Out of Time
Sept 26 2008
Even a poet
of few words
would say too much.
Because in this story, nothing occurs —
life in a flash
caught in the act
in black and white;
captured
out of time.
And what went before
what happens after
is yours to decide.
A man and a woman
who is looking away
about to embrace,
or departing, perhaps.
You see pigeons
taking flight,
and observe all the shades of grey.
Time sliced so thin
it disappears.
Yet now
you can take forever
looking in.
Did they notice the man
snapping their picture?
Do they burn
for eternity
in your unwelcome gaze?
Or do they have eyes
only for each other
— utterly present,
perfect masters of Zen?
Monday, September 29, 2008
Sunday, September 28, 2008
A Rare Atmospheric Anomaly
Sept 28 2008
You’d think the smell
would have overwhelmed you
gagging,
that many fish
all at once;
their quicksilver forms
turning dull in the heat of the sun.
But it’s the sound you remember,
all those small stiff bodies
flipping and flopping on the cold hard ground.
Until they lay
gasping on their sides;
gulls circling, squawking,
sniffing dogs.
You always liked categories —
the permanence of names,
everything in its place.
So life feels safe
predictable.
But when fish fall from the clear blue sky
you know anything is possible —
that the flat grey lake
could rise-up and take you in;
or the land
you took for granted
swallow you whole.
And you,
walking by yourself by the shore
might find you’re not alone
after all.
Free fish,
like manna from heaven.
And someone special, unexpected;
who will walk hand-in-hand,
gather you up,
and believe
all your fabulous tales.
Sept 28 2008
You’d think the smell
would have overwhelmed you
gagging,
that many fish
all at once;
their quicksilver forms
turning dull in the heat of the sun.
But it’s the sound you remember,
all those small stiff bodies
flipping and flopping on the cold hard ground.
Until they lay
gasping on their sides;
gulls circling, squawking,
sniffing dogs.
You always liked categories —
the permanence of names,
everything in its place.
So life feels safe
predictable.
But when fish fall from the clear blue sky
you know anything is possible —
that the flat grey lake
could rise-up and take you in;
or the land
you took for granted
swallow you whole.
And you,
walking by yourself by the shore
might find you’re not alone
after all.
Free fish,
like manna from heaven.
And someone special, unexpected;
who will walk hand-in-hand,
gather you up,
and believe
all your fabulous tales.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Subterranean
Sept 22 2008
Subterranean, I thought.
Dark,
immobilized,
the crushing weight of rock.
No, it feels more submerged
waterlogged
— cross-currents, under-tows,
struggling to talk.
Or could it be lost
in interstellar space
— black,
and bottomless.
Then how long ‘til I disintegrate,
the vacuum
boiling-off my blood?
My boundaries
blurring, softening,
my molecules
bursting apart.
‘Til I expand to fill the cosmos;
my atoms
become the stuff of stars.
Sept 22 2008
Subterranean, I thought.
Dark,
immobilized,
the crushing weight of rock.
No, it feels more submerged
waterlogged
— cross-currents, under-tows,
struggling to talk.
Or could it be lost
in interstellar space
— black,
and bottomless.
Then how long ‘til I disintegrate,
the vacuum
boiling-off my blood?
My boundaries
blurring, softening,
my molecules
bursting apart.
‘Til I expand to fill the cosmos;
my atoms
become the stuff of stars.
Monday, September 22, 2008
The Game of Your Life
Sept 21 2008
They retire the numbers
of sports stars.
Hang them up
from the rafters of hockey rinks
or out by the bleacher seats;
giant jerseys
the effigies of heroes.
The rest of us
will hang up our smocks
our suit coats and frocks,
accept
a gold watch and a handshake.
No one will recall
the emptied in-box and good team player,
the unused sick days
and on-time record.
Because there is no hall of fame
for office temps,
or manufacturers’ representatives.
And then you realize
that the sports hero you still idolize
was 20-something, back then
barely shaving,
40 years younger than you are.
Your own highlight
was even younger,
that goal you scored in overtime, a sophomore
in the game of your life.
Peaked early
you console yourself.
As they say
there’s no going home again.
The old arena
now apartment blocks . . .
the high school
shuttered and locked . . .
and who knows
where the trophies and banners have gone.
And all the home-coming queens
team captains and MVP’s,
long forgotten.
Sept 21 2008
They retire the numbers
of sports stars.
Hang them up
from the rafters of hockey rinks
or out by the bleacher seats;
giant jerseys
the effigies of heroes.
The rest of us
will hang up our smocks
our suit coats and frocks,
accept
a gold watch and a handshake.
No one will recall
the emptied in-box and good team player,
the unused sick days
and on-time record.
Because there is no hall of fame
for office temps,
or manufacturers’ representatives.
And then you realize
that the sports hero you still idolize
was 20-something, back then
barely shaving,
40 years younger than you are.
Your own highlight
was even younger,
that goal you scored in overtime, a sophomore
in the game of your life.
Peaked early
you console yourself.
As they say
there’s no going home again.
The old arena
now apartment blocks . . .
the high school
shuttered and locked . . .
and who knows
where the trophies and banners have gone.
And all the home-coming queens
team captains and MVP’s,
long forgotten.
On Country Roads
Sept 21 2008
On country roads,
some are hard-top
some are gravel.
Hydro poles pace your progress,
leaning, bleached by sun.
You can hear the wind
whistling through tightly strung wires,
and the indolent buzz
of insects.
On country roads
you walk
half-on, half-off
the shoulder,
and the cars keep coming for miles
— a cloud of dust,
the sound
getting louder and louder.
On country roads
drivers wave as they pass,
and after awhile
you begin waving back;
a small brief act
you find strangely reassuring.
And then, with the zeal of the newly converted
you start using both hands
and smile and clap
and turn as they pass,
sending them off
like long-lost neighbours.
Even the sour old man
hunched against the door of his battered Chevy half-ton
lifts 4 fingers from the wheel
and nods slightly, once;
forced from his misanthropy for one brief moment,
cajoled by the social norms of country roads
to acknowledge he is not alone
down here on earth.
Before he gasses it
scowling
all the way back to town.
Sept 21 2008
On country roads,
some are hard-top
some are gravel.
Hydro poles pace your progress,
leaning, bleached by sun.
You can hear the wind
whistling through tightly strung wires,
and the indolent buzz
of insects.
On country roads
you walk
half-on, half-off
the shoulder,
and the cars keep coming for miles
— a cloud of dust,
the sound
getting louder and louder.
On country roads
drivers wave as they pass,
and after awhile
you begin waving back;
a small brief act
you find strangely reassuring.
And then, with the zeal of the newly converted
you start using both hands
and smile and clap
and turn as they pass,
sending them off
like long-lost neighbours.
Even the sour old man
hunched against the door of his battered Chevy half-ton
lifts 4 fingers from the wheel
and nods slightly, once;
forced from his misanthropy for one brief moment,
cajoled by the social norms of country roads
to acknowledge he is not alone
down here on earth.
Before he gasses it
scowling
all the way back to town.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
First Frost
Sept 19 2008
Fall arrives one night
thinking we won’t notice.
The good people
sleeping,
street lights
illuminating empty streets,
and plump little housecats
who have slipped away,
stalking
hissing at skinny strays.
It comes with chilly breath
that sits heavy
where the road dips,
and in the hollows down by the creek.
It touches the leaves
their brilliant colours bitter-sweet
knowing how quick they pass.
And the grass,
which abruptly stops growing
with the first hint of frost.
I awaken, blinking
in the clear thin light
noticing something’s changed,
not sure what.
But after the lethargy of summer
I feel expectant, braced,
and can’t wait to get up.
From year to year, the seasons never repeat themselves;
except for fall
which is always the same.
It arrives quietly, one night
and usually ends, too soon, in daylight,
with an inch of sloppy snow
under low grey skies.
Sept 19 2008
Fall arrives one night
thinking we won’t notice.
The good people
sleeping,
street lights
illuminating empty streets,
and plump little housecats
who have slipped away,
stalking
hissing at skinny strays.
It comes with chilly breath
that sits heavy
where the road dips,
and in the hollows down by the creek.
It touches the leaves
their brilliant colours bitter-sweet
knowing how quick they pass.
And the grass,
which abruptly stops growing
with the first hint of frost.
I awaken, blinking
in the clear thin light
noticing something’s changed,
not sure what.
But after the lethargy of summer
I feel expectant, braced,
and can’t wait to get up.
From year to year, the seasons never repeat themselves;
except for fall
which is always the same.
It arrives quietly, one night
and usually ends, too soon, in daylight,
with an inch of sloppy snow
under low grey skies.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Pictures of War
Sept 14 2008
In pictures of war
the victims go nameless,
and less and less are they warriors.
Lost children
on pencil-thin legs.
Young mothers,
clasping listless babies
to withered breasts.
And old men,
who are no longer a threat to anyone.
How does he feel,
observing life
under glass,
his eye attached
to the camera’s narrow aperture?
Does he think about focus
depth
the effect of light and shadow?
Or is it cold sweats
adrenaline
the fear of death?
Or has he convinced himself he’s exempt —
his white well-fed body
set apart,
his noble cause
somehow protecting him?
Or is he overwhelmed by so much suffering?
Shoving it down
into drugged demonic dreams;
diluting it
with warm beer, cheap Scotch,
along with the other foreign correspondents
who gather after hours
in crumbling hotel bars.
He re-enters the known world
with his prize-winning shots
bearing witness,
and still, the war won’t stop
— all the fleeting moments
his auto-shutter caught;
his collection of subjects,
unaware
anonymous.
And now, how many merely broken,
how many dead and gone?
In another age, they might have feared
his pictures were stealing their souls.
And perhaps he did;
because the way that memory tortures him
their suffering souls still live.
This poem was inspired by a powerful radio documentary I heard on the CBC show Ideas. It was a collage of interviews with various photojournalists who had risked their lives in war zones. They reflected on many things, including their sense of helplessness and responsibility; the damage to family life; their feelings of fatalism and fear and – surprisingly – freedom; and the persisting psychological harm of the horrible events they’ve witnessed. Anyway, I’ve tried to capture some of that here. /B
Sept 14 2008
In pictures of war
the victims go nameless,
and less and less are they warriors.
Lost children
on pencil-thin legs.
Young mothers,
clasping listless babies
to withered breasts.
And old men,
who are no longer a threat to anyone.
How does he feel,
observing life
under glass,
his eye attached
to the camera’s narrow aperture?
Does he think about focus
depth
the effect of light and shadow?
Or is it cold sweats
adrenaline
the fear of death?
Or has he convinced himself he’s exempt —
his white well-fed body
set apart,
his noble cause
somehow protecting him?
Or is he overwhelmed by so much suffering?
Shoving it down
into drugged demonic dreams;
diluting it
with warm beer, cheap Scotch,
along with the other foreign correspondents
who gather after hours
in crumbling hotel bars.
He re-enters the known world
with his prize-winning shots
bearing witness,
and still, the war won’t stop
— all the fleeting moments
his auto-shutter caught;
his collection of subjects,
unaware
anonymous.
And now, how many merely broken,
how many dead and gone?
In another age, they might have feared
his pictures were stealing their souls.
And perhaps he did;
because the way that memory tortures him
their suffering souls still live.
This poem was inspired by a powerful radio documentary I heard on the CBC show Ideas. It was a collage of interviews with various photojournalists who had risked their lives in war zones. They reflected on many things, including their sense of helplessness and responsibility; the damage to family life; their feelings of fatalism and fear and – surprisingly – freedom; and the persisting psychological harm of the horrible events they’ve witnessed. Anyway, I’ve tried to capture some of that here. /B
Lawn Care
Sept 12 2008
The smell of fresh cut grass,
for the last time, this year.
Like a buzz-cut on the first day of school,
the lawn is closely cropped
— summer done,
eyes front,
shorn heads in obedient rows.
The snow shovel
on the hook where it hung all summer
tries catching my eye
— its metal blade flashing,
banging the wall
when the wind catches it.
And the rake, reproaching me
for neglecting the leaves last fall.
Each season is marked
by its own set of chores
— as expected as the end-of-semester-test,
cramming the night before.
The reassuring routines
of lawn care,
clearing snow,
keeping-up appearances.
This is steady work,
holding back nature.
Which will reclaim this place
eventually, of course;
after I’m gone
or our time is over.
But today, there’s the smell of fresh cut grass,
standing back
contented, spent
inhaling sweet deep breaths
— for now,
a job well done.
The autumn leaves will come
soon enough.
Sept 12 2008
The smell of fresh cut grass,
for the last time, this year.
Like a buzz-cut on the first day of school,
the lawn is closely cropped
— summer done,
eyes front,
shorn heads in obedient rows.
The snow shovel
on the hook where it hung all summer
tries catching my eye
— its metal blade flashing,
banging the wall
when the wind catches it.
And the rake, reproaching me
for neglecting the leaves last fall.
Each season is marked
by its own set of chores
— as expected as the end-of-semester-test,
cramming the night before.
The reassuring routines
of lawn care,
clearing snow,
keeping-up appearances.
This is steady work,
holding back nature.
Which will reclaim this place
eventually, of course;
after I’m gone
or our time is over.
But today, there’s the smell of fresh cut grass,
standing back
contented, spent
inhaling sweet deep breaths
— for now,
a job well done.
The autumn leaves will come
soon enough.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
No Reasonable Offer Refused
Sept 8 2008
My bowling trophies
went for 50 cents each.
Now, on some fancy mantelpiece
or a glass credenza, someplace
they buff some impostor’s résumé.
All his gutter balls
forgotten.
And old yearbooks
signed by friends I don’t remember
when we all had bad hair and worse pretensions
now looks impressive
on the bookshelf of some model suite,
or propping-up a wobbly table.
And will, no doubt
come back to haunt me when I’m famous.
Even my box of hoarded papers
is gone.
But nostalgia is over-rated;
and anyway, who would want to read
school essays, mostly C's,
or ancient tax receipts,
or old letters from lovers who left
all saying it’s them, not me.
Or the wedding invitation she sent
I couldn’t bear to attend
without a date.
I imagine they’re still together,
3 kids
middle-aged
putting on a little weight,
as you’d naturally expect.
Because I like to assume the best
for people.
* * * *
A yard sale is like starting fresh
— where everything must go,
and whatever’s left
gets carted-off,
disposed of.
Sept 8 2008
My bowling trophies
went for 50 cents each.
Now, on some fancy mantelpiece
or a glass credenza, someplace
they buff some impostor’s résumé.
All his gutter balls
forgotten.
And old yearbooks
signed by friends I don’t remember
when we all had bad hair and worse pretensions
now looks impressive
on the bookshelf of some model suite,
or propping-up a wobbly table.
And will, no doubt
come back to haunt me when I’m famous.
Even my box of hoarded papers
is gone.
But nostalgia is over-rated;
and anyway, who would want to read
school essays, mostly C's,
or ancient tax receipts,
or old letters from lovers who left
all saying it’s them, not me.
Or the wedding invitation she sent
I couldn’t bear to attend
without a date.
I imagine they’re still together,
3 kids
middle-aged
putting on a little weight,
as you’d naturally expect.
Because I like to assume the best
for people.
* * * *
A yard sale is like starting fresh
— where everything must go,
and whatever’s left
gets carted-off,
disposed of.
Hail the Size of Golf Balls
Sept 7 2008
I write at the dining room table,
candlesticks, placemats
in a mess of paper.
The chairs are tucked-in,
obedient
but uninhabited —
no clinking glasses,
no vivacious laughter.
Outside, it’s dull and wet
and the chandelier seems far too festive;
but essential, nevertheless.
Gentle rain lulls me.
I look out at a world in soft-focus,
all misty greens, and liquid.
An in-between season at an empty table
— too damp for words to stick;
no witty repartee
to prick me.
I’d rather have lightning and thunder,
and hail the size of golf balls,
and wind-whipped trees
drenched and cowering.
And then a sudden black-out —
an excuse to go outside,
where the air is electric
and everything feels alive.
Sept 7 2008
I write at the dining room table,
candlesticks, placemats
in a mess of paper.
The chairs are tucked-in,
obedient
but uninhabited —
no clinking glasses,
no vivacious laughter.
Outside, it’s dull and wet
and the chandelier seems far too festive;
but essential, nevertheless.
Gentle rain lulls me.
I look out at a world in soft-focus,
all misty greens, and liquid.
An in-between season at an empty table
— too damp for words to stick;
no witty repartee
to prick me.
I’d rather have lightning and thunder,
and hail the size of golf balls,
and wind-whipped trees
drenched and cowering.
And then a sudden black-out —
an excuse to go outside,
where the air is electric
and everything feels alive.
Re-Entry
Sept 7 2008
We barely graze the edge of space,
just skirting the thin sliver of air
that hugs the earth
— like a polished rock
skipping along its smooth surface.
So we blast-off
atop rockets spewing fire,
— strapped-in, deafened, shuddering —
and dare to imagine
we can actually break free.
But even men like these,
in their white pneumatic suits
shiny visors
packing air,
are still attached to earth.
The home planet,
this tiny speck, glowing blue and green,
against the void’s vast blackness.
And then,
bones gone soft
muscles wasted,
they have no choice but to re-enter.
Out of breath,
dizzy from the effects
of gravity,
and utterly defenceless
against the great machinations of weather,
even spacemen come back to reality.
The best we can manage is a short time-out,
in a partial vacuum
above the fray
gazing down like untouchable gods,
everything we need
taken along with us.
Re-entry is hard
after being away so long.
But over-stay
and you will become permanent,
a tiny white satellite
circling the earth
— the brightest star,
the most brilliant reflection.
Sept 7 2008
We barely graze the edge of space,
just skirting the thin sliver of air
that hugs the earth
— like a polished rock
skipping along its smooth surface.
So we blast-off
atop rockets spewing fire,
— strapped-in, deafened, shuddering —
and dare to imagine
we can actually break free.
But even men like these,
in their white pneumatic suits
shiny visors
packing air,
are still attached to earth.
The home planet,
this tiny speck, glowing blue and green,
against the void’s vast blackness.
And then,
bones gone soft
muscles wasted,
they have no choice but to re-enter.
Out of breath,
dizzy from the effects
of gravity,
and utterly defenceless
against the great machinations of weather,
even spacemen come back to reality.
The best we can manage is a short time-out,
in a partial vacuum
above the fray
gazing down like untouchable gods,
everything we need
taken along with us.
Re-entry is hard
after being away so long.
But over-stay
and you will become permanent,
a tiny white satellite
circling the earth
— the brightest star,
the most brilliant reflection.
Primary Colours
Sept 6 2008
Everything here is earth-tones
and variations on beige.
Or pastels,
muddled mongrel shades
with whimsical names
that mean nothing.
I’m dying for bold strokes
— deep, rich, primary colours
that clash with the furniture and picture frames.
An unambiguous statement,
so when you enter this room
you know exactly where I stand
— no straddling fences,
no evasion.
I’m fed-up
with half-truths
and lies of omission,
with namby-pamby excuses
and waffling admissions.
I need strong language, full spectrum;
even if it is hurtful
or wrong-headed.
A small room
in scarlet and purple
— like a fresh bruise
or bad music.
Then hot pink, girls only,
all Barbie dolls
and princess phones.
Then the dark green of jungle leaves,
lush and succulent.
And then the deepest purest blue,
which is healing, restful.
My simple plan
for a place of refuge.
Sept 6 2008
Everything here is earth-tones
and variations on beige.
Or pastels,
muddled mongrel shades
with whimsical names
that mean nothing.
I’m dying for bold strokes
— deep, rich, primary colours
that clash with the furniture and picture frames.
An unambiguous statement,
so when you enter this room
you know exactly where I stand
— no straddling fences,
no evasion.
I’m fed-up
with half-truths
and lies of omission,
with namby-pamby excuses
and waffling admissions.
I need strong language, full spectrum;
even if it is hurtful
or wrong-headed.
A small room
in scarlet and purple
— like a fresh bruise
or bad music.
Then hot pink, girls only,
all Barbie dolls
and princess phones.
Then the dark green of jungle leaves,
lush and succulent.
And then the deepest purest blue,
which is healing, restful.
My simple plan
for a place of refuge.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
The Dead Give-Away
Sept 2 2008
The dead give-away
is the face
the back of the hands.
Too many years of forced smiles
abandoned laughter.
And the tears,
bitter, brackish
you could not hold back
— like ancient armies
salting the vanquished earth.
And the sun
in the freedom of summers well past,
when you were too young to know
nothing
comes free.
You used your hands,
reaching out
feeling your way like the blind.
You explored the world’s rough surface,
making contact
holding-on.
Even mountains soften
worn down by water, one drop at-a-time.
And your hands,
with their scars
their calluses
their brittle skin, stretched over thinning bones,
contain the story of a life
well-lived.
Some call it wisdom,
others call it uselessness.
How old age makes most of us
invisible.
And the rest
who are invincible
can’t help glancing in every mirror they pass,
looking
to be reassured.
Sept 2 2008
The dead give-away
is the face
the back of the hands.
Too many years of forced smiles
abandoned laughter.
And the tears,
bitter, brackish
you could not hold back
— like ancient armies
salting the vanquished earth.
And the sun
in the freedom of summers well past,
when you were too young to know
nothing
comes free.
You used your hands,
reaching out
feeling your way like the blind.
You explored the world’s rough surface,
making contact
holding-on.
Even mountains soften
worn down by water, one drop at-a-time.
And your hands,
with their scars
their calluses
their brittle skin, stretched over thinning bones,
contain the story of a life
well-lived.
Some call it wisdom,
others call it uselessness.
How old age makes most of us
invisible.
And the rest
who are invincible
can’t help glancing in every mirror they pass,
looking
to be reassured.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
By Invitation Only
Sept 1 2008
At first I thought it was gun-shots
cracking the darkness.
Until I heard the pinwheels
spinning-off,
and whiz-bangs
fizzing sparks.
Nothing to see,
but it all came to me in an instant —
people oohing and aahing, looking skyward.
A few small kids
flinching, hiding
behind mom’s steady legs.
And the teens,
too cool to be impressed.
The rest of us were already in bed
on this inconsequential week night.
But they were having the time of their life,
and could not imagine
depriving the world of fun.
Fireworks . . .
. . . hard drink, a sucker punch
I’ll bet.
What a party,
thought this uninvited guest.
Sept 1 2008
At first I thought it was gun-shots
cracking the darkness.
Until I heard the pinwheels
spinning-off,
and whiz-bangs
fizzing sparks.
Nothing to see,
but it all came to me in an instant —
people oohing and aahing, looking skyward.
A few small kids
flinching, hiding
behind mom’s steady legs.
And the teens,
too cool to be impressed.
The rest of us were already in bed
on this inconsequential week night.
But they were having the time of their life,
and could not imagine
depriving the world of fun.
Fireworks . . .
. . . hard drink, a sucker punch
I’ll bet.
What a party,
thought this uninvited guest.
Phone Home
Aug 31 2008
The latest addition
to the museum of obsolescent things
is a pay phone,
right beside the typewriter, the tape machine.
The curator was especially pleased
to find one with an analog dial,
purring as it circled back.
The part you held in your hand
was big and black,
and could break a foot if you dropped it.
And best of all — local calls, 10-cents-a-pop.
With a great wad of gum, pale pink
stuck under the seat,
hard as rock
— “pure vintage” , he beamed.
We have become impatient,
so intent on the future, rushing towards us
that nothing’s not disposable —
in just a month or so,
the latest gizmo scorned as old.
Which is why I like this discarded phone.
I like how big it is
how indestructible.
The pay phone, the newspaper box
on every busy corner,
as permanent as the city itself.
The louvered doors snap to one side
with a quick metallic rattle,
and I slip inside.
My dime makes a satisfying “kerplunk”,
and suddenly, an operator’s voice pipes-up,
brisk, but helpful.
And utterly surprised
I reel-off the number
still in my mother’s voice,
drilled-in to me
from childhood.
I can hear it ringing now,
just as a guard comes running.
“Patrons are not allowed to touch the displays” he barks, wagging one finger,
snatching the phone from my grasp.
I can just make out the faint “hello … ? ”
as he slams it back on its cradle.
Aug 31 2008
The latest addition
to the museum of obsolescent things
is a pay phone,
right beside the typewriter, the tape machine.
The curator was especially pleased
to find one with an analog dial,
purring as it circled back.
The part you held in your hand
was big and black,
and could break a foot if you dropped it.
And best of all — local calls, 10-cents-a-pop.
With a great wad of gum, pale pink
stuck under the seat,
hard as rock
— “pure vintage” , he beamed.
We have become impatient,
so intent on the future, rushing towards us
that nothing’s not disposable —
in just a month or so,
the latest gizmo scorned as old.
Which is why I like this discarded phone.
I like how big it is
how indestructible.
The pay phone, the newspaper box
on every busy corner,
as permanent as the city itself.
The louvered doors snap to one side
with a quick metallic rattle,
and I slip inside.
My dime makes a satisfying “kerplunk”,
and suddenly, an operator’s voice pipes-up,
brisk, but helpful.
And utterly surprised
I reel-off the number
still in my mother’s voice,
drilled-in to me
from childhood.
I can hear it ringing now,
just as a guard comes running.
“Patrons are not allowed to touch the displays” he barks, wagging one finger,
snatching the phone from my grasp.
I can just make out the faint “hello … ? ”
as he slams it back on its cradle.
The Crickets Are Loud Tonight
Aug 30 2008
The Chinese keep crickets
in tiny cages
inside.
How such small creatures
fill so much space.
How a single note, a steady pace
can make his house
a haven.
The crickets are loud tonight.
A comforting sound,
so much more than silence.
They chorus, then unaccountably stop
all at once.
A collective breath.
Or some sudden threat, perhaps.
And everything feeds on crickets, it seems.
But they keep-on chirping, nevertheless,
compelled to proclaim themselves
to an indifferent world.
Risking death
to preen for attention,
vie for sex.
Crickets making crickets,
to adorn this earth
with gentle hypnotic sound.
To console me in this private space;
submerged in such deep silence
a solitary man might drown.
This is what happens when you sit down to write, in an empty house, in absolute silence, far out in the country: the crickets are deafening! And with no particular ideas, and the stern internal reprimand that you absolutely will NOT write a lame lyric poem about crickets, what else can you do …but write a lame lyric poem about crickets!!
And a small departure – stylistically, anyway. I wrote the main body of the poem first. But I felt the contemplative setting of (what ended up becoming) the opening stanza would add something essential. There is a rarefied spirituality to this image of the Chinese keeping crickets. And since it really stands quite apart, I decided to keep it as a separate sub-title, or prologue. In the end, I think the mood it creates acts as a nice scaffold for the rest of the poem.
Aug 30 2008
The Chinese keep crickets
in tiny cages
inside.
How such small creatures
fill so much space.
How a single note, a steady pace
can make his house
a haven.
The crickets are loud tonight.
A comforting sound,
so much more than silence.
They chorus, then unaccountably stop
all at once.
A collective breath.
Or some sudden threat, perhaps.
And everything feeds on crickets, it seems.
But they keep-on chirping, nevertheless,
compelled to proclaim themselves
to an indifferent world.
Risking death
to preen for attention,
vie for sex.
Crickets making crickets,
to adorn this earth
with gentle hypnotic sound.
To console me in this private space;
submerged in such deep silence
a solitary man might drown.
This is what happens when you sit down to write, in an empty house, in absolute silence, far out in the country: the crickets are deafening! And with no particular ideas, and the stern internal reprimand that you absolutely will NOT write a lame lyric poem about crickets, what else can you do …but write a lame lyric poem about crickets!!
And a small departure – stylistically, anyway. I wrote the main body of the poem first. But I felt the contemplative setting of (what ended up becoming) the opening stanza would add something essential. There is a rarefied spirituality to this image of the Chinese keeping crickets. And since it really stands quite apart, I decided to keep it as a separate sub-title, or prologue. In the end, I think the mood it creates acts as a nice scaffold for the rest of the poem.
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