friction of ink
on the rich white surface.
And this paper, which she held by hand.
And the idiosyncratic slant
— still cocking her head just so
bending close.

I will keep it with the others
in the top desk drawer.
An artefact
with heft and gravitas.
An object
I can re-visit and touch.
This hand-written letter,
an indelible record of love.

Watching Paint Dry
Feb 25 2008


(I enjoy exploring cliches. And this is also a kind of challenge to myself: what's the most boring thing imaginable I could possibly try writing about?!!)

I am watching paint dry.
I’ve been told there is nothing on earth more boring;
worse than watching curling
with the sound turned-off,
or porridge every morning for life.

But a freshly painted wall
is a thing of beauty,
transformed from scuffed beige
to “Luscious Pink”
or “Jailbait Blue”.
It smooths-on behind the roller
with a pleasant sucking sound,
leaving the surface glistening
and the wall somehow bigger.
And the room made new
— cleansed of whatever happened here,
old inhabitants banished.

As the sun descends
I watch light fade and shadows lengthen;
the colour deepening,
the surface now egg-shell dull.
I sit, breathing slowly in and out
— a master of Zen,
losing track of time.

The trick is to know when it’s dry
— not tacky
but smooth to the touch.
And that’s the thing,
it’s not such an ordeal watching paint dry, after all.
A couple of hours,
watching colours change
and history vanish
and shadows pass.
Which match exactly the planet’s majestic motion
— my room a camera obscura,
an observatory down on earth.

And, for a few hours alone
in an empty room
I contemplate whatever comes up.
And cultivate the art of restraint
— resisting the temptation of touch.

The Bhagavad-Gita Says
Feb 27 2008


The Bhagavad-Gita says
the human body is a wound with 9 openings.
You can imagine how disappointed I was,
having confused that daunting book
with the Kama Sutra
— not the position I was looking for!

But I counted, of course.
Which is why I’m writing this,
stuck irretrievably at 8.
So perhaps it is meant as a riddle,
or a metaphor,
or a comment on the unknowability of ourselves.

The “wound” I find less bewildering.
This vessel of flesh,
which grounds us in sensation;
which makes us mortal
and bears our scars
and grows inexorably frail.
This mysterious machine,
breathing and beating and balancing itself
like a thoughtless automaton.

And this soft warm body
that so badly wants to be touched.
To offer-up our love
and receive it;
to be wounded and cut so deeply,
yet expose itself again
— its well of hope bottomless;
opening us up
within.

Solid Ground
Feb 23 2008


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

Occasionally, the ground shudders.
Sometimes sulphurous steam erupts,
and curls of toxic smoke
rise-up from the blasted caldera,
its charred rim off-limits.
You glance up
reassured that underground, the fire-god still simmers,
content for now.

Entire lives have passed
under the volcano,
resigned to the awful symmetry of its rule
— blessing us with riches,
then making us pay with blood and treasure;
the fickle pleasure
of an immature god.

There are dormant volcanoes everywhere
— acts of faith and appeasement;
the zero-sum games we play;
and the risks we take
for love and comfort.

But it’s so pleasant living here
in this verdant jungle where everything grows.
Where succulent fruit hangs from low-lying branches,
plucked redolent and ruby red
and tempting us to bite.
Or where, left to ripen
the first gentle tremor shakes them off;
filling the air with sweetness
— the sickly scent
of rot.

Somewhere Near the Hippocampus
Feb 22 2008


Most of the time
I muddle through, I keep it up.
But sometimes, I stop and wonder,
thrown off-course
by thoughts of love.
How powerful it feels.
How much hard work.
And how easy it is
to hurt someone,
or be hurt.

Perhaps, when I was too young to remember
I was stunted in love,
never really learning how.
So that now, I struggle to let go,
to step-off the sheer edge of surrender.
Not a club foot, limping.
Not a lazy eye
that makes a girl nervous.
And not the lizard skin that no one wants to touch.
Just a shrunken knuckle of brain
somewhere near the hippocampus,
hidden in a small inaccessible fold.

So when I’m hugged, I stiffen,
and I tend to keep my distance,
like the rich in their gated estates.
Who, ironically, envy the poor;
because the poor are good
at living for today,
and yield so easily to sensation.
But my personal boundaries are trip-wires;
infringe on them
and klaxons go off in my head.
So beware, all trespassers will be prosecuted,
or at least get a caustic stare.

Although I’m told there’s a secret code
— the password for free passage through no-man’s land.
Whisper it in my ear,
and I’ll take you by the hand
and let you in.
Perhaps, when I’m old, I’ll remember it.
When I grasp for names, and blank on faces
and have all but given-up on love,
I’ll regress to my distant past
— in my second childhood
a second chance.

Last Remains
Feb 20 2008


I was asked to identify the body.

A white sheet
covering it like a layer of snow,
antiseptic, sexless,
softening the contours
— the summit of nose,
the hollow beneath the rib cage,
and the slightly splayed feet
holding up a ridge between them.
The way winter conceals the sins of fall
under its smooth white blanket.

There can be no doubt about a lifeless body.
The eyes stare, glassy,
the skin is pale, waxen,
and the joints seem stiff
immobilized.
And there is this heaviness,
the dead weight of human flesh
when the spirit goes out of it.
As if the living were puffed-up on some weightless substance
— like helium,
levitating us
leaking-out in laughter.
Could that be the death rattle,
the noble gas exhausted
leaving an inanimate object
it takes several men to lift?

I glanced at her face, and knew in an instant.
Yet something was different;
her eyes open, fixed
looking right past me.
I did my duty, though, and identified the body
— the mottled skin,
the coarsely sutured incisions,
the curves I know by heart.
But now, when I grieve
all I see are those dull motionless eyes,
gazing-off opaquely into space.

A violent death leaves too much unfinished.
If only she had died in bed
sleeping,
this grieving would go so much easier.

The Official Secrets Act
Sub-Section 1, Paragraph 2; Amended 02/2008
Feb 19 2008


In 50 years
the archives will be de-classified.

Researchers in white cotton gloves
will blow the dust off,
and scrape open sticky drawers.
Bibliographers and gossip-mongers
will crowd through sealed doors,
and reporters jostle for the front row.
Old files, brittle and yellowing
will be gently unfolded,
and vintage computers fired-up and decoded.
. . . And in 50 years,
all my shameful secrets made known.

In 50 years
I’ll be over a hundred,
or I’ll be dead
-- and I suspect long-lost lovers will no longer care.
Even the taxman will look-on with a sigh,
the statute of limitations having long since expired.
And my fellow poets, who have yet to die
will be too senile to bother,
with my snide asides
and pathetic lies
and petty envy.
And the many breathless intimacies
and urgent whisperings
of a long debauched life,
will seem merely childish.

Because the passage of time
is a great charity,
rendering old secrets powerless.
And in 50 years, I’ll be no more than a harmless curiosity;
a confused old codger,
mumbling about cover-ups
and spreading mischievous rumours.

Living in His Head
Feb 18 2008


His hair is thinning,
his beard unkempt.
He wears a brown wool sweater with corduroy pants.
He’s in old galoshes,
flopping open like hands in prayer.
He sits erect, but relaxed
as if in some old familiar easy chair,
lost in a hard-cover novel.

The rest of us scan the strip of garish ads
above the sealed windows.
Or stare distractedly at paperbacks.
Or straight ahead,
avoiding eye contact, sneaking peaks,
in the strained temporary intimacy
of this subway car, whizzing beneath the streets.
There’s the whoosh of air,
the hypnotic rumble,
and steel wheels
screeching through tight subterranean curves.

I close my eyes
between stops,
where a woman’s voice coos the station
and faceless bodies get on and off.
I like this ride,
coasting on auto-pilot
surrendering to the laws of time and distance
— permission to drift,
all my pressing lists
on hold.

And I marvel at this self-contained man,
who remains oblivious
to the crush of weary bodies,
and the tinny sound from leaking i-Pods,
and the sudden stuttering starts and stops
in this steel box
in a dark underground tunnel,
where the warm air smells
of ozone and cabbage rolls.
Perhaps he is climbing Mt. Everest,
or breaking stallions in the Wild West,
or making love
to some beauty who leaves him breathless.

He reads, unfazed;
barrelling through every stop and station
up and down the line
all day.

Aging Gracefully
Feb 16 2008

(You may want to read this preamble after you’ve read the poem.

…This isn’t the kind of poem I usually write: way too romantic, for one! So who knows what I was channelling this time. You might think the proximity of Valentine’s Day has something to do with it; but in my opinion that’s pure coincidence. More likely, the inspiration comes from a film I left in the middle last night, and will return to tonight: “Away From Her”. Based on an Alice Munro short story, this film dares to depict old people making love – actual physical skin-to-skin love and lust. Which makes you realize what forbidden territory this is; at least in books and movies. We avert our eyes from old decrepit bodies. We prefer to imagine the old as asexual. We tolerate such absurd clichés as the “dirty old man”, instead of celebrating life-long sexuality. We positively cringe at the image of our elderly parents in such physical intimacy. OK, OK …’nuff said! Anyway, that’s the point of this poem: so please don’t accuse me of knee-jerk romanticism; and it’s not as if I’m about to embark on a new career writing Hallmark cards!! /B)


Old people grow thick in the middle
under shapeless clothes.
Their hands are skin and bones,
mottled, stiff.
They wear thick socks in soft-soled shoes, no laces.
And when they dance, it’s close;
touching,
leaning against one another,
shuffling ahead in small deliberate steps.
Hard of hearing
they move to their own inner music,
oblivious to the tune
to other couples
to a room full of people decades younger,
who wish they wouldn’t cling so close.

Why do old people
making love
make us so uncomfortable?
We idealize their unwavering devotion,
yet cringe at the thought of their aged bodies
naked.
At old men
who lust unashamedly,
and old women
who succumb to the most basic urge.

When I grow old
will I make love with the lights off,
under cover?
Or will I look in wonder
and see her as the beautiful girl she once was?
To grow old so gracefully
I don’t even notice
— my love blind,
my lover untouched by time.

12 Seconds
Feb 14 2008


12 seconds is a long time on the radio.
“Dead air”, it’s called,
as if a careless breath
could asphyxiate the unsuspecting listener.

It makes you pay attention, fast.
Your ears perk-up, you’re fiddling with the switch.
Then you find yourself alertly listening-in,
immersed in unexpected silence.
And then you find silence doesn’t exist, after all;
replaced by faint forgotten sounds
that surprise and delight you.

You imagine half-open mouths
searching for words.
And technicians, frantic, rapping on the glass.
And an eternity of beating hearts,
waiting expectantly.
12 seconds, when a guest
(some earnest academic, no doubt)
paused to order his thoughts
— long enough for panic.

But I enjoyed the silence;
the way a long luxurious stretch
or a slow deep breath
feels like throwing myself wide open.

Even on the radio,
too much talk
starts sounding like desperation.
So I breathe-in again,
and flick it off.

Normal
Feb 12 2008


Loose talk about the “new” normal,
as if there ever was an old one.

I tried to be normal
once,
the adolescent I barely remember
so desperate to be accepted.
And I suppose I’ll be normal when I’m dead
— a well-behaved corpse laid-out in my best,
a smorgasbord for tiny insects.

All families are exceptional
if not embarrassing
to their inmates,
but they circle ‘round defensively
smiling-out at the world.
Which is how the rest of us get fooled;
convinced of our difference,
blushing in its 1000 watt glare.

But I no longer care for conformity,
and ordinary is just a bore.
I like fierce women
with wild hats and wacky hand-bags.
And distracted men
in bow-ties with polka-dots,
sporting black knees-socks in tattered sandals.
And teenage girls
who hear music in their heads,
and dance in mystic trances with their eyes shut.
And pubescent boys
who aren’t afraid of poetry.

The old either get set in their ways
or find the freedom to say “the hell with it”;
so the less time left
the more eccentric they become.
The trick is, to be comfortable in your own skin
and not give a fig how you’re judged.
It may be normal to fit in,
but when I’m 99 you’ll see me skinny-dip
in a public fountain on a whim,
lucky coins scooped-up by the fistful;
then drip-dry in my wrinkled birthday suit,
flipping the bird
as the minders come running.

Snapshot
Feb 10 2008

A battered blue box
in the back of a closet
full of black and white photographs,
scattered like playing cards;
no labels, no dates.

I see smiling faces.
And new moms
showing-off their babes.
And old men in baggy swim trunks,
all skinny arms and legs.
And young fathers
smoking, cracking jokes,
standing tall by white-wall Chevys
and 2-door Fords.
Everyone looks happy.
Everyone says “cheese”,
except the wise-cracking teens with slicked-back hair
who affect their usual indifference,
that awkward mix
of bravado and self-consciousness.

And everyone believes
in the posterity of snapshots,
the power of film.
They are thrilled the camera captured this moment,
when they were beautiful
or proud
or full of hope,
and dared to be immortal.

I have no idea who they were, or when;
except that now
even the babies have grown old.
I know it’s superstitious, like pins in Voodoo dolls,
but I leave the old photographs alone.
In a box in the back of the closet,
where never-ending smiles
keep lighting-up the dark.

Basement Apartment
Feb 7 2008


When the thieves broke in
they found nothing worth stealing.
They even left the wine
— lovers of white, perhaps;
but more likely, not worth carrying.
Apparently,
I live in a neighbourhood
where wine snobs do break-and-enters.
According to the police
not much of a crime.
Look for a frozen tennis ball, he insisted
when I phoned it in,
maybe kids
. . . a broken window
. . . road hockey delinquents.

That’s how it is
when you live in a basement apartment
— people assume you’d be upstairs
if you had a shred of self-respect.
Down here
where the windows are narrow slits
peeking-up from ground zero,
and I scurry about like a sightless mole
memorizing where the joists are low,
and I uneasily co-exist
in a cold war with mould.

But living underground
suits my temperament
— the dark intimate spaces,
the cool earth
enclosing me like a fortress,
the furnace
rumbling its warmth.
Down here
I can withdraw from the race,
shut-out the harsh light of day,
and settle
into my body’s own innate rhythm.
I have become subterranean,
pale, almost blind;
oblivious to the raucous tempers
the stomp of footsteps
the sound of sex,
overhead.

And no longer do I fear
what happens after death.
The cool dirt
shovelled-down on my supine body.
The earth closing-in, wrapping me tight.
The constant temperature,
the absence of light.

And up above, the distant thud of road hockey warriors,
using my plot for a crease
and the headstone as goalpost.

A River In-Between
Feb 6 2008


I point upstream
pushing against the flow,
losing ground the moment I stop
— like a fish who must move to breathe.

The water drops as I probe higher,
and at every fork
I steer for the widest branch,
seeking the undiluted head-waters
where this great river began.
Where I find boggy soil,
and jagged tree-trunks, broken-off,
and ancient stumps, waterlogged
— the earth saturated, overflowing.
There is the stench of rot;
swamp gas
and decomposing matter.

A drop of water here
knows nothing of ice-cold rapids,
making silky pillows over polished rocks.
Nor plunging cataracts,
atomized into all the colours of light.
Nor fish
flashing in crystal clear pools.

Yet somehow, it knows the inexorable pull of the sea,
warm salt water and sluggish bottom-feeders
a thousand miles downstream.

How Rivers Run
Jan 12 2008


It puzzles me how rivers run in winter;
the trickle under the ice,
bubbling-up in speedy narrows
or where a foot broke through.
Despite air so dry your skin cracks
and the frozen land’s locked-in,
this water seems inexhaustible;
gurgling as if it were spring,
laughing-off the freeze.

So I was surprised it could rise
so quick
behind the ice jam,
a chaotic jig-saw of jagged blocks
tightly locked.
The river inexorably higher,
like one body, at war with itself
— the weight of water,
the strength of ice.
As downstream, we wait;
houses built on flood plains,
our arrogance humbled,
nothing to be done.

A calamity that would be biblical
if you believe in judgement;
or misfortune
if you believe in luck.
But either way, not enough to make the city papers,
this footnote of trouble
in a world with so much disaster
in which to drown.

I will keep watch from the ridge
well above high-water,
waiting for the ice to give.
Like Noah,
watching as the world’s washed clean.

When a Beautiful Woman Begins the Conversation
Aug 4 2007


A beautiful woman looked me in the eye,
and with an easy knowing smile
spoke;
so naturally, I thought for sure we must already have met
— perhaps at work, or a mutual friend.
But I came up blank
flustered by such unexpected attention;
not to mention self-absorbed, as usual
stuck in this annoying line.
But I can still see how she laughed with her eyes
amused at my awkwardness and impatience,
and still feel her gaze on that small cellophane package
brightly recommending peanut butter for my mousetraps.
I nodded agreeably
blushing at such instant intimacy
— her knowing I was infested with mice, that is
and assuming who-knows-what about my state of personal hygiene.

She was tall and blonde and striking
with those smiling eyes,
and if it wasn’t for those mousetraps
I’m sure I would have stopped to chat.
But instead, there I was
walking alone in the parking lot at Wal-Mart
clutching my tiny bag
wondering if this is how lovers meet
— the chance intersection of busy lives
in a crowded check-out line
some random afternoon.

But the feeling you get
when a beautiful woman begins the conversation
and seems to be enjoying it
sticks with you the rest of the day
and later that night.
Especially a woman who’s apparently well-acquainted with mice
and other vulnerable prey;
perhaps setting her own gentle trap
into which a much smarter man
would have happily fallen.

Weather Watch
Dec 12 2006


It drips down like ice-picks,
each lethal tip
an affliction of cold;
death by a thousand pin-pricks.

And when it turns to snow
each perfect flake will float
gently down
until it touches the ground,
fizzing-out into extinction.

And when it gets colder
I will awaken to an undulating blanket of snow
— a thin veneer of perfection
on an imperfect world.
This first snow of winter is precious;
because if I linger too late in bed
the world may slip back
into dreary wetness.

Three-Point Contact
April 17 2005


Three-point contact at all times.

When it’s easier to climb
than go down,
because looking back at the ground makes you queasy.
You never thought about attachment this way
flattening your body to the face;
fragile flesh
hard-pressed against unyielding rock.

You do not meditate on death.
You do not care about conquest,
or the view from the top.
And first ascents are better left to heroes.

So fiercely focused
on one suspended moment,
how an instant contains infinity.
One hand and two feet
in touch
the other reaching up;
close enough that weathered rock fills your vision
-- so you can see
with microscopic intensity
the exact composition of granite.

Tiny quartz crystals like hard bits of sand
lightly brush your fingertips;
and the mottled surface of the sheer cliff in muted greys and pinks,
still warm with high-noon’s latent heat.

This Ain’t Exactly Rocket Science
Mar 7 2007


So what’s the big deal about rocket science anyway?
It’s just trajectory and ballistics, after all;
setting a solid object into motion
and watching it go
— like cannonballs
or fancy juggling.
Then add a bit of controlled combustion;
nothing more than a fuse
and gunpowder packed into tubes,
a version of Chinese New Year
or hunting ducks.

Especially in the perfect vacuum of outer space,
where it’s clear sailing once you escape
from gravity,
coasting on empty
all the way out to Neptune.

The real question is
could Wenher von Braun have hit a 90-mile-an-hour fastball,
instantly taking account of wind resistance and spin
on an unpredictable pitch
doctored with spit
or chewing tobacco?
Because the sweet spot
where a cylinder meets a spherical object
is no larger than a pencil tip.

The satisfying crack of a wooden bat against a tightly wound ball
launching a moon-shot past the outfield wall.
And a scientist with a heavy German accent
in a jubilant home-run trot,
his white lab coat flapping in the breeze behind him.

They Say He Died Suddenly
June 6 2006


They say he died suddenly;
not unexpected, just a minimum of fuss.
I suppose this is said to console us:
that he did not suffer,
that there was no time for fear to chill his core,
and that his life had meaning to the very end.

Of course, every death is sudden
— it’s the dying that grinds on mercilessly.
And there is letting-go and there is struggle,
but either way
there comes one incomprehensible moment
when a soul passes from the land of the living to the dark realm of the dead.
It slips from cooling waxy skin
and crosses that paper-thin barrier
as opaque as a black crepe curtain
which conceals the last great mystery.
So death is always instantaneous,
which is at least a grudging mercy.

It’s the beginning of life where there’s uncertainty.
Does it happen at conception,
or the opening breath,
or when the first vague memory stirs?

Or does life begin by degree?
So birth is incremental;
it’s death that comes suddenly.

They Cast No Shadows In Eureka Country
May 16 2003


As if the continent tilted left
and the rootless, and the dreamers, and the hapless souls
and all those without the anchor of home
or too weak to grab hold
tumbled west.
They skitter and ricochet across the landscape like pin-balls
powerless to halt their fall
to the edge,
until they all pile-up hard against the coast
and only stop when there’s no further west to go.
Bruised and groggy
and blinking in the golden splendour where the sun never sets
they cast no shadows in eureka country.

You can travel light when you travel west,
always clear warm nights
and the days are blessed.
Where they manufacture fantasy,
and all the surfers are tanned and lean,
and you can catch the perfect wave on the perfect beach.
And where you need not only dream
of California girls,
or the good life;
and the possibilities seem endless.

Where no one knows
who you were
once;
and no one cares
who you’re about to become.

The Trail of a Crime Goes Cold in 72 Hours
June 12 2004


The trail of a crime goes cold in 72 hours.
The small deceptions you thought would not be noticed.
The lies of omission you kept to yourself
because no one knew to ask.
And the scorned lovers and abandoned friends
who have uncertain memories for faces
and quickly forget.
And even total strangers who briefly intersected your path,
but were lost in thought or too distracted
to register
your passing.

There is no clean escape.
Warm traces of skin and sweat everywhere you went,
and the hot rapid breath
of descent
moving fast down the well-worn path of least resistance.
And in the end
you stumble hard,
a scraped knee or some other body part left as material evidence;
because there is no such thing as self-sufficiency
or quarantine,
and even the innocent cannot help but contaminate the scene.

Crimes of lust and greed and necessity
and small incremental conspiracies
and other incidental conceits.
Crimes of aggrieved entitlement
and unintentional crimes of neglect;
crimes of momentary weakness
and the unforgivable crime when you left.

More than three days have passed in hot pursuit,
but it’s the one thing you cannot forget
that inevitably incriminates you.

The Definite Article
Sept 24 2004


I cannot remember if “table” is masculine or feminine
in French;
because in my ascetic language
that came-of-age on a wind-swept island in the freezing north Atlantic,
objects do not have sex.

But on its sturdy legs
with a slab of oak four-square at each end
coarse-grained and roughly planed,
it must be male.

Except when I look into your face from across it,
after dessert
something smooth and sweet and chocolate,
in waning candlelight
and the warm glow of too much wine.
When all I can see is the flame in your eyes
and I’m overcome by desire
and I want to sweep it bare and take you there,
abandoned to animal appetite.
I think that then
the table would be feminine.

And we would both sink back in its soft burnished wood
in the warmth of melted candle-wax
in a sea of spilled red wine.

The Dark Side of the Planet
June 6 2003


This is too easy for metaphor.
Moths furiously circling the light
beating against hot temptation.
Driven by instinct, I suppose,
but the ferocious thump and drum of wings against the screen
sound closer to anger
than methodical destiny.
And where do these creatures vent their intensity
past this outpost in the wilderness
the feeble glow of the last porch light of civilization?

Do they ascend in the cool rarefied air
to pursue the fleeting light of the moon,
all the moths on the dark side of the planet
rising with the determination of nature
like one great fluttering shadow?
Only to be defeated by thin air
and by the sun rising like a torrent in the east,
each dawn this single-minded armada
disintegrating into a confusion of wings.

Temperance
May 23 2007


I do not believe in a peck on the cheek
or polite mourning.
I believe you must enfold her in two warm arms
and smother her in kisses;
and howl and keen your grief
kneeling in the dead of night.

I do not believe in fork-and-knife
or even measured bites;
but greasy fingers,
and platters overflowing,
and hallucinogenic naps
as if a steamroller had just flattened you,
leaning back with your belt undone.

I do not believe in wake-up calls
or alarm clocks,
but dreams that go uninterrupted.
As if you’d just made it up
stuffed with forbidden love
and flying above it all,
like free-fall.

I do not believe in being ruled by fear.
I believe in everything
and nothing,
no judgement or after-life.
Because I believe
it all happens right now
right here.

Still Life
Aug 12 2002


It happened again
a phrase finds the light of day
or mulls about inside,
a startled string of words
like orphaned socks on a clothesline.
Unexpected company
the utter originality
of something you’re certain has never before been heard
in the history of the sentence,
a new permutation on the infinite possibilities contained in 26 letters.
As tonight I thought
“I must dust off that fruit,”
even my erratic standards of housekeeping offended
by this decorative white bowl
of papier mache eggplant
and ersatz red pepper
and a sad imitation of cabbage.
Which, I suppose, are vegetables anyway;
but nevertheless
I go on to ruminate
about still life.
A rudimentary exercise for any respectable painter
but which I think is the nub of poetry,
to capture a moment
and blow-off the dust of habit
and hold it up to the light.
And I think it also speaks to life,
only fully lived in present tense:
like total immersion
in unselfconscious beauty;
like the benign narcissism
of a child;
and like leaving home
in mismatched socks
too pre-occupied in thought to remember.
And like a poet’s single-minded focus
when he concentrates on dusting-off
familiar words.

Standing in the Shadows
Sept 30 2006


In Vietnam it is called the “American War”,
as if it had happened somewhere else.
Or as if the Vietnamese themselves had been merely incidental
— standing in the shadows as they watched,
perhaps oohing and aahing with approving applause
as fireballs of Napalm lit-up the darkness.

Vietnamese women are beautiful
and modest,
averting their eyes in the presence of a man.
The white Americans were ugly, they thought;
but said nothing.
And the black Americans were exotic,
which made them seem dangerous.
But real money buys a lot in a war zone,
and there are women who get aroused by danger.

Looking down from a plane
war has a distinct geography,
a peculiar beauty that starts to grow on you.
There are tracer bullets at night
arcing through darkness like showers of silent sparks.
And the antiseptic blue of unlimited ceilings.
And the poisonous symmetry of Agent Orange,
cutting gaps in the endless green canopy
with Cartesian precision.

But defoliated land does not remain a desert.
And while Napalm burns-off the tops of trees
the roots remain protected.
So the landscape is now as green and succulent as ever;
especially at dawn,
when cool mist drifts through lush tropical forests
and the pale light angles-in low and long.

So “North” and “South” belong to the last generation.
And diplomats of enemy nations exchange formal bows,
then talk about free-trade and rates of exchange.
And in the boulevards of Ho Chi Minh City
the men still smoke outside of French cafes.

And there are slim children
dashing about in noisy play.
They wear loose shorts and cotton tops,
too big for stick legs and skinny bodies.
And then the others,
with a large nose
or stiff hair
or a darker face,
who stand in the shadows and watch.

Spaghetti Western
Sept 6 2007


When I watch Westerns
I’m never the short guy in the bowler hat who runs for cover.
Or the red Indian, all stern and noble, back-lit on a rocky butte,
whom we all know
is doomed.
No, I’m Clint Eastwood,
in a big white Stetson
squinting into the setting sun,
taciturn and dusty and good with a gun
— even though it’s not always certain
just who’s side he’s on.

Because no one needs to know
I’m afraid of horses
and believe in gun control.
Or that spaghetti westerns were made in Italy
of all places
— wine on the piazza in the Tuscan sun
instead of rotgut whisky in a cheap saloon,
where the floors are dirt
and the whores, a dollar.

I know most women find the cowboy irresistible,
but I’m not sure they really get it:
the lone rider . . .
the unfenced frontier . . .
just getting it done, instead of jawing on.
I suspect this romantic chap wouldn’t last long in bed with her
on clean white sheets with frilly pillow covers.
First, she would banish him to the tub,
where even a wire brush couldn’t scrub the dirt off.
Then something for his breath,
which could stop a stampede quicker than a pistol shot.
And the last straw
when she whispers in his ear “tell me what you’re thinking”
and he doesn’t talk;
just keeps staring up at the ceiling
eyes squinting like it was high noon,
wishing for some juicy tobacco to chew on
and a good strong horse underneath him.

Resurrection
June 20 2007


There was a story today
about the comatose man who stunned everyone,
coming back to life after 18 years.
As if you went to sleep tonight
and woke-up next morning
2 decades in the future:
your tiny children fully grown
and moved away;
your wife an old lady
living with another man;
and the world incomprehensible
run by adolescents in business suits.
And you
too weak to sit-up in bed
looking down at your wasted body,
the heart of your life cut out of it.

To have so much time
lost in a black hole of memory
must be like buried alive
— feeling helpless,
and cheated,
and irreparably detached from the world.
This is not the kind of time travel you’d hoped for;
not the bright young man in his titanium cocoon,
crammed with lights and gauges
whizzing about the ages
at will,
master of mankind’s fate.

Like you, I am curious about the future
and to be transported there would dazzle and amaze me.
But it seems time travel is a zero sum game,
in which to gain the future
you must pay with your past.
Like this miraculous man,
who can now move on
but can never look back.

Perfect Silence
June 12 2007


After long enough
there is not much to say,
sitting in a room
sharing space.
But the silence hovers patiently
like an impression sculpted from sand,
waiting
to receive its plaster.

I sit in soft mahogany leather,
its well-worn crease
fitting me with the ease of habit.
And she like a cat
in the crook of an old beige sofa,
her legs sleekly folded
together.

The vast middle of love
not given to celebration
moves wordlessly
but sure,
like two contented cats
grooming each other in a patch of sun.
The silence is only broken
by absent-minded asides
or earth-shattering revelations;
it’s the day-to-day that goes unsaid.

We read.
We look off into space.
I watch her
marvelling at her unaffected grace.
I wish I could touch the inscrutable core of her being,
but settle for this —
that two solitudes can co-exist;
and the sublime intimacy
of perfect silence.

Natural Causes
April 11 2005


It was natural causes
in the end,
so there was really no necessity to fret
after all,
about exceptional circumstances
and unexpected disasters
and early exits before you could fully execute the plan.
As if getting older was no different than ballistics
and the trajectory had finally come to land.

This happens in your sleep
or in bed, peacefully
with last words said to attentive ears bent close,
as if you’d been given notice
and were content to go
just then.

Nevertheless
I have started to consider epitaphs
and have in mind a final statement
just in case
— a man who never wanted to be late.

Moon Shot
Sept 22 2007


I’m starting at 10
counting-down to the moon.
I’m counting out daisies
and could easily lose.
I’m counting the hours
‘til I see you.

I’m spinning the dial
searching for news.
I’m counting the cost
‘cuz you pay for the truth.
I’m counting my blessings,
yet still get the blues.

I’m counting-out sheep
too restless to snooze.
I’m counting on toes
I’m tapping both shoes,
I’m snapping my fingers
and humming a tune.
I’m counting the seconds;
I’m counting on you.

I started at 10
now it’s down to 2.
Time to blast-off
— just me and you.

A Cappella
Feb 1 2008


She is an old soul
when she sings to herself;
the sorrow in her voice,
the words of loss and hope and acceptance.
Not the sadness, which every girl feels,
and as swiftly passes.
And not the despair
that hollows you out like a desiccated seed;
buried,
barren.

I’m tempted to believe
in past lives and born again.
In inexplicable wisdom.
And in pale ethereal women,
who sing like fallen angels
stranded on earth
— ageless,
serenely indifferent to their fate.

She will age gracefully, I am sure,
an old lady who glows like a child
— undimmed,
untouched by defeat.
And now, barely more than a girl,
with a voice so clear and sweet.
And with such words of simple beauty,
brings a grown man to weep.

Logorrhoea
Feb 1 2008


I wonder if body language could be contagious?

So many words on the tip of my tongue
I stumble and strain for the perfect one.
And ear worms boring into my brain,
an endless rotation
of pop songs and jingles.
And all the poems I’ve learned off by heart
crowding-out my vital organs,
like a bad case of indigestion.
And even death-bed confessions
I can’t get off my chest,
but don’t rest lightly there.

The semiotics of the human body
are not always so honourable,
like the evil eye
or the middle finger
or the bum’s rush.
Not to mention awkward contortions and cover-ups;
like bent over backward to be understood,
or sitting on secrets.

And though bursting with dirt I can’t wait to dish
I’ve saved room to sing for my supper
. . . and the very last word in dessert.