Traffic
Aug 24 2010
At least we have the red
in common.
Obediently stopped,
we are an instant community
of idlers,
applying lip-gloss,
fiddling with dials,
reaching back
to finger-wag a wilful child.
The rule is eyes forward
in polite society.
But I can’t resist
glancing to either side,
sizing-up my transient companions.
All of us stranded, for now
in this stalled island
of city traffic.
He is a good ol’ boy.
An unfiltered smoke,
the deep bass notes
pounding out
as he drums the wheel.
The pick-up, on steroids.
She is in a small blue car
smart, economical.
In a little black dress
very hot
tossing her long blonde hair.
The irresistible toss,
and I’m caught
a second too long,
when a curious glance
turns into staring.
I feel small, furtive
embarrassed.
I wonder what they see
in me,
the inference, the certainty
the instant judgement.
Or am I invisible
as I often feel,
not even a first impression
to forget?
I occupy the middle lane
2 cars back.
I could take off for the coast
as easily as driving home,
all that horsepower
at my command.
But instead, on the green, I ease into motion
pick up speed
go with the flow.
And so we drift apart, disperse
jockey and turn.
This coterie of strangers
this oddly stable relationship,
when the world involuntarily stopped
and we held
our comfortable distance.
He breaks for the yellow
I slow.
The girl in the little black dress
goes left,
disappears into cross-town traffic.
Her jagged stare
made a lasting impression.
I doubt I made one back.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Life Force
Aug 23 2010
The maple struggled, all summer.
By late August
it began to turn.
The leaves so frail, they glowed
back-lit by sun,
turning into old wine, watered down,
shrivelling
into little fists.
It reminds me of a grey old lady’s
frizzy halo of hair,
hennaed red
but comes out mostly orange.
I have watched through the kitchen window
pruned dead branches,
seen it die back
heroically re-grow.
Because this stunted tree is really quite beautiful,
its twisted limbs, its thinning crown,
its brittle rust
against the lush green garden.
It proclaims the life force
by simply persisting,
a most unlikely survivor.
It should have died, years ago;
it lives, I know
on borrowed time.
When it does die
I think I will let it stand.
Where birds will flourish
the roots return to earth.
And the trunk rot slowly
from the inside out.
And there will be more life
in that cast-off wooden body
than when it thrived,
in full leaf,
in the glory
of autumns long forgotten.
The first high wind,
and all its leaves
are gone.
This is actually true. A live tree is mostly dead wood. Aside from the leaves and roots, the rest of the living tissue is just a thin layer underneath the bark. But when a tree dies, it becomes a superb habitat for familiar creatures like birds and squirrels; and when it falls to the forest floor, for the invisible lives of millions of bacteria and fungi. So there is a far greater weight of living matter in the dead tree than there ever was in the living one.
This tree does exist, by the way. I watch it daily. I’m still surprised to see it set buds each fall, and leaf out after each hard winter: so far, anyway! It’s a great example of perseverance. And who doesn’t like to root for the plucky underdog? Who could possible have the heart to cut it down?
In the first version, “ …but comes out orange” came right before “ …proclaims the life force.” Which didn’t work, of course: the amusing reference is totally incongruous so close to the gravity of “life force”. But I realized later that I had almost inadvertently succeeded in rhyming one of those supposedly unrhymable English words: “orange”. “Orange” and “force”: close enough for poetry, anyway!
My favourite part of this poem is “little fists”. Not only does the image work really well for me, but it’s a nice bit of foreshadowing for the theme of heroism and perseverance.
This poem also contains an example of why I’d much rather write poetry than novels. (Aside from the fact that I’m lousy at narrative and dialogue, have a short attention span, and much prefer instant gratification over the long haul!) The night between the writing and the final edit (I say “final” advisedly, of course!) I lay awake in bed for an hour going through possibilities before I came up with “cast-off”. (It was originally “inert”, and the alternatives in between included everything from “sarcophagus” to “cadaver”.) I somehow don’t think novelists can ever afford to spend over an hour – and lose sleep – on a single word! ( …And now I can add, after the “final final” edit, it was much the same for “brittle rust.” That one took several days of back and forth and back again!)
Aug 23 2010
The maple struggled, all summer.
By late August
it began to turn.
The leaves so frail, they glowed
back-lit by sun,
turning into old wine, watered down,
shrivelling
into little fists.
It reminds me of a grey old lady’s
frizzy halo of hair,
hennaed red
but comes out mostly orange.
I have watched through the kitchen window
pruned dead branches,
seen it die back
heroically re-grow.
Because this stunted tree is really quite beautiful,
its twisted limbs, its thinning crown,
its brittle rust
against the lush green garden.
It proclaims the life force
by simply persisting,
a most unlikely survivor.
It should have died, years ago;
it lives, I know
on borrowed time.
When it does die
I think I will let it stand.
Where birds will flourish
the roots return to earth.
And the trunk rot slowly
from the inside out.
And there will be more life
in that cast-off wooden body
than when it thrived,
in full leaf,
in the glory
of autumns long forgotten.
The first high wind,
and all its leaves
are gone.
This is actually true. A live tree is mostly dead wood. Aside from the leaves and roots, the rest of the living tissue is just a thin layer underneath the bark. But when a tree dies, it becomes a superb habitat for familiar creatures like birds and squirrels; and when it falls to the forest floor, for the invisible lives of millions of bacteria and fungi. So there is a far greater weight of living matter in the dead tree than there ever was in the living one.
This tree does exist, by the way. I watch it daily. I’m still surprised to see it set buds each fall, and leaf out after each hard winter: so far, anyway! It’s a great example of perseverance. And who doesn’t like to root for the plucky underdog? Who could possible have the heart to cut it down?
In the first version, “ …but comes out orange” came right before “ …proclaims the life force.” Which didn’t work, of course: the amusing reference is totally incongruous so close to the gravity of “life force”. But I realized later that I had almost inadvertently succeeded in rhyming one of those supposedly unrhymable English words: “orange”. “Orange” and “force”: close enough for poetry, anyway!
My favourite part of this poem is “little fists”. Not only does the image work really well for me, but it’s a nice bit of foreshadowing for the theme of heroism and perseverance.
This poem also contains an example of why I’d much rather write poetry than novels. (Aside from the fact that I’m lousy at narrative and dialogue, have a short attention span, and much prefer instant gratification over the long haul!) The night between the writing and the final edit (I say “final” advisedly, of course!) I lay awake in bed for an hour going through possibilities before I came up with “cast-off”. (It was originally “inert”, and the alternatives in between included everything from “sarcophagus” to “cadaver”.) I somehow don’t think novelists can ever afford to spend over an hour – and lose sleep – on a single word! ( …And now I can add, after the “final final” edit, it was much the same for “brittle rust.” That one took several days of back and forth and back again!)
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Hard Landing
Aug 17 2010
I’ve always loved
driving through rain.
An autumn shower, a sudden downpour,
wet leaves plastered down,
black asphalt, shimmering.
I am cocooned
in the glow of the dashboard light
the wipers’ gentle thwack
the heat, blasting.
In plumb seams
of glass and steel,
the glossy skin, shedding wind
slipping through frictionless.
Effortlessly closing the distance
that’s come between us.
Windshield wipers slap
like clock-work,
leaving the glass, for an instant
squeegee-clean.
Then hard rain, like pounding nails
and the world through a watery gauze
turns magic —
rippling trees, with fresh green paint
running off,
perfect drops
freeze-framed in the headlights.
Except today
water sluices over the windshield
in a thick translucent layer,
and the flailing blades are useless
in such stupendous rain.
The road turns grey
dissolving,
and my speed seems suddenly catastrophic,
brakes squishy, tires spinning.
I hydro-plane into low-level flight,
the wheel in my white-knuckle grip
a useless appendage,
disconnected from earth.
So far off, I can’t even tell if it’s stopped.
If the friction of the moving parts
has brought me down,
if the landing will be hard
or soft.
But either way, we are still apart,
the distance even bigger.
The flood, Biblical,
our desires trivial,
the weather gods, as usual
indifferent.
Aug 17 2010
I’ve always loved
driving through rain.
An autumn shower, a sudden downpour,
wet leaves plastered down,
black asphalt, shimmering.
I am cocooned
in the glow of the dashboard light
the wipers’ gentle thwack
the heat, blasting.
In plumb seams
of glass and steel,
the glossy skin, shedding wind
slipping through frictionless.
Effortlessly closing the distance
that’s come between us.
Windshield wipers slap
like clock-work,
leaving the glass, for an instant
squeegee-clean.
Then hard rain, like pounding nails
and the world through a watery gauze
turns magic —
rippling trees, with fresh green paint
running off,
perfect drops
freeze-framed in the headlights.
Except today
water sluices over the windshield
in a thick translucent layer,
and the flailing blades are useless
in such stupendous rain.
The road turns grey
dissolving,
and my speed seems suddenly catastrophic,
brakes squishy, tires spinning.
I hydro-plane into low-level flight,
the wheel in my white-knuckle grip
a useless appendage,
disconnected from earth.
So far off, I can’t even tell if it’s stopped.
If the friction of the moving parts
has brought me down,
if the landing will be hard
or soft.
But either way, we are still apart,
the distance even bigger.
The flood, Biblical,
our desires trivial,
the weather gods, as usual
indifferent.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Riptide
Aug 14 2010
I’m not sure if it’s a riptide
or an undertow.
Or maybe just the surf
that once again failed to move the island
heading back to sea.
Swim parallel to shore, we’re told,
the path of least resistance.
Too late to make a difference, I’m afraid.
Because sometimes
the long way around
gets you back faster.
Or you can float,
looking up at the stars,
your hand
lazily stirring the surface
into phosphorescent light,
like angel dust
like a sorceress casting spells.
There’s the slow undulation of ocean
instead of breaking waves,
an albatross, hovering
who will not touch down for months.
When you’ve run out of fight.
When the neutral buoyancy
of your salty body
is enough.
So when they came
you were calm, resigned —
at sea
surrounded by water
your skin
impossibly soft.
And jolted upright, shocked,
by bright fluorescent lights
the loudly clanging hull
bone-deep cold.
Any longer
you might just have dissolved.
Your molecules diffusing
to the ends of the earth,
an infinite dilution of souls.
Aug 14 2010
I’m not sure if it’s a riptide
or an undertow.
Or maybe just the surf
that once again failed to move the island
heading back to sea.
Swim parallel to shore, we’re told,
the path of least resistance.
Too late to make a difference, I’m afraid.
Because sometimes
the long way around
gets you back faster.
Or you can float,
looking up at the stars,
your hand
lazily stirring the surface
into phosphorescent light,
like angel dust
like a sorceress casting spells.
There’s the slow undulation of ocean
instead of breaking waves,
an albatross, hovering
who will not touch down for months.
When you’ve run out of fight.
When the neutral buoyancy
of your salty body
is enough.
So when they came
you were calm, resigned —
at sea
surrounded by water
your skin
impossibly soft.
And jolted upright, shocked,
by bright fluorescent lights
the loudly clanging hull
bone-deep cold.
Any longer
you might just have dissolved.
Your molecules diffusing
to the ends of the earth,
an infinite dilution of souls.
August 12 …All Day
Aug 12 2010
You could walk out a hundred feet
up to your knees
on gently sloping sand.
Warm water, almost glass,
the air
hot and stagnant.
Even the buzz of insects
was absent.
The kind of day you feel yourself drugged,
in hazy sun
in heavy air
that feels like walking through water.
In no particular hurry
to be anywhere at all.
Which is where the plot would turn
in a real story.
The dorsal fin
would silently cut the surface.
Or the water drop, like the hand of God
before the tsunami hits.
Or the annual Rotary picnic,
dogs and kids
filling the place with noise.
But instead, it was an indolent swim
and the sun quickly dried us.
We sat on a table top,
side by side, feet on the bench
and watched the far horizon,
a rough brush-stroke
of sun-bleached green.
We were both at ease, not talking.
But listening hard,
straining for the sound of wind.
Aug 12 2010
You could walk out a hundred feet
up to your knees
on gently sloping sand.
Warm water, almost glass,
the air
hot and stagnant.
Even the buzz of insects
was absent.
The kind of day you feel yourself drugged,
in hazy sun
in heavy air
that feels like walking through water.
In no particular hurry
to be anywhere at all.
Which is where the plot would turn
in a real story.
The dorsal fin
would silently cut the surface.
Or the water drop, like the hand of God
before the tsunami hits.
Or the annual Rotary picnic,
dogs and kids
filling the place with noise.
But instead, it was an indolent swim
and the sun quickly dried us.
We sat on a table top,
side by side, feet on the bench
and watched the far horizon,
a rough brush-stroke
of sun-bleached green.
We were both at ease, not talking.
But listening hard,
straining for the sound of wind.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Waterworks
Aug 9 2010
I sit on the fountain’s rim,
in the square
in the heart
of the city.
The liquid sound
of water,
plunging, tumbling
bubbling over rock,
is everything
the city is not.
The beggars, and buskers
and men in suits, hustling
in dress-shirts soiled with sweat.
The concrete heat
the grid of streets,
efficient, unbending.
Each coin is a wish.
Serious children
with their eyes screwed shut.
Young men, down on their luck
investing precious change.
A lady of a certain age
who makes a ritual of this,
hoping
for a little more goodness.
And late at night
a run-away scoops some up,
wish fulfilled.
A man is cooling his feet,
shoes and socks kicked-off
pants rolled-up primly.
And in sweltering heat
passers-by pause in the veil of spray,
briefly refreshed.
Yet I can’t help but think
of the same few gallons
re-circulating week after week.
The buried machinery
lines that leak
industrial pumps, rusting.
The blush of green
unscrubbed
in a ring around the pool.
And the layer of grime
that makes the bottom slippery.
Nevertheless, we gather here,
drawn to water
on rock,
water falling.
The age-old sound
of running water
holds us still.
And drawn, still, to hope.
I can’t fully reconstruct how this poem came about. I suspect I was glancing at the Real Estate section in the paper (my occasional innocent indulgence in “real estate porn”!) and there may have been a water feature, probably indoors. I’d been in and out of the water on a sweltering day, and all this made me think of was building one for myself. But it also called up the image of a cool forest glade, rippling with deep dappled greens; of walking through the woods and being inexorably drawn to that gurgling sound: the powerful atavistic attraction of falling water. Which is where “water on rock” came from: the poem started with those words. …Inevitably, it ends up becoming another poem expressing my alienation from city life. So, what else is new?!!
More than that, though, is an obvious recurring trope: the idea of hidden layers, of the invisible underbelly, of hiding in plain sight; the idea of the paradox that seems inherent in everything. In this case, of course, it’s what’s buried beneath the deceptive allure of the fountain. I suppose this is what makes me a poet (as well as a misanthrope and a pessimist!): the art of close observation, as well as the compulsion to seek out the layers of meaning that can be found in the most mundane things.
Ultimately, though, there is an uplifting message here -- despite myself! (Uplift without pretension, I hope). The fountain becomes a wishing well, and the resilience of hope is as deeply embedded in our DNA as is the gravitational pull of the sound of water, falling on rock.
Aug 9 2010
I sit on the fountain’s rim,
in the square
in the heart
of the city.
The liquid sound
of water,
plunging, tumbling
bubbling over rock,
is everything
the city is not.
The beggars, and buskers
and men in suits, hustling
in dress-shirts soiled with sweat.
The concrete heat
the grid of streets,
efficient, unbending.
Each coin is a wish.
Serious children
with their eyes screwed shut.
Young men, down on their luck
investing precious change.
A lady of a certain age
who makes a ritual of this,
hoping
for a little more goodness.
And late at night
a run-away scoops some up,
wish fulfilled.
A man is cooling his feet,
shoes and socks kicked-off
pants rolled-up primly.
And in sweltering heat
passers-by pause in the veil of spray,
briefly refreshed.
Yet I can’t help but think
of the same few gallons
re-circulating week after week.
The buried machinery
lines that leak
industrial pumps, rusting.
The blush of green
unscrubbed
in a ring around the pool.
And the layer of grime
that makes the bottom slippery.
Nevertheless, we gather here,
drawn to water
on rock,
water falling.
The age-old sound
of running water
holds us still.
And drawn, still, to hope.
I can’t fully reconstruct how this poem came about. I suspect I was glancing at the Real Estate section in the paper (my occasional innocent indulgence in “real estate porn”!) and there may have been a water feature, probably indoors. I’d been in and out of the water on a sweltering day, and all this made me think of was building one for myself. But it also called up the image of a cool forest glade, rippling with deep dappled greens; of walking through the woods and being inexorably drawn to that gurgling sound: the powerful atavistic attraction of falling water. Which is where “water on rock” came from: the poem started with those words. …Inevitably, it ends up becoming another poem expressing my alienation from city life. So, what else is new?!!
More than that, though, is an obvious recurring trope: the idea of hidden layers, of the invisible underbelly, of hiding in plain sight; the idea of the paradox that seems inherent in everything. In this case, of course, it’s what’s buried beneath the deceptive allure of the fountain. I suppose this is what makes me a poet (as well as a misanthrope and a pessimist!): the art of close observation, as well as the compulsion to seek out the layers of meaning that can be found in the most mundane things.
Ultimately, though, there is an uplifting message here -- despite myself! (Uplift without pretension, I hope). The fountain becomes a wishing well, and the resilience of hope is as deeply embedded in our DNA as is the gravitational pull of the sound of water, falling on rock.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Express Line
Aug 7 2010
I wait
watching people wait.
I am impatient in line,
wish I’d brought a novel
floss
could knit.
So I do mental arithmetic,
how much of my life I have spent in line
or spent, waiting
for something unexpected,
divine intervention,
the deus ex machina
to descend.
But heaven waits
and hell beckons
and I am suspended
in limbo,
the purgatory
of cashier-in-training,
housewives writing cheques,
arthritic old men
counting out coins.
There are tabloids, to distract us,
celebrities looking average
bad hair, no make-up,
which make us feel better
about ourselves.
But Hollywood gods
do not wait,
they have flunkies and publicists for that.
I, on the other hand,
cool my heels in line
try to be philosophical
people-watch.
Because this moment of being alive
is no worse than the next one,
so just what, and when
am I waiting for?
And for one ecstatic moment
I am Zen,
surrendering agency
indifferent to outcome
my boundaries getting thin.
Until, that is
the mental arithmetic begins —
keeping count
in the “12 items or less” line;
giving her
the evil eye.
Aug 7 2010
I wait
watching people wait.
I am impatient in line,
wish I’d brought a novel
floss
could knit.
So I do mental arithmetic,
how much of my life I have spent in line
or spent, waiting
for something unexpected,
divine intervention,
the deus ex machina
to descend.
But heaven waits
and hell beckons
and I am suspended
in limbo,
the purgatory
of cashier-in-training,
housewives writing cheques,
arthritic old men
counting out coins.
There are tabloids, to distract us,
celebrities looking average
bad hair, no make-up,
which make us feel better
about ourselves.
But Hollywood gods
do not wait,
they have flunkies and publicists for that.
I, on the other hand,
cool my heels in line
try to be philosophical
people-watch.
Because this moment of being alive
is no worse than the next one,
so just what, and when
am I waiting for?
And for one ecstatic moment
I am Zen,
surrendering agency
indifferent to outcome
my boundaries getting thin.
Until, that is
the mental arithmetic begins —
keeping count
in the “12 items or less” line;
giving her
the evil eye.
A Sea of Hats
Aug 5 2010
I wear practical hats
— washable,
broad-brimmed, to keep the sun off.
I’d like to go back
when everyone wore fedoras,
or the working man’s cloth cap.
Old newsreels, photos
at the ballpark
in grainy black and white.
White faces, mostly
and a sea of hats,
well-shod heads
turning to follow the ball
rising-up in chorus.
A neat fedora,
soft grey felt, jaunty brim
a well cared-for crease
down the middle.
The inner rim
was probably stained by Brylcreem
or some other manly pomade,
the hair underneath
thinning
flecked with grey
a small bald spot, conveniently hidden.
When they wore a suit and tie on planes
held doors for women
flipped the doorman tips.
Until the 60’s, that is,
when JFK doffed his
and the hat was finished.
There is nothing classy
about ball caps
worn backwards.
So today, I will go out
in my Dad’s old fedora
whistling Frank Sinatra, or Cole Porter
and take my seat on the bus.
Or better yet, like a gentleman, stand
and offer it up.
As I try to jump-start fashion
in my classic hat,
dare to imagine
a more elegant version of man.
Even as I started this poem, I realized that it was an image, as well as a kind of vicarious nostalgia (I say “vicarious” because it’s not a personal memory, it’s a memory concocted out of old movies and newsreels) that I’ve gone to before. So I used the “search” function, and came up with a couple of previous efforts. It might be interesting to compare. (Of course, even if “A Sea of Hats” stinks, it’s got to be a keeper just for the clever (if I do say so myself) rhyme of “fedora” with “Cole Porter”!)
I see that I’ve used exactly the same combination of “fedora” and “working man’s cap”, and the same invocation of JFK. Not to mention the same romanticized notion of a bygone era in which people were more considerate, in which life was slower and more elegant. Since people don’t really change, and culture evolves slowly, I doubt this is really the case.
I think these poems go back too far to have been up-loaded onto the blog. So I’m glad they’ve now made it. I quite like some of the imagery in “Old Telephones …”: the sense of solidity, of a material world, of physicality. And “In the Lighting …” is a rare personal/biographical poem. I like it for that, since I’m much more likely to take an ironic distance, to avoid being confessional and overly-emotional. I also like it for the conversational tone. It’s closer to a prose poem than most of my work, and I love prose poems. I’d write way more of them, except that I find them unexpectedly difficult. So it’s nice to see I was able to succeed here.
Of course, going back 5 years or so is a two-edged sword. It’s nice to know that I was writing so well back then. It’s probably not as nice to know that I may not have made much progress since!
Enough commentary. Here are “Old Telephones and Coal-Stoked Trains”, and “In the :Lighting Business, A Man Knew Where He Stood.” (Hmmm, something else: I must have had a thing for the long title 5 years ago! Which isn’t a criticism; I actually quite like both titles.)
(P.S. I did some minor editing on both pieces, mostly punctuation and line breaks. An improvement, I think!)
Old Telephones and Coal-Stoked Trains
March 6 2005
I prefer old telephones
that were heavy as iron ingots
and came in black.
And coal-stoked trains,
huge locomotives, churning out steam
hammered out of massive bolts
and two-inch steel.
And cars with running-boards, and solid rubber wheels
that would rattle your bones to pieces
over unpaved streets.
And the hollow thunk of a baseball
— hand-stitched and leather-wrapped —
against the sweet spot of a wooden bat
played in sunlight
on real grass.
And even in shirtsleeves, the men in hats
— crisp fedoras
or a working-man’s cloth cap.
An era before short attention-spans
and suburban cul-de-sacs,
when plastic had yet to be invented
and we’d never heard
of obsolescence.
Now all that’s left
is reminiscence,
on the silver screen, in smoky light
in flickering impressions
in black-and-white.
In The Lighting Business, A Man Knew Where He Stood
May 19 2006
My father was in the lighting business.
In those days
a man left in a suit and tie for work in the morning
and a white shirt his wife had ironed the night before
and a hat, perhaps a snazzy black fedora
and entered a world of men,
in the rag trade
or auto sales
or an office in a granite bank.
Although after the Kennedy administration
when a dashing young President bared his head
going hatless was suddenly acceptable.
In the lighting business, a man knew where he stood.
My father is not much of an artist
and electricity makes him nervous
and he’s never been handy with tools,
yet somehow, they manufactured from scratch;
original designs, not tacky mass-market stuff
— in other words, fixtures that were made to last.
In my parents’ new kitchen
the big overhead light is good as ever,
and just as I remember
from the old house where I was a child.
A gleaming copper cowboy hat
turned upside down;
as if left-out overnight on the trail
to fill with prairie rain.
And when my father takes his grown son for a drive
to show-case his city
he slows down, deliberately
pointing-out his work,
pride barely restrained.
Heavy fixtures, guarding long driveways
in the classy part of town.
And this fancy diner
where his handiwork hangs even now,
bathing corned-beef-hash and grilled cheese
in a warm yellow glow.
Business was never easy.
There were bad customers
and worse debts.
And the taxman, first in–line for cheques.
And the weekly payroll, that must be met
leaving the boss to take what’s left
on the long drive home
after dark.
But there’s something to be said
for work that outlasts its maker
in the city he helped build.
Not that you can take it with you
after death,
but that an old man can take pride
in a life of honest labour,
a legacy, left
— the sturdy pieces
of beaten copper, welded steel
he leaves behind.
Aug 5 2010
I wear practical hats
— washable,
broad-brimmed, to keep the sun off.
I’d like to go back
when everyone wore fedoras,
or the working man’s cloth cap.
Old newsreels, photos
at the ballpark
in grainy black and white.
White faces, mostly
and a sea of hats,
well-shod heads
turning to follow the ball
rising-up in chorus.
A neat fedora,
soft grey felt, jaunty brim
a well cared-for crease
down the middle.
The inner rim
was probably stained by Brylcreem
or some other manly pomade,
the hair underneath
thinning
flecked with grey
a small bald spot, conveniently hidden.
When they wore a suit and tie on planes
held doors for women
flipped the doorman tips.
Until the 60’s, that is,
when JFK doffed his
and the hat was finished.
There is nothing classy
about ball caps
worn backwards.
So today, I will go out
in my Dad’s old fedora
whistling Frank Sinatra, or Cole Porter
and take my seat on the bus.
Or better yet, like a gentleman, stand
and offer it up.
As I try to jump-start fashion
in my classic hat,
dare to imagine
a more elegant version of man.
Even as I started this poem, I realized that it was an image, as well as a kind of vicarious nostalgia (I say “vicarious” because it’s not a personal memory, it’s a memory concocted out of old movies and newsreels) that I’ve gone to before. So I used the “search” function, and came up with a couple of previous efforts. It might be interesting to compare. (Of course, even if “A Sea of Hats” stinks, it’s got to be a keeper just for the clever (if I do say so myself) rhyme of “fedora” with “Cole Porter”!)
I see that I’ve used exactly the same combination of “fedora” and “working man’s cap”, and the same invocation of JFK. Not to mention the same romanticized notion of a bygone era in which people were more considerate, in which life was slower and more elegant. Since people don’t really change, and culture evolves slowly, I doubt this is really the case.
I think these poems go back too far to have been up-loaded onto the blog. So I’m glad they’ve now made it. I quite like some of the imagery in “Old Telephones …”: the sense of solidity, of a material world, of physicality. And “In the Lighting …” is a rare personal/biographical poem. I like it for that, since I’m much more likely to take an ironic distance, to avoid being confessional and overly-emotional. I also like it for the conversational tone. It’s closer to a prose poem than most of my work, and I love prose poems. I’d write way more of them, except that I find them unexpectedly difficult. So it’s nice to see I was able to succeed here.
Of course, going back 5 years or so is a two-edged sword. It’s nice to know that I was writing so well back then. It’s probably not as nice to know that I may not have made much progress since!
Enough commentary. Here are “Old Telephones and Coal-Stoked Trains”, and “In the :Lighting Business, A Man Knew Where He Stood.” (Hmmm, something else: I must have had a thing for the long title 5 years ago! Which isn’t a criticism; I actually quite like both titles.)
(P.S. I did some minor editing on both pieces, mostly punctuation and line breaks. An improvement, I think!)
Old Telephones and Coal-Stoked Trains
March 6 2005
I prefer old telephones
that were heavy as iron ingots
and came in black.
And coal-stoked trains,
huge locomotives, churning out steam
hammered out of massive bolts
and two-inch steel.
And cars with running-boards, and solid rubber wheels
that would rattle your bones to pieces
over unpaved streets.
And the hollow thunk of a baseball
— hand-stitched and leather-wrapped —
against the sweet spot of a wooden bat
played in sunlight
on real grass.
And even in shirtsleeves, the men in hats
— crisp fedoras
or a working-man’s cloth cap.
An era before short attention-spans
and suburban cul-de-sacs,
when plastic had yet to be invented
and we’d never heard
of obsolescence.
Now all that’s left
is reminiscence,
on the silver screen, in smoky light
in flickering impressions
in black-and-white.
In The Lighting Business, A Man Knew Where He Stood
May 19 2006
My father was in the lighting business.
In those days
a man left in a suit and tie for work in the morning
and a white shirt his wife had ironed the night before
and a hat, perhaps a snazzy black fedora
and entered a world of men,
in the rag trade
or auto sales
or an office in a granite bank.
Although after the Kennedy administration
when a dashing young President bared his head
going hatless was suddenly acceptable.
In the lighting business, a man knew where he stood.
My father is not much of an artist
and electricity makes him nervous
and he’s never been handy with tools,
yet somehow, they manufactured from scratch;
original designs, not tacky mass-market stuff
— in other words, fixtures that were made to last.
In my parents’ new kitchen
the big overhead light is good as ever,
and just as I remember
from the old house where I was a child.
A gleaming copper cowboy hat
turned upside down;
as if left-out overnight on the trail
to fill with prairie rain.
And when my father takes his grown son for a drive
to show-case his city
he slows down, deliberately
pointing-out his work,
pride barely restrained.
Heavy fixtures, guarding long driveways
in the classy part of town.
And this fancy diner
where his handiwork hangs even now,
bathing corned-beef-hash and grilled cheese
in a warm yellow glow.
Business was never easy.
There were bad customers
and worse debts.
And the taxman, first in–line for cheques.
And the weekly payroll, that must be met
leaving the boss to take what’s left
on the long drive home
after dark.
But there’s something to be said
for work that outlasts its maker
in the city he helped build.
Not that you can take it with you
after death,
but that an old man can take pride
in a life of honest labour,
a legacy, left
— the sturdy pieces
of beaten copper, welded steel
he leaves behind.
Essay vs. Poetry: A little insight into what I’m trying to do here …
A friend of mine and I were sharing our enthusiasm about dogs, after sending her one of my recent pooch poems. She suggested this:
“I think you should scrap the structure of poetry for this one and approach it as an essay. You have a lot to say and I think you could say more. Just a thought …”
A tempting suggesting, for sure, since I love the essay form. Nevertheless, I declined. This was my explanation, and in it I think I’ve explained a lot of what I’m trying to do in my poetry. Because I think that my most successful poems probably seem very simple: small words, uncomplicated ideas. Deceptively simple, since this is actually a lot harder for me than big words and lots of dependent clauses.
Anyway, I thought I’d paste parts of 2 emails into this blog. I suspect that anyone interested enough to read my poetry (anyone out there?!!) would probably find this worth reading as well.
“But in terms of essay vs. poem, I think I'd better stick with what I do. The thing is, the essay is my natural form. I'm most comfortable with -- and good at -- critical thinking and clear systematic expression. So for me, the creative challenge of poetry is the artificial limitation that is its essence: its need for compression, its inherent musicality.
Attempting poetry gets me out of my habit of rigid disciplined thinking, forces me to be less comprehensive, a little more vague and allusive. It makes me focus down on what's truly important and affecting. It makes me say it once, and that means saying it in absolutely the best way possible. While in the classically elegant essay, you say what you're going to say, say it, and then say what you said: no ambiguity allowed.
And poetry also forces me to trust the reader, rather than taking her by the hand, spoon-feeding her (choose your own metaphor!)
The essay is an argument, an exercise in persuasion. On the other hand, the poem is a delicate balance between content and the aesthetics of sound and language, of rhythm and rhyme. (Which is why I never write political or activist poems. I'd love to trash Harper. I'd love to advocate for the environment and sensible values and sustainable economics. But you can't do those things very well in poetry. Not good poetry, anyway.)
The essay is rarefied and intellectual. It requires active processing. While the poem is visceral and emotional: I want it to enter into consciousness as music does, with a minimum of processing and analysis. Fundamentally, I'm far more head than heart. So writing poetry forces me to go into uncomfortable and difficult places.
Which means that poems are harder for me than essays (and letters, after all, are really mini-essays). But it's this difficulty that, when it's well done, makes a poem so much more gratifying. ...All in all, poetry forces a hopelessly prolix writer such as myself to make do with a lot fewer words!!!!”
“ … That whole thing about the essay vs. the poem can be simplified into the difference between saying something (essay) and showing it (poem). The thing about showing it is that the reader is invited in, does the work, creates his/her own images and associations, fills in the blanks. So for the writer, it's where the artfulness comes in; and for the reader, it makes poetry that much more powerful, evocative, and memorable. Which is also why everyone experiences the same poem differently; and why re-visiting a poem can be like reading something brand new.”
A friend of mine and I were sharing our enthusiasm about dogs, after sending her one of my recent pooch poems. She suggested this:
“I think you should scrap the structure of poetry for this one and approach it as an essay. You have a lot to say and I think you could say more. Just a thought …”
A tempting suggesting, for sure, since I love the essay form. Nevertheless, I declined. This was my explanation, and in it I think I’ve explained a lot of what I’m trying to do in my poetry. Because I think that my most successful poems probably seem very simple: small words, uncomplicated ideas. Deceptively simple, since this is actually a lot harder for me than big words and lots of dependent clauses.
Anyway, I thought I’d paste parts of 2 emails into this blog. I suspect that anyone interested enough to read my poetry (anyone out there?!!) would probably find this worth reading as well.
“But in terms of essay vs. poem, I think I'd better stick with what I do. The thing is, the essay is my natural form. I'm most comfortable with -- and good at -- critical thinking and clear systematic expression. So for me, the creative challenge of poetry is the artificial limitation that is its essence: its need for compression, its inherent musicality.
Attempting poetry gets me out of my habit of rigid disciplined thinking, forces me to be less comprehensive, a little more vague and allusive. It makes me focus down on what's truly important and affecting. It makes me say it once, and that means saying it in absolutely the best way possible. While in the classically elegant essay, you say what you're going to say, say it, and then say what you said: no ambiguity allowed.
And poetry also forces me to trust the reader, rather than taking her by the hand, spoon-feeding her (choose your own metaphor!)
The essay is an argument, an exercise in persuasion. On the other hand, the poem is a delicate balance between content and the aesthetics of sound and language, of rhythm and rhyme. (Which is why I never write political or activist poems. I'd love to trash Harper. I'd love to advocate for the environment and sensible values and sustainable economics. But you can't do those things very well in poetry. Not good poetry, anyway.)
The essay is rarefied and intellectual. It requires active processing. While the poem is visceral and emotional: I want it to enter into consciousness as music does, with a minimum of processing and analysis. Fundamentally, I'm far more head than heart. So writing poetry forces me to go into uncomfortable and difficult places.
Which means that poems are harder for me than essays (and letters, after all, are really mini-essays). But it's this difficulty that, when it's well done, makes a poem so much more gratifying. ...All in all, poetry forces a hopelessly prolix writer such as myself to make do with a lot fewer words!!!!”
“ … That whole thing about the essay vs. the poem can be simplified into the difference between saying something (essay) and showing it (poem). The thing about showing it is that the reader is invited in, does the work, creates his/her own images and associations, fills in the blanks. So for the writer, it's where the artfulness comes in; and for the reader, it makes poetry that much more powerful, evocative, and memorable. Which is also why everyone experiences the same poem differently; and why re-visiting a poem can be like reading something brand new.”
Antebellum Verandas
Aug 4 2010
I pulled over
to ask for directions.
The tinted glass hissed open
to a blast of sweltering air.
She spoke slowly
in a soft Southern drawl,
where each vowel takes 2 syllables
and even the consonants are long
— like peanut butter
stuck to the roof of your mouth.
As if that famous Southern hospitality
extended to words, as well,
generously turning him
into hiyim,
luxuriating on sleeping doawwgs.
I thought of antebellum verandas,
flushed women
fanning themselves.
And respectable girls
at quadrilles and waltzes
and debutante balls.
And a southern belle, in crinoline
feasting her eyes on the help
— big black men
glistening with sweat
bent over fields of cotton.
. . . But this tale is modern,
and this debutante
6 months along,
in flip-flops, capris
a tank top from Wal-Mart,
bright pink lipstick
flaking off.
Her directions
got me lost.
But still, my knees go soft
at a girl with a Southern drawl.
Even an over-ripe peach
on the hot back-roads of Georgia.
Aug 4 2010
I pulled over
to ask for directions.
The tinted glass hissed open
to a blast of sweltering air.
She spoke slowly
in a soft Southern drawl,
where each vowel takes 2 syllables
and even the consonants are long
— like peanut butter
stuck to the roof of your mouth.
As if that famous Southern hospitality
extended to words, as well,
generously turning him
into hiyim,
luxuriating on sleeping doawwgs.
I thought of antebellum verandas,
flushed women
fanning themselves.
And respectable girls
at quadrilles and waltzes
and debutante balls.
And a southern belle, in crinoline
feasting her eyes on the help
— big black men
glistening with sweat
bent over fields of cotton.
. . . But this tale is modern,
and this debutante
6 months along,
in flip-flops, capris
a tank top from Wal-Mart,
bright pink lipstick
flaking off.
Her directions
got me lost.
But still, my knees go soft
at a girl with a Southern drawl.
Even an over-ripe peach
on the hot back-roads of Georgia.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
After the Funeral
Aug 3 2010
After the funeral
I lost touch
with everyone who had known her.
Not that I knew them myself.
What connected us were the stories she told,
her wild spontaneous adventures.
And I imagine I would have liked them as well.
Or maybe not.
Maybe it was she who held us all in thrall —
the luminous star
holding all her friends in our separate orbits;
a red giant
a supernova.
I never made it to the funeral.
It came in the middle of things
2 time zones distant
where I had no one to stay with.
And nothing would have changed, anyway
— the final rite of passage
that leads into nothingness.
But now I realize it wasn’t just for her,
it was for us.
So we could reassure each other
she was important, remarkable
would somehow last.
To console her mother
that so many cared enough
to come.
To confer a sense of order
on something so senseless —
never closure
but at least a kind of ending.
Because ceremony
has a certain gravitas
— we hold each other up,
we are reassured
by the formalities.
No matter how much
I think of her
on a random Tuesday
like today
I feel I failed,
to send her on her way
to celebrate her brilliance.
The centre of gravity is gone.
We drift apart
into the cold darkness
of interstellar space.
Aug 3 2010
After the funeral
I lost touch
with everyone who had known her.
Not that I knew them myself.
What connected us were the stories she told,
her wild spontaneous adventures.
And I imagine I would have liked them as well.
Or maybe not.
Maybe it was she who held us all in thrall —
the luminous star
holding all her friends in our separate orbits;
a red giant
a supernova.
I never made it to the funeral.
It came in the middle of things
2 time zones distant
where I had no one to stay with.
And nothing would have changed, anyway
— the final rite of passage
that leads into nothingness.
But now I realize it wasn’t just for her,
it was for us.
So we could reassure each other
she was important, remarkable
would somehow last.
To console her mother
that so many cared enough
to come.
To confer a sense of order
on something so senseless —
never closure
but at least a kind of ending.
Because ceremony
has a certain gravitas
— we hold each other up,
we are reassured
by the formalities.
No matter how much
I think of her
on a random Tuesday
like today
I feel I failed,
to send her on her way
to celebrate her brilliance.
The centre of gravity is gone.
We drift apart
into the cold darkness
of interstellar space.
The Inner Life of Dogs
July 27 2010
The inner life of dogs
is not cluttered with thought
regret, recrimination.
My dog lives in the permanent present,
where movement, sensation
fill every molecule of her being,
the physicality of the immediate world.
She is fast, hard, persistent,
everything a competition.
Yet generous in her love,
which is unconditional, unstinting.
And which is why
of all the warm-blooded creatures
this is the one
we chose to be our companion.
Loyal canis familiaris,
sharing our food, our homes
our beds.
This question of the inner life
answers itself;
which is
that it’s not really so important as I thought.
Because she is deeply content
no matter what.
She lives with unquestioning intensity,
without introspection
or the perspective of death
that conditions human existence.
She has taught me there is much to be said
for merely being present.
I watch as she sits
very still,
noble nose twitching
gazing into the distance
taking it in.
She seems dignified, thoughtful,
and I haven’t the least idea
what she thinks.
I know she sees the world differently,
and I mean this in the literal sense
of vision, sound, and smell.
She inhabits a parallel universe of scent,
experiences whole orders of magnitude
that leave me clueless.
This idiot savant,
this genius of smell.
I watch her chase a stick,
fiercely relentless
all kamikaze recklessness,
her laser-focused eyes
a mile wide
with the pure momentary joy
of life.
Which consists of food and sleep and fun,
as well as the reassuring touch
of her loyal human companion.
Some think this love
is less worthy
than filial, fraternal, romantic.
I disagree.
It is real, and deep.
Really, all one needs
of the inner life.
July 27 2010
The inner life of dogs
is not cluttered with thought
regret, recrimination.
My dog lives in the permanent present,
where movement, sensation
fill every molecule of her being,
the physicality of the immediate world.
She is fast, hard, persistent,
everything a competition.
Yet generous in her love,
which is unconditional, unstinting.
And which is why
of all the warm-blooded creatures
this is the one
we chose to be our companion.
Loyal canis familiaris,
sharing our food, our homes
our beds.
This question of the inner life
answers itself;
which is
that it’s not really so important as I thought.
Because she is deeply content
no matter what.
She lives with unquestioning intensity,
without introspection
or the perspective of death
that conditions human existence.
She has taught me there is much to be said
for merely being present.
I watch as she sits
very still,
noble nose twitching
gazing into the distance
taking it in.
She seems dignified, thoughtful,
and I haven’t the least idea
what she thinks.
I know she sees the world differently,
and I mean this in the literal sense
of vision, sound, and smell.
She inhabits a parallel universe of scent,
experiences whole orders of magnitude
that leave me clueless.
This idiot savant,
this genius of smell.
I watch her chase a stick,
fiercely relentless
all kamikaze recklessness,
her laser-focused eyes
a mile wide
with the pure momentary joy
of life.
Which consists of food and sleep and fun,
as well as the reassuring touch
of her loyal human companion.
Some think this love
is less worthy
than filial, fraternal, romantic.
I disagree.
It is real, and deep.
Really, all one needs
of the inner life.
Fresh-Cut Grass
July 25 2010
The smell of fresh-cut grass
in the afternoon,
the longed for coolness
of evening shadows.
The 2-stroke mower
that stinks of gas,
the slap of mosquitoes
stirred-up from grass,
where they lurk
in cool torpor.
And the rusty blade
cutting a light green swath,
one wheel, a little wobbly.
As the injured tips
are left to scorch.
In humid summers
thunderstorms come
this time of day.
Furious clouds
spewing out of clear blue sky,
like a coal-fired foundry
pumping smoke.
Then dead calm,
before the wind whips up
the sturm und drang.
Like holding your breath
or something momentous impending,
the air is uncertain, electric
a green luminescence
infusing all.
The intoxicating scent
of fresh-cut grass.
The verdant lawn
almost radioactive.
And a rain
of cool sweet water
about to pour down;
like a healing emollient
soak the earth.
July 25 2010
The smell of fresh-cut grass
in the afternoon,
the longed for coolness
of evening shadows.
The 2-stroke mower
that stinks of gas,
the slap of mosquitoes
stirred-up from grass,
where they lurk
in cool torpor.
And the rusty blade
cutting a light green swath,
one wheel, a little wobbly.
As the injured tips
are left to scorch.
In humid summers
thunderstorms come
this time of day.
Furious clouds
spewing out of clear blue sky,
like a coal-fired foundry
pumping smoke.
Then dead calm,
before the wind whips up
the sturm und drang.
Like holding your breath
or something momentous impending,
the air is uncertain, electric
a green luminescence
infusing all.
The intoxicating scent
of fresh-cut grass.
The verdant lawn
almost radioactive.
And a rain
of cool sweet water
about to pour down;
like a healing emollient
soak the earth.
Wind Chime
July 23 2010
My wind chime is bamboo
cut from some Far Eastern forest,
light, and strong.
So not so much chime, or gong
but a pleasant hollow note,
that makes me think of unimproved nature,
the fragrance
of fresh-cut hay.
In a gentle breeze
it’s a marimba,
and when the wind is up
a full gamelan orchestra,
exotic notes
spilling into spruce-filled air.
I imagine it was made
in some makeshift factory in China,
where bamboo is trucked-in by the trailer-load,
and the air is choked
with bamboo dust, varnish,
the high-pitched whirr of saws.
But here, it tolls softly,
damping down the strongest blow
with inertial calm,
a perennial grass
that will likely outlast
this captive listener.
A down-to-earth philosopher,
meditating on wind.
July 23 2010
My wind chime is bamboo
cut from some Far Eastern forest,
light, and strong.
So not so much chime, or gong
but a pleasant hollow note,
that makes me think of unimproved nature,
the fragrance
of fresh-cut hay.
In a gentle breeze
it’s a marimba,
and when the wind is up
a full gamelan orchestra,
exotic notes
spilling into spruce-filled air.
I imagine it was made
in some makeshift factory in China,
where bamboo is trucked-in by the trailer-load,
and the air is choked
with bamboo dust, varnish,
the high-pitched whirr of saws.
But here, it tolls softly,
damping down the strongest blow
with inertial calm,
a perennial grass
that will likely outlast
this captive listener.
A down-to-earth philosopher,
meditating on wind.
The Path to the Beach
July 19 2010
The path to the beach
is beaten back, in summer.
By repeated passage.
By the dog, hurtling-up from the water,
fur slicked down
even browner, wet.
It skirts a patch of wild flowers
— tall straight stems
lacy white blossoms —
that waft a sweet enticing scent
of liquorice, lilac,
growing dense, after so much rain.
Bees buzz
like high tension wires,
louder, the closer you get.
So intense, in their fierce brief forage
they never notice us,
beating a path to cool relief
racing back, wrapped in towels.
I used to weed-wack the beach
shrapnel flinging-off in all directions,
in safety glasses, long pants
big puffy ear-protectors.
A well-armoured man
with his gas-powered scythe,
leaving clear-cuts, scorched earth
behind him.
But nature abhors a vacuum,
and weeds greedily fill
all vacant space.
I’m sure there’s a common name
as well as some multi-syllabic Latin
for these aromatic plants.
But I’d rather not know,
not claim them as my own,
not force them
into taxonomic order.
Instead, I enjoy them
for what they are;
like the bees, extract their nectar,
no questions asked.
The path to the beach
is beaten back,
careful to skirt the flowers.
July 19 2010
The path to the beach
is beaten back, in summer.
By repeated passage.
By the dog, hurtling-up from the water,
fur slicked down
even browner, wet.
It skirts a patch of wild flowers
— tall straight stems
lacy white blossoms —
that waft a sweet enticing scent
of liquorice, lilac,
growing dense, after so much rain.
Bees buzz
like high tension wires,
louder, the closer you get.
So intense, in their fierce brief forage
they never notice us,
beating a path to cool relief
racing back, wrapped in towels.
I used to weed-wack the beach
shrapnel flinging-off in all directions,
in safety glasses, long pants
big puffy ear-protectors.
A well-armoured man
with his gas-powered scythe,
leaving clear-cuts, scorched earth
behind him.
But nature abhors a vacuum,
and weeds greedily fill
all vacant space.
I’m sure there’s a common name
as well as some multi-syllabic Latin
for these aromatic plants.
But I’d rather not know,
not claim them as my own,
not force them
into taxonomic order.
Instead, I enjoy them
for what they are;
like the bees, extract their nectar,
no questions asked.
The path to the beach
is beaten back,
careful to skirt the flowers.
The End of the Road
July 18 2010
I live at the end of the road.
It winds north of the closest town,
ascending into cooler air
running out
of pavement.
So you’d naturally imagine escape
sanctuary, a haven.
Or perhaps, where lost souls blunder.
Who, at each fork, selected the least likely,
until the road narrowed
their choices ran out.
So here, at the dead-end terminus
they stumble about, disappear into forest,
no clue
what comes next.
Or might it suggest the end of the line,
where you decide
to go no further?
And accept that this is the sum total of your life,
where every preference, intersection
coincidence has led.
Which is neither good nor bad
but depends,
on how you measure happiness,
whether or not
you’re ambitious
or content.
Or then again
is contentment really complacency?
Pleased with yourself for escaping,
looking down
on that town in the distance,
glowing faintly on moonless nights.
Here, even weather is different,
more changeable
with extremes of heat and cold.
And in winter, deep impassable snow.
Where no tracks mar the driveway,
and I’m delighted to be snow-stayed
all alone.
July 18 2010
I live at the end of the road.
It winds north of the closest town,
ascending into cooler air
running out
of pavement.
So you’d naturally imagine escape
sanctuary, a haven.
Or perhaps, where lost souls blunder.
Who, at each fork, selected the least likely,
until the road narrowed
their choices ran out.
So here, at the dead-end terminus
they stumble about, disappear into forest,
no clue
what comes next.
Or might it suggest the end of the line,
where you decide
to go no further?
And accept that this is the sum total of your life,
where every preference, intersection
coincidence has led.
Which is neither good nor bad
but depends,
on how you measure happiness,
whether or not
you’re ambitious
or content.
Or then again
is contentment really complacency?
Pleased with yourself for escaping,
looking down
on that town in the distance,
glowing faintly on moonless nights.
Here, even weather is different,
more changeable
with extremes of heat and cold.
And in winter, deep impassable snow.
Where no tracks mar the driveway,
and I’m delighted to be snow-stayed
all alone.
Causeway
June 22 2010
There is a causeway between 2 lakes.
A thin isthmus of land,
pierced
by a giant steel culvert.
So you can boat out and in,
the water mixes,
the fish
flick to and fro.
Motorboats are forbidden,
but kayaks, canoes slip through.
And rowboats ride low
groaning with fishermen, coolers of beer,
sitting, casting out.
The culvert makes me think of the tunnel of love,
with its intimate echo
the two of us drifting
hidden from sight.
And enchantment, as well —
like underground paddling
an instant umbrella,
free of ice.
I am the last house
on the narrows
before the big lake opens up.
So I live on a river, a lake, a strait
all at once.
And when the wind blasts
lightning cracks the sky,
it feels like a thrill-ride
a house of horrors.
Or a fun-house mirror
when the water is still as glass.
Today, it’s a petting zoo.
Guys in camouflage jackets
hoping to land a fish.
Which they will hold up, delighted,
grip its tail
stroke its side
deftly remove the hook.
Then, with a single whack
crush the skull,
and pack it in ice.
Fish swim through the culvert
oblivious to the massive steel arch,
the shenanigans
of hot-blooded boys
blossoming girls.
Just as they snatch the bait,
unaware
of the lure of the waterless world.
June 22 2010
There is a causeway between 2 lakes.
A thin isthmus of land,
pierced
by a giant steel culvert.
So you can boat out and in,
the water mixes,
the fish
flick to and fro.
Motorboats are forbidden,
but kayaks, canoes slip through.
And rowboats ride low
groaning with fishermen, coolers of beer,
sitting, casting out.
The culvert makes me think of the tunnel of love,
with its intimate echo
the two of us drifting
hidden from sight.
And enchantment, as well —
like underground paddling
an instant umbrella,
free of ice.
I am the last house
on the narrows
before the big lake opens up.
So I live on a river, a lake, a strait
all at once.
And when the wind blasts
lightning cracks the sky,
it feels like a thrill-ride
a house of horrors.
Or a fun-house mirror
when the water is still as glass.
Today, it’s a petting zoo.
Guys in camouflage jackets
hoping to land a fish.
Which they will hold up, delighted,
grip its tail
stroke its side
deftly remove the hook.
Then, with a single whack
crush the skull,
and pack it in ice.
Fish swim through the culvert
oblivious to the massive steel arch,
the shenanigans
of hot-blooded boys
blossoming girls.
Just as they snatch the bait,
unaware
of the lure of the waterless world.
Strange Days
July 15 2010
The weather is strange, these days
we all agreed —
hard to predict, extreme.
There were always reliable milestones
each season.
A guaranteed white Christmas,
the May long weekend swim
— a quick immersion, shivering.
And the first real heat wave
only after school’s out.
So I can imagine what it‘s like
to have lived through an earthquake.
When your solid foundation is jerked away,
what you took for granted
gone.
I keep waiting for a normal day
the way I remember it.
Instead of the strange machinations of a planet
that feels almost alien.
Like watching the sun
rise in the west.
Like living
under blood-red skies.
But today was perfect —
high summer, beside the lake,
a picture postcard home.
Something to keep hold of
when the average has become exceptional,
when we start doubting progress,
when we’ve begun to question our faith.
July 15 2010
The weather is strange, these days
we all agreed —
hard to predict, extreme.
There were always reliable milestones
each season.
A guaranteed white Christmas,
the May long weekend swim
— a quick immersion, shivering.
And the first real heat wave
only after school’s out.
So I can imagine what it‘s like
to have lived through an earthquake.
When your solid foundation is jerked away,
what you took for granted
gone.
I keep waiting for a normal day
the way I remember it.
Instead of the strange machinations of a planet
that feels almost alien.
Like watching the sun
rise in the west.
Like living
under blood-red skies.
But today was perfect —
high summer, beside the lake,
a picture postcard home.
Something to keep hold of
when the average has become exceptional,
when we start doubting progress,
when we’ve begun to question our faith.
Stat
July 6 2010
I do not know
if this is my future, or my past.
Am I child again,
unable to reach the shelf,
indentured
to everyone else’s whim?
Or frail, infirm,
all agency stripped?
I have memorized
each fire-resistant ceiling tile.
I have followed the outside light
for hours,
watching it angle up the wall
beyond my feet.
And for too long to notice
anymore,
have surrendered all modesty.
I am awakened
at some ungodly hour
by the clatter of breakfast carts,
chatter from the nursing station
handing their patients off.
And the jagged sounds of night
in blinking beeping darkness.
The graveyard shift,
attended by doctors, desperate for sleep.
By nurses, who prefer
the dead of night —
the steady pace,
the privacy.
When time goes even slower,
and the ward seems intimate
monastic
fantastical.
The TV looms
like a busily flickering
with its non-stop nattering.
So I read.
I imagine weightless worlds
self-rule
breathing unheated air.
Drugs drip into my veins,
a phantom sleep
overtakes me.
I need to be turned.
I wait.
Something I have not learned well,
despite so much practice.
I drift forward, I drift back,
unable to be of help.
July 6 2010
I do not know
if this is my future, or my past.
Am I child again,
unable to reach the shelf,
indentured
to everyone else’s whim?
Or frail, infirm,
all agency stripped?
I have memorized
each fire-resistant ceiling tile.
I have followed the outside light
for hours,
watching it angle up the wall
beyond my feet.
And for too long to notice
anymore,
have surrendered all modesty.
I am awakened
at some ungodly hour
by the clatter of breakfast carts,
chatter from the nursing station
handing their patients off.
And the jagged sounds of night
in blinking beeping darkness.
The graveyard shift,
attended by doctors, desperate for sleep.
By nurses, who prefer
the dead of night —
the steady pace,
the privacy.
When time goes even slower,
and the ward seems intimate
monastic
fantastical.
The TV looms
like a busily flickering
with its non-stop nattering.
So I read.
I imagine weightless worlds
self-rule
breathing unheated air.
Drugs drip into my veins,
a phantom sleep
overtakes me.
I need to be turned.
I wait.
Something I have not learned well,
despite so much practice.
I drift forward, I drift back,
unable to be of help.
King-Sized Bed
July 12 2010
You stretch, yawn, wiggle your toes
in the luxury of this king-sized bed
alone —
your Queen
called away,
detained by affairs of state.
Sharing a bed is a languorous dance,
like moving through warm dark water.
A clumsy pas de deux,
consisting of fluid tableaux
subtle adjustments —
her heat, her touch
an insistent nudge,
the pressure of another so close.
You shift, uncomfortably,
then fit easily into each other.
You feel her lift you up
into twilight sleep,
then gently set you down.
Arms drape, bodies spoon
a smudge of drool on the pillow,
the scent of her hair, unspooled.
The covers, never quite shared
equally.
You’re always hot
she complains it’s cold,
so you take the side with windows,
the movement of air
like a cooling pirouette.
Together so long
there’s more sleep than sex,
but you know her so much better.
Except that these last few years
she insists on closing the window
so the neighbours don’t hear.
Bolero, fandango
hot salsa, and tango
are now a slow dance at the prom,
her head on your shoulder
rocking slowly
enfolding each other in arms.
The mattress sags in the middle.
You migrate to the edge,
you miss her.
You feel hollow
without her warm substantial body
next to yours.
This king-sized bed is enormous,
a bottomless ocean, trying to float
with nothing to hold on.
So the King, in all his armour
feels himself sinking, sinking deeper,
then jolts up
gasping for air.
July 12 2010
You stretch, yawn, wiggle your toes
in the luxury of this king-sized bed
alone —
your Queen
called away,
detained by affairs of state.
Sharing a bed is a languorous dance,
like moving through warm dark water.
A clumsy pas de deux,
consisting of fluid tableaux
subtle adjustments —
her heat, her touch
an insistent nudge,
the pressure of another so close.
You shift, uncomfortably,
then fit easily into each other.
You feel her lift you up
into twilight sleep,
then gently set you down.
Arms drape, bodies spoon
a smudge of drool on the pillow,
the scent of her hair, unspooled.
The covers, never quite shared
equally.
You’re always hot
she complains it’s cold,
so you take the side with windows,
the movement of air
like a cooling pirouette.
Together so long
there’s more sleep than sex,
but you know her so much better.
Except that these last few years
she insists on closing the window
so the neighbours don’t hear.
Bolero, fandango
hot salsa, and tango
are now a slow dance at the prom,
her head on your shoulder
rocking slowly
enfolding each other in arms.
The mattress sags in the middle.
You migrate to the edge,
you miss her.
You feel hollow
without her warm substantial body
next to yours.
This king-sized bed is enormous,
a bottomless ocean, trying to float
with nothing to hold on.
So the King, in all his armour
feels himself sinking, sinking deeper,
then jolts up
gasping for air.
Country Living
July 14 2010
I learned that trembling aspen, and poplar, are the same.
That raspberries spread like weeds,
and the birds will eat them
first chance they get.
That crab-apples attract bears,
and can’t be left.
That dandelions will survive an atomic attack,
like cockroaches, outlast us.
And that the weather report is accurate
if you wait long enough.
That the well is cantankerous,
electricity erratic,
and the black flies
last until fall.
That the snowplough
doesn’t always get this far.
That in spring
the potholes swallow small cars whole,
and the washboard, in August
will shake them apart.
That the deer will eat my hostas,
the ice will take the dock out,
and the handyman will cost us
even more.
That country living
is not for the faint of heart.
But the view is truly gorgeous,
and the silence, worth a fortune.
And all the things I thought important
once
I hardly notice, anymore.
July 14 2010
I learned that trembling aspen, and poplar, are the same.
That raspberries spread like weeds,
and the birds will eat them
first chance they get.
That crab-apples attract bears,
and can’t be left.
That dandelions will survive an atomic attack,
like cockroaches, outlast us.
And that the weather report is accurate
if you wait long enough.
That the well is cantankerous,
electricity erratic,
and the black flies
last until fall.
That the snowplough
doesn’t always get this far.
That in spring
the potholes swallow small cars whole,
and the washboard, in August
will shake them apart.
That the deer will eat my hostas,
the ice will take the dock out,
and the handyman will cost us
even more.
That country living
is not for the faint of heart.
But the view is truly gorgeous,
and the silence, worth a fortune.
And all the things I thought important
once
I hardly notice, anymore.
Race Music
July 11 2010
All they play are the blues
on this old transistor,
brittle plastic, tinny
vintage 1963.
Elvis, in Memphis
B. B. King.
Delta heat, the contagious beat
R&B meets jazz —
happiness
conjured out of faith, and sadness.
It was race music, back then,
negro stations.
The air waves
segregated too.
So here I am, in a rustic cabin
far removed.
Yet somehow, the battery’s still juiced,
my old transistor
still pulling-in tunes.
Could it be campus radio
in the dead of night,
a lonely student of blues?
Or some rogue signal,
bouncing off the ionosphere
for 50 years,
only old transistors can hear?
Bad cards, cheatin’ women,
somethin’ fine
cookin’ in the bedroom for him,
make even bad times bearable.
Maybe it’s the shared misery
the same old thing.
Or the syncopated beat
that makes you move your feet,
when you can’t even get out of bed.
I hold the cheap little speaker right next to my ear,
and I’m 10 years old again.
July 11 2010
All they play are the blues
on this old transistor,
brittle plastic, tinny
vintage 1963.
Elvis, in Memphis
B. B. King.
Delta heat, the contagious beat
R&B meets jazz —
happiness
conjured out of faith, and sadness.
It was race music, back then,
negro stations.
The air waves
segregated too.
So here I am, in a rustic cabin
far removed.
Yet somehow, the battery’s still juiced,
my old transistor
still pulling-in tunes.
Could it be campus radio
in the dead of night,
a lonely student of blues?
Or some rogue signal,
bouncing off the ionosphere
for 50 years,
only old transistors can hear?
Bad cards, cheatin’ women,
somethin’ fine
cookin’ in the bedroom for him,
make even bad times bearable.
Maybe it’s the shared misery
the same old thing.
Or the syncopated beat
that makes you move your feet,
when you can’t even get out of bed.
I hold the cheap little speaker right next to my ear,
and I’m 10 years old again.
Dead Reckoning
July 9 2010
Dead Reckoning: “1. The determination without the aid of celestial observations of the position of a ship or aircraft from the record of the courses sailed or flown, the distance made, and the known or estimated drift. 2. Guesswork.” [Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary, Tenth Edition]
I have lost sight
of land.
The current takes me,
the tide moves under me,
the wind is at my back.
I navigate by dead reckoning,
so it is essential to know where my journey began
where I hope it will end.
And to keep meticulous track
of water and wind,
the powerful forces I cannot predict
or influence.
I have always hugged the coast
the fragrant shore,
the reassuring attachment to home.
But now, at sea
I am forced to cope,
ignorant of night, where the sun will rise
the stars of an alien sky.
The esoteric knowledge
I once so smugly despised.
Things happen
unexpectedly,
best laid plans go awry.
So I survive
day-to-day,
making my way by dead reckoning,
senses heightened
focus tight.
A life of close observation,
distilled down
to the elemental forces
the essence of things.
Or will I be
another unidentified traveller?
Presumed drowned,
lost at sea.
July 9 2010
Dead Reckoning: “1. The determination without the aid of celestial observations of the position of a ship or aircraft from the record of the courses sailed or flown, the distance made, and the known or estimated drift. 2. Guesswork.” [Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary, Tenth Edition]
I have lost sight
of land.
The current takes me,
the tide moves under me,
the wind is at my back.
I navigate by dead reckoning,
so it is essential to know where my journey began
where I hope it will end.
And to keep meticulous track
of water and wind,
the powerful forces I cannot predict
or influence.
I have always hugged the coast
the fragrant shore,
the reassuring attachment to home.
But now, at sea
I am forced to cope,
ignorant of night, where the sun will rise
the stars of an alien sky.
The esoteric knowledge
I once so smugly despised.
Things happen
unexpectedly,
best laid plans go awry.
So I survive
day-to-day,
making my way by dead reckoning,
senses heightened
focus tight.
A life of close observation,
distilled down
to the elemental forces
the essence of things.
Or will I be
another unidentified traveller?
Presumed drowned,
lost at sea.
Sincerely Yours
July 5 2010
The letter to the editor begins
“Dear Sir”.
Or better still “The Editor”? . . . “To whom it may concern”?
Really — whom?!!
Not to mention the formal fussiness
the mousy deference.
But then again
there’s the presumption of “Sir”,
as if only a man had the gravitas
to head this great institution.
More likely a summer intern,
pasty skin pimpled and razor-nicked
consigned to the mailroom.
And isn’t “Dear” awfully familiar,
more suited to your great Aunt from Rimouski,
asking Miss Manners' advice?
By this time
my hot-blooded self-righteousness
is about to lose its edge.
So this concerned citizen
intent on setting the world straight
settles for “To The Editor”,
sober, succinct
and sexless.
Permission to rant, contend, and vent,
then slip in something sarcastic
the brilliant coup de grace.
For a week, I skip to the letters page,
search for my name
in print —
satisfied
to have gotten the last word.
But once again, nothing.
Once again, unheard.
“Dear Sir”
I find myself tempted
“Thank you for your excellent newspaper.
I find it splendid
for fish wrap
kitty litter
the compost bin.
And kindling, of course.
Sincerely Yours . . .”
July 5 2010
The letter to the editor begins
“Dear Sir”.
Or better still “The Editor”? . . . “To whom it may concern”?
Really — whom?!!
Not to mention the formal fussiness
the mousy deference.
But then again
there’s the presumption of “Sir”,
as if only a man had the gravitas
to head this great institution.
More likely a summer intern,
pasty skin pimpled and razor-nicked
consigned to the mailroom.
And isn’t “Dear” awfully familiar,
more suited to your great Aunt from Rimouski,
asking Miss Manners' advice?
By this time
my hot-blooded self-righteousness
is about to lose its edge.
So this concerned citizen
intent on setting the world straight
settles for “To The Editor”,
sober, succinct
and sexless.
Permission to rant, contend, and vent,
then slip in something sarcastic
the brilliant coup de grace.
For a week, I skip to the letters page,
search for my name
in print —
satisfied
to have gotten the last word.
But once again, nothing.
Once again, unheard.
“Dear Sir”
I find myself tempted
“Thank you for your excellent newspaper.
I find it splendid
for fish wrap
kitty litter
the compost bin.
And kindling, of course.
Sincerely Yours . . .”
A Rainy Sunday
June 27 2010
A rainy Sunday
and only the hard-core remain.
Mostly refugees from the west coast.
Pasty sunless creatures
who are impervious to rain,
have learned you’ll never get out
if you wait.
There are the walkers, undaunted,
well-armed
with umbrellas, galoshes.
And stalwart joggers
squishing along,
in skin-tight Lycra
that soaks-up twice its weight.
And long haul hikers
flaunting high-tech gear.
The dog, too, is oblivious to weather.
She pads up the trail on waterproof feet,
casually shakes herself dry.
So we make the best of it,
take the path less travelled
have the place to ourselves.
I charge through the deepest puddles like a kid,
smug
in rubberized gumboots.
And duck
under water-logged branches,
sagging with the added weight.
Cold wet leaves
smack my face,
and rain-pants are plastered to my legs,
soaked through
by the underbrush.
The forest is dark green
in the dull even light
of rain.
And the trees
keep drizzling down,
no way to tell
if it’s stopped.
It’s hot
in this water proof jacket
fuzzy socks.
I look enviously at the dog,
unencumbered by outerwear
space-age fabrics.
She is rolling in the mud
where something must have died
recently,
delighted to be out, unleashed.
Doesn’t know
it’s Sunday.
Doesn’t miss the sun.
June 27 2010
A rainy Sunday
and only the hard-core remain.
Mostly refugees from the west coast.
Pasty sunless creatures
who are impervious to rain,
have learned you’ll never get out
if you wait.
There are the walkers, undaunted,
well-armed
with umbrellas, galoshes.
And stalwart joggers
squishing along,
in skin-tight Lycra
that soaks-up twice its weight.
And long haul hikers
flaunting high-tech gear.
The dog, too, is oblivious to weather.
She pads up the trail on waterproof feet,
casually shakes herself dry.
So we make the best of it,
take the path less travelled
have the place to ourselves.
I charge through the deepest puddles like a kid,
smug
in rubberized gumboots.
And duck
under water-logged branches,
sagging with the added weight.
Cold wet leaves
smack my face,
and rain-pants are plastered to my legs,
soaked through
by the underbrush.
The forest is dark green
in the dull even light
of rain.
And the trees
keep drizzling down,
no way to tell
if it’s stopped.
It’s hot
in this water proof jacket
fuzzy socks.
I look enviously at the dog,
unencumbered by outerwear
space-age fabrics.
She is rolling in the mud
where something must have died
recently,
delighted to be out, unleashed.
Doesn’t know
it’s Sunday.
Doesn’t miss the sun.
Dog Heaven
June 24 2010
We live in a state of nature.
Not tooth and claw
survive, procreate,
but the absence of clocks
and obligation.
Just the dog and I
after a hard day of play,
skinny-dipping
before the mosquitoes hit.
She vaults into the lake
her powerful hind legs
like coiled springs, unleashed.
And that noble Lab head
swimming right beside me,
determined, focused.
She is at least as fast as me,
powerful limbs
churning under the surface,
big webbed feet
perfect.
She is in dog heaven
on the far shore,
pulling up sunken logs
sodden, rotten,
rooting through the underbrush.
The whole time
keeping a watchful eye on me,
floating in the shallows.
She will follow me back
stroke-for-stroke
our heads almost touching.
She thinks it’s a race
because everything is a contest.
I let her win,
gracefully, of course.
Or so I like to imagine,
because this Olympian pup
can dog-paddle faster
than my best front-crawl.
She wins by a nose,
an unfair advantage
for a Lab!
June 24 2010
We live in a state of nature.
Not tooth and claw
survive, procreate,
but the absence of clocks
and obligation.
Just the dog and I
after a hard day of play,
skinny-dipping
before the mosquitoes hit.
She vaults into the lake
her powerful hind legs
like coiled springs, unleashed.
And that noble Lab head
swimming right beside me,
determined, focused.
She is at least as fast as me,
powerful limbs
churning under the surface,
big webbed feet
perfect.
She is in dog heaven
on the far shore,
pulling up sunken logs
sodden, rotten,
rooting through the underbrush.
The whole time
keeping a watchful eye on me,
floating in the shallows.
She will follow me back
stroke-for-stroke
our heads almost touching.
She thinks it’s a race
because everything is a contest.
I let her win,
gracefully, of course.
Or so I like to imagine,
because this Olympian pup
can dog-paddle faster
than my best front-crawl.
She wins by a nose,
an unfair advantage
for a Lab!
People Who Know How to Draw
June 21 2010
I will doodle, here and there.
Usually on the phone,
navigating message trees
by 1’s and stars and pound-keys,
to the tiny terminal bud
of enlightenment.
Mostly squiggles, and geometry.
I never draw
not since grade school,
my artistic development arrested
at stick figures, pencil tracing.
I am a medieval painter
who not only failed to grasp perspective
but the 2nd dimension, as well.
We were asked to draw a house,
and they all came out
with window eyes, door as mouth
smiling,
smoke, curling up.
A stick-figure dad out front
cadaverously thin,
who also probably smoked, back then.
We graduated to trees,
a swirl of green
brown crayon trunk.
Even the teacher didn’t think
beneath the surface
of the single family bungalow,
mom at home
dad, in his RoadMaster Buick.
Or that we all missed the whole other half
of the tree,
its vast network of roots
branching underneath.
Shade tree as palindrome;
as if planted
in a reflecting pool.
I grew up to be an environmentalist,
yet still forget about trees
living half their lives
subterranean.
And the suburb
of neat detached houses
sitting on dank cinder-block basements
drainage tile, septic bed,
even those who know how to draw
forget.
June 21 2010
I will doodle, here and there.
Usually on the phone,
navigating message trees
by 1’s and stars and pound-keys,
to the tiny terminal bud
of enlightenment.
Mostly squiggles, and geometry.
I never draw
not since grade school,
my artistic development arrested
at stick figures, pencil tracing.
I am a medieval painter
who not only failed to grasp perspective
but the 2nd dimension, as well.
We were asked to draw a house,
and they all came out
with window eyes, door as mouth
smiling,
smoke, curling up.
A stick-figure dad out front
cadaverously thin,
who also probably smoked, back then.
We graduated to trees,
a swirl of green
brown crayon trunk.
Even the teacher didn’t think
beneath the surface
of the single family bungalow,
mom at home
dad, in his RoadMaster Buick.
Or that we all missed the whole other half
of the tree,
its vast network of roots
branching underneath.
Shade tree as palindrome;
as if planted
in a reflecting pool.
I grew up to be an environmentalist,
yet still forget about trees
living half their lives
subterranean.
And the suburb
of neat detached houses
sitting on dank cinder-block basements
drainage tile, septic bed,
even those who know how to draw
forget.
Things Break
June 19 2010
Things break.
Voices. Rules. Plates.
A maximal state of disorder,
give or take
the life force,
a few more years to live.
Earthquake, black hole
asteroid collision,
our fate
none omitted.
I am told such pessimism
is unbecoming
a creative type like me.
That I can learn to sing baritone
back-up bass.
That crazy glue will hold
this mosaic plate,
the handle of my favourite mug.
That grammar doesn’t count
in poetry,
and there’s no right way to love
— make up your own rules,
copy, paste
and cut.
Records are meant to be broken,
hearts will break.
But then they will harvest a vein
patch the blood supply,
oxygenate
resuscitate
electrify.
And you will fall in love again,
your heart
beating in synch with another.
What a surprise,
especially for a pessimist
who thinks too hard.
That poor starts
can end well,
what falls apart
is mendable.
And that entropy can be suspended
long enough,
no matter how much of a mess
you’ve made.
June 19 2010
Things break.
Voices. Rules. Plates.
A maximal state of disorder,
give or take
the life force,
a few more years to live.
Earthquake, black hole
asteroid collision,
our fate
none omitted.
I am told such pessimism
is unbecoming
a creative type like me.
That I can learn to sing baritone
back-up bass.
That crazy glue will hold
this mosaic plate,
the handle of my favourite mug.
That grammar doesn’t count
in poetry,
and there’s no right way to love
— make up your own rules,
copy, paste
and cut.
Records are meant to be broken,
hearts will break.
But then they will harvest a vein
patch the blood supply,
oxygenate
resuscitate
electrify.
And you will fall in love again,
your heart
beating in synch with another.
What a surprise,
especially for a pessimist
who thinks too hard.
That poor starts
can end well,
what falls apart
is mendable.
And that entropy can be suspended
long enough,
no matter how much of a mess
you’ve made.
Muskoka Chair
June 15 2010
The dock rests on heavy wooden cribs
loaded with rocks,
fixed
through years of ice, break-up
gale-force winds.
The deck is sun-bleached lumber,
water-logged, a hint of rot
blistering hot
in high-noon summer.
Giant spiders
infest the dark wet space
underneath,
making little kids scream
when they venture up top,
or in spring
in the high water.
But at sunset, all movement stops.
When the sky turns cool blue
the horizon’s on fire,
and the lake is mirror smooth
nearly flawless;
dragonflies, water-walkers,
skittering across
its solid surface.
I am sitting
in a weathered wooden deck chair.
A chilled martini rests
on its broad flat arm
nicely frosted,
drops of condensation
sweating off.
The cocktail glass
seems oddly out of place
— olive, bobbing,
the jaunty swizzle-stick.
An open book is balanced
face down on my leg,
plot forgotten, as I sip
extra dry
vermouth, and gin.
Observing harmless spiders
a lurid sky.
As the chill of night
slips in.
Of course, south of the border, the Muskoka chair becomes the Adirondack chair – same thing, different geographical pride.
Not that this is me. I don’t have a dock, just a poor excuse for a beach. And if I read outside, it’s in the gazebo or on the backyard deck: both nicely screened to keep out the bugs. And other than that, my hard drink is invariably vodka and tomato juice (or vodka and V8, when I’m in a particularly virtuous mood – a libation I’ve taken to calling a “rocket V8”). Cheap red wine, though, is much more usual. But what could be more glamorous and sophisticated than a cool dry Martini?
I like the contrast here between that hint of sophistication and the rustic setting. And I like, as usual, the sense of microcosm: my very intentional aim of making the world as small and still and closely observed as possible. Insects work great, in that regard. Sunsets, though, are horribly susceptible to cliché. I hope I managed to avoid that here, by disciplining myself to keep it simple: nothing more than “cool blue”, “fire”, and “lurid”. (I know, I know: how can a loaded word like “lurid” really keep things simple?!!)
June 15 2010
The dock rests on heavy wooden cribs
loaded with rocks,
fixed
through years of ice, break-up
gale-force winds.
The deck is sun-bleached lumber,
water-logged, a hint of rot
blistering hot
in high-noon summer.
Giant spiders
infest the dark wet space
underneath,
making little kids scream
when they venture up top,
or in spring
in the high water.
But at sunset, all movement stops.
When the sky turns cool blue
the horizon’s on fire,
and the lake is mirror smooth
nearly flawless;
dragonflies, water-walkers,
skittering across
its solid surface.
I am sitting
in a weathered wooden deck chair.
A chilled martini rests
on its broad flat arm
nicely frosted,
drops of condensation
sweating off.
The cocktail glass
seems oddly out of place
— olive, bobbing,
the jaunty swizzle-stick.
An open book is balanced
face down on my leg,
plot forgotten, as I sip
extra dry
vermouth, and gin.
Observing harmless spiders
a lurid sky.
As the chill of night
slips in.
Of course, south of the border, the Muskoka chair becomes the Adirondack chair – same thing, different geographical pride.
Not that this is me. I don’t have a dock, just a poor excuse for a beach. And if I read outside, it’s in the gazebo or on the backyard deck: both nicely screened to keep out the bugs. And other than that, my hard drink is invariably vodka and tomato juice (or vodka and V8, when I’m in a particularly virtuous mood – a libation I’ve taken to calling a “rocket V8”). Cheap red wine, though, is much more usual. But what could be more glamorous and sophisticated than a cool dry Martini?
I like the contrast here between that hint of sophistication and the rustic setting. And I like, as usual, the sense of microcosm: my very intentional aim of making the world as small and still and closely observed as possible. Insects work great, in that regard. Sunsets, though, are horribly susceptible to cliché. I hope I managed to avoid that here, by disciplining myself to keep it simple: nothing more than “cool blue”, “fire”, and “lurid”. (I know, I know: how can a loaded word like “lurid” really keep things simple?!!)
Clearing
June 1 2010
I found a trail through the woods
under cool green trees
over fallen logs.
Bush-crashed past
pools of still black water,
in this dark sanctuary
in the heat of summer.
So the clearing was unexpected.
There was a weathered shed
slouching at one end,
with gaps between the slats of wood
where animals get in.
An abandoned house
with small stingy windows, single-pane,
an earthen floor
a dug-out basement.
And the roof beam collapsed in the middle
from heavy snow
some bitter day
one long gone winter.
There was a stone boat, full of rocks
broken, tipped,
anchored in the shallow ditch
where they were hauled.
Implements, unhitched
hand tools, rusting,
a dusty reddish-brown.
And the chassis of a cannibalized car
made of heavy gauge steel,
the way they built them before the war.
A museum of industry,
slowly reclaimed
by encroaching forest.
They tried to farm here, once
in the rocky soil
grudging summers
this far north.
Cleared
of stunted birch, reedy poplar,
burnt for warmth
in long lean months
of constant darkness.
Now overgrown
with wild flowers, feral hay.
And jack-pine, spruce
digging-in their roots
like grappling hooks.
The homesteaders hung on, as well.
Through, depression, flood
black-flies, bugs,
deer
grazing on the harvest at dawn.
What were they thinking, I thought,
as I heard the stream
burble over polished rocks,
felt the sun
soothe my weary bones.
A farm, carved out of boreal forest
through hard labour
sweat, and brawn.
Now gone,
back to nature.
And their descendants to town.
Where they tend a tidy garden,
putting in peas
as soon as the frost is out.
June 1 2010
I found a trail through the woods
under cool green trees
over fallen logs.
Bush-crashed past
pools of still black water,
in this dark sanctuary
in the heat of summer.
So the clearing was unexpected.
There was a weathered shed
slouching at one end,
with gaps between the slats of wood
where animals get in.
An abandoned house
with small stingy windows, single-pane,
an earthen floor
a dug-out basement.
And the roof beam collapsed in the middle
from heavy snow
some bitter day
one long gone winter.
There was a stone boat, full of rocks
broken, tipped,
anchored in the shallow ditch
where they were hauled.
Implements, unhitched
hand tools, rusting,
a dusty reddish-brown.
And the chassis of a cannibalized car
made of heavy gauge steel,
the way they built them before the war.
A museum of industry,
slowly reclaimed
by encroaching forest.
They tried to farm here, once
in the rocky soil
grudging summers
this far north.
Cleared
of stunted birch, reedy poplar,
burnt for warmth
in long lean months
of constant darkness.
Now overgrown
with wild flowers, feral hay.
And jack-pine, spruce
digging-in their roots
like grappling hooks.
The homesteaders hung on, as well.
Through, depression, flood
black-flies, bugs,
deer
grazing on the harvest at dawn.
What were they thinking, I thought,
as I heard the stream
burble over polished rocks,
felt the sun
soothe my weary bones.
A farm, carved out of boreal forest
through hard labour
sweat, and brawn.
Now gone,
back to nature.
And their descendants to town.
Where they tend a tidy garden,
putting in peas
as soon as the frost is out.
Double Negative
June 18 2010
He kept on saying “irregardless”.
The word was a sulky child
sweeping the checkerboard clear
before all was lost.
It was a bulldozer
levelling every argument, fact I could muster,
even the valid ones.
But he was oblivious
stubbornly persisting with double negatives,
never mind that awful concoction of a word.
His preference is clearly for emphasis
over logic.
In fact, he loved double negatives,
couldn’t get enough.
I didn’t do nothing
he protested,
unaware how accurate he was.
I tactfully pointed out his mistakes,
which only made him more enraged
scathingly itemizing mine.
Whatever, I finally said
seeking refuge in Zen indifference,
not to mention the moral superiority
of letting go.
So, does passive-aggressive
cancel out as well?
But it’s these internal contradictions
that make us human,
how love and hate
pleasure, pain
can co-exist
And irregardless
of cutting words, objects hurled,
the unforgettable
post-fight sex.
June 18 2010
He kept on saying “irregardless”.
The word was a sulky child
sweeping the checkerboard clear
before all was lost.
It was a bulldozer
levelling every argument, fact I could muster,
even the valid ones.
But he was oblivious
stubbornly persisting with double negatives,
never mind that awful concoction of a word.
His preference is clearly for emphasis
over logic.
In fact, he loved double negatives,
couldn’t get enough.
I didn’t do nothing
he protested,
unaware how accurate he was.
I tactfully pointed out his mistakes,
which only made him more enraged
scathingly itemizing mine.
Whatever, I finally said
seeking refuge in Zen indifference,
not to mention the moral superiority
of letting go.
So, does passive-aggressive
cancel out as well?
But it’s these internal contradictions
that make us human,
how love and hate
pleasure, pain
can co-exist
And irregardless
of cutting words, objects hurled,
the unforgettable
post-fight sex.
Not Exactly Mt. Ararat
June 12 2010
The rain came down hard,
pelting off the windshield,
rattling the roof
like coins in a steel box.
So loud, even talk was impossible.
So we sat,
stranded in mud
ruts filling-up
with cold dark water,
the windows fogged
the engine stalled
the rain almost solid.
A flash flood
that could have turned us evangelical.
Huddling closer, keeping warm
we wondered if the car would float,
the road
wash-out, or hold.
And as quick as it came, it was over,
air steaming
trees dripping
a shaft of pale light.
And a freshening breeze
sweeping the world clean.
The silence
was deafening.
I popped the hood, looking intently
at the baffling mess of machinery
I was hopeless to fix.
So was it the hood
crashing down
that jarred the starter to spark?
Or was it bad humours
leeching out,
like cupping, bleeding
holes drilled into skulls?
Or was it an act of will,
my imploring gaze
shocking
an inanimate object to life?
Whatever it was
the engine caught
the tires gripped
the car eased into motion.
And the soothing thwak-thwak-thwak
of wipers,
peering out
through squeegee-clean glass.
Order restored,
sun, at last.
Ignition
by miracle, mercy, or chance.
And an overwhelmed world
brought back.
June 12 2010
The rain came down hard,
pelting off the windshield,
rattling the roof
like coins in a steel box.
So loud, even talk was impossible.
So we sat,
stranded in mud
ruts filling-up
with cold dark water,
the windows fogged
the engine stalled
the rain almost solid.
A flash flood
that could have turned us evangelical.
Huddling closer, keeping warm
we wondered if the car would float,
the road
wash-out, or hold.
And as quick as it came, it was over,
air steaming
trees dripping
a shaft of pale light.
And a freshening breeze
sweeping the world clean.
The silence
was deafening.
I popped the hood, looking intently
at the baffling mess of machinery
I was hopeless to fix.
So was it the hood
crashing down
that jarred the starter to spark?
Or was it bad humours
leeching out,
like cupping, bleeding
holes drilled into skulls?
Or was it an act of will,
my imploring gaze
shocking
an inanimate object to life?
Whatever it was
the engine caught
the tires gripped
the car eased into motion.
And the soothing thwak-thwak-thwak
of wipers,
peering out
through squeegee-clean glass.
Order restored,
sun, at last.
Ignition
by miracle, mercy, or chance.
And an overwhelmed world
brought back.
Moving Violation
June 6 2010
The truck was re-done
in house paint,
latex-covered rust
flat red finish.
The cheap brush shed little black strands
that stuck to the dull surface
like a bad haircut.
The muffler sputtered, shocks kajunked,
yet it would run and run
on empty.
.
The old-fashioned bench seat
was awfully tempting.
No buckets, consoles, armrests,
no contortions necessary.
Except for the stick-shift, that is,
when an errant leg
maybe yours
kicked it into neutral,
and we coasted downhill
picking up speed.
So that summer evening
as we lay cheek-to-cheek,
passion exhausted
naked skin sticking
to cheap vinyl seats,
the world moved.
And we could have gone on like that non-stop
gravity-assisted,
if it hadn’t been for that snickering cop.
Who spotted the broken tail light,
then cited us for unsafe operation
driving with our seatbelts off.
.
June 6 2010
The truck was re-done
in house paint,
latex-covered rust
flat red finish.
The cheap brush shed little black strands
that stuck to the dull surface
like a bad haircut.
The muffler sputtered, shocks kajunked,
yet it would run and run
on empty.
.
The old-fashioned bench seat
was awfully tempting.
No buckets, consoles, armrests,
no contortions necessary.
Except for the stick-shift, that is,
when an errant leg
maybe yours
kicked it into neutral,
and we coasted downhill
picking up speed.
So that summer evening
as we lay cheek-to-cheek,
passion exhausted
naked skin sticking
to cheap vinyl seats,
the world moved.
And we could have gone on like that non-stop
gravity-assisted,
if it hadn’t been for that snickering cop.
Who spotted the broken tail light,
then cited us for unsafe operation
driving with our seatbelts off.
.
The Usual Unholy Racket
June 4 2010
It’s stony sand, then grass
sloping up from shore.
Geese feed here
a caucus, a gaggle, a flock,
strutting, squabbling
squawking-out their claim
to territory,
their general state
of irritation.
The dog delights in chasing
these awkward avians,
who waddle and flap
back to water,
cackling and honking non-stop.
Except for the great grizzled gander
who stands his ground
will not cower.
The pup freezes, confused
then abruptly turns tail,
the old bird in hot pursuit.
Not quite fast enough,
but still
we all know who’s boss.
The geese re-occupy their land
goose-stepping back in chaotic formation,
the usual unholy racket.
And we keep off,
afraid they’ll peck out an eye,
wanting no part
of sharp feet, powerful wings.
Goose-droppings everywhere
the sandy beach fouled.
The pup licks her paws
consoles her wounded pride.
As the gander keeps watch,
strutting triumphant.
June 4 2010
It’s stony sand, then grass
sloping up from shore.
Geese feed here
a caucus, a gaggle, a flock,
strutting, squabbling
squawking-out their claim
to territory,
their general state
of irritation.
The dog delights in chasing
these awkward avians,
who waddle and flap
back to water,
cackling and honking non-stop.
Except for the great grizzled gander
who stands his ground
will not cower.
The pup freezes, confused
then abruptly turns tail,
the old bird in hot pursuit.
Not quite fast enough,
but still
we all know who’s boss.
The geese re-occupy their land
goose-stepping back in chaotic formation,
the usual unholy racket.
And we keep off,
afraid they’ll peck out an eye,
wanting no part
of sharp feet, powerful wings.
Goose-droppings everywhere
the sandy beach fouled.
The pup licks her paws
consoles her wounded pride.
As the gander keeps watch,
strutting triumphant.
All-Day Rain
June 3 2010
Living by the sea
I got used to overcast, fog
all-day rain.
I felt like a sun-worshipper
on those rare clear days,
after the dampness had infected everything.
When stepping outside
was like putting on clothes
hot from the dryer.
But now I long for cloud.
The mournful foghorn,
that comes out of nowhere
seems unnaturally close.
The feeling of being enclosed,
cut-off from the world.
The sky, the air, the ground
a soft grey blur.
Here, the rain pounds down
in short sharp bursts.
Clouds are puffs of cotton
pinned to an enormous sky.
And the sun makes edges harden,
the earth, cracked and dry.
I feel exposed,
yet small enough to vanish.
While on the coast
I could hop a ship, and be off.
A tramp steamer
destined for someplace exotic.
Or wrapped in a blanket of fog
happily lost.
Until the sun
burns it all away;
an all-day rain
rinses clean.
Funny thing is, I’ve never lived on the coast. On the shore of a Great Lake, yes; but never by the ocean. And not on the prairie, either (which makes its appearance in the 2nd last stanza: the high skies, the quick-moving storms.) So it’s all an act of imagination; which, I hope, manages to strike some authentic notes.
What gave rise to this piece was sitting here as the weather transitioned from clear and warm to overcast and stormy. I thought about how earlier in the day I had watched the sky, waiting for the sun to reach a break between the cotton-puff clouds; and later, for the sky to change. And I also thought about how, in this dry spring, I hear these forecasts for rain that have me imagining a good soaking, a good immersion in a steady all-day rain; but end up getting disappointed by the appearance of no more than a brief shower or two. So that’s where this poem comes from: images of clouds (cliché alert!!); and the desire to write something that included that evocative expression “all-day rain”.
After that, it’s just stream of consciousness, and channelling that mysterious inner/outer voice, and going along for the ride. Which, come to think of it, is how most poems get written.
There is also a theme here, which I recognize recurs in a lot of my stuff. On the one hand, there is this idea of “place”: of the importance of geography, of that singular place where one has the ineffable feeling of home. And on the other, a sense of displacement: of flight; of the need – or desire – to escape, to re-invent oneself, to shake things up. (A strange trope, indeed; since I am the biggest homebody and most reluctant traveller you could ever imagine!) And, as it does in many of my poems, pathetic fallacy plays an important part here as well: that is, the reflection in weather, geography, and nature of one’s psychological state. (Which isn’t much of a surprise, actually; since it’s really the basis of all lyric poetry.)
June 3 2010
Living by the sea
I got used to overcast, fog
all-day rain.
I felt like a sun-worshipper
on those rare clear days,
after the dampness had infected everything.
When stepping outside
was like putting on clothes
hot from the dryer.
But now I long for cloud.
The mournful foghorn,
that comes out of nowhere
seems unnaturally close.
The feeling of being enclosed,
cut-off from the world.
The sky, the air, the ground
a soft grey blur.
Here, the rain pounds down
in short sharp bursts.
Clouds are puffs of cotton
pinned to an enormous sky.
And the sun makes edges harden,
the earth, cracked and dry.
I feel exposed,
yet small enough to vanish.
While on the coast
I could hop a ship, and be off.
A tramp steamer
destined for someplace exotic.
Or wrapped in a blanket of fog
happily lost.
Until the sun
burns it all away;
an all-day rain
rinses clean.
Funny thing is, I’ve never lived on the coast. On the shore of a Great Lake, yes; but never by the ocean. And not on the prairie, either (which makes its appearance in the 2nd last stanza: the high skies, the quick-moving storms.) So it’s all an act of imagination; which, I hope, manages to strike some authentic notes.
What gave rise to this piece was sitting here as the weather transitioned from clear and warm to overcast and stormy. I thought about how earlier in the day I had watched the sky, waiting for the sun to reach a break between the cotton-puff clouds; and later, for the sky to change. And I also thought about how, in this dry spring, I hear these forecasts for rain that have me imagining a good soaking, a good immersion in a steady all-day rain; but end up getting disappointed by the appearance of no more than a brief shower or two. So that’s where this poem comes from: images of clouds (cliché alert!!); and the desire to write something that included that evocative expression “all-day rain”.
After that, it’s just stream of consciousness, and channelling that mysterious inner/outer voice, and going along for the ride. Which, come to think of it, is how most poems get written.
There is also a theme here, which I recognize recurs in a lot of my stuff. On the one hand, there is this idea of “place”: of the importance of geography, of that singular place where one has the ineffable feeling of home. And on the other, a sense of displacement: of flight; of the need – or desire – to escape, to re-invent oneself, to shake things up. (A strange trope, indeed; since I am the biggest homebody and most reluctant traveller you could ever imagine!) And, as it does in many of my poems, pathetic fallacy plays an important part here as well: that is, the reflection in weather, geography, and nature of one’s psychological state. (Which isn’t much of a surprise, actually; since it’s really the basis of all lyric poetry.)
Shadow Tracks
May 27 2010
The shadow tracks
the sun, the season.
On the north side of the house
I watch the distance shrink,
just a narrow strip of shade
to escape the heat.
The lawn struggles,
even the weeds are dry, shrunken.
We always thought it was electricity humming
through the wires
in long hot summers.
But now I’m told it’s cicadas, crickets
or something,
calling out.
Proclaiming territory
perhaps preening for mates,
filling the air with the high lonesome sound
of long afternoons,
the dog days
when school is out.
When heat waves
shimmer off the pavement,
kids complain they’re bored.
And we can barely wait for dusk
the cool of night.
Or rain
when it comes, finally,
in a deluge, a torrent
storming down.
When thirsty earth gorges
like a desert island survivor.
Shadows vanish
under cloudy skies.
And the lawn perks up
the weeds on a rampage
the kids outside —
jumping in puddles
daring lightning and thunder
barefoot in mud.
On the first day of summer
the shadow begins to lengthen,
precious days
start counting down.
So even at the very beginning
I am reminded how close to the end.
This poem was written at the end of May, even though it takes the perspective of June 21. That’s the day the shadow is balanced on the cusp, about to stop shrinking and start lengthening again. The sense of torpor and heat seem premature for May, since the official beginning of summer is over 3 weeks away. But already, in this anomalous summer of 2010, the last full month of spring has the feel of an August heat wave.
I’ve always kept track of the shadow on the back deck, which acts like a harbinger of hot weather, as well as its end. Usually, the shadow has already substantially lengthened by the time summer finally heats up, giving me an overwhelming sense of how precious is each remaining day. So observing it now – still shrinking, with a long way yet to go -- I’m not only acutely aware how much summer is still to come, but amazed and grateful for this unseasonable weather.
So it’s a lyric poem, that gives me a chance to capture this year’s enervating sense of heat and drought; to indulge in a little nostalgia about “school’s out” summers; and to reflect on the bittersweet feeling that comes with June 21: the official beginning of summer, yet also the day we can’t help but see the beginning of the end.
May 27 2010
The shadow tracks
the sun, the season.
On the north side of the house
I watch the distance shrink,
just a narrow strip of shade
to escape the heat.
The lawn struggles,
even the weeds are dry, shrunken.
We always thought it was electricity humming
through the wires
in long hot summers.
But now I’m told it’s cicadas, crickets
or something,
calling out.
Proclaiming territory
perhaps preening for mates,
filling the air with the high lonesome sound
of long afternoons,
the dog days
when school is out.
When heat waves
shimmer off the pavement,
kids complain they’re bored.
And we can barely wait for dusk
the cool of night.
Or rain
when it comes, finally,
in a deluge, a torrent
storming down.
When thirsty earth gorges
like a desert island survivor.
Shadows vanish
under cloudy skies.
And the lawn perks up
the weeds on a rampage
the kids outside —
jumping in puddles
daring lightning and thunder
barefoot in mud.
On the first day of summer
the shadow begins to lengthen,
precious days
start counting down.
So even at the very beginning
I am reminded how close to the end.
This poem was written at the end of May, even though it takes the perspective of June 21. That’s the day the shadow is balanced on the cusp, about to stop shrinking and start lengthening again. The sense of torpor and heat seem premature for May, since the official beginning of summer is over 3 weeks away. But already, in this anomalous summer of 2010, the last full month of spring has the feel of an August heat wave.
I’ve always kept track of the shadow on the back deck, which acts like a harbinger of hot weather, as well as its end. Usually, the shadow has already substantially lengthened by the time summer finally heats up, giving me an overwhelming sense of how precious is each remaining day. So observing it now – still shrinking, with a long way yet to go -- I’m not only acutely aware how much summer is still to come, but amazed and grateful for this unseasonable weather.
So it’s a lyric poem, that gives me a chance to capture this year’s enervating sense of heat and drought; to indulge in a little nostalgia about “school’s out” summers; and to reflect on the bittersweet feeling that comes with June 21: the official beginning of summer, yet also the day we can’t help but see the beginning of the end.
A Cottage Glossary
May 22 2010
My canoe has gunwales, tumblehome
rocker.
And a pocket of waterlogged air
when it flips, turns turtle
swamps.
‘Til the air-lock breaks
with a soft moist “pop”.
Not that gunwales have anything to do
with marine mammals,
or tumblehome, returning late.
And this rocker never plays.
The cottage canoe
is patched red canvas
backless seats,
battered crash-plates.
And cedar ribs
that hurt your knees, kneeling
in rapids, wind, and waves.
Such a simple conveyance
it goes both ways,
pointed at either end.
Perfectly symmetrical.
A way in
to inaccessible places.
A meditation on wilderness.
Small enough
for a single man to carry
past the first portage.
Where speakers fade
outboards can’t travel,
and he crosses over
to a land of enchantment.
And a man makes time
watchfully paddling.
May 22 2010
My canoe has gunwales, tumblehome
rocker.
And a pocket of waterlogged air
when it flips, turns turtle
swamps.
‘Til the air-lock breaks
with a soft moist “pop”.
Not that gunwales have anything to do
with marine mammals,
or tumblehome, returning late.
And this rocker never plays.
The cottage canoe
is patched red canvas
backless seats,
battered crash-plates.
And cedar ribs
that hurt your knees, kneeling
in rapids, wind, and waves.
Such a simple conveyance
it goes both ways,
pointed at either end.
Perfectly symmetrical.
A way in
to inaccessible places.
A meditation on wilderness.
Small enough
for a single man to carry
past the first portage.
Where speakers fade
outboards can’t travel,
and he crosses over
to a land of enchantment.
And a man makes time
watchfully paddling.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
