One Kind of Everything
Nov 26 2010
I got them at the liquor store
or supermarket;
which was a longer walk
but felt more deserving.
Where I shopped
for macaroni, and dented cans
bruised bananas, going black
and produce past its due-date
— as good as perfect fruit,
at least for scurvy.
And have stayed with me on every move.
Filled with books
I haven’t cracked since college,
but find I cannot part with.
Sometimes, don’t even unpack
before moving on.
The boxes are cleverly nested
in a crowded closet
or musty basement,
marked with vintage logos
and discontinued brands.
With the faint whiff of vinegar
that old cardboard
and cheap paper give-off,
going brittle, and brown.
How these books weigh me down
I’m not quite sure —
are they an anchor
holding me back,
or a solid foundation
that keeps me grounded?
Either way, I feel reassured,
home-made shelves
filled with familiar stuff
like some sort of talisman.
The book as object,
its contents immaterial.
Of course, they’re useless now,
when tiny silicon chips
contain whole libraries.
The boxes, though
remind me of that old supermarket
that was as small as a modern convenience store.
Not much choice, back then,
nothing foreign, or exotic
or terribly fresh.
Oddly, we were probably happier, shopping
in that modest emporium —
no second-guessing, or regrets
when there’s one kind of everything.
The books, too, contained all the truth,
their received wisdom
irrefutable.
And, like me, hardly up-to-date.
Weighed down by words,
no one there to hear.
This poem has a certain nostalgic power for me. I remember collecting boxes, before a move, at supermarkets and liquor stores. I remember this A&P from the late 70’s, in downtown Kingston: no one today would believe that this actually called itself a “super” market; not in this era of big box stores and hypermarkets. I remember that distinct smell of age and decomposition when I was cleaning out old cardboard boxes from under the stairs: the sort of stuff you know you’d never use, but needed to “ferment” for a while before you could, in all conscience, toss. And I remember vigilantly watching prices and searching out discounts, when there wasn’t much money for basic food.
There are a lot of small details that paint this character as a bit of failure; and, at the same time, elicit a certain sympathy for him: he’s too poor to have a car (or at least early on he didn’t); he moves a lot, presumably looking for work; his shelves are still home-made (I picture college dorm style, made of bricks and 2 x 4’s); and he’s a long way from college, but still seems unsure of his place in the world. He’s not me. But in the final stanza, I guess my subconscious discontent broke through, and he and I end up sharing not just a jaded view of modernity, but the frustration of unpublished writers.
There is a lot of truth in the way we haul around boxes of old books, and how we ornament our shelves with them: books we’ll almost certainly never open again. Perhaps it’s because of the reassuring sense of continuity they provide, a link to our past. Perhaps it’s out of respect: how throwing out a book is such a philistine and irreverent act. Perhaps it’s the mystical sense of knowledge attained, simply by proximity to it. Perhaps it’s a way of proclaiming who we are to the world: not necessarily trying to impress people, but simply that the books that formed us are almost a template of our inner lives. Or perhaps it’s just the usual good intentions: that some day we’ll re-read (or, in some cases, read them for the first time!) Again, please don’t mistake this for autobiography. I actually don’t have this talismanic collection of old books. But I know people who do. I suppose it’s odd that this character seems as sentimental about the boxes as he is about the books. It may not be sentimentality, though: it could be efficiency, or thrift. Or perhaps just plain laziness!
I used “One Kind of Everything” for the title because this is my favourite part of the piece. First of all, because of this strong memory of that old supermarket, and how today something like that seems so quaint and distant and hard to believe. And second, because “happiness” research (something called “behavioural economics”) actually shows this to be true: our purchases give us more happiness – and we’re more likely to buy – when there is less choice! Our terribly destructive consumer society is all about obsolescence and choice. And yet when we see 20 varieties of jam on the shelf, rather than 6, we’re more likely to be paralyzed by too much choice into not buying at all. Or, if we do, we’re more likely to second guess ourselves, and feel regret.
I quite like this poem. I think it evokes a sense of nostalgia and loss and mild failure, in which most of us can see something of ourselves. And I like the way the final stanza ties things together, conflating the character with his collection of books: the weight of words (both metaphorical and literal); the feeling of anachronism and futility.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Superhero
Nov 22 2010
In the old part of town, where I live
there are still alleyways,
running between backyards
like some feral no-man’s land
— a hidden grid,
that shadows
the city streets.
You can tell the neighbourhood
by the wooden fences —
custom-built, and thick,
higher than by-laws permit.
Or over a bit,
where they’re chain-link
and leaning,
anchored in cheap concrete.
And hedges
with sharply trimmed edges,
or moth-eaten, and growing wild.
There are manicured lawns
like a real-estate ad,
or hard dry pads
with weeds, and bare spots,
and a plywood sandbox
with its cracker-jack prize
of plastic toys
and cat shit.
Some good citizens
diligently cut the grass
of the verdant alley, out back;
either civic-minded
or defending their sovereign border
from weeds.
Others ignore it,
a temperate jungle
gone to seed.
And some cheat
going fenceless,
plundering several square feet
of public property
as their own.
I walk the dog here
after dark,
feeling vaguely incognito
an object of suspicion, even.
I can see into windows
where curtains aren’t drawn,
this private world
of quiet backyards.
Rooms blazing warmly with light
looking out
into pitch black night;
so they are blind
to the outside world.
And I am a superhero
in my cloak of invisibility
— the impunity
of darkness.
In winter
the alley is a rutted path
of frozen footsteps
dog scat
a child’s lost mitten.
For a week in fall
there are raspberries,
free-for-the-picking.
And summer is a cool refuge of green,
passing people in their backyard sanctuaries
escaping the street.
Where I can hear ice cubes clink
sudden laughter
kids, splashing in a wading pool.
I hustle on past
avoiding eye contact.
Feeling like a stranger, a voyeur,
intruding on a private world.
Nov 22 2010
In the old part of town, where I live
there are still alleyways,
running between backyards
like some feral no-man’s land
— a hidden grid,
that shadows
the city streets.
You can tell the neighbourhood
by the wooden fences —
custom-built, and thick,
higher than by-laws permit.
Or over a bit,
where they’re chain-link
and leaning,
anchored in cheap concrete.
And hedges
with sharply trimmed edges,
or moth-eaten, and growing wild.
There are manicured lawns
like a real-estate ad,
or hard dry pads
with weeds, and bare spots,
and a plywood sandbox
with its cracker-jack prize
of plastic toys
and cat shit.
Some good citizens
diligently cut the grass
of the verdant alley, out back;
either civic-minded
or defending their sovereign border
from weeds.
Others ignore it,
a temperate jungle
gone to seed.
And some cheat
going fenceless,
plundering several square feet
of public property
as their own.
I walk the dog here
after dark,
feeling vaguely incognito
an object of suspicion, even.
I can see into windows
where curtains aren’t drawn,
this private world
of quiet backyards.
Rooms blazing warmly with light
looking out
into pitch black night;
so they are blind
to the outside world.
And I am a superhero
in my cloak of invisibility
— the impunity
of darkness.
In winter
the alley is a rutted path
of frozen footsteps
dog scat
a child’s lost mitten.
For a week in fall
there are raspberries,
free-for-the-picking.
And summer is a cool refuge of green,
passing people in their backyard sanctuaries
escaping the street.
Where I can hear ice cubes clink
sudden laughter
kids, splashing in a wading pool.
I hustle on past
avoiding eye contact.
Feeling like a stranger, a voyeur,
intruding on a private world.
Complicity
Nov 21 2010
I was born in the middle of the 20th century.
Which history will remember
as the bloodiest,
ever.
Even the word genocide
had to be invented.
The rich got richer
nothing new.
We were urged to consume
and complied, gladly;
yet happiness
somehow eluded us.
And in the end
bequeathed our debt
to generations to come.
Bu inattention, perhaps
or simple gluttony —
a hot-house earth,
bills deferred
printing money.
So who in the future will believe
I never went to war,
never saw
a dismembered body?
And that I paid my way,
obeyed
my frugal father —
didn’t gawk, fridge door open wide,
lights off, behind me.
And even though I watched the news
faithfully
every night,
couldn’t really do much;
except disapprove,
lead my life
as honourably as possible.
When I reach 100
they will marvel at this old man,
a witness to so many portentous events
that radically changed the world.
Not knowing that all I remember
are sweet corn, and ripe red tomatoes
fresh from my garden.
The only child,
my nose still buried
in that newborn baby smell.
And how it felt
first time ever in love.
And that my main regret
is how helpless I was
to change anything.
My complacency
when the world burned.
When the screams of its victims
were nicely out of hearing.
A political poem, a rare indulgence: about bourgeois complacency, complicity, and powerlessness. The key is in the very first stanza: “Even the word “genocide” / had to be invented.”
I wrote this poem because I feel terribly embarrassed by, and ashamed of, “my” generation; of which, paradoxically, I don’t really feel a part. We baby boomers, squandering the noble legacy of “the greatest generation”, who saved the world from Hitler. Consuming the planet in an orgy of greed. And shamelessly leaving a mountain of debt to out children – having borrowed against the future for immediate gratification; having heedlessly spewed CO2 into the oceans and air.
History will see me as complicit; even though distance and circumstance have somehow left me exempt from the cruelty and depravity of my era.
I see myself as complacent and ineffective.
The truth probably is that most of us really are powerless. And that our small diurnal lives go on despite the great machinations of history; that they go on much the same as they always have; and that the essentials remain unchanged.
And also that bourgeois values may be both our undoing, and our salvation: tending to our own garden may be too little; and, at the same time, just enough.
Nov 21 2010
I was born in the middle of the 20th century.
Which history will remember
as the bloodiest,
ever.
Even the word genocide
had to be invented.
The rich got richer
nothing new.
We were urged to consume
and complied, gladly;
yet happiness
somehow eluded us.
And in the end
bequeathed our debt
to generations to come.
Bu inattention, perhaps
or simple gluttony —
a hot-house earth,
bills deferred
printing money.
So who in the future will believe
I never went to war,
never saw
a dismembered body?
And that I paid my way,
obeyed
my frugal father —
didn’t gawk, fridge door open wide,
lights off, behind me.
And even though I watched the news
faithfully
every night,
couldn’t really do much;
except disapprove,
lead my life
as honourably as possible.
When I reach 100
they will marvel at this old man,
a witness to so many portentous events
that radically changed the world.
Not knowing that all I remember
are sweet corn, and ripe red tomatoes
fresh from my garden.
The only child,
my nose still buried
in that newborn baby smell.
And how it felt
first time ever in love.
And that my main regret
is how helpless I was
to change anything.
My complacency
when the world burned.
When the screams of its victims
were nicely out of hearing.
A political poem, a rare indulgence: about bourgeois complacency, complicity, and powerlessness. The key is in the very first stanza: “Even the word “genocide” / had to be invented.”
I wrote this poem because I feel terribly embarrassed by, and ashamed of, “my” generation; of which, paradoxically, I don’t really feel a part. We baby boomers, squandering the noble legacy of “the greatest generation”, who saved the world from Hitler. Consuming the planet in an orgy of greed. And shamelessly leaving a mountain of debt to out children – having borrowed against the future for immediate gratification; having heedlessly spewed CO2 into the oceans and air.
History will see me as complicit; even though distance and circumstance have somehow left me exempt from the cruelty and depravity of my era.
I see myself as complacent and ineffective.
The truth probably is that most of us really are powerless. And that our small diurnal lives go on despite the great machinations of history; that they go on much the same as they always have; and that the essentials remain unchanged.
And also that bourgeois values may be both our undoing, and our salvation: tending to our own garden may be too little; and, at the same time, just enough.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Safe Passage
Nov 19 2010
The trees were loaded with snow.
Spruce are spindly, this far north,
bending nearly to the ground
in graceful arcs
with their burden of fresh white powder
— like the palace guard
bowing respectfully.
Some trees broke
bare and jagged,
barring the path like scattered spears
abandoned
on the battlefield.
There is a delicate balance of forces,
like deterrence
in a cold war —
the stickiness of snow, the springy wood
the warmth of a frugal sun.
When a sudden gust
can disrupt it all.
Until I walk
along the path
beneath this arbour of gently bending trees,
a triumphant arc
glittering brightly.
And brush against a branch,
springing-up lightly
in a shower of airy snow.
That powders my fleece,
sits, like epaulettes, on my shoulders,
clings to my lashes,
filling the world
with cool translucent light.
Melting quickly,
and, when the mercury plummets
freezing my eyelids shut.
Struck blind, suddenly.
The trees grow towards the path
in a lattice-work tunnel,
competing for open space.
Which will be choked off by forest
swallowed up,
when I no longer come.
Because the trees always win the war,
and safe passage
for a neutral observer like me
is never sure.
The path
as if it never existed.
History, as usual
re-written by the victors.
Nov 19 2010
The trees were loaded with snow.
Spruce are spindly, this far north,
bending nearly to the ground
in graceful arcs
with their burden of fresh white powder
— like the palace guard
bowing respectfully.
Some trees broke
bare and jagged,
barring the path like scattered spears
abandoned
on the battlefield.
There is a delicate balance of forces,
like deterrence
in a cold war —
the stickiness of snow, the springy wood
the warmth of a frugal sun.
When a sudden gust
can disrupt it all.
Until I walk
along the path
beneath this arbour of gently bending trees,
a triumphant arc
glittering brightly.
And brush against a branch,
springing-up lightly
in a shower of airy snow.
That powders my fleece,
sits, like epaulettes, on my shoulders,
clings to my lashes,
filling the world
with cool translucent light.
Melting quickly,
and, when the mercury plummets
freezing my eyelids shut.
Struck blind, suddenly.
The trees grow towards the path
in a lattice-work tunnel,
competing for open space.
Which will be choked off by forest
swallowed up,
when I no longer come.
Because the trees always win the war,
and safe passage
for a neutral observer like me
is never sure.
The path
as if it never existed.
History, as usual
re-written by the victors.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Illumination
Nov 14 2010
A brisk wind
and the stove draws nicely.
Dry wood
from last winter
seasoned another year,
stacked by the hearth all summer.
Where it sat
adding a nice warm touch
of home.
Birch bark burns
with a strong clean flame,
flaring-up at the touch of a match.
And kindling
becomes instant embers.
Beneath a ziggurat of logs
criss-crossed, then topped-off
with an all-night behemoth,
consumed by fire.
The tree stood for 40 years,
when the man who planted it
found himself old
suddenly,
looking in the bathroom mirror
one brilliant morning
in the cold white light
that reflects
off the first fresh snow.
In a week of fires
the tree is gone.
40 years of sunlight
compressed
into 7 days.
Leaving a dark patina of ash
on the slope of snow
that blankets the roof
undisturbed.
And its elemental atoms
diffusing out
until they cover the earth.
Because nothing is wasted;
matter re-shaped
energy conserved.
An exothermic reaction
sustains itself
until the fuel is gone.
A spark of ignition
steady oxygen,
giving-off
heat, and light.
Breathing in, and out
how many times
in the course of a life?
Like rust
he burns slowly,
the oxygen he needs
consuming his body
from the inside out.
Every cell
re-building itself
many times over
in the course of a life;
until they, too, exhaust themselves.
An urn of ash,
fragments
of unburned bone.
His body heat, as well
left behind,
warming the earth
ever so slightly
all these years.
And perhaps, if he’s good
and lucky,
some light.
I’m very pleased how the last line transforms this poem. Or, at least, abruptly pulls all the threads tight. Not just pleased at the line break between “good”/ “and lucky”, but the reference to “light, left behind.” Because despite the optimism in the idea that matter and energy are ultimately conserved – even fire does not destroy – it is the angst of this man in later middle age that sets the poem’s tone. Until you get to the very last word, that is; where there is the possibility that his life might be redeemed by the light he gave to the world. This metaphorical meaning of “illumination” is very powerful: there is light, and then there is illumination – insight, truth, revelation.
The poem didn’t start with this intent at all. Rather, it was given to me by means of that mysterious stream of consciousness, that exalted state of free association that somehow manages to break down the brain’s rigid compartments. I’ve previously referred to this inspired process as “channelling”: an exhilarating and intensely pleasurable creative state that feels like automatic writing. Let the analytic and critical gate-keepers stand down, and see where that inner voice takes you.
So the poem actually started as a simple descriptive piece: with the first snow and first fire of the season. The key turning point was the word “behemoth” (which was itself given to me by the intrinsic music of language: logs/crossed/top, and behemoth.) I couldn’t help but think what an ignominious end to a life of such longevity and beauty. And what an irreverent act to simply toss a log on the fire, another log to be quickly and casually consumed. That, conflated with my apparent subconscious preoccupation with getting older, made this poem much more personal; and I think, that much more compelling.
I think it would also nicely qualify as one of my notorious “physics” poems. I like the way it plays with time and perspective. I especially like the way it shows natural law unifying such seemingly different phenomena as a growing tree, a fire, human metabolism, the oxidation of metals, and a material interpretation of the after-life.
Nov 14 2010
A brisk wind
and the stove draws nicely.
Dry wood
from last winter
seasoned another year,
stacked by the hearth all summer.
Where it sat
adding a nice warm touch
of home.
Birch bark burns
with a strong clean flame,
flaring-up at the touch of a match.
And kindling
becomes instant embers.
Beneath a ziggurat of logs
criss-crossed, then topped-off
with an all-night behemoth,
consumed by fire.
The tree stood for 40 years,
when the man who planted it
found himself old
suddenly,
looking in the bathroom mirror
one brilliant morning
in the cold white light
that reflects
off the first fresh snow.
In a week of fires
the tree is gone.
40 years of sunlight
compressed
into 7 days.
Leaving a dark patina of ash
on the slope of snow
that blankets the roof
undisturbed.
And its elemental atoms
diffusing out
until they cover the earth.
Because nothing is wasted;
matter re-shaped
energy conserved.
An exothermic reaction
sustains itself
until the fuel is gone.
A spark of ignition
steady oxygen,
giving-off
heat, and light.
Breathing in, and out
how many times
in the course of a life?
Like rust
he burns slowly,
the oxygen he needs
consuming his body
from the inside out.
Every cell
re-building itself
many times over
in the course of a life;
until they, too, exhaust themselves.
An urn of ash,
fragments
of unburned bone.
His body heat, as well
left behind,
warming the earth
ever so slightly
all these years.
And perhaps, if he’s good
and lucky,
some light.
I’m very pleased how the last line transforms this poem. Or, at least, abruptly pulls all the threads tight. Not just pleased at the line break between “good”/ “and lucky”, but the reference to “light, left behind.” Because despite the optimism in the idea that matter and energy are ultimately conserved – even fire does not destroy – it is the angst of this man in later middle age that sets the poem’s tone. Until you get to the very last word, that is; where there is the possibility that his life might be redeemed by the light he gave to the world. This metaphorical meaning of “illumination” is very powerful: there is light, and then there is illumination – insight, truth, revelation.
The poem didn’t start with this intent at all. Rather, it was given to me by means of that mysterious stream of consciousness, that exalted state of free association that somehow manages to break down the brain’s rigid compartments. I’ve previously referred to this inspired process as “channelling”: an exhilarating and intensely pleasurable creative state that feels like automatic writing. Let the analytic and critical gate-keepers stand down, and see where that inner voice takes you.
So the poem actually started as a simple descriptive piece: with the first snow and first fire of the season. The key turning point was the word “behemoth” (which was itself given to me by the intrinsic music of language: logs/crossed/top, and behemoth.) I couldn’t help but think what an ignominious end to a life of such longevity and beauty. And what an irreverent act to simply toss a log on the fire, another log to be quickly and casually consumed. That, conflated with my apparent subconscious preoccupation with getting older, made this poem much more personal; and I think, that much more compelling.
I think it would also nicely qualify as one of my notorious “physics” poems. I like the way it plays with time and perspective. I especially like the way it shows natural law unifying such seemingly different phenomena as a growing tree, a fire, human metabolism, the oxidation of metals, and a material interpretation of the after-life.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
You Can Close Your Eyes
Nov 8 2010
Our version of fall
is a frumpy librarian
in a modest dress and sensible shoes,
glaring sternly at noise-makers.
No loud displays.
No scarlet show-offs
suffused with light
against crisp blue sky.
No, our trees are quiet, studious
well-behaved.
Mostly yellow foliage
that’s gone in the first stiff wind
well before the clocks turn back.
Gloomy days, and colder rain
waiting for snow.
But this fall was golden
— warm and dry
and slow.
Like a hushed reading room
with clerestory windows
lined with darkly polished wood.
I hear myself crunch
through crisp piles of leaves,
filling ditches
thick to leeward
blown into windrows.
A thin skim of ice
clings to the shore,
tinkling like a million tiny wind chimes
as open water
laps at its edge.
And a rustling in the airy woods
as small furry creatures
dig-in against the cold.
In the honeyed hush
of a fall like this one
you can close your eyes.
Find a place
in the afternoon sun
between long low shadows
and listen carefully,
feeling the unexpected warmth
on your up-turned face.
More literary fiction
than best-seller,
more Haiku, than epic,
the attentive reader
will get her reward.
This northern fall
this fleeting season
is like a single page
between summer and winter,
quickly turned.
After wavering between summer and winter (never spring!), this golden fall has made me think it’s my favourite season after all – as fall always used to be. As the poem says, unusually “warm and dry/and slow”, unlike the cold wet gloom of last year.
It will never be a visually spectacular fall, this far north. But that just encouraged me to tune in to its subtle beauty; and especially its sound. Just imagine, experiencing the beauty of fall with your eyes closed! So the 5th stanza is really where the poem began: crunching through thick piles of leaves; the delicate skim of ice, that literally tinkled in a light breeze; a rustling in the woods, followed by the appearance of a juvenile porcupine, about to experience his very first winter.
I don’t know why the librarian came to mind, except that I was thinking about the unnatural quiet, and immediately pictured her stern glare and strenuous shushing. So, of course, I had to let the metaphor lead me through the rest of the piece – through the reading room, the brief poem, the single page.
It’s challenging to write another poem about fall that anyone would want to read. Hasn’t it all already been said? And these lyric poems about nature can get pretty tired and formulaic. So I hope I managed to meet the challenge, and come up with something worth reading.
Nov 8 2010
Our version of fall
is a frumpy librarian
in a modest dress and sensible shoes,
glaring sternly at noise-makers.
No loud displays.
No scarlet show-offs
suffused with light
against crisp blue sky.
No, our trees are quiet, studious
well-behaved.
Mostly yellow foliage
that’s gone in the first stiff wind
well before the clocks turn back.
Gloomy days, and colder rain
waiting for snow.
But this fall was golden
— warm and dry
and slow.
Like a hushed reading room
with clerestory windows
lined with darkly polished wood.
I hear myself crunch
through crisp piles of leaves,
filling ditches
thick to leeward
blown into windrows.
A thin skim of ice
clings to the shore,
tinkling like a million tiny wind chimes
as open water
laps at its edge.
And a rustling in the airy woods
as small furry creatures
dig-in against the cold.
In the honeyed hush
of a fall like this one
you can close your eyes.
Find a place
in the afternoon sun
between long low shadows
and listen carefully,
feeling the unexpected warmth
on your up-turned face.
More literary fiction
than best-seller,
more Haiku, than epic,
the attentive reader
will get her reward.
This northern fall
this fleeting season
is like a single page
between summer and winter,
quickly turned.
After wavering between summer and winter (never spring!), this golden fall has made me think it’s my favourite season after all – as fall always used to be. As the poem says, unusually “warm and dry/and slow”, unlike the cold wet gloom of last year.
It will never be a visually spectacular fall, this far north. But that just encouraged me to tune in to its subtle beauty; and especially its sound. Just imagine, experiencing the beauty of fall with your eyes closed! So the 5th stanza is really where the poem began: crunching through thick piles of leaves; the delicate skim of ice, that literally tinkled in a light breeze; a rustling in the woods, followed by the appearance of a juvenile porcupine, about to experience his very first winter.
I don’t know why the librarian came to mind, except that I was thinking about the unnatural quiet, and immediately pictured her stern glare and strenuous shushing. So, of course, I had to let the metaphor lead me through the rest of the piece – through the reading room, the brief poem, the single page.
It’s challenging to write another poem about fall that anyone would want to read. Hasn’t it all already been said? And these lyric poems about nature can get pretty tired and formulaic. So I hope I managed to meet the challenge, and come up with something worth reading.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
A Fresh Fat Cuban
Nov 2 2010
There was the smell of cigars.
In the den, where he read the evening paper.
In the car
always a late model Oldsmobile.
Smudging the windows
with a dull blue haze,
crumpled in ashtrays, the blunt remains
of stogies
dark with spit.
Rolling around his lips
not paying much attention,
the way a couple kiss
after 40 years of marriage.
Stale cigar smoke
is like a beer parlour at closing time,
better in low light
urgently opening windows.
But when someone puffs
on a fresh fat Cuban
you can’t get enough,
inhaling the 2nd hand smoke
with greedy pleasure,
nose extended, nostrils flared.
Impatient to be grown up,
when you will be ushered in
to the secret society of men,
who can knot a bow-tie, eyes closed,
tell off-colour jokes,
light up a stogie
old-school.
My glamorous uncle
would come all the way up
from New York City,
stashing a box full of hand-rolled Cubans
in his matching bags.
The thrill of contraband
immensely improving
the long slow draw
of well-cured tobacco.
My dad quit
a few years after I left home.
I never did learn how to smoke.
But I still love the smell
of a good cigar.
The thick smoke, uncoiling;
the rich brown leaves
with a little green
in the wrapper.
I can only hope
that one day
I will have something to celebrate
worthy of a fine cigar.
Passing around
a well-stocked humidor
to comrades, and co-conspirators,
swapping backslaps
and manly laughter.
The closest I ever got were those cheap wine-dipped and plastic-tipped Cigarillos: in my defence, a mercifully short-lived form of adolescent rebellion.
The rest is largely true. With embellishment (poetic license?), of course. My father never really smoked that often; only on special occasions. And he never drove an Oldsmobile; but the brand has that nice archaic sound, and evokes a past era delightfully – well before the age of political correctness. Back when a prosperous executive bought a new car every two years. And fits nicely this whole archaic notion of “manliness” (Which, needless to say – except somehow I feel I need to say it – I’m using entirely ironically!) I don’t think anyone says “late model” anymore, either. And while newspapers still struggle gamely on, the evening editions have altogether disappeared. The New York uncle always did seem glamorous; and I’m sure those illegal Cubans tasted twice as good because of it. And the smell of stale cigar smoke is really quite revolting, while the smell of a freshly smoked cigar is intoxicating: better, I think, 2nd hand than it is for the actual smoker.
My mother eventually had her way, and my dad quit. My brother, too: also to the eternal relief of his own long-suffering wife!
I’ve been watching a TV series called Boardwalk Empire, set in Atlantic City at the time of prohibition. The men here drink too much, step out on their wives, wear gorgeous suits and great hats, and smoke big fat cigars with impeccable style. I don’t want to emulate them. But these archetypes do strike me as the essence of manliness, and the well-savoured cigar is an indispensable part.
…I just realized that when the paternal side of my family first came over from Europe in the 1800's (from Amsterdam, actually) they were in the cigar business! In fact, the precursor to a fairly big chain called United Cigar (which may not still be around; but was when I was a kid.) So perhaps there's a cigar aficionado's gene lurking somewhere inside me, and I was destined – sooner or later – to write a cigar poem!
Nov 2 2010
There was the smell of cigars.
In the den, where he read the evening paper.
In the car
always a late model Oldsmobile.
Smudging the windows
with a dull blue haze,
crumpled in ashtrays, the blunt remains
of stogies
dark with spit.
Rolling around his lips
not paying much attention,
the way a couple kiss
after 40 years of marriage.
Stale cigar smoke
is like a beer parlour at closing time,
better in low light
urgently opening windows.
But when someone puffs
on a fresh fat Cuban
you can’t get enough,
inhaling the 2nd hand smoke
with greedy pleasure,
nose extended, nostrils flared.
Impatient to be grown up,
when you will be ushered in
to the secret society of men,
who can knot a bow-tie, eyes closed,
tell off-colour jokes,
light up a stogie
old-school.
My glamorous uncle
would come all the way up
from New York City,
stashing a box full of hand-rolled Cubans
in his matching bags.
The thrill of contraband
immensely improving
the long slow draw
of well-cured tobacco.
My dad quit
a few years after I left home.
I never did learn how to smoke.
But I still love the smell
of a good cigar.
The thick smoke, uncoiling;
the rich brown leaves
with a little green
in the wrapper.
I can only hope
that one day
I will have something to celebrate
worthy of a fine cigar.
Passing around
a well-stocked humidor
to comrades, and co-conspirators,
swapping backslaps
and manly laughter.
The closest I ever got were those cheap wine-dipped and plastic-tipped Cigarillos: in my defence, a mercifully short-lived form of adolescent rebellion.
The rest is largely true. With embellishment (poetic license?), of course. My father never really smoked that often; only on special occasions. And he never drove an Oldsmobile; but the brand has that nice archaic sound, and evokes a past era delightfully – well before the age of political correctness. Back when a prosperous executive bought a new car every two years. And fits nicely this whole archaic notion of “manliness” (Which, needless to say – except somehow I feel I need to say it – I’m using entirely ironically!) I don’t think anyone says “late model” anymore, either. And while newspapers still struggle gamely on, the evening editions have altogether disappeared. The New York uncle always did seem glamorous; and I’m sure those illegal Cubans tasted twice as good because of it. And the smell of stale cigar smoke is really quite revolting, while the smell of a freshly smoked cigar is intoxicating: better, I think, 2nd hand than it is for the actual smoker.
My mother eventually had her way, and my dad quit. My brother, too: also to the eternal relief of his own long-suffering wife!
I’ve been watching a TV series called Boardwalk Empire, set in Atlantic City at the time of prohibition. The men here drink too much, step out on their wives, wear gorgeous suits and great hats, and smoke big fat cigars with impeccable style. I don’t want to emulate them. But these archetypes do strike me as the essence of manliness, and the well-savoured cigar is an indispensable part.
…I just realized that when the paternal side of my family first came over from Europe in the 1800's (from Amsterdam, actually) they were in the cigar business! In fact, the precursor to a fairly big chain called United Cigar (which may not still be around; but was when I was a kid.) So perhaps there's a cigar aficionado's gene lurking somewhere inside me, and I was destined – sooner or later – to write a cigar poem!
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