Replenished
Nov 28 2008


Standing on the bank
knee-deep,
in the thick brambles that grow in sand
and make the edge impassable,
you try to understand this river.
Is it the same,
this landmark
cut into earth’s hard granite,
its surface calm
as you squint
at your thin wavering reflection?
Or does it change
from second to second,
its water continuously refreshed?

You watch it go by,
from the headwaters, that give rise
to lost at sea —
where its molecules
are indistinguishable.
And you think of your own body
mostly water
renewing itself,
every cell made new
as you move through time.
And the ghost in the machine
that is you.

The current riffles the surface,
pillows up-stream of rocks.
A stone gets tossed
rippling out,
until the river quickly resumes.
The soothing sound of moving water
you can’t imagine stopped.

Nocturnal Creatures
Nov 24 2008


At dusk, the wind calms itself.
The sky grows impenetrably black,
looking out
to the cold empty end of space.
Yet close enough
I could reach up and touch,
like soft warm velvet.
So I draw the night around me like a robe,
the stillness
the darkness
this cozy room, alone.

The clock’s relentless tick
is a dripping tap
leaking time
— won’t let me forget how precious darkness is
as daylight presses-in.
When the sun hurts my eyes
and the breeze picks-up
and the air is damp,
its chilly edge
cutting deeper.

I watch the black rectangles of glass
soften,
the lamp’s incandescent glow
grow pale, cold,
and the obsidian sky
begin to dissolve.
When the creatures of the night, like me
pull down heavy blinds,
extinguish the light,
scurry quickly from sight;
taking refuge
until darkness enfolds us again.

Jack-Hammer
Nov 24 2008


The jack-hammers are at it again.
The cracked, barely patched, skin of the city
is under attack,
the cacophony of urban living
intractable.

A heavy glop
of thick grey slop
slurries-off the backs of trucks,
folds into wooden forms.
I sneak by at night
and leave my mark —
one square of sidewalk
as my message to posterity.
Or at least until the roads department
otherwise decrees.

On my daily walk
I smile to see my writing set in stone —
the concrete idea,
heavy-handed prose.
Wholly pleased
with this minor sedition,
my impulsive act
of mischief.

Jackhammer
Nov 25 2008


Jackhammers attack
badly patched asphalt,
leaving a blasted and cracked
macadam path.

Garbage trucks crush trash,
massive compacters
leaving nothing intact.
While sirens flash
keeping passers-by back,
in a mad dash to catch a thief,
rescue cats from trees.

And bad bands
from salsa to rap
blast out the gaps
in half-open doors,
the smoky glass
of dance halls and bars —
fans jammed into ragged queues,
and passing cars
blasting their horns at stragglers
spilling-out of the pack into traffic.

This is the din of the city
the cacophony of urban living,
which some find uplifting
and others hideous.

Me, I drift through town oblivious
ear-buds dangling, my iPod loud,
as Bach’s cello suites
enclose me in sound.

Greyhound
Nov 19 2008


The aisle seat seemed best —
a quick exit
room to stretch my legs.
And better than boxed-in by the window
by the unwashed man
with wine on his breath,
or a fat lady shedding cat hair.

The bus wheezes into motion
whines-up the succession of gears,
rattles over badly patched pot-holes
sways through tight city curves.
Reading lights
are soft halos of concentration.
The smell is hard to place —
garlic sausage,
the human animal,
long-johns that need a change.
The driver’s bald spot
jostles like a bobble-doll,
the head that contains us all
in its command
of feet and hands,
on the wheel
the gas.

We passengers are accidental strangers
and instant kin,
a gathering of lost souls
and seekers
and people in need,
assembled on this point of feeble light
dusting through the prairie night,
miniscule
under the vast dome of stars.

The sleeping houses are dark
as we pass unseen,
a dull asteroid among the constellations,
a black cloud of heavy diesel
left hanging in our wake.

Making Speed
Nov 16 2008


Rain-slicked pavement glistens,
headlights drizzle through the windshield,
and street-lamps stand in reflecting pools
that brim with watery light
— like a string of pearls, driving by,
glowing on either side.

The signals are smears of coloured light
red and yellow and green,
clicking through their sequence,
keeping vacant streets
obedient.
So the city seems ordered, at peace.

Tires slap
on asphalt, glistening black,
the wipers thwack hypnotically.
And the windows blush with mist,
as she reaches across
rests her hand above my knee
gives a gentle squeeze,
making speed.
Like the milkman’s horse, picking-up the pace —
the barn door open, glowing;
warm oats, and a bed of hay.

Then her knowing smile, as if to say
“almost home
. . . can’t wait!”

One More Winter
Nov 15 2008


If I make it through one more winter
I will plant tomatoes,
kneeling in warm black soil.
In cool mornings
I will trim fresh basil,
sit, and watch.
And when the light turns to fall
I will harvest butternut squash
fat pumpkins
blushing apples,
too tart to bake into pies.

But for 6 months, I am under siege —
my eyesight failing,
ice
too treacherous for canes.
And the cold cuts deeper,
through thin skin
and bones made frail by age.
Even though snow is beautiful
looking out my window
unbroken, untouched,
glistening in long low sun;
and falling
in the soft pink glow
of streetlights.

When I was young
I was invincible,
careening down hillsides
skating on frozen lakes.
So when did the world become
such a threatening place,
and me, so ruled by fear?
Why old men, alone
dead-bolt every door;
and why phone calls after dark
set weak hearts racing?

The cold dim winter
gets harder every year.
But I will endure
at least until next summer,
when the earth has thawed
and the soil come to life.
When they can bury this tired old body,
out where tomatoes turn ripe.

Stone Boat
Nov 12 2008


Every spring, the earth heaves up its bones.
Soil thaws, re-freezes
and stones appear.
The frozen ground
does its work,
and farmers gather them up
in stone boats,
drag them off
where they founder like prairie schooners
on fallow land.
So the earth seems inexhaustible,
its back-breaking harvest of stones.

On a spinning planet
nothing stays buried for long,
casting out its secrets
at the rate of 5 cm a year.
Bombs in the streets of Berlin,
from wars we remember
in black and white.
And caskets, with their bones
that fell where they lie.
And the fossils of giants
and ancient man.

And this living planet
in constant motion,
renewing itself from below
— its thin skin
crawling with life;
its intricate soil
purging itself of the past.

Hospital Bed
Nov 12 2008


All skin and bones
barely floats.
The ribs
visible.
The sharps jabs
of elbows, shoulders.
And the pale flesh
underwater,
reminding me how fish
float belly-up.

The joints are stiff.
The tongue
can barely give away its secrets.
And the hands
shaking like shivering birds.

And the eyes
still furious,
glaring out.

I gently bathe this body
which I have known all my married life,
with warm water
a soft absorbent sponge.
Then lift it up
bird-like, frail
surprisingly light.
A thick towel
to blot it dry,
because the thin skin
tears like paper.

And lay it back in our bedroom
— the head, slightly raised;
the sheets, soft flannel;
turned to one side,
then the other.
And once more, I wonder
how a hospital bed, with the rails pulled-up
seems too big for this room,
too small for lovers.

Hibernation
Nov 9 2008


I will curl-up for winter,
burrow-in, hunker-down
all snugly packed—
cocooned in fleece and furs
and fluffy wraps.

I well eat fat,
smooth and rich and dark
brown things,
like chocolate
heavy cream
warm sweet starch.
I will set the alarm for spring
unplug the phone
flick the lights off.

Snow falls gently
slowly filling the world,
rising up around me ‘til I vanish
enclosed in a mantle of white;
its fine dry surface
scoured flat.

I am content down here
in my cozy cave of snow.
Wake me
when the sun comes back.

Insurrection
Nov 7 2008


Leaves fall
carpet-bombing faded lawns
so they bleed bright red.
With old wounds,
clots of brown and yellow.

A pincer movement
of dusk and dawn
squeezes daylight into no-man’s land,
until retreat’s impossible.

An artillery barrage of rain
hammers
the cheap plastic awning.
Until ditches overflow,
like trenches turning to mud.

The sky is grey
almost low enough to touch,
like the smoke of a thousand guns.

And the first day the world is buried in snow
the white flag of fall is raised
— the season
surrendering to winter.

Surfacing
Nov 5 2008


They say you can’t write about a place
without some distance
until you leave it;
and you can’t write about home
until you go far away.
Because to a fish who swims in the ocean
water is all it knows.

But first, you must learn how to breathe.
You must be willing to feel
the cold astringent wind.
And you must keep looking back
at the grey impervious surface,
imagining underneath.

And then, in this foreign land,
the past overtakes you
claims your allegiance
leaves you caught in-between
— an amphibious creature
with exquisitely sensitive skin,
soft and permeable.

But I like the sensation
of hot dry sand.
I like the height of land
that makes me feel invincible.
And I like looking back,
a benevolent despot
who coolly dispenses forgiveness,
and graciously understands,
and retrieves what he wants of the past.

And then those sleek pelagic creatures,
the menacing fish
I wish
to forget.

A Man of Leisure at the Sidewalk Cafe
Nov 4 2008


I am drinking coffee,
black and strong.
I am sitting
not sure how long,
at this small white table.
Or where all that time, once gone
holes up.
Does time get spent,
passed along, rippling-out
the way that money does?
Or does it vaporize,
like the hour when the clocks change
as if it never was?

Busy people beetle past,
barking into phones
clutching vital papers.
I go unnoticed,
except for a few steely glances
— a wastrel, an idler
too much time on my hands.

But the work goes on.
The way magma boils
beneath tectonic plates.
Which will, some day, erupt,
black sulphuric rain
blocking-out the sun.

Or how lines of gravity
— like taut tuned strings
invisible and weak —
connect me with the universe.
How this strong black coffee
sets them all abuzz;
shooting sparks,
lighting-up.

Baby Boom
Nov 3 2008


The men returned
to cheering and laughter,
the war to end war
and the one shortly after.
They were hard with contempt
for the incompetents who sent them
who led from behind;
full of unspeakable things
dammed up inside.

So they stripped off their tunics
resuming their lives,
making pay
making babies
re-acquainting with wives.
Who had turned into strangers
and who found they had changed,
soaking in sweat
bolting awake.

So they made some more babies
and made babies again,
which is all that makes sense
when you cannot forget.
When best friends will stay
forever young men,
and recurrent dreams
are haunted by death.

Their babies have grown now
and have grown some more,
never having known
their very own war.
So they probe you for stories
they know that time flees,
and they hope letting go
will let you go free.

But the dam remains strong
the pain buried deep.
And still, you can’t speak
of unspeakable things.




I try to write a Remembrance Day poem every year. Stylistically, this is a departure for me. The fairly regular rhyme and rhythm present certain limitations. But I think I managed to say what I wanted.

The (imminent) election of Barak Obama influenced me in the writing of this, as it did the last poem I posted. One pundit interpreted his Presidency as not just a possible transcendence of the politics of race, but as a generational change -- away from the dominating (and often resented) influence of the baby boomers. Which made me wonder whether anyone will know, 50 years from now, what we even meant when they encounter all those references to "boomers".

As I set out to write about this exceptional phenomenon of the boomer generation, I was influenced by a book review of Farley Mowat's recently published "Otherwise" I had just finished reading. The reviewer of talks about the transformational experience the Second World War had on him, and Mowat's bitterness towards war -- the death and destruction not just of man, but of the natural world.

So my "boomer" poem somehow transformed itself into a Remembrance Day poem: as it happens, just in time for November 11.