Cold Front
Dec 28 2009


The plough came early
most of the world asleep,
high-beams bleaching the pristine surface,
hazard light blinking
like a Martian lander,
electric blue.

The shiny steel blade
breaks the deep cold stillness,
carves a wave of snow
peeling smoothly off
in its wake.
It rumbles
over asphalt,
clatters
over frozen gravel,
groans and scrapes
over hard concrete roads.
And the diesels, thrumming
belching smoke.

We hear it, half awake
through triple-pane glass
bolted doors,
the ghostly light invading our bedrooms
swivelling swiftly past.

The midnight world
of muffled whiteness
wind-sculpted curves,
ditches filled
fenced buried
roads and fields blurred,
is now neat, geometric
— order conferred.
The grid emerges
between steep snowbanks
and scoured streets
scarred by sand,
that will turn into wet grey slush
come rush hour.

At 4 am, my footprints were all that marred
the untouched surface
perfectly preserved,
like the fossilized tracks
of a long extinct animal,
pacing restlessly, aimlessly
unable to sleep,
caught
in a maelstrom of thought,
quashed
by the weight of feeling.

But the snowplough came, and went
obliterating every evidence
of my existence, then,
between the end of the storm
and the lighter grey
of morning.

Cocoon
Dec 21 2009


The shortest day,
a few seconds less
than yesterday,
according to meticulous astronomical observation.
The sun, setting in the afternoon
unnoticed.
So low, it pours on the windows
horizontal,
illuminating neglected corners;
as if to compensate
for so brief a stay.

From here, lengthening imperceptibly
until 6 months hence,
when the day will seem endless
the heat oppressive
and light
penetrates everything.

But for now, an excuse to eat
to sleep
to dream
through the long luxurious night.
To throw another log on the stove
until the iron box glows;
the flame greedy for fuel,
hypnotizing us
to feed it.

Embers, by morning
grumbling awake in the cold.
Still dark outside,
so I roll over
return to the warm cocoon of covers
and sleep,
at least until first light.

Neatness
Dec 13 2009


It’s a nervous tic, I suppose
picking away at things.
A loose corner, a thread.
A broken nail
you worry at
with your teeth, your hand
your teeth again.
How you unerringly find the crack
pick away at it, distractedly
until you feel it give,
gone too far to fix.

You prefer an even surface,
smoothing over things,
endings trimmed and clipped.
Neat
and uncontested.
Not so much neurotic, or obsessed
as convention
what’s expected
better left unsaid.

Trouble is
things smart small
get bigger
and you can’t go back.
So you’re embarrassed by your ugly hands —
nails chewed to the quick,
even the skin, nibbled at.

You pull at threads
and feel things unravel.
You pick at chips
until your vessel cracks.

Unsightly scabs
you dig at, pull-off, scratch,
and never give a chance
to heal.

Pursuit
Dec 11 2009


This road seduces you.
Its vistas, beckoning,
its generous curves
luring you further on.
Its softly sloping shoulders
draped in pale snow.
Its slender straightaways
posing
in your headlights’ focused gaze.

It flows like water
indirect, uncharted;
adhering
to the natural contours of land,
seeking-out the path
of least resistance.

And down this grade
a reducing radius curve,
that has claimed so many others
who came before.
Turning harder, as it falls away,
the grip loosening, lost
slipping-off
into virgin forest,
an unmarked graveyard
of cars.

The treachery
of heart-thumping speed.
The temptation
of switch-backs and S-turns that weave
through still black forest.
The lure of the unknown,
over one more crest
around the next corner.
And lulled
by compliant motion,
just on the edge of control.

Until this steep descent
this tightening curve
brushed you off the road
with awful unsuspecting suddenness.
Your journey’s end
never reached;
punished, for your love
of speed.

In Line
Dec 9 2009


We wait,
keeping our place
in line.
Make polite conversation,
glance at our watches,
affect the insouciant posture
of cosmopolitan man —
awkward hands
holding-on to our partner’s,
or slipped into pockets
self-consciously.

The impatient ones
push that little bit closer
bunching-up.
And we are uncomfortable
with this violation of personal space,
the cool distance
a northern people
have wordlessly agreed upon.

While the complacent ones
shuffle ahead
step-by-step.
And the deferential
make note of scofflaws
who break into line;
but can only glare
in silence.

It’s this gritting grinding reticence
that infuriates me
waiting in line behind them.
But I, too, clench my teeth
bite my tongue
keep silent,
eyes boring into their backside.
Because there can be no self-indulgent outbursts
here
on the sidewalk, at night,
in our long proletarian coats
salt-stained boots
hunkered-down in the cold.
Where considerate voices
murmur softly, exhaling fog,
chuckle at tasteful jokes.

This is the rough equality of lines
— the rules, unspoken;
the belief in progress
however slow.
And at the end
a lighted wicket, a paper ticket,
general admission
the evening show.

I always favour the aisle —
extra room to stretch my legs;
shimmying-up the plush spring seat
as strangers enter, exit.

Lines
drawn between us.
Lines drawn to connect
2 distant points.

Sound Carries
Dec 7 2009


Sound carries, in winter.
Moving faster
through frozen air
— the density of cold,
its slow and noiseless molecules.
And reflecting, rapidly,
turning icy surfaces
into hard cacophony.
And farther than you’d imagine
— through the bare branches
of brittle trees,
over ice-bound lakes
crusted fields.

You can hear yourself think,
walking in late afternoon
already dusk.
You can hear the squeak
of freshly fallen snow,
out before the plough.
And things only dogs can hear —
the sudden stop
ears cocked
straining forward.
With one foreleg delicately poised
tail fully extended.
Like a sensitive antenna,
receptive to the least vibration
stirring the air.

You envy her focus,
her hair-trigger burst
into certain motion.
She is not distracted
by intrusive thoughts, stray conversations,
declarations, innuendo
cutting remarks.
In her universe
everything means what it says;
no words to interpret
or miss.
Only sound.

From across the lake, perhaps,
or the far side of town.
An impossible distance;
but in a cold dark winter
you imagine secrets,
and believe everything you hear.

Graveyard Shift
Dec 4 2009


We recognize each other
by the puffy pale skin
the pre-occupation with sleep.
By the constant squint, in daylight,
the craving for sweets.
The sun is our enemy,
blocked out by heavy curtains
drawn tight,
by well-trained kids
who walk on tip-toe, whispering.

Nights are usually slow.
The absent bosses,
the eccentrics and misanthropes
drawn like moths
to artificial light,
to pot-luck lunch
at midnight.
Then the deep black hole
of 4 am,
fighting sleep, fending-off boredom
trying hard not to watch the clock.
We are like burrowing moles,
blind and colourless
toiling invisibly underground,
keeping the power on
manning the pumps.

So late, it’s early
on our way home,
we pass grid-locked traffic
against the flow,
feeling smug, even triumphant
to be done.
And nod, bleary-eyed, at other night people
in the sterile morning light,
like members of a secret society
initiates in a cult.
Acknowledging our communal misery,
our battle with sleep,
our lives out of sync
with the world.

And the guilty pleasure
to be free
when everyone else is a work.

For Better, or Worse …
Dec 2 2009


She left him for another man.
In a town, not far away
— for the children’s sake,
for their absent father.

It was leave, or go back,
no middle way.
No way to love
2 men, at once;
which seemed to her, perfectly reasonable.

Or to appease the one
who felt rejected, stung
to have been abandoned.
Yet he made no fuss,
knowing his wife
her mind made up.

Because she firmly believes
that love is not a zero-sum game —
she has more than enough
for the both of them.
Nevertheless, someone always gets left
and someone, unavoidably, hurt —
her husband, at first
then her lover’s heart, burst,
when she returned
eventually.

5 years later;
and he took her in
no question.



This piece was inspired by the love affair between Glenn Gould and Mrs. Foss; who, 5 years on, returned to her former husband. The poem indirectly raises questions about the basic presumption of monogamy, of the heretical notion of polyamory.

Primary Colours
Nov 29 2009


Children in snowsuits
on a field dusted with snow,
are a box of new crayons, assorted colours
scribbling all over
the smooth white surface.

Cold enough for clouds of breath,
like cartoon word-bubbles
over every head.
Containing the carefully traced letters
of childhood,
head bent, pencil gripped
in concentration.
Their shrieks and giggles
the recurring sound-track
to a barely remembered past.

I know how untrustworthy memory can be,
constructed out of family mythology
and flashes of imagery,
confabulation
filling-in the blanks.

We played Red Rover —
the fiercely gripped hands
the taunting chant
the charge,
veering at the very last moment
for the weakest link.
And falling in a heap
as the line collapsed.
Wet snow down your pants,
something torn.
Wool mitts
chunks of ice frozen-in,
numb toes.

How hours could pass
in giddy action.
And how warm sentiment
preserves everything
in primary colours.
With the brilliant reflection
of sunlight on snow.