Breaking News
Feb 22 2010
I mark time
by the week, the season.
The long pause
where nothing changes.
The sudden ferocious shifts.
Warm days, cold nights
make for an even thaw.
The frozen surface
invisibly thinning
until cracks appear
the shoreline softens
a cold black inch
of open water.
An early break-up, this year.
Fresh snow, overnight,
so at dawn
the lake is unbroken white.
Tracks, where the deer tried to cross
end sharply
in the grey soggy spot
that mars the surface
20 feet out.
There is no sign of struggle,
no residue of adrenaline, or fear
— of thin legs, thrashing,
narrow head
gasping for breath.
When I watched her graze
her lips were as articulate as hands —
prehensile, grasping
nibbling on lower branches,
soft and strong.
And her body
steaming, standing
coiled for flight.
She vanished
in a blur of tawny brown
a swirl of snow.
I may never know
if she drowned,
or clawed her way clear.
Or perhaps, when it finally breaks
I’ll catch a glimpse
of a bloated body
in the jig-saw jumble of ice,
a freshening wind
pushing it away.
Breaking news
a few weeks late.
This poem started with the phrase that book-ends it; but not until a long and circuitous round-about.
I originally thought I might use “breaking news” to contrast the impersonal and distant events that feature in news reports with something small, private, and personal. My intent was to manipulate the connotation of “breaking”: to get at an intimate relationship and a small event, and the fragility of one person’s interior world in response to it. But I couldn’t see any way into this, and so it was quickly abandoned.
Meanwhile, the idea of “breaking” had elicited an image of spring break-up (probably because it’s happening so early and so unobtrusively this year), and I completely abandoned the news angle: a very natural progression for me, since the lyric poem based on an observation of nature seems to be my default poem, the path of least resistance! So I’m surprised and gratified that the original idea somehow managed to come back into it.
In this case, though, it’s more of a jaundiced comment on the perception of time, and on the urgency with which one chooses to live: on the “scoop” mentality of modern journalism; on the 24 hour news cycle, the instant obsolescence of news, and how quickly we forget; and on the lack of context and perspective with which the news of the day is most often presented. In other words, what’s real and important, as opposed to what’s evanescent and self-important. So when the ending turned out that way, I went back and added the opening stanza to make it make sense, tie it together.
I rather like this guy, who stands still and watches a deer browse; who takes note of the small details; who doesn’t mind taking weeks and weeks as the spring thaw slowly unfolds; and who is patient enough to wait for the fullness of time.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Comfort Food
Feb 21 2010
All-day breakfast
in the afternoon,
at a green Formica counter
on a backless spinning stool.
Where the coffee’s poured
before you ask
— hot, black, full.
Her name-tag says “Dorothy”,
handling the customers
commanding the short-order cooks.
She flirts with the lads
is rude with the regulars;
who banter and kibitz together,
and bask
in the familiar pleasure
of her well-meant slurs.
A thick ceramic mug.
Eggs, sunny-side up,
hash browns, sausage, toast.
And a side order
of wisecracks
bad jokes.
You look at the eggs
and they look back,
two bright round yolks
floating in butter
staring woefully up at you,
your hunger undone.
So you send them back,
ask for scrambled, flapjacks
a rasher of ham.
And Dorothy, in her usual frantic dash
returns with a soggy yellow mass —
eggs,
with the personality
beaten out of them.
A belated lunch
with all the salt and fat and calories
to satisfy a man
of substance.
Except, that is
for the blueberry Danish
in a stained brown bag
for after.
Feb 21 2010
All-day breakfast
in the afternoon,
at a green Formica counter
on a backless spinning stool.
Where the coffee’s poured
before you ask
— hot, black, full.
Her name-tag says “Dorothy”,
handling the customers
commanding the short-order cooks.
She flirts with the lads
is rude with the regulars;
who banter and kibitz together,
and bask
in the familiar pleasure
of her well-meant slurs.
A thick ceramic mug.
Eggs, sunny-side up,
hash browns, sausage, toast.
And a side order
of wisecracks
bad jokes.
You look at the eggs
and they look back,
two bright round yolks
floating in butter
staring woefully up at you,
your hunger undone.
So you send them back,
ask for scrambled, flapjacks
a rasher of ham.
And Dorothy, in her usual frantic dash
returns with a soggy yellow mass —
eggs,
with the personality
beaten out of them.
A belated lunch
with all the salt and fat and calories
to satisfy a man
of substance.
Except, that is
for the blueberry Danish
in a stained brown bag
for after.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Bird of Prey
Feb 17 2010
Watch out for the eagle
she says —
pet rabbits, small dogs,
someone’s kid’ll be next.
This suburban bird of prey
looks down on our neighbourhood
from his aerie in a tall dead tree,
familiarity rendering him that much less majestic
than his wilder cousins —
the easy pickings,
the white feathers, sullied
by muddy puddles in the cul-de-sac.
He is an opportunist, a scavenger,
his noble head and piercing eyes
contemptuous of the human traffic
scuttling by
at ground level,
walking with their heads down.
His flight is long slow glides,
banking skilfully
powerful wings flexing once in awhile
— like the muscular shrug
of a heavy-weight fighter.
With lethal talons, tucked inside
ready to unleash.
But he avoids a fight
will take carrion, garbage
kills only to eat.
I have seen an eagle misjudge,
latching onto a fish too heavy to lift,
his great curved claws
inextricably caught,
the massive bird pulled under.
So he calculates time and trajectory and weight,
is still magnificent
despite the mess of civilization
the easy prey.
He is protected by law
from poison trap or shot.
It’s the crows who are merciless,
who harass and mass and squawk
until he drops his prize,
chasing him off
with the force of numbers.
Black beady-eyed wiseguys,
the small-time hoodlums
of suburbia.
The regal bird retreats to his perch,
his wounded pride
inscrutable.
Where he sits with unnerving stillness;
watching, waiting
eagle-eyed.
Feb 17 2010
Watch out for the eagle
she says —
pet rabbits, small dogs,
someone’s kid’ll be next.
This suburban bird of prey
looks down on our neighbourhood
from his aerie in a tall dead tree,
familiarity rendering him that much less majestic
than his wilder cousins —
the easy pickings,
the white feathers, sullied
by muddy puddles in the cul-de-sac.
He is an opportunist, a scavenger,
his noble head and piercing eyes
contemptuous of the human traffic
scuttling by
at ground level,
walking with their heads down.
His flight is long slow glides,
banking skilfully
powerful wings flexing once in awhile
— like the muscular shrug
of a heavy-weight fighter.
With lethal talons, tucked inside
ready to unleash.
But he avoids a fight
will take carrion, garbage
kills only to eat.
I have seen an eagle misjudge,
latching onto a fish too heavy to lift,
his great curved claws
inextricably caught,
the massive bird pulled under.
So he calculates time and trajectory and weight,
is still magnificent
despite the mess of civilization
the easy prey.
He is protected by law
from poison trap or shot.
It’s the crows who are merciless,
who harass and mass and squawk
until he drops his prize,
chasing him off
with the force of numbers.
Black beady-eyed wiseguys,
the small-time hoodlums
of suburbia.
The regal bird retreats to his perch,
his wounded pride
inscrutable.
Where he sits with unnerving stillness;
watching, waiting
eagle-eyed.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Perfect Faith
Feb 16 2010
If you are asked
“Do you believe in God?”
you cannot ask
“Does God believe in me?”
Because then you are moving from perfect faith
to bargaining,
the expectation
of something in return.
In a way, holding out
for better terms.
And you cannot ask
“Please God, do this for me.”
Because the purpose of prayer
is not supplication.
Rather, you must celebrate, and praise
His works,
looking out
on the beauty of the world
with awe
and gratitude.
And you cannot ask
“Why, God, do good men suffer?”
Because, we are told
His is ineffable,
His vision beyond us,
His plan
incomprehensible.
And besides all that
we were granted free will.
So we must live with the consequence of choice,
each constructing
her own version of Hell.
I never ask, or tell.
I demand proof,
believe in coincidence,
am humble enough to conceive
of a universe
indifferent to myself.
Not that I have answers
to the mystery of consciousness.
Or whether death is like birth;
except moving from light
back to the dark.
I can live with uncertainty,
pursuing meaning
as I do happiness —
never expecting to reach it
content with the process.
I am even suspicious of love,
having learned too much
of chemistry;
of oxytocin, and dopamine
and the triumph of hope.
This is the burden
of non-believers
and nihilists,
why we so much need
to be comforted.
Why we, who are incapable of faith
sometimes envy them
their surrender,
forgetting how much
the faithful struggle.
Because it could not be called “faith”
if it wasn’t inextricably coupled
with doubt.
Feb 16 2010
If you are asked
“Do you believe in God?”
you cannot ask
“Does God believe in me?”
Because then you are moving from perfect faith
to bargaining,
the expectation
of something in return.
In a way, holding out
for better terms.
And you cannot ask
“Please God, do this for me.”
Because the purpose of prayer
is not supplication.
Rather, you must celebrate, and praise
His works,
looking out
on the beauty of the world
with awe
and gratitude.
And you cannot ask
“Why, God, do good men suffer?”
Because, we are told
His is ineffable,
His vision beyond us,
His plan
incomprehensible.
And besides all that
we were granted free will.
So we must live with the consequence of choice,
each constructing
her own version of Hell.
I never ask, or tell.
I demand proof,
believe in coincidence,
am humble enough to conceive
of a universe
indifferent to myself.
Not that I have answers
to the mystery of consciousness.
Or whether death is like birth;
except moving from light
back to the dark.
I can live with uncertainty,
pursuing meaning
as I do happiness —
never expecting to reach it
content with the process.
I am even suspicious of love,
having learned too much
of chemistry;
of oxytocin, and dopamine
and the triumph of hope.
This is the burden
of non-believers
and nihilists,
why we so much need
to be comforted.
Why we, who are incapable of faith
sometimes envy them
their surrender,
forgetting how much
the faithful struggle.
Because it could not be called “faith”
if it wasn’t inextricably coupled
with doubt.
Erector Set
Feb 15 2010
There are small round holes
in the hoardings.
At eye level, for a grown man
to stand
back to the world,
ogling Caterpillar tractors
dump trucks,
hydraulic shovels.
And a giant crane, like an iron-age monster,
with its prehensile neck
of rust-red steel
circling,
perched high overhead.
He smells diesel
rock dust, earth.
Sees tiny men
wheeling up ramps
beetling over girders.
Listens
as leering workers
wolf-whistle, curse.
He is a boy again,
lusting after Tonka toys
earth works
the gleeful roar of torque.
A steel skeleton
thrusting up,
like his dad’s Mechano
erector set.
The creative destruction
of progress.
The city, re-making itself,
promising to make us rich.
On this side
of half an inch of plywood
the city goes about its business,
oblivious
to the frantic cacophony
of hard labour
heavy machines.
And on the other
consuming itself
from the inside out.
Feb 15 2010
There are small round holes
in the hoardings.
At eye level, for a grown man
to stand
back to the world,
ogling Caterpillar tractors
dump trucks,
hydraulic shovels.
And a giant crane, like an iron-age monster,
with its prehensile neck
of rust-red steel
circling,
perched high overhead.
He smells diesel
rock dust, earth.
Sees tiny men
wheeling up ramps
beetling over girders.
Listens
as leering workers
wolf-whistle, curse.
He is a boy again,
lusting after Tonka toys
earth works
the gleeful roar of torque.
A steel skeleton
thrusting up,
like his dad’s Mechano
erector set.
The creative destruction
of progress.
The city, re-making itself,
promising to make us rich.
On this side
of half an inch of plywood
the city goes about its business,
oblivious
to the frantic cacophony
of hard labour
heavy machines.
And on the other
consuming itself
from the inside out.
Growing Old
Feb 4 2010
Growing older
is for optimists.
As if to say growth
is possible,
despite this grizzled shrivelled version
of yourself.
Two words, pulling in opposite directions,
tempting you
with re-invention.
Or getting old, instead,
no matter how hard you rage
how passively submit.
Because it happens,
no buts, or ifs.
Or simply aging
in place,
the grim arithmetic
of a zero-sum game.
When addition gives way
to subtraction,
anticipation
to looking back —
what remains
what’s gone,
the accumulation of loss.
Which is not to say, of course
you’re keen on the alternative.
Hard work
and not for the faint of heart.
Learning to be invisible.
The small disabilities
piling on,
the aches and pains.
And to be alone, again;
as you lose touch with friends,
husbands die
and wives forget.
It happens so quickly,
from the prime of life, the leader of men
to seniors’ discounts
a sunny park bench.
Which is why you fully intend
to grow old gracefully
and defiant.
As it’s been said,
youth is wasted on the young.
You won’t make that mistake again.
Feb 4 2010
Growing older
is for optimists.
As if to say growth
is possible,
despite this grizzled shrivelled version
of yourself.
Two words, pulling in opposite directions,
tempting you
with re-invention.
Or getting old, instead,
no matter how hard you rage
how passively submit.
Because it happens,
no buts, or ifs.
Or simply aging
in place,
the grim arithmetic
of a zero-sum game.
When addition gives way
to subtraction,
anticipation
to looking back —
what remains
what’s gone,
the accumulation of loss.
Which is not to say, of course
you’re keen on the alternative.
Hard work
and not for the faint of heart.
Learning to be invisible.
The small disabilities
piling on,
the aches and pains.
And to be alone, again;
as you lose touch with friends,
husbands die
and wives forget.
It happens so quickly,
from the prime of life, the leader of men
to seniors’ discounts
a sunny park bench.
Which is why you fully intend
to grow old gracefully
and defiant.
As it’s been said,
youth is wasted on the young.
You won’t make that mistake again.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Out
Jan 28 2010
In Canada
we navigate by preposition —
out west, up north, down south, back east.
Here, in the middle of nowhere
there is only one direction
— out.
Kind of like the north pole,
where no matter what direction you turn
you’re always facing south.
Here
the highway doesn’t stop
the trains are strictly freight
and it’s bush plane all the way
— short-hop, single prop
jury-rigged, and duct-taped.
Here
it’s all land-locked vacant lots and weather talk,
and a lame old dog
sleeping in the sun.
There’s a sidewalk on Main St.
that ends in a field on the edge of town,
where there are pump-jacks
instead of trees,
heavy gauge steel, and grease
nodding monotonously,
sucking up the last drop of oil.
So underneath
it’s spongy rock, squeezed clean.
And overhead, sky
360 degrees,
as clear and blue as sapphire.
It goes up to the edge of space
beyond the curve of earth
and out past the horizon,
encircling you.
Which is where you aim your pick-up
and floor it.
Yet, somehow, that flat dim line
never gets any closer.
You know;
you’ve tried it before.
Jan 28 2010
In Canada
we navigate by preposition —
out west, up north, down south, back east.
Here, in the middle of nowhere
there is only one direction
— out.
Kind of like the north pole,
where no matter what direction you turn
you’re always facing south.
Here
the highway doesn’t stop
the trains are strictly freight
and it’s bush plane all the way
— short-hop, single prop
jury-rigged, and duct-taped.
Here
it’s all land-locked vacant lots and weather talk,
and a lame old dog
sleeping in the sun.
There’s a sidewalk on Main St.
that ends in a field on the edge of town,
where there are pump-jacks
instead of trees,
heavy gauge steel, and grease
nodding monotonously,
sucking up the last drop of oil.
So underneath
it’s spongy rock, squeezed clean.
And overhead, sky
360 degrees,
as clear and blue as sapphire.
It goes up to the edge of space
beyond the curve of earth
and out past the horizon,
encircling you.
Which is where you aim your pick-up
and floor it.
Yet, somehow, that flat dim line
never gets any closer.
You know;
you’ve tried it before.
Daily Walk
Jan 27 2010
We outlive our dogs.
So there is a succession of pets
— Zephyr, Blackie, Skookum —
who somehow take the place
of the irreplaceable.
Gone
but not forgotten.
The mercy is
they have no knowledge of death.
While we suffer, too aware
as big brown eyes gaze up at us
trusting.
And we honour them
with a swift
and painless one.
We need death
to give life urgency, meaning.
And these condensed canine lives
are that much more precious
intense for it.
They teach us
about life in the moment,
the purity of motive,
the folly of ownership
— all those valued possessions
so eagerly chewed up.
And about being true
to our essential nature,
as they are to theirs.
Loyal creatures, all,
who love
unconditionally.
I can only hope
a dog is there for me
when I, too, approach the end.
But I suspect
she will not be very helpful.
Because we humans revere ourselves
far too much
to let our own
be painless, and swift.
I will arrange for her to be cared for.
Where she will awaken each day
impatiently waiting,
excited by our daily walk.
Because to her, we are all immortal.
And she will, of course
— as she’ll have done each morning
since I have gone —
forgive me for being late.
Jan 27 2010
We outlive our dogs.
So there is a succession of pets
— Zephyr, Blackie, Skookum —
who somehow take the place
of the irreplaceable.
Gone
but not forgotten.
The mercy is
they have no knowledge of death.
While we suffer, too aware
as big brown eyes gaze up at us
trusting.
And we honour them
with a swift
and painless one.
We need death
to give life urgency, meaning.
And these condensed canine lives
are that much more precious
intense for it.
They teach us
about life in the moment,
the purity of motive,
the folly of ownership
— all those valued possessions
so eagerly chewed up.
And about being true
to our essential nature,
as they are to theirs.
Loyal creatures, all,
who love
unconditionally.
I can only hope
a dog is there for me
when I, too, approach the end.
But I suspect
she will not be very helpful.
Because we humans revere ourselves
far too much
to let our own
be painless, and swift.
I will arrange for her to be cared for.
Where she will awaken each day
impatiently waiting,
excited by our daily walk.
Because to her, we are all immortal.
And she will, of course
— as she’ll have done each morning
since I have gone —
forgive me for being late.
Perfect Emptiness
Jan 26 2010
You can’t fix your swing
and think,
he shook his head, despairingly.
Hitting coach as Zen master,
baseball
as practice.
He instructs about the mind
emptied,
on repetition
and muscle memory.
The strict discipline
of the strike zone,
indifference to fear.
A small spherical object
intersects
a long cylindrical one,
at 90 miles per hour
from 60 feet,
on a sweet spot
as big as a pencil eraser.
Perfect contact is effortless;
miss, and it’s bees in your fingers
a splintered bat.
You must follow-through, finish
coach intoned, his breathing slow —
like the cycle of existence,
enlightened bliss.
Contact hitters are made
sluggers born
— Ruth, DiMaggio
reincarnated.
Because the eye can’t move that fast,
and the mind
won’t stay still.
Filled
with its monkey chatter,
its flawed attachment
to outcome, to stats,
and all the distractions
a young man falls prey.
Like that pretty girl with the long blonde pony-tail,
left field stands
2 rows back.
They call the big leagues “The Show”
— the lavish club house,
travel, 1st class.
He can only hope —
a career minor leaguer,
talking trash on a bus
that smells of sweat and must,
buddying-up
in cheap motels.
But toeing the plate
under the blue-black dome of dusk
when the green manicured diamond
turns luminous,
it could just as well be Yankee Stadium
on a crisp October night.
When this philosopher of fouls and walks
slows down time to a stop
and suddenly sees everything
with spectacular unerring clarity
— the release, the spin, the speed.
A mighty swing.
Perfect emptiness.
Strike three.
So it’s a slow trot back to the dug-out,
listening to the usual boos and cat-calls,
rude allusions
to his maternity.
And another chance
to meditate on failure, the next at-bat,
on the future
and the past.
He tips his hat to the fans
and scans the crowd,
spitting artfully
trying not to be too obvious.
Hoping to salvage the day
with at least one major league catch
— left field stands
2 rows back.
Jan 26 2010
You can’t fix your swing
and think,
he shook his head, despairingly.
Hitting coach as Zen master,
baseball
as practice.
He instructs about the mind
emptied,
on repetition
and muscle memory.
The strict discipline
of the strike zone,
indifference to fear.
A small spherical object
intersects
a long cylindrical one,
at 90 miles per hour
from 60 feet,
on a sweet spot
as big as a pencil eraser.
Perfect contact is effortless;
miss, and it’s bees in your fingers
a splintered bat.
You must follow-through, finish
coach intoned, his breathing slow —
like the cycle of existence,
enlightened bliss.
Contact hitters are made
sluggers born
— Ruth, DiMaggio
reincarnated.
Because the eye can’t move that fast,
and the mind
won’t stay still.
Filled
with its monkey chatter,
its flawed attachment
to outcome, to stats,
and all the distractions
a young man falls prey.
Like that pretty girl with the long blonde pony-tail,
left field stands
2 rows back.
They call the big leagues “The Show”
— the lavish club house,
travel, 1st class.
He can only hope —
a career minor leaguer,
talking trash on a bus
that smells of sweat and must,
buddying-up
in cheap motels.
But toeing the plate
under the blue-black dome of dusk
when the green manicured diamond
turns luminous,
it could just as well be Yankee Stadium
on a crisp October night.
When this philosopher of fouls and walks
slows down time to a stop
and suddenly sees everything
with spectacular unerring clarity
— the release, the spin, the speed.
A mighty swing.
Perfect emptiness.
Strike three.
So it’s a slow trot back to the dug-out,
listening to the usual boos and cat-calls,
rude allusions
to his maternity.
And another chance
to meditate on failure, the next at-bat,
on the future
and the past.
He tips his hat to the fans
and scans the crowd,
spitting artfully
trying not to be too obvious.
Hoping to salvage the day
with at least one major league catch
— left field stands
2 rows back.
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