Follow the Path
Sept 24 2010


The driveway is long,
hard-packed dirt
blind curves.
With one steep grade
that is slick with ice, in winter,
deeply furrowed
by heavy rain.
Or blocked by fallen trees
that lie, fell-length,
like sinners
prostrating themselves.

Acts of God
the fickle odds
of weather,
that leave us stuck, for days.
And each time, we eye the hill warily,
as if in homage
to a worthy opponent.
We drive fast, getting over it,
gear down
in a slow controlled descent,
the engine whining its joyless noise
as if to protest
the first commandment
of gravity.

We trenched it, this year,
filled potholes
culled the rotten trees.
So it will depend on freeze and thaw
blizzard and drift,
the flimsy spruce
we missed.

We should all have a road like this,
a convenient excuse for lateness,
for skipping
unwelcome engagements,
to be storm-stayed
in virgin snow.

Only guests with 4-wheel drive
dare make the pilgrimage,
bearing gifts of wine
some sacrificial offering.
As for us
our daily passage is a kind of sacrament,
a sermon
on the natural world —
keeping us humble
about the things we can’t control.

And so, we are acolytes of weather,
witnessing clouds
beseeching capricious winds.
Attending closely to forecasts,
like parish priests
to a papal bull,
oracles, their omens.

Today, the path is clear,
the road
bestowing forgiveness.
Praise be the plough
this coming winter.



My neighbour does most of the work maintaining our shared driveway. (Actually, 3 of us share it.) He was out the other day, filling in these deeply eroded ruts, as well as digging ditches to help divert the rain. I felt like one of those stereotypical city workers, who spend all day leaning on their shovels watching one guy do all the work. Of course, my excuse is my bad hip! (Not to mention taking advantage of the fact that he tends to OCD, and so takes it on himself to get everything perfect. His property, needless to say, is immaculate.)

Anyway, while he worked, I wrote. (And please excuse the royal "we". It's just that I much prefer writing in the 1st person; and under the circumstances, couldn't very well have said "I"!)

I seem to be stuck on this religious imagery. This poem had none of that ...until the line about the parish priests came over me and wouldn't let go. So I went back and re-worked the whole thing. I'm hoping I showed just the right amount of restraint. Because it's easy to get carried away, showing off one’s cleverness: the sin of pride, you might say!

Rough Draft
Sept 17 2010


Some days, I write on the back,
the blank side
of the rough draft
of an old poem,
surprising myself.
Because I move on to the next,
forgetting what I wrote
a year ago
the day before.

And without the hard evidence
of false starts, and missteps,
the finished piece would seem almost effortless.
As if the ink had flowed smoothly
onto vacant pages
in sure lines, perfect cadence,
each clever rhyme
the trenchant turn of phrase.
As frugal with words
as I am with paper.

So these rough drafts
are like archaeology,
a painstaking excavation
into process.
Or like a blow-by-blow account
of my bare-knuckle brawl
with myself.

And when both sides are crammed to the margins
I can crumple them into the trash
with untrammelled conscience,
the champ, by acclamation
unopposed.
Some day, I suppose
my literary biographer
will be greatly disappointed I’ve buried my past,
smouldering in some landfill,
or recycled
into rough sanitary products.
So allow me to apologize
in advance.

Today, though, I began
a fresh white sheet,
letter-sized, unlined
loose-leaf.
The kind of day I needed a fresh start
a clean break,
all original sin
expiated.

There is much to be said
for the luxury of the pristine page.
The way a newborn babe
comes unencumbered by the past,
a blank slate
waiting to be filled.
And as each word
mars the perfect surface
it’s like a child’s first step —
triumphant, if unsure.
Both of us
making up the future
as we go.

Arranged Marriage
Sept 15 2010


The Elvis Chapel in Vegas,
no waiting.
A stranger, paid to witness,
confetti extra.
Casual dress,
and a single photo
captured by phone.
Then, a toast
of pink champagne, in plastic
slightly flat.

And after the nuptials
it’s off to the honeymoon suite,
in the capital of love
and greed.
In a Cadillac, vintage 1950,
a pink Coupe de Ville
once actually driven
by the King himself.
The ultimate wedding singer.

And the morning after
our newlyweds eat
at the International House of Pancakes,
a complimentary
spousal feast.

Quickie weddings
our specialty.
(Shotguns, and pre-nups
not necessarily included.)
Oh, and incidentally
thanks for choosing us.
. . . And please, come back soon!

All the Answers
Sept 12 2010

Doubt is not the opposite of faith,
conviction is.
Because the faithful are almost all afflicted
with doubt.
Who talk to their gods,
then hear nothing.
Who see evil
go unpunished.
Who wonder about the after-life,
and still have fear of death.

An atheist like me,
who scorns superstition
only believes
in what can be seen, and measured
has always envied people of faith
— their serene certainty,
the succor of a personal god.
Not knowing
they, too, have dark nights of the soul;
kept awake by doubt,
the guilt of their betrayal,
the constant work
of faith.

My universe is cold, vast, indifferent,
without meaning
or purpose.
Where I find infinity
almost as difficult as God.
So lying in darkness
at 4 in the morning
I know I’m alone.
There is no consolation.

All I can do is wonder
at the complexity of things,
feel humbled
by my ignorance,
and concede
not all can be fully known.
But unlike the others
I cannot fill this void with gods.

Still, the believer and I
are not as different as I thought.
Because we both take delight
in praising creation
the intricate beauty of life.
And content, despite
not having answered it all.

And remain wary
of men of conviction,
who hear daily
from God.
The fearless leaders,
the solipsists, and sociopaths,
too self-absorbed
to even ask.



I sent this poem off to my sister-in-law. It was New Year’s on the Jewish calendar (Rosh Hashanah), so I began my comments this way:

Happy New Year to everyone. I have to admit, Rosh Hashanah makes a lot more sense than the conventional calendar: September -- with the start of school, the change of season, the melancholy of impending fall -- has a lot more sense of endings and beginnings than Jan 1.

Here's one I think you may like, because I know you're fond of the philosophical ones: which I, on the other hand, am extremely reluctant to write. Mostly because they can be self-indulgent and pretentious. And also because they tend to be written in a more pedantic, argumentative way: that is, saying more than showing. And also because I'm more about style than profundity, more about privacy than confession. But for some reason, I felt it was time to write this. And since this poetry business is about going with the gut more than the head (which I tend to be a lot better at!), I decided to go along.

I think I was somewhat influenced by that idiotic Florida preacher (the Koran burner and canny self-publicist), who must think he has a direct pipeline to God. Always be suspicious of people who insist on a personal and revelatory relationship with God! Sensible people of faith have doubt because they approach their faith with humility and a sense of nuance. Conviction, like this man's, is accompanied by a desire for simplistic solutions and the comfort of absolute authority. I like to use the word "literalist" instead of "fundamentalist", since their belief system is based on a literal reading of scripture, rather than an allegorical one. And, paradoxically, this means that they usually stray a long way from the fundamentals, which have (or should have) more to do with tolerance, love, forgiveness, and humility than rigid notions of good and evil, ex-communication, heresy, and hell. (I wanted to get the word "megalomaniac" into that last stanza: but it was just a little too much. Would have been a nice rhyme, though!)

I was probably influenced my Mother Theresa, as well, who apparently despaired for several decades before her death at no longer hearing God, at feeling abandoned and perhaps betrayed by Him. Imagine, Mother Theresa afflicted not just by self-doubt, but by doubt in her basic faith! What a telling contrast to this despicable narcissist's utter conviction.

I will also add that the second last stanza was influenced by something I heard an Orthodox Jew say about the nature of prayer. It was that in Judaism, supplicant prayer is unbecoming, and that the purpose of prayer is not to ask for things, but simply to give praise: give praise for His creation. As an atheist, the natural world fills me with unspeakable wonder. I don't need to believe in God to feel this; and I'd even venture to say that being mindful about the wonders of creation is a form of praise, and maybe even of prayer. (I use the word "creation" intentionally, and a little mischievously, since I know it has strong religious overtones that must sound strange coming from a confirmed atheist.) I should add that this idea of a "personal" God is, I believe, a lot closer to the Christian version than the Jewish one, whom I understand keeps His distance; that is, gives us the free will to freely make our own mistakes!

The 3rd last stanza -- about the limitations of science, and by implication of human knowledge -- is not to suggest that I’m agnostic. That’s not the kind of uncertainty I’m talking about. Because I’m an unrepentant believer in a material universe; one without gods, cherubim, or extra-terrestrial visitors. Unlike the agnostic, I feel no need to keep a bargaining chip in my hip pocket, just in case I may need it some day to pass into heaven. But this stanza is an acknowledgement that science may not be able to answer all the questions, and that we can be humble about our limitations without having to wave our hands and invoke some superstitious explanation to fill in the blanks. It’s also a bit of a repudiation to the so-called “new” atheists, who can sometimes give an unworthy (and probably unjustified) impression of intellectual arrogance and infuriating certainty.

That’s because I’m not trying to convert the religious to my world view; which is how some have viewed Richard Dawkins’ proselytizing. Because life is hard, and whatever gets you through it. So if faith works, then who am I to judge? And why hold everyone else to my version of intellectual integrity? As the poem says, faith is an enviable consolation, and probably a lot more congenial way to get through life than my astringent rigid rationality. I may not be willing to allow myself the delusion of God (incapable of it, actually) just because it makes me feel better. For me, that would be intellectually dishonest, and therefore unforgivable. But if someone else is able to sustain that delusion, and it works for them, then all I can do is encourage them. …And maybe even honour them with a touch of envy!

The militant literalists of every faith have recently (and probably always) been putting religion on the defensive. Which is too bad: that we’re always held hostage by the extremists. But I’m perfectly OK with “the believer” of the penultimate stanza. It’s the final stanza’s “men of conviction” I’m wary of.

Reading,
On a Dull Afternoon
In a Quiet Room
Together

Sept 9 2010


We are a contented couple
the pup and I.
The dog is at home
on the leather sofa,
breathing noisily
occasionally yelping
thrashing her legs.
Going after imaginary rabbits
flushing birds.
Perhaps even catching one
as she has always dreamed.

What does she think of me,
looking at paper
rustling pages
adjusting light?
The sudden outbursts,
the quiet chuckles?

This is her gift,
that she does not judge
does not need to know.
Is simply content
with keeping company
with supple leather,
the grudging warmth
of afternoon sun.
And to give unconditional love;
which I return
as best I can.

I think
how truly exceptional it is,
this enduring connection
between our separate species —
the well-armed carnivore,
and the human
who preys on everything.
So I feel privileged
she allows me in.

And she thinks
of dinner,
will leap up instantly
at the sound of the leash.
The feral dog within,
vigilant even in sleep.

Yellow Paisley Shirt
Sept 9 2010


Busy fingers pick
at loose threads,
finish tucking-in.
Then she licks her hand
tames my cowlick with a few firm strokes
— glued with spit
into presentable order.

And corrals me
in bony arms as strong as a mother grizzly,
holds me to her soft warm body
in the suffocating scent
of old lady
and too much perfume.
I resist, then grow limp
with a kid’s brief forbearance,
‘til I can make my escape
from such an unmanly display
of affection.

I preferred wrestling
tousled hair
canvas sneakers and sweats,
to this yellow paisley shirt
with the scratchy neck,
and short sleeves
that made my arms look even skinnier.
And these wool pants, cuffed and creased
cinched into pleats by a skinny belt,
leaving a long curved tongue
stuck stubbornly out front.

It could have been a wedding, a funeral
a family feast.
This is all I remember
of her.
Not the colour of her eyes, her voice
the kindnesses
and loving gestures.
Just a single hug, the rebellious hair,
the desire to be anywhere else
but there.

Now, the hair is almost gone
and paisley is back in fashion.
And I still dress myself
in T-shirts and sweats,
faded and frayed
from too much washing.

And if it’s memory that makes us
then I’m a few sizes too small —
unfinished, pre-shrunk,
with dangling buttons
unravelled threads.
Pull just one
I could easily come undone.

Nocturnal Creature
Sept 6 2010


I am nocturnal, by nature.
Hard-wired, I’ve always claimed.

Sometimes, though, I’m still awake
to see the sun come up.
To see black night
turn indigo,
the horizon blush red.
And flat shadows
take on depth,
begin to look familiar again
Then, to bed,
as the diurnal world
carries on its business.

But after dark
it’s as if the top was lifted;
this hot-house earth
given a glimpse
of vast unknowable space.

As I keep watch
fainter stars appear,
take me out even deeper
back further in time.
And the Milky Way
in the incomprehensible distance;
and yet, we’re a part,
a minor system
in an unremarkable arm.
Then the red planet, the warrior god
moving fast
against the background of stars.
As a satellite goes blinking past,
in constant free-fall
in its long predictable arc.
And a shooting star,
a piece of dust, burning up
that looks as big as galaxies.

Until the full moon rises,
filling the yard
with its ghostly light,
blocking the heavens from sight.
Our planet’s fellow traveller,
a lifeless rock
in a tightly linked dance
of gravity and tides,
of romance, and sleepless nights;
this familiar celestial object
we find so reassuringly constant.
Here, in near space,
where we once flattered ourselves
we were the center of attention,
instead of outer space
just an inconsequential speck.

On cloudy nights, of course
we are alone,
an impoverished cosmos
of one.
When the surface of earth is everything,
and nocturnal creatures like me
have no reason to dream.



I wanted to write about the night sky. Because we've had some beautiful clear nights lately. And because these views make me feel privileged: light pollution prevents most people from ever seeing such spectacular sights. But I first had to overcome some reluctance. First, because I've written numerous poems like this, and re-visiting the same old stuff gets tired after awhile. And also because these astronomical efforts tend to be purely descriptive, which makes them essentially souless and impersonal. I'm not sure people want to read them; or, if they do, will stick them out to the end. Nevertheless, I gave it a shot ...and this is how it came out. Not quite sure if I succeeded in injecting some soul, or made it very compelling. It has some good bits; but does the whole thing work? So feedback, as always, is most welcome.

The Old Lady is at it Again
Sept 5 2010


The old lady is at it again
walking down the side of the road,
raising her arm in a graceful arc
breaking into pirouettes
bouncing up on tip-toe,
stepping with the unexpected lightness
of a ballerina.
She wears the same muddy gumboots
shabby jacket
bright orange safety vest,
ignoring traffic
impervious to stares.

This is what enchanted little girls
who dream of princesses
insist on tutus and tiaras
skip all the way back to school,
and dance, like long-legged colts let go
become;
growing up
just as they imagined.

This old lady, who is the object of fun
the taunts of thoughtless drivers
inspires me.
Because she still contains the little girl,
has stayed undaunted
despite living long, and hard,
remains a dancer at heart.

I watch her go
tripping lightly down the side of the road.
As the voice in her head
calling her to dinner
goes unheard,
drowned out by the sound
of the overture.




I’ve actually seen this lady many times, driving on my rough two lane road. She’s out on the unpaved shoulder -- in all kinds of weather, always dressed the same -- walking with an odd self-contained determination. The first impulse is to label her crazy, walking in that idiosyncratic exaggerated fashion of hers. But the other day, in a sudden flash, I saw her in a different light: that this is what those mysterious ethereal little girls, who live in their own enchanted world, would grow up to be; that is, if life didn’t get there first and beat it out of them. So I saw her more as an exemplar, than someone to be pitied or shunned.

She actually looks a lot less graceful than I’ve depicted, her movements more stereotyped and strange, more flappy and stiff. So she probably is a little “off”. But the way she comes through in the poem is how I’d prefer to see her.

I think “ethereal” is the perfect word to describe this type of little girl: the type who lives in her own magical world in her own little head, utterly innocent and unselfconscious. But it just didn’t work in the poem: maybe because it doesn’t sound right, or takes too much semantic processing, or has an unpleasant “mouth feel”. I had to let it go. On the other hand, it’s always better to show something than say it. So perhaps the poem works best like this, anyway.

My apologies for the unattractive graphic layout of the last several poems. For some reason, I've been unable to download complete pages. What this means is that the "create new post" page lacks the controls for type size and fonts. This is why everything is uniform. I'm also unable to add italics; which aren't essential, but which I'm sure astute readers will fill in for themselves.

If anyone reads this entry, and can advise me on how to fix this, I would greatly appreciate it. The problem occurs with all downloads from the internet, not just blogspot.com. Is this the fault of my service provider, my wireless router, or my computer? Help ...anyone?

Brian

Social Graces
Sept 1 2010


How many milliseconds
are a fraction too long
not to look crazed, obsessive
rude?

Is it only the clueless, reclusive, elusive types
who are shifty-eyed,
look at anything, but you?
Casting their eyes around the room
like a wounded bird,
desperate for any resting place.

I can excuse
the thyrotoxic stare
the myasthenic droop,
the executioner’s
self-protective evasion.
But I knew you had something to hide
not looking me in the eye, like that.

Which made me wonder,
do sociopaths
make eye contact, at all?
Or are they such astute students
of human behaviour,
they can replicate warmth, caring
commitment,
a breezy bonhomie?

I never quite learned the secret
to the reassuring gaze,
the manly handshake, firm and dry,
the frothy banality
of small talk.
Was there a memo, some time
in my adolescent life
I missed?

The anthropologist from Mars
the autistic savant,
the socially inept, who lives in his head,
know how complicated
human engagement can be.
Recalling names.
The recognition of faces.
The touch that doesn’t linger
a fraction too long.

The locking onto of eyes.
Her black bottomless pupils
opening wide,
you could take forever
falling.




I was reading a review of a new biography of Peter Gzowski (the famous, now deceased, writer and CBC radio host). I was always a terrific fan and dedicated listener, but I wasn’t surprised to read he had messy personal life, or that he wasn’t always the best behaved or best tempered. What I didn’t know was that he was notorious for not making eye contact with his guests. This factoid came up a few times in the review. And on reading this, I immediately saw all the possibilities of evasion, self-doubt, and manipulation that can be implied by too much, or too little, eye contact. And also the precise and inscrutable choreography of correct human behaviour that we subconsciously absorb; or, the case of autistics or the socially inept, painstakingly acquire. And also how complicated these seemingly simple tasks really are: facial recognition, for example. This simple task is the product of eons of human evolution, and has a specialized dedicated area of the brain, unique to us. (I recently learned, by way of further example, that Oliver Sachs – the renowned neurologist and celebrated author – is unable to recognize faces, a disorder that goes by the mouthful of a name “prosopagnosia”. (And to whom I gratefully owe, by the way, “the anthropologist from Mars”.)) Needless to say, I dropped the paper and immediately started writing about eye contact. This is how it turned out.

My medical background rarely enters my poetry. Which I suppose some might think a mysterious lapse; or at least a waste. So for anyone who has been waiting for this (as if!), I’m pleased to have shoe-horned a couple of references into this poem. I hope they aren’t too obscure for the average reader.

The mysterious woman who infiltrates this poem is an act of pure imagination: I was never exploited by a sociopath about whom I have mixed feelings! Some of this is close to the truth, however: I’m terrible at remembering names; normal social graces never came easily to me; and I am an introvert who often prefers “liv(ing) in his head”.

The final stanza is the kind of ending I like best. That’s because I am too often susceptible to the rhyming couplet: which does nicely tie up the ending, but has the too neat quality of the Hallmark card. Here, though, the ending not only sneaks up on you; and not only leaves things open and unresolved; but it slightly transforms everything that preceded it, which makes you want to go back and re-visit the poem from the start. I’m quite pleased with that quality of ambush, the lack of a hard conclusion.

The Hygiene Theory
Aug 31 2010


My mother’s mother was a devout believer
in germs.
She was a modern woman
of the early 1900’s,
who was confirmed at an early age
in boiling, dousing, scrubbing,
brought a missionary zeal
to dusting,
gave praise at the temple of hygiene
for indoor plumbing
Louis Pasteur.

She was immaculate
with her children as well.
And with the fervour of the recently converted
renounced cuddling
refrained from touch
went stiff, when hugged.
Kept her kisses
a prudent distance
from susceptible skin.

Which gets contagious, I’m afraid;
a generation starved of touch
tends to do the same.
So my family was never much
for public displays of affection
physical reassurance
easy expressions of love.
The sins of the mother,
if I may paraphrase.

But something miraculous
overtook my brothers,
who hold their children close,
are deeply engaged
in the minor calamities
of 6 year olds.
I have no family of my own;
but as I approach old age
I may just be learning to let go
as well.

I still believe in germs
have faith in science,
but unlike my fundamentalist grandmother
I am a shameless back-slider,
not nearly pious enough.

She died far too young;
her faith could not save her.
I barely remember grandma Esther
who may have rarely picked me up,
who never let her only daughter
really feel
her love.




I think I struggled with the title of this one more than anything else. I quite like my choice; but I’m afraid most readers may not get the irony. Because the actual “hygiene theory” is an explanation for the epidemic of allergies and auto-immune diseases in the western world. Why was there more asthma in West Germany than the heavily polluted East? Why is inflammatory bowel disease uncommon in Africa, where people harbour all kinds of intestinal parasites? The theory is that chronic exposure to microbes (bacteria, parasites) down-regulates our immune system. So living in the relatively sterile environments of modern 1st world cities, our immune systems rev-up, get hair trigger and hungry for action. The irony here is that my grandmother might have been better off letting her children muck about in the dirt. Of course, it’s easy to judge from the 21st century. In the pre-antibiotic era (and, I fear, perhaps the coming post-antibiotic era), when a simple fever could take a life, those invisible “germs” were an eminently legitimate source of fear.

This is one of the rare poems that’s personal and true. I’ve always felt I would have turned out differently if I had been touched and hugged more, if my family had been more emotionally open and expressive. A few days ago, my mother confided in me that she regrets she wasn’t physical enough with us. But more than her regret, she also gave this explanation …and a lot of things suddenly made sense. The part about my brothers is also true. It’s as if they learned from their own upbringing what not to do, and went about with deliberate intent to do the exact opposite. So they are both very involved and very touchy-feely fathers, and I’m very proud of them for that. As for me, I suppose it’s my dog who gets to be the contented beneficiary of all my repressed affection. (Happily, she’s the least neurotic and best adjusted pooch I know!)

I'm quite pleased with the way I handled the religious metaphor that runs through this poem. There is a tendency to have too much fun with something like that, and over-do it. So I think I managed to impose just the right amount of restraint. I generally dislike confessional poems. I usually find them self-indulgent, more an imposition on the reader than something shared. (Not to mention that I’m far more into privacy than sharing!) So I'm hoping this one has a light enough touch and a congenial enough voice that even the most disinterested reader would find it worthwhile. And aside from that, I suspect a lot of readers may identify with the emotional repression alluded to here.

Too Small to Notice
Aug 30 2010


Somewhere on earth, lightning strikes
several times each second.
We get just a few storms, each summer,
so who would have thought
the sound of thunder was endless;
rumbling around the planet
uninterrupted
almost since it began.

Just as it’s always day, and always night
all seasons all at once.
So on the cusp of spring
the first wet snow has come,
succulent flowers opening up
as withered petals slump.
And a man and woman making love
her screams, his expert touch,
and someone mumbling final words
her Lord and Saviour snubs.

The noise is deafening
relentless.
And seen from outer space
the planet is electric —
jagged bolts of blue-white light
sizzling around the globe
like a high-voltage barricade;
the smell of ozone, acrid, singed,
smoke, where lightning hits.
The place must look uninhabited
its atmosphere lethal.
Ye we live in this pleasant greenhouse
under soft blue sky
a constant yellow sun,
in air sweet with hay
and grass, freshly-cut.

Because we are too small to notice.
Under this thin eggshell of air
that towers over us.
On this tiny point of land
on the vast expanse of earth.

I only hear silence,
basking in afternoon sun
in the last gasp of summer.
But somewhere, night’s begun,
a baby cries
uncontrollably.
And somewhere, lovers touch,
an endless ecstatic moment.
And somewhere, someone is struck
by a random heart-stopping bolt,
cracking the sky
under grey-black thunderheads.

Nothing at all is happening;
yet it happens
all at once.

Long Hand
Aug 26 2010


He told me he wrote long hand,
no keyboard, no dictation.
I imagined block letters, black ink, blank paper
both sides, nothing wasted.
He folded his hands awkwardly,
and I’m sure I made him self-conscious, watching —
the thickly gnarled fingers
callused skin,
hands as big as catchers’ mitts.
Well-worn leather
supple, strong.

I had never seen an author
with such massive hands.
They should have been mucking-out barns
wrapped around hammers
tearing things apart.
Instead, I pictured a pen
swallowed in his grasp,
a brittle twig
accidentally snapping.
Hands that had lived
another life,
working hands
enabling him
to write.

Power restrained
impresses me more than cheap displays of strength
— strongmen flexing, heaving weights,
Goliath taunting David.
I find myself imagining those giant hands
as big and thick as bear paws
cradling a baby girl,
and she would disappear
and the crying stop
and her eyes lock on to his,
bright with wonder.

He writes with the lightest touch
kinetic, deft, insightful,
and I would love to see him at work.
To see these hands
grasp the pen precisely,
ink flow smoothly
onto thick white paper,
words emerge
as if channelling some inner voice.
To see these hands,
unselfconscious
full of purpose.

How the hands of Samson
in the arms of Delilah
become gentle and sure.




I try hard to follow the cardinal rule of poetry: that less is more. Which not only means trusting the reader, and not only means ruthlessly cutting adverbs and adjectives (adverbs especially!), but also means avoiding big words. Because big esoteric arcane words stop the reader in her tracks, require too much processing, and make the poetry seem formal and inaccessible instead of conversational and welcoming. Which means I resisted the temptation of “brobdingnagian” hands. And also that I forced myself to throw out this opening rhyme, which was probably more about showing off my cleverness than good communication:

He told me he wrote long hand,
no keyboard, no amanuensis.
I imagined block letters, black ink, blank paper
both sides, palimpsest.

Anyway, the sequence “dictation”... “paper" ...“wasted” flows better, and says the same.

We think we can judge people by their hands: the firm handshake of the “manly” man, warm and dry; the big competent hands of the working man, that seem to proclaim competence and integrity; the aesthete’s long thin fingers, which feel like a damp fish in yours. I’ve always been very self-conscious about mine. I have Reynaud’s Syndrome, which means they’re often cold as a corpse, and mottled blue, red, and white. But they’re also large (relatively, that is) and strong and callused from hard labour (well, from years of paddling, actually) . A patient commented once how unusual this was for a doctor, which caught me off guard: I’d always been embarrassed by my hands (especially since I made my living touching people in very private and intimate ways), and never recognized that they were hands that had worked, and been worked over. How nice to feel differently about myself – for once, anyway!

The poem actually began with either a radio interview, or a magazine article (can’t quite remember). Anyway, the author who was the subject of the piece was introduced this way: how his hands struck the interviewer, how incongruous and telling they were. I immediately thought there was a poem here, and off I went. So it’s not about me at all (especially the “kinetic, deft, insightful” part, which would be awfully presumptuous if I was talking about me!) But I think it does make the point that the best “art” is informed by real life; that the best poetry is not some rarefied aesthetic exercise, but is rooted in personal experience and hard reality; and that poets rarely fit the effete, limp-wristed stereotype.