Quotidian
April 29 2009
It’s how the world turns upside-down
in an instant.
How you’re suddenly outside
looking in,
at impatient people
going about their business,
all busily thinking
two steps ahead.
Maybe the diagnosis, sitting across the desk,
that made your ears burn
the rest freeze,
whatever else he said
incomprehensible.
Or that moment of inattention
when the bike appeared
the old lady stepped-off the curb.
Shaking your head
at all the petty concerns
you let own you
once.
The well, in the country of the sick
sit on the edge of their chairs,
afraid to appear too comfortable
eyeing the exit nervously
anxiously feeling for passports.
They don’t belong here.
They mumble awkwardly.
They worry
the hospital smell
might stick.
They feel immunized
by today,
its relentless normalcy.
But they know deep inside
they too
will go to bed at night,
roll to one side,
then open their eyes
in another dawn’s pale wash,
in that moment of confusion
that feels like forever.
Laid bare
to the random event.
To bad luck.
To contingency.
To the sudden beginning
of some unknowable end.
This is a theme I’ve re-visited more than once: the idea of contingency, of taking nothing for granted.
But it’s not as black as it appears. Because this is a healthy perspective for living mindfully, and for living with gratitude; for making the small things of quotidian life seem extraordinary. And -- at the risk of descending into cliché -- how intimations of mortality can restore perspective and priorities; make things suddenly so much clearer.
There is another theme, as well: how we, who inhabit the country of the well, protect ourselves psychologically from the country of the sick. How we keep our distance; how good we are at denial; how we relegate such unpleasantness to the category of “other”. But also how, eventually and inevitably, we will all be unceremoniously and unexpectedly ushered over the border.
A stylistic note. The quality of morning light is one of my recurring tropes -- a relatively minor one, but one that keeps coming up. So I'm a little concerned that in trying to find something fresh and different, "dawn's pale wash" may seem self-consciously "poetical". What I was trying to get at with this image was the diluted translucent watered-down feeling you can get from well-executed watercolours. So far, I'm happy with the result.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Monday, April 27, 2009
The Great Magician
April 27 2009
The magician’s assistant
wears her insistent smile
unfazed.
In the limbo of disappearance.
Sawed through the middle
watching,
as her wiggling toes are wheeled apart.
And in her model’s pose,
drawing our attention to rabbits.
She wears revealing clothes,
a vision from some magic planet
not at all like us.
While he takes all the credit
in top-hat and snappy tux;
she, the passive object
of his spells.
But one day, he taps his wand to make her vanish,
and she fails to reappear.
Perhaps lost, or banished
to some exotic land,
the enchanted dimension
of odd socks
forgotten words.
Perhaps gone —
sick of smiling.
Or too fat
for skimpy costumes.
Or out-of-the-blue
badly allergic to rabbits.
And the bedraggled master
reduced
to plucking coins from children’s ears,
making babies’ noses
disappear.
To boos, and catcalls.
Or were they lovers, all along
who fought,
stomping-off in a huff to mother’s?
The great magician powerless
to conjure her up
bring her back.
Just apathetic rabbits
from threadbare hats.
Nothing very deep behind this poem. I was in the mood to write, but had absolutely no idea what to write about, no particular inspiration or urgency. So I picked up a recent issue of the New Yorker that was handy, and riffled through the cartoons for an idea. This one caught my eye. Frankly, I think any one of them would have done.
But as it turns out, there is something very affecting in this one: about the illusion of power; about determined self-deception; about continuing to live in the past. And also about the balance of power, as well as the always fraught and perilous nature of relationships -- especially the intimate ones.
By the way, importing this cartoon from the New Yorker web-site was not easy; not to mention that it's probably a flagrant breach of copyright!
April 27 2009
The magician’s assistant
wears her insistent smile
unfazed.
In the limbo of disappearance.
Sawed through the middle
watching,
as her wiggling toes are wheeled apart.
And in her model’s pose,
drawing our attention to rabbits.
She wears revealing clothes,
a vision from some magic planet
not at all like us.
While he takes all the credit
in top-hat and snappy tux;
she, the passive object
of his spells.
But one day, he taps his wand to make her vanish,
and she fails to reappear.
Perhaps lost, or banished
to some exotic land,
the enchanted dimension
of odd socks
forgotten words.
Perhaps gone —
sick of smiling.
Or too fat
for skimpy costumes.
Or out-of-the-blue
badly allergic to rabbits.
And the bedraggled master
reduced
to plucking coins from children’s ears,
making babies’ noses
disappear.
To boos, and catcalls.
Or were they lovers, all along
who fought,
stomping-off in a huff to mother’s?
The great magician powerless
to conjure her up
bring her back.
Just apathetic rabbits
from threadbare hats.
Nothing very deep behind this poem. I was in the mood to write, but had absolutely no idea what to write about, no particular inspiration or urgency. So I picked up a recent issue of the New Yorker that was handy, and riffled through the cartoons for an idea. This one caught my eye. Frankly, I think any one of them would have done.
But as it turns out, there is something very affecting in this one: about the illusion of power; about determined self-deception; about continuing to live in the past. And also about the balance of power, as well as the always fraught and perilous nature of relationships -- especially the intimate ones.
By the way, importing this cartoon from the New Yorker web-site was not easy; not to mention that it's probably a flagrant breach of copyright!
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Closing Time
April 26 2009
There is not the sadness I expected.
Instead, there is polished granite
that attests
to long lives, well-lived.
To love
and remembrance.
And to faith,
that seems far more certain
chiselled in stone.
I come here for quiet,
green grass and shade
my secret escape
from the relentless city.
I suspect the dead
are not so happy
with this.
In their eternal rest
craving
the littered streets,
the honking impatience,
the clenched fists, waving
from grid-locked cars.
And the honky-tonk music
that leaks-out
of squat brick buildings,
where burly men stand guard.
I think I’d prefer
a cheap cardboard casket
that would dissolve on the first wet day,
my mortal remains
quickly reclaimed
by earth.
Where noise could penetrate
easily.
The sound of foot-steps
6’ up,
stopping, kneeling,
offering flowers
or prayer.
The wind,
when darkness falls
the gates are locked.
And the laughter
at closing time.
The sound of passers-by, slightly tipsy.
Of high heels
striking the sidewalk, almost tripping.
Of giddy girls
clinging to boys.
I heard an interview with a musician (I forget who), who was leading the usual itinerant life of the struggling performer: on the road, a strange new town every few nights. She said she sought out cemeteries in these unfamiliar places, that cemeteries are like an anointed oasis of unexpected peace in the middle of chaos and noise. And that she didn't think the dead minded her being there.
When I first heard this, I immediately thought it might make a poem (because I feel the same way, and can't resist visiting a cemetery, the older the better). A day later, I knew it would. So it was finally time to put pen to paper, and see where it would lead.
Among other things, I like the melancholy quality here: the dead envying the living; the living blissfully oblivious of their frail mortality. And the ambivalence: the intimation that the dead aren't utterly gone, annihilated; and that passing away still being loved and having fully lived, isn't the worst thing that could happen.
April 26 2009
There is not the sadness I expected.
Instead, there is polished granite
that attests
to long lives, well-lived.
To love
and remembrance.
And to faith,
that seems far more certain
chiselled in stone.
I come here for quiet,
green grass and shade
my secret escape
from the relentless city.
I suspect the dead
are not so happy
with this.
In their eternal rest
craving
the littered streets,
the honking impatience,
the clenched fists, waving
from grid-locked cars.
And the honky-tonk music
that leaks-out
of squat brick buildings,
where burly men stand guard.
I think I’d prefer
a cheap cardboard casket
that would dissolve on the first wet day,
my mortal remains
quickly reclaimed
by earth.
Where noise could penetrate
easily.
The sound of foot-steps
6’ up,
stopping, kneeling,
offering flowers
or prayer.
The wind,
when darkness falls
the gates are locked.
And the laughter
at closing time.
The sound of passers-by, slightly tipsy.
Of high heels
striking the sidewalk, almost tripping.
Of giddy girls
clinging to boys.
I heard an interview with a musician (I forget who), who was leading the usual itinerant life of the struggling performer: on the road, a strange new town every few nights. She said she sought out cemeteries in these unfamiliar places, that cemeteries are like an anointed oasis of unexpected peace in the middle of chaos and noise. And that she didn't think the dead minded her being there.
When I first heard this, I immediately thought it might make a poem (because I feel the same way, and can't resist visiting a cemetery, the older the better). A day later, I knew it would. So it was finally time to put pen to paper, and see where it would lead.
Among other things, I like the melancholy quality here: the dead envying the living; the living blissfully oblivious of their frail mortality. And the ambivalence: the intimation that the dead aren't utterly gone, annihilated; and that passing away still being loved and having fully lived, isn't the worst thing that could happen.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
At Last
April 21 2009
You feel like an impostor,
dancing faster and faster
to stay on top,
keep your head above water.
Or risk looking down;
surface tension
all that keeps you from drowning.
You are a self-proclaimed agnostic,
your theology modest
your conviction soft.
But actually, you proclaim nothing at all,
preferring to get along
by default.
Words like “evil”, and “wicked”
seem anachronistic,
too Old Testament
for how we now live.
Mild condemnation’s OK,
but nothing any stricter.
He couldn’t choose his parents, after all;
so whose fault is it, really?
It’s mostly muddling through
making do,
too pre-occupied, and harassed
for the longer view.
Which all feels too much
like nailing jelly to walls,
trimming the lawn
with scissors.
Or counting grains of sand
as the pit collapses around you.
So when the planet slammed to a stop,
the sun froze
at the top of its orbit.
When buildings toppled
and we were catapulted-off
over the edge,
like tiny specks
on sudden helpless tangents,
you had no way
to make any sense of it.
But what a relief
to have space to think,
at last.
When time took time-out,
when you let yourself go,
when fate
was all you had faith in.
Such exquisite decadence,
surrender.
April 21 2009
You feel like an impostor,
dancing faster and faster
to stay on top,
keep your head above water.
Or risk looking down;
surface tension
all that keeps you from drowning.
You are a self-proclaimed agnostic,
your theology modest
your conviction soft.
But actually, you proclaim nothing at all,
preferring to get along
by default.
Words like “evil”, and “wicked”
seem anachronistic,
too Old Testament
for how we now live.
Mild condemnation’s OK,
but nothing any stricter.
He couldn’t choose his parents, after all;
so whose fault is it, really?
It’s mostly muddling through
making do,
too pre-occupied, and harassed
for the longer view.
Which all feels too much
like nailing jelly to walls,
trimming the lawn
with scissors.
Or counting grains of sand
as the pit collapses around you.
So when the planet slammed to a stop,
the sun froze
at the top of its orbit.
When buildings toppled
and we were catapulted-off
over the edge,
like tiny specks
on sudden helpless tangents,
you had no way
to make any sense of it.
But what a relief
to have space to think,
at last.
When time took time-out,
when you let yourself go,
when fate
was all you had faith in.
Such exquisite decadence,
surrender.
Darkness Shifts
April 20 2009
It depends on the moon.
On clouds,
scudding, dense.
Or a tenuous lens
of gauze.
And the ground.
The reflection of snow
austere and cold.
Or a mess of leaves
rotting, sodden
— like a thick poultice
soaking-up the light.
At night, the spectrum is grey
to black —
all surface, texture,
colour banned.
Darkness shifts
from jet to smoke to mud
to grizzled, ashen, dust.
I see black cats
whisking, nuzzling,
circling crows
cawing, cunning.
And underneath
a small grey mouse
running
flees.
Where edges soften with distance,
in a world of degree
not difference.
Buildings overlap
stacked back-to-back,
through gun-metal, lead, and scuff.
And mountains soften
as they recede,
through ebony, ink, and smudge.
Looming up
against pitch-black sky.
Where the moon will rise,
extracting the world
dripping
from its silver bath.
An unerring whetstone,
that sharpens every edge
with light.
"midnight slips obsidian: an arrowhead in my hand
pointed roofs against the backdrop, black and blacker
three kinds of ink, each more india than the last"
That fragment of a poem by D A Powell set me off on this piece.
His work is really quite fabulous: accessible; allusive; with an inspired ear for the sound of language, for unexpected rhyme and imaginative line breaks; and subversively free-form and playful. He's a far better poet than me. I think he leaves more space. I think he trusts the reader more; and by being allowed to do more of the work, the reader in turn gets more enjoyment of the poem. And his use of rhyme is very deft: it sneaks up on you; it seems natural, instead of shoe-horned in according to some formula; and there is an almost kinesthetic pleasure in speaking it, in the "mouth feel" of the words. So I urge you to go check out his work.
Unfortunately, unlike Powell, I find myself completely powerless to fully escape the tyranny of the sentence! Which makes for too much punctuation, too much hand-holding. Which, in turn, tends to make my effort feel constrained and prescriptive. Nevertheless, he is a good influence, and I'm sure significantly improved on what "Darkness Shifts" might have been./B
April 20 2009
It depends on the moon.
On clouds,
scudding, dense.
Or a tenuous lens
of gauze.
And the ground.
The reflection of snow
austere and cold.
Or a mess of leaves
rotting, sodden
— like a thick poultice
soaking-up the light.
At night, the spectrum is grey
to black —
all surface, texture,
colour banned.
Darkness shifts
from jet to smoke to mud
to grizzled, ashen, dust.
I see black cats
whisking, nuzzling,
circling crows
cawing, cunning.
And underneath
a small grey mouse
running
flees.
Where edges soften with distance,
in a world of degree
not difference.
Buildings overlap
stacked back-to-back,
through gun-metal, lead, and scuff.
And mountains soften
as they recede,
through ebony, ink, and smudge.
Looming up
against pitch-black sky.
Where the moon will rise,
extracting the world
dripping
from its silver bath.
An unerring whetstone,
that sharpens every edge
with light.
"midnight slips obsidian: an arrowhead in my hand
pointed roofs against the backdrop, black and blacker
three kinds of ink, each more india than the last"
That fragment of a poem by D A Powell set me off on this piece.
His work is really quite fabulous: accessible; allusive; with an inspired ear for the sound of language, for unexpected rhyme and imaginative line breaks; and subversively free-form and playful. He's a far better poet than me. I think he leaves more space. I think he trusts the reader more; and by being allowed to do more of the work, the reader in turn gets more enjoyment of the poem. And his use of rhyme is very deft: it sneaks up on you; it seems natural, instead of shoe-horned in according to some formula; and there is an almost kinesthetic pleasure in speaking it, in the "mouth feel" of the words. So I urge you to go check out his work.
Unfortunately, unlike Powell, I find myself completely powerless to fully escape the tyranny of the sentence! Which makes for too much punctuation, too much hand-holding. Which, in turn, tends to make my effort feel constrained and prescriptive. Nevertheless, he is a good influence, and I'm sure significantly improved on what "Darkness Shifts" might have been./B
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Office Copier
April 18 2009
No one wears a wristwatch anymore.
Except senior management
who grew up with them;
who learned to tell time at-a-glance
dial rotary phones
write letters, with stamps.
I did, too,
but never got promoted.
I occupy this over-heated cubicle.
A fluorescent light
shines directly overhead.
Grey dividers
give a sense of place,
reassuring me.
My standard office chair
tips back precariously;
and I count down the hours,
concentrating
with my eyes closed.
A fine art
first learned in high school.
I shuffle paper.
The screen-saver
keeps me company.
I spend time
with the photocopy machine,
eyelids tight
its fierce immaculate light
passing right through me,
so every molecule feels jumped-up
sparking-off.
And in the purity of illumination
I vanish,
enlightened with blinding insight
with a knowing radiant peace.
Which I promptly forget,
coming down to earth
to the thunk-thunk-thunk of the machine
sorting paper.
After 20 years
there will be a firm handshake
a hearty pat on the back.
No gold watch.
My worthy work forgotten.
All the copies
lost.
A few streams of thought coalesced into this poem.
The first line I read or heard somewhere, and suddenly realized how true it was: that with Blackberries and cells, who needs one? And also how this is very much a generational marker.
Another tributary was an email I had recently received from someone explaining why she hadn't written in awhile: too busy at work. Prior to that, I'd messaged someone else with the old cliche about "no one on their death-bed ever regretting not having gone into the office more".
And finally, there were some ruminations on the "industrial model" of education, on the debasement of genuine curiosity and higher education by the cheap imperative of credentialism. This occurs oh so briefly in the line " ...a fine art / I learned in high school."
So ultimately, this becomes another poem about futility. But also about how imagination and a rich interior life offer us the possibility of rescue. (And what better metaphor than a Xerox machine for the futile life of an under-achiever, spent pushing paper in a cubicle farm ?!!)
April 18 2009
No one wears a wristwatch anymore.
Except senior management
who grew up with them;
who learned to tell time at-a-glance
dial rotary phones
write letters, with stamps.
I did, too,
but never got promoted.
I occupy this over-heated cubicle.
A fluorescent light
shines directly overhead.
Grey dividers
give a sense of place,
reassuring me.
My standard office chair
tips back precariously;
and I count down the hours,
concentrating
with my eyes closed.
A fine art
first learned in high school.
I shuffle paper.
The screen-saver
keeps me company.
I spend time
with the photocopy machine,
eyelids tight
its fierce immaculate light
passing right through me,
so every molecule feels jumped-up
sparking-off.
And in the purity of illumination
I vanish,
enlightened with blinding insight
with a knowing radiant peace.
Which I promptly forget,
coming down to earth
to the thunk-thunk-thunk of the machine
sorting paper.
After 20 years
there will be a firm handshake
a hearty pat on the back.
No gold watch.
My worthy work forgotten.
All the copies
lost.
A few streams of thought coalesced into this poem.
The first line I read or heard somewhere, and suddenly realized how true it was: that with Blackberries and cells, who needs one? And also how this is very much a generational marker.
Another tributary was an email I had recently received from someone explaining why she hadn't written in awhile: too busy at work. Prior to that, I'd messaged someone else with the old cliche about "no one on their death-bed ever regretting not having gone into the office more".
And finally, there were some ruminations on the "industrial model" of education, on the debasement of genuine curiosity and higher education by the cheap imperative of credentialism. This occurs oh so briefly in the line " ...a fine art / I learned in high school."
So ultimately, this becomes another poem about futility. But also about how imagination and a rich interior life offer us the possibility of rescue. (And what better metaphor than a Xerox machine for the futile life of an under-achiever, spent pushing paper in a cubicle farm ?!!)
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Trucks Being Dropped From Cranes
April 14 2009
The rail-yards occupy the flat weedy space
between the town and the lake,
like a rusty iron belt
cinching-up the skinny waist
of a seedy inner-city.
You pick your way across
track after track,
a vast no-man’s land
booby-trapped with trip-wires.
The way parallel lines never meet,
endless in both directions.
Or watch your step
that awkward stretch
from tie to tie.
Which seem to say
you don’t fit-in down here —
soft pink flesh
among grunting locomotives
heavy gauge steel.
The first time you heard the shunting of trains
you were startled awake,
wondering
at trucks being dropped from cranes,
or earthquakes, bomb practice
elevators crashing.
But it was railway-men
cursing, cadging naps,
sipping from a thermos of hot black coffee
forming convoys in the dark —
diesel jockeys
assembling cars.
So that two lovers
spooned against each other
on some wind-swept prairie farm
will be reassured
by the sound of trains in the night
thundering by.
Until the rise and fall
of the final whistle
pierces the cool air,
its plaintive wail raising the hair of their necks
— like wolves, howling,
somewhere
out there
in the dark.
And in its wake, clinching tighter
the silence
is almost deafening.
April 14 2009
The rail-yards occupy the flat weedy space
between the town and the lake,
like a rusty iron belt
cinching-up the skinny waist
of a seedy inner-city.
You pick your way across
track after track,
a vast no-man’s land
booby-trapped with trip-wires.
The way parallel lines never meet,
endless in both directions.
Or watch your step
that awkward stretch
from tie to tie.
Which seem to say
you don’t fit-in down here —
soft pink flesh
among grunting locomotives
heavy gauge steel.
The first time you heard the shunting of trains
you were startled awake,
wondering
at trucks being dropped from cranes,
or earthquakes, bomb practice
elevators crashing.
But it was railway-men
cursing, cadging naps,
sipping from a thermos of hot black coffee
forming convoys in the dark —
diesel jockeys
assembling cars.
So that two lovers
spooned against each other
on some wind-swept prairie farm
will be reassured
by the sound of trains in the night
thundering by.
Until the rise and fall
of the final whistle
pierces the cool air,
its plaintive wail raising the hair of their necks
— like wolves, howling,
somewhere
out there
in the dark.
And in its wake, clinching tighter
the silence
is almost deafening.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Fed-Up
April 13 2009
It’s a street like any other.
Cars that could use a wash.
Houses, turning inward,
looking-out through blank reflective windows
poker-faced.
And moth-eaten banks of snow
holding-out in the shade.
But today, it was suddenly festive,
as if we had all at once declared it
the first day of spring
-- no matter what.
Out of nowhere
road hockey warriors,
sprouting nets
shouting “car!”
Kids
walking dogs, leashes taut,
marking-off
their territory.
And dads, pushing prams,
gurgling babies, pink and fat
staring back
wide-eyed.
Barely room to drive.
We’re all fed up with winter.
And bargaining with the weather gods
with our peculiar northern calculus
of hope
-- you can have this lousy spring,
for the long hot summer
we deserve.
As a street like any other
defiantly returns
to life.
April 13 2009
It’s a street like any other.
Cars that could use a wash.
Houses, turning inward,
looking-out through blank reflective windows
poker-faced.
And moth-eaten banks of snow
holding-out in the shade.
But today, it was suddenly festive,
as if we had all at once declared it
the first day of spring
-- no matter what.
Out of nowhere
road hockey warriors,
sprouting nets
shouting “car!”
Kids
walking dogs, leashes taut,
marking-off
their territory.
And dads, pushing prams,
gurgling babies, pink and fat
staring back
wide-eyed.
Barely room to drive.
We’re all fed up with winter.
And bargaining with the weather gods
with our peculiar northern calculus
of hope
-- you can have this lousy spring,
for the long hot summer
we deserve.
As a street like any other
defiantly returns
to life.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Night-Blooming Jasmine
April 12 2009
We arrive
pale
thick-skinned
squinting,
in unaccustomed sun.
Our home is austere, white, wind-swept
with cold sterile air.
Except for wood-smoke
held down at the surface;
eyes running
an acrid cough.
On the equator
the sun sets at six,
rises
precisely 12 hours later
— the wilting heat
almost immediate.
Concrete crumbling,
mildew
dripping down.
Things grow
like uncontrolled metastases —
giant leaves,
blooms of mould,
large carnivorous insects.
Tropical soils are thin, depleted,
despite the lush greenery
that occupies every open space.
And the humidity
corrupting everything;
so I can feel my body
slowly decompose,
clothing rot.
Sunset’s a relief,
despite the mosquitoes
buzzing, swarming,
boring into you ears.
Cool air descends,
the glare is lifted,
the invasion of plants
temporarily stops.
And night-blooming jasmine
permeates the world —
the fans
circling lazily,
the air
lightly stirred.
And our loosely fitting shirts
our thin brown skin;
the intoxicating scent
diffusing right through us.
This poem began when I heard "night-blooming jasmine". Something appealed to me about this. Perhaps the exotic oriental jasmine. Perhaps the mystery of blooming at night. So, naturally, I composed a poem that was green and tropical.
I think what this ends up conveying is the feeling of "going native". It begins with northern tourists -- moneyed, white -- who will dabble their toes in an ersatz paradise at some resort. Ultimately, though, it's the poor disadvantaged south that ends up lording it over them.
The most fun was the gradual accumulation of subversive words that slowly build up this sense of foreboding and threat: words like wilting, crumbling, dripping, metastases, carnivorous, depleted, occupied, corrupting, decompose, rot, invasion. Although in the end, it's the intoxicating scent of jasmine that rescues the narrator from being completely swallowed-up.
April 12 2009
We arrive
pale
thick-skinned
squinting,
in unaccustomed sun.
Our home is austere, white, wind-swept
with cold sterile air.
Except for wood-smoke
held down at the surface;
eyes running
an acrid cough.
On the equator
the sun sets at six,
rises
precisely 12 hours later
— the wilting heat
almost immediate.
Concrete crumbling,
mildew
dripping down.
Things grow
like uncontrolled metastases —
giant leaves,
blooms of mould,
large carnivorous insects.
Tropical soils are thin, depleted,
despite the lush greenery
that occupies every open space.
And the humidity
corrupting everything;
so I can feel my body
slowly decompose,
clothing rot.
Sunset’s a relief,
despite the mosquitoes
buzzing, swarming,
boring into you ears.
Cool air descends,
the glare is lifted,
the invasion of plants
temporarily stops.
And night-blooming jasmine
permeates the world —
the fans
circling lazily,
the air
lightly stirred.
And our loosely fitting shirts
our thin brown skin;
the intoxicating scent
diffusing right through us.
This poem began when I heard "night-blooming jasmine". Something appealed to me about this. Perhaps the exotic oriental jasmine. Perhaps the mystery of blooming at night. So, naturally, I composed a poem that was green and tropical.
I think what this ends up conveying is the feeling of "going native". It begins with northern tourists -- moneyed, white -- who will dabble their toes in an ersatz paradise at some resort. Ultimately, though, it's the poor disadvantaged south that ends up lording it over them.
The most fun was the gradual accumulation of subversive words that slowly build up this sense of foreboding and threat: words like wilting, crumbling, dripping, metastases, carnivorous, depleted, occupied, corrupting, decompose, rot, invasion. Although in the end, it's the intoxicating scent of jasmine that rescues the narrator from being completely swallowed-up.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Impractical Love
April 9 2009
There’s happily-ever-after-love,
and impractical love,
and the love you can only imagine.
And love that has you act
like a fool.
And love
that makes you feel you can
do anything
you put your mind to.
Or the backlash that comes
when it’s crashed.
Or the love
you never asked for.
Or the bad kind of love,
keeping track
keeping score.
Before it began
you confused love with romance.
And then, woman and man
you danced hand in hand,
seduced by its jazz
entranced by its languorous music
— the two of you sure
it would last
and last.
Until love’s aftermath,
when hope was dashed
your rose-coloured glasses
broken.
Yet after all that
you can’t let it pass
— in love with love;
with how it once was;
with what
you are certain will come.
April 9 2009
There’s happily-ever-after-love,
and impractical love,
and the love you can only imagine.
And love that has you act
like a fool.
And love
that makes you feel you can
do anything
you put your mind to.
Or the backlash that comes
when it’s crashed.
Or the love
you never asked for.
Or the bad kind of love,
keeping track
keeping score.
Before it began
you confused love with romance.
And then, woman and man
you danced hand in hand,
seduced by its jazz
entranced by its languorous music
— the two of you sure
it would last
and last.
Until love’s aftermath,
when hope was dashed
your rose-coloured glasses
broken.
Yet after all that
you can’t let it pass
— in love with love;
with how it once was;
with what
you are certain will come.
Old Growth
April 8 2009
A voice
in the wilderness.
A tree about to fall.
The river is loud
on this knuckle of land
standing hand-in-glove in its curve
— rushing down,
pounding polished rock.
Where you must shout to be heard.
So it’s surprising, the sudden quiet
as you retreat into the trees,
emerging from mist.
Just leaves, rustling.
The crack of a branch
when the wind picks up.
Here, in the shelter
of densely treed forest
still cool from the night before,
you wonder if you’re truly alone.
You imagine eyes, watching,
ears, cocked.
And you feel like an intruder,
in this wild primeval wood.
So when you hear that disembodied voice
— tearing at tranquil air
absorbed by timeless forest —
you feel exhilarated, free.
And screaming at the top of your lungs
you don’t give a damn, for once
that no one in the world is listening.
All those futile words
they didn’t care to hear,
compressed
into one anguished deafening noise.
This poem started with the first line: "A voice in the wilderness." I like doing this: seeing a cliche through unjaded eyes; exploring its literal and metaphorical possibilities. I think the saying is usually meant to imply something about the prophet scorned, the prescient soothsayer who is ignored in his own time. But I chose to follow it in a more literal direction; into a reverie about actual wilderness, where I often feel most at home: the quality of sound, the misdirection. And where it eventually led me was to a great exhilarating act of ventilation: ventilation at the futility of one voice trying to be heard in the deafening cacophony of the world. And more particularly, the frustration of writing all this poetry, only to have it drop into a black hole of utter indifference -- like the proverbial tree; falling, unheard, in the forest. (And to anyone who actually reads this, my respectful apologies for such self-indulgent whinging!)
April 8 2009
A voice
in the wilderness.
A tree about to fall.
The river is loud
on this knuckle of land
standing hand-in-glove in its curve
— rushing down,
pounding polished rock.
Where you must shout to be heard.
So it’s surprising, the sudden quiet
as you retreat into the trees,
emerging from mist.
Just leaves, rustling.
The crack of a branch
when the wind picks up.
Here, in the shelter
of densely treed forest
still cool from the night before,
you wonder if you’re truly alone.
You imagine eyes, watching,
ears, cocked.
And you feel like an intruder,
in this wild primeval wood.
So when you hear that disembodied voice
— tearing at tranquil air
absorbed by timeless forest —
you feel exhilarated, free.
And screaming at the top of your lungs
you don’t give a damn, for once
that no one in the world is listening.
All those futile words
they didn’t care to hear,
compressed
into one anguished deafening noise.
This poem started with the first line: "A voice in the wilderness." I like doing this: seeing a cliche through unjaded eyes; exploring its literal and metaphorical possibilities. I think the saying is usually meant to imply something about the prophet scorned, the prescient soothsayer who is ignored in his own time. But I chose to follow it in a more literal direction; into a reverie about actual wilderness, where I often feel most at home: the quality of sound, the misdirection. And where it eventually led me was to a great exhilarating act of ventilation: ventilation at the futility of one voice trying to be heard in the deafening cacophony of the world. And more particularly, the frustration of writing all this poetry, only to have it drop into a black hole of utter indifference -- like the proverbial tree; falling, unheard, in the forest. (And to anyone who actually reads this, my respectful apologies for such self-indulgent whinging!)
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
The End of the Line
April 7 2009
But the sun really does revolve about the earth.
Here, at the centre of the universe
on this perfect sphere
in the best of all possible worlds.
Where I watch it rise,
its slow majestic progress
reassuring.
I have ridden to the end of the line
— the subway car empty,
the light
a cold awakening.
A borough
of factories and terminals
I never knew existed,
and don’t quite fit —
like an alien
in my own home town.
The train, above ground
in sprawling marshalling yards
closing down.
Where the conductor
brusquely ushers me off
— in the middle of nowhere, stopped.
So I watch
the glorious dawn
the subservient sun.
A passenger
on a stationary planet,
at perfect rest.
We all know – and believe in – the Copernican universe: that the earth is a small planet circling a minor star in an insignificant galaxy somewhere on the edge of the universe. Nevertheless, we can’t help but feel that we are still at the centre of existence: our senses tell us this; our ego reinforces it. Watch the heavens, and it’s just “common sense”. So I think this poem is about this abiding tension: pulled one way by humility and reason; pulled the other by the feeling that everything really does revolve around us.
April 7 2009
But the sun really does revolve about the earth.
Here, at the centre of the universe
on this perfect sphere
in the best of all possible worlds.
Where I watch it rise,
its slow majestic progress
reassuring.
I have ridden to the end of the line
— the subway car empty,
the light
a cold awakening.
A borough
of factories and terminals
I never knew existed,
and don’t quite fit —
like an alien
in my own home town.
The train, above ground
in sprawling marshalling yards
closing down.
Where the conductor
brusquely ushers me off
— in the middle of nowhere, stopped.
So I watch
the glorious dawn
the subservient sun.
A passenger
on a stationary planet,
at perfect rest.
We all know – and believe in – the Copernican universe: that the earth is a small planet circling a minor star in an insignificant galaxy somewhere on the edge of the universe. Nevertheless, we can’t help but feel that we are still at the centre of existence: our senses tell us this; our ego reinforces it. Watch the heavens, and it’s just “common sense”. So I think this poem is about this abiding tension: pulled one way by humility and reason; pulled the other by the feeling that everything really does revolve around us.
Raising Hell
April 7 2006
Damned tooth, he winced
— not again!
A nail into the brain,
hot electric probes.
He remembers broken bones
the flattened nose
spraying blood.
The stitch in his side,
so they cut him open
— appendix, ruptured.
Tough as nails
he took all comers,
never ducked a fight.
So when his shoulder ached
he just ignored it.
And when the sweat came
the breath shortened
his chest, clutched,
he downed some Aspirin,
went to bed, no fuss.
We found him dead, next morning.
And laid out in his coffin
didn’t he look fine —
a handsome stiff
in unaccustomed
suit and tie.
Probably raising hell
tossing halos
charming angels;
flashing heaven
that cockeyed smile.
I wanted to write a poem about stoicism. The heart attack thing -- the denial -- was there from the start. And I wanted it unapologetic: none of the bloody earthy bodily references softened. But this feisty little bantam-weight bare-knuckle fighter kind of came out of nowhere (or at least that’s how I see him.) Ultimately, it became more of a word-play poem: just plain fun, especially when you read it out loud, and fast.
April 7 2006
Damned tooth, he winced
— not again!
A nail into the brain,
hot electric probes.
He remembers broken bones
the flattened nose
spraying blood.
The stitch in his side,
so they cut him open
— appendix, ruptured.
Tough as nails
he took all comers,
never ducked a fight.
So when his shoulder ached
he just ignored it.
And when the sweat came
the breath shortened
his chest, clutched,
he downed some Aspirin,
went to bed, no fuss.
We found him dead, next morning.
And laid out in his coffin
didn’t he look fine —
a handsome stiff
in unaccustomed
suit and tie.
Probably raising hell
tossing halos
charming angels;
flashing heaven
that cockeyed smile.
I wanted to write a poem about stoicism. The heart attack thing -- the denial -- was there from the start. And I wanted it unapologetic: none of the bloody earthy bodily references softened. But this feisty little bantam-weight bare-knuckle fighter kind of came out of nowhere (or at least that’s how I see him.) Ultimately, it became more of a word-play poem: just plain fun, especially when you read it out loud, and fast.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Doubt
April 6 2009
Bless me Father, for I have sinned.
Which is how it always begins
in this dim dusty cubicle,
smelling of floor wax
and musty robes.
Although if you had skipped confessing
your trivial transgressions,
heaven would hardly have noticed.
The man on the other side sounds bored;
an act of charity
some Hail Mary’s
to purify your soul,
sending you out into the world
clear.
You think of the hearts unburdened here,
the choked-up voices
the tears.
The years of terrible secrets
crammed-in to this airless space,
safe
from human hearing.
The man
across the thin partition
shoulders everything
— the trifling sins
and minor omissions,
the unbearable weight
of misery
and vice.
He prays for faith,
not forgiveness.
He confesses doubt,
but hears no reassurance.
And straining harder every day
he listens, glancing up,
for absolution
for benediction
for love.
April 6 2009
Bless me Father, for I have sinned.
Which is how it always begins
in this dim dusty cubicle,
smelling of floor wax
and musty robes.
Although if you had skipped confessing
your trivial transgressions,
heaven would hardly have noticed.
The man on the other side sounds bored;
an act of charity
some Hail Mary’s
to purify your soul,
sending you out into the world
clear.
You think of the hearts unburdened here,
the choked-up voices
the tears.
The years of terrible secrets
crammed-in to this airless space,
safe
from human hearing.
The man
across the thin partition
shoulders everything
— the trifling sins
and minor omissions,
the unbearable weight
of misery
and vice.
He prays for faith,
not forgiveness.
He confesses doubt,
but hears no reassurance.
And straining harder every day
he listens, glancing up,
for absolution
for benediction
for love.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Seeking Comfort
April 2 2009
Doing dishes
and other rituals
of daily living.
The rubber gloves, the frothy suds, the squeaky sponge
the heat you love,
soothing your hands, in winter.
Drifting-off
into reverie.
Or ironing
as the path to serenity —
the back and forth,
the familiar board,
the smell
of singed cotton and steam.
The satisfaction of shirts
in orderly rows,
stiff
and sharply creased.
Because denial works.
And the illusion of control
is comforting,
when life has caught you blind-side.
Or the dog,
scratching at the door
barking.
He delights in the moment,
following his nose
thrilled by every odour.
This is his entire universe —
you, at the other end,
his weight against your leg
reassuringly;
laser-focused
on this exact scent,
no worries about the next.
The perpetual now
where every dog exists.
And you would love
to follow.
April 2 2009
Doing dishes
and other rituals
of daily living.
The rubber gloves, the frothy suds, the squeaky sponge
the heat you love,
soothing your hands, in winter.
Drifting-off
into reverie.
Or ironing
as the path to serenity —
the back and forth,
the familiar board,
the smell
of singed cotton and steam.
The satisfaction of shirts
in orderly rows,
stiff
and sharply creased.
Because denial works.
And the illusion of control
is comforting,
when life has caught you blind-side.
Or the dog,
scratching at the door
barking.
He delights in the moment,
following his nose
thrilled by every odour.
This is his entire universe —
you, at the other end,
his weight against your leg
reassuringly;
laser-focused
on this exact scent,
no worries about the next.
The perpetual now
where every dog exists.
And you would love
to follow.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Victory Burlesque
April 1 2009
At the old Victory Burlesque
pale men slumped
in plush velour chairs,
stained and scuffed.
A few bums
who had begged their 2 bucks
slept,
heads lolling.
The stag party, drunk,
the fraternity punks,
hooted and hollered
cat-called and swallowed
cheap rye, or rum,
revelling in their manliness.
They watched the stage
avoiding each other,
peering through tobacco-smudged darkness.
At girls who were pleasantly plump
just off the farm,
in the city to be discovered.
They would bump-and-grind
waggle fat behinds
and spin gaudy tassels,
dangling temptation
only to snatch it back.
Dancing away mechanically
they clumped around on stage
as if it were milking time —
hair up
in garish paint
smacking wads of gum
into bright pink bubbles.
On Christmas eve
she wore a jaunty Santa cap,
waved plastic mistletoe,
hung candy canes
from her nipples —
and no one took offence.
They tore it down
a year ago,
for a parking lot, a Multiplex.
Some say there’s still the scent
of talcum powder and stale sweat,
of tobacco
and musk.
The few old men
who remember,
the Victory Burlesque.
Before it was demolished, the Victory Burlesque was a seedy Toronto landmark, a survivor from an earlier era of furtive sexuality and puritanical finger-wagging. It was also a rite of passage for teenage boys. I never had the “privilege” of attending, however. So this poem is an utter fabrication, a complete act of imagination. Which means that I’m waiting to hear back from someone who did: wondering whether or not I got it right. Although I will admit that for some of the juicy bits, I owe a debt of gratitude to a recent “Outfront” episode (a listener produced CBC radio show that has since been cancelled). So how about we just call it an homage, instead of shameless plagiarism?!!
April 1 2009
At the old Victory Burlesque
pale men slumped
in plush velour chairs,
stained and scuffed.
A few bums
who had begged their 2 bucks
slept,
heads lolling.
The stag party, drunk,
the fraternity punks,
hooted and hollered
cat-called and swallowed
cheap rye, or rum,
revelling in their manliness.
They watched the stage
avoiding each other,
peering through tobacco-smudged darkness.
At girls who were pleasantly plump
just off the farm,
in the city to be discovered.
They would bump-and-grind
waggle fat behinds
and spin gaudy tassels,
dangling temptation
only to snatch it back.
Dancing away mechanically
they clumped around on stage
as if it were milking time —
hair up
in garish paint
smacking wads of gum
into bright pink bubbles.
On Christmas eve
she wore a jaunty Santa cap,
waved plastic mistletoe,
hung candy canes
from her nipples —
and no one took offence.
They tore it down
a year ago,
for a parking lot, a Multiplex.
Some say there’s still the scent
of talcum powder and stale sweat,
of tobacco
and musk.
The few old men
who remember,
the Victory Burlesque.
Before it was demolished, the Victory Burlesque was a seedy Toronto landmark, a survivor from an earlier era of furtive sexuality and puritanical finger-wagging. It was also a rite of passage for teenage boys. I never had the “privilege” of attending, however. So this poem is an utter fabrication, a complete act of imagination. Which means that I’m waiting to hear back from someone who did: wondering whether or not I got it right. Although I will admit that for some of the juicy bits, I owe a debt of gratitude to a recent “Outfront” episode (a listener produced CBC radio show that has since been cancelled). So how about we just call it an homage, instead of shameless plagiarism?!!
First Snow
Mar 31 2009
I was born here
in a freak snowstorm
when it should have been spring
in the back seat of a frantic Buick,
fish-tailing up
iced-over hills,
slithering back down again.
Every immigrant speaks of his very first snow,
eyes lighting-up
with wonder.
We take this for granted,
an inconvenience, shovelling.
So I hear his story
and understand
the miracle of white stuff
gently falling
blanketing the ground
melting on out-stretched tongues;
the soft blue light,
the muffled sound.
And how the cold
penetrates thin tropical skin,
how it melted and froze
in flimsy canvas sneakers,
and how words emerged
like magic
in frosty clouds of breath.
Dogs
porpoising through the drifts
snapping at snowflakes
burrowing into it.
And full-grown men
reverting back to kids.
Native sons forget.
And I was far too young to delight
in my very first snow
in my dad’s Roadmaster Buick;
its big white-walls
rattling with chains,
every window
frosted over.
This is part of family lore. In the real story, we made it up the hill and to the hospital on time. And it may not even have been a Buick. The rest is pretty much true. And the message is to live mindfully, to keep viewing the world with wonder. I know, sounds like a Hallmark card. While respectable poets should be cynical and suitably bohemian. …Maybe next time!
Mar 31 2009
I was born here
in a freak snowstorm
when it should have been spring
in the back seat of a frantic Buick,
fish-tailing up
iced-over hills,
slithering back down again.
Every immigrant speaks of his very first snow,
eyes lighting-up
with wonder.
We take this for granted,
an inconvenience, shovelling.
So I hear his story
and understand
the miracle of white stuff
gently falling
blanketing the ground
melting on out-stretched tongues;
the soft blue light,
the muffled sound.
And how the cold
penetrates thin tropical skin,
how it melted and froze
in flimsy canvas sneakers,
and how words emerged
like magic
in frosty clouds of breath.
Dogs
porpoising through the drifts
snapping at snowflakes
burrowing into it.
And full-grown men
reverting back to kids.
Native sons forget.
And I was far too young to delight
in my very first snow
in my dad’s Roadmaster Buick;
its big white-walls
rattling with chains,
every window
frosted over.
This is part of family lore. In the real story, we made it up the hill and to the hospital on time. And it may not even have been a Buick. The rest is pretty much true. And the message is to live mindfully, to keep viewing the world with wonder. I know, sounds like a Hallmark card. While respectable poets should be cynical and suitably bohemian. …Maybe next time!
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