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.