Life …in Real Time

Aug 28 2011

There is no family album

No snapshots, in black and white

no fading Polaroids.

No archive

of Super 8

Where children perform for the camera

on technicolor grass.

Against a backdrop

of sensible houses

with gravel driveways

and big American cars,

all buffed chrome, and puffy whitewalls.

My parents were camera shy,

not much for pictures.

Too busy, perhaps,

working weekends

scrimping.

In an era where they saw no need

to immortalize us

for posterity,

and there was no such thing

as “child-centred parenting.”

As was said, back then

kids were meant to be seen

not heard.

Perhaps if I had kept a journal,

like a little girl’s diary

with its skeleton-key lock.

Or a stack of yellowing foolscap

in careful block letters,

a solemn record

of the daily events

that matter to boys.

One of many good intentions

left unmet.

There are, of course, school yearbooks

a museum of report cards.

And class portraits, formally posed

  —  4th from the left, back row.

And a battered box

of random photos,

undated, unmarked.

Looking back

is like shuffling through that battered box,

unconnected snapshots

of a past I can’t be sure.

The blur of memory

confabulated, concocted

remade.

The toddler in a sandbox.

A suburban childhood.

The awkward coming-of-age.

Today’s child exists

in endless videos,

digital pictures

that fill the ether.

Which will never be viewed again,

because doing so would take a whole new life

in real time.

This is the problem

with too much information,

you can as easily get lost

as with none.

Like a drop of water

in the hundred-year-flood,

the feeble signal

when the noise is too much.

And now, all grown-up

I will only take pictures

on special occasions.

Pictures of consequence  —

the gravity

of rites of passage,

the weight of intent.

Which is very much how art works,

distilled, selective, compressed

down to the essentials.

A still life

as eloquent as Haiku

as elegant as a portrait.

Into which you gaze

long and deep,

and find yourself able to see

so much more

than the moment.

I was born in the mid-50’s, so that image of post-war houses – claustrophobically small, by today’s standards; and mostly treeless, with the driveways still unpaved – and of incongruously big cars – with ostentatious whitewalls, and lots of chrome –  is exactly what I see in old family photos.

The idea for this poem came from a brief conversation with my neighbour, and her photogenic (of course!) granddaughter. I asked about pictures, and with a slight roll of the eyes she said the doting father (her not so favoured son-in-law) records just about every second!

What a contrast to my own experience, which comes not only from a different era, but from a different family culture as well. Back then, no one felt this relentless pressure to document everything; and there certainly wasn’t today’s seductively easy technology. And we were not picture takers. So all there remains is something like that battered box in the poem. (As it happens, my sister-in-law – who is ferociously organized and industrious – organized and researched what there was, and in the end did manage to assemble a (very incomplete) album.)

I think the eye roll is deserved. Because all this picture and video-taking pulls us out of the moment:  everything becomes a “meta” experience, in which we’re too aware, self-conscious, detached.

And the irony is that the vast majority of this stuff will never – can never – be viewed:  as I said, it will “take a whole new life in real time”!

I think pictures should involve meaning and intent. Filming everything is like filming nothing. Which is where the comparison to art arose. If you throw everything into the hopper, something of beauty or significance may happen to emerge:  as a million monkeys randomly typing for a million years might just happen to produce Hamlet! But I don’t think anything can be art unless it’s conceived and executed with conscious intent:  a process of winnowing, elimination, choice; of discriminating between the good and the bad, the virtuous and the inept.

So the record of my neighbour’s granddaughter Hazel would be so much more meaningful – and useful – if it was done with more thought and thrift.

I’m left thinking of those monstrous clouds of digital data, kept alive in immense electricity-gobbling data banks:  none of which is of any use, or will even be re-visited.

And I’m also thinking of those who fear we live in this surveillance society; the kind of people who are paranoid of government. What they don’t realize is that there is nothing to fear:  there are so much data constantly pouring in, it’s virtually impossible to be overheard. You couldn’t find more privacy than in all that noise!

And I’m thinking how solipsistic – and even narcissistic –  all this is.

And I’m thinking of the power of a single still photo:  how much there is to see, when you have the freedom to stop, and look around.

The First Day it Felt Like Summer

Aug 23 2011

My calendar came

with all the festive occasions

set.

Secretaries’ Day.

When the clocks turn back.

Take your children to work.

It was me who added

the first day

it felt like summer

had finally come.

Spring thaw,

the day I saw

the first green grass in months.

The patch of yellow

in the dregs of August

and thoughts of fall.

That full moon the power failed,

and we sat outside

in silver light

for hours.

When the snow

finally stayed.

When your message came,

and I couldn’t bear

erasing it.

Firsts, and lasts.

Taking me back

from memory to memory,

like stepping stones

across the river of time.

But mostly

it’s calm patches,

the flat water

that connects the rocks

all looks the same.

Crossing-off days

flipping page after page,

lazily drifting downstream.

The time

in between.

Then the end of the year

when everything shifts,

so many calendars

arriving as gifts

from retailers, and politicians.

And time

seems infinitely promising.

It happens

in deepest darkest winter,

when I can’t help but think of

all the calendars

I didn’t save.

The daily logs

of minor triumphs

now forgotten,

and harder losses

when life went on

regardless.

An old calendar

takes me back

to where the stream narrows.

Where it’s shortest to cross,

but the water’s fast

and rocks treacherous.

And where the far side

is a slippery slope

of self-pity

nostalgia

regret.

And a fresh new calendar,

with postcards of nature

and glossy white paper.

Where no dates are set

in stone.

Neutral Air

Aug 21 2011

Waiting for lightning

to pass,

losing track

of time.

Although I’d like to imagine

this time does not matter

in the accounting of a life.

As if the world had temporarily stopped,

and I was privileged

to watch.

Something barely possible

when I was a younger man.

So I feel unrushed

infinitely patient.

The way a liquid takes the shape

of its container

I defer to Nature

  —  watchful, passive

thrilled.

No one wants to attract attention

in an electrical storm.

So I make myself small.

I imagine vast intransigent forces,

the atmosphere

boiling over.

Great masses

of super-saturated air, over-heated moisture,

the friction of clouds.

I’ve been told

the initial bolt is invisible

forking down.

That lightning shoots up,

returning from earth

to complete the circuit.

So lightning always strikes

out of the blue,

not only unheard

but unwitnessed.

Or was there a sizzle

of unsettled air?

The burnt smell of ozone?

The downy hair

on the back of your neck

tingling with static charge?

Was there even time to think?

Memory

wiped clean.

And after it’s gone-off

megavolts of electrons, that were forced apart

now flow freely

tension released.

Leaving the world

unnaturally calm.

The way water bottoms out

seeking its level.

The way youthful excess

eventually settles

down.

As suddenly as it came, it went.

The downpour spent.

The neutral air.

Benevolent sun, again.

And the world seems in balance

at rest.

The storm has passed

and lightning spared me.

As distant thunder

is warning some other

stuck in its path.

Who missed the blue-white light.

Will remember nothing

of sound.

As Thick as Blood

Aug 20 2011

The fly was definitely dead.

I checked

carefully.

One gossamer wing

filigreed, and iridescent

slightly bent.

The hard black body

untouched, to all intents.

The trick is

to swat just light enough,

or it’s bug guts, and blood

all over.

What surprised me was just how human it looks  —

the same ruby red, thick and glistening,

the same dull brown residue.

This annoying fly

  —  I was sure it’s the kind that bites  —

is the end of the line

of hundreds of millions of years

of survival.

All that time

becoming the perfect expression

of fly

in all its tiny complexity.

Now kaput, defunct, at rest

  —  a billion generations

dead-ended

in one distracted swat.

So I am starting to feel regret

for having killed it.

Too easy, off-hand

reflexive.

This insignificant insect

more elegant, and intricate

than anything Man has ever built,

or likely will.

The creation of a loving God

or ruthless Nature,

or whatever your belief.

But either way

a fellow creature

who also bleeds.

Over 400 million years, and counting

when we were all insects.

Distant kin, this fly and us.

But still,

the ancient ties that bind

as thick as blood.

The Joy of Getting Lost

Aug 19 2011

I came without maps.

I would not ask

directions.

And with all attachments

agreeably severed,

I had no end

in mind.

This is the joy of getting lost.

When you’re free

to re-invent yourself.

When you’ll  make the best of it,

because where you are

is as good as anywhere else.

When you will be found

by strangers,

may even find yourself.

Time will serve you,

not the other way around.

When first light, and sunset

are all that really count.

And stop, when your body-clock says,

time-out

for food and rest.

You will walk softly

down back roads, and garden paths.

You will keep to the shade

won’t fight the rain

can never be late.

You will learn something new

every day

you are out.

I made the mistake

of trying to escape

from myself.

Because this is the one constant

geography cannot solve.

You may seek out the wildly exotic

pack as light as possible,

but still will bear the baggage

that was weighing you down.

How odd

that travelling alone

the conversation never stops.

So try not

to talk to yourself

so much.

Listen more

than you’re accustomed;

puncture the bubble
get out of the rut.

Find someone

who will keep the journey fun.

Who also is not rushed

or quick to judge

afraid of touch.

Desire comes
in unfamiliar places.
So give in
to the wanderlust
that pulls you under.
Make love

in a foreign tongue.


I was quickly flipping through the Travel section of the weekend paper (quickly flipping, because -- contrary to the earnest poetic imprecation -- I'm a very reluctant traveller!) and noticed this headline:  The Joy of Getting Lost. Which immediately suggested all kinds of possibilities:  of lost and found; of finding oneself; of  freedom; of receptiveness to new experience. 

There is something very exhilarating about setting out with no itinerary; of being out of touch (especially in this age of constant contact); of relinquishing control.

I guess I'm lucky. I manage to travel a bit like that, but in my head:  fine adventures, with all the comforts of home!

The voice in this poem changes back and forth a couple of times:  between 1st and 2nd person. So when I address the hypothetical "you", I get to be rather axiomatic and inspirational  -- like an Opraesque poem of earnest self-improvement. And when I revert back to "me", the tone becomes more thoughtful, self-critical, unsure. And, as it usually does, the first person voice more powerfully confers emotional authenticity and authority. Even though my writing is not auto-biographical, I almost always write in the first person; which I think makes a far more compelling read.  

I'm quite pleased with the cheeky ending. Hope it works as well as I wanted it to ... . Although I will admit that I cheated a bit. Shortly after the original version of this poem went up, I heard an interview with Elisabeth Eaves, the author of a new book called Wanderlust:  A Love Affair with Five Continents. She was the one who first noticed (or at least before I did) the delicious double entendre in "wanderlust."  The unrevised version was without the 2nd last stanza; the poem jumped right to the "make love" ending. Which I always felt was a bit abrupt:  a "trick" ending, rather than something with the satisfying feeling of inevitability and resolution. So "wanderlust" made a perfect bridge. "Unfamiliar places" and "under" also contain a kind of double entendre:  the 1st between geography and anatomy; and the 2nd in the sense of what is forbidden, hidden, denied. Anyway, I much prefer this new version. But I didn't want to let it stand without acknowledging my debt to Ms Eaves.

The Roof of the World

Aug 16 2011


I live in the heart of a forest.

I am enclosed by trees.

By shades of green

that have never been named.

And could never be,

constantly changing

with the time of day

the height of sky

the angle of sun, in season.

The earth is flat

but my geometry is vertical,

holding up the roof of the world

keeping me small.

I am not sentimental enough

to hug them.

Their strength, and age, and stillness

are sufficient comfort

without such self-indulgence,

an indignity

unworthy of trees.

We co-exist

on property deeded to me,

but they are not mine.

At most, I’m a custodian,

shepherding them through

my brief tenure here.

Or does it work the other way around,

that I lean on them

for peace, protection, sustenance?

Lightning struck the white pine

next to the house.

It toppled slowly,

going as gracefully as it stood

for more than a hundred years,

as generations of men

came, and went.

It felt like an avalanche

when it landed,

in a shower of needles, shattered branches

a jagged smoking stump.

I mourn this pine, and miss it.

But death is different

in a tree.

The roots are still alive,

seeking sunlight

pushing up shoots.

And the fallen trunk

will return to the soil,

still part

of the living forest.

And I am grateful

it leaned away,

sparing me and my house.

Where the power went out

just as it was struck,

the hands of the clock

stuck

on the exact second.

Perhaps a sign of respect
a memento mori;

like half-mast-flags, a black crepe sash

in a funeral procession.

But this tree is its own epitaph

a perfect marker.

So I look forward to the change of season.

When the first light snow

will make a festive cover,

a soft white cloak

glittering in winter sun.

And then into spring,

when the indolent heat

of decomposition
will lift its shroud of snow,

and mark a new beginning

of life.

Cleanliness is Next to Godliness

Aug 14 2011

My grandmother loved to clean.

In the dirty 30’s

dust blew under the door,

found its way in

through poorly sealed windows.

A sagging sash

tiny cracks in the wall.

The same water

was used in order,

first bathing

then dishes, the floor.

In the dust bowl

every morsel was gritty with sand.

Walls leaned in with the wind

when it raged,

the sun

baked shingles brittle.

As if Mother Nature

had it in for her.

So years later

in her sanctuary in the city

she kept the world at bay

nature out.

Imposing order,

achieving inner peace

through pristine control.

Her vacuum cleaner was a big Electrolux.

She loved that vintage machine.

The chrome was buffed

like a brand new Buick.

Brushes lovingly combed,

half-used dust bags

fastidiously disposed of.

When I was a toddler

her assistant

I was entranced by the retractable cord  —

magically whizzing

into the hidden innards,

the satisfying “thunk”

when it stopped.

Sending cats, ears back

slinking for cover.

Visitors were conscripted

to the worthy cause,

as if they were pilgrims

or penitents.

Coasters, and antimacassars,

shoes off.

Everything smelled of Windex.

Pine Sol, like incense

anointed the air.

The washroom was a surgical suite,

scrubbed, and sterilized.

The kitchen gleamed,

like a living tribute

to better hygiene.

The Frigidaire

was a white enamel altar,

defrosted by hand

each week.

No dust survived

her ministrations.

Every bug annihilated

in acts of ritual sacrifice.

She was a small woman

but as strong as her peasant ancestors.

When the world was going to hell

which it usually was

her tiny sanctum was heaven,

hermetically sealed

from contagion, dirt

disorder.

I don’t know who lives there now.

But I’d love to imagine it still exists

as it was,

a shrine to higher cleanliness.

And to a woman

who preached the dogma of germs,

denounced dirt

like a true believer.

Who was baptized in hardship,

and then went on

to piously serve her god.

The starting point of this poem was an Eleanor Wachtel interview with the Israeli writer Meir Shalev, which I heard on her CBC radio show Writers and Company. 

He described his grandmother in roughly this way. The story was hilarious, and the live audience quite enjoyed it. As did I. I loved this tough old lady on the Israeli farm who adored her big American vacuum cleaner, and who was consoled by order.

Setting out, I had no idea I’d be using the religious metaphor, which runs roughshod right through the poem. But I think the utterly unintentional combination of “sanctuary” and “inner peace” in the 4th stanza gave this gift to me. And after that, I couldn’t resist torturing the metaphor to death. I can only hope it’s as much fun to read as it was to write. And anyway, as anyone who has read much of work would know, I can never resist poking fun at religion.

So the poem is in no way autobiographical. Except …except …that I think my grandmother – who was also a product of the Great Depression – had a bit of this in her as well. I know that my mother told me she was a great “germophobe”:  a true believer in the science of hygiene, at a time when the germ theory of disease first became popularly understood. My mother was/is a bit of a neat freak, as well. As am I. Or was, anyway. So I suppose the sins of the grandmothers are visited upon the children. Or something like that.

If for no other reason, the poem was worth it just to get to use the archaic – but evocative – word “antimacassar”.

My favourite part is the use of all the brand names. I think it fits the character of this woman:  the idea of brand loyalty, of resistance to change.  And these are, after all, brands that have stood the test of time. As well, I also think these brand names add a powerful sense of authenticity to the piece. I have particular fun with “Buick”. Which  seems to be a running joke in my poetry. There is just something about the old image of the Buick:  the apotheosis of the bourgeois land yacht, of middle class aspiration. But I’ll say no more, and leave this my literary biographer to analyze …lol!

A Dull Thud

Aug 13 2011

It’s the sound

that takes me back.

There is an image, of course.

A series of stills

caught in the high-beams

in the deep of night.

How that cold white light

bleeds the warmth from colour,

leaves things bloodless.

As a deer, down

skitters and skids

on rain-slick pavement,

staggers to its feet, bounding into the trees

on adrenaline, and shock.

Where it will stop, panting hard

to lick its wounds.

Or die, in the fullness of time

on the forest floor.

Where wild things

pass quietly.

The heavy thud of meat,

blood, sinew, gristle

against moving steel.

In a blur, out of nowhere,

tires smoking

the car, nosing down.

This sound brings me back 30 years.

Someone’s dog

who was there, and gone

in an instant.

A dull thud

or should I say feel

from the right front bumper,

the rough impression

of something reddish-brown.

I was young, and fearful

and carried on,

the wheel, tightly gripped,

eyes fixed

on the broken white line.

On overdrive

to the vanishing point.

But I’ll still can’t bear the suffering

of that luckless dog,

whom someone surely loved.

The suddenness.

The sickening thud.

The helpless fluster

and guilt.

As I said

the deer picked itself up,

loping off

on long graceful legs.

I want to believe

she is no worse for wear,

will grow up wary

and safe.

If only I could apologize

for that cringing dog

in that faraway place

left alone to die,

no one to comfort

or save him.

But there is no way

to make up for this.

And anyway, injured dogs bite,

and it was dark, and late

and I was clueless.

And like most people that age,

still unacquainted

with death.

True story. Not much to comment on.

Except that on reviewing the piece just now, I wanted to make sure I’d kept my pronouns straight:  that the deer was consistently either “he” or “she”. Which is when I noticed that I use “it” in describing the incident, and then in the 7th stanza – when I return to the story – “it” has transformed into “she”. Actually, I rather like this. Because the first part is detached and descriptive. And then, when I return, it’s more about my emotional  reaction . So it seems suitable that the deer is personified, or anthropomorphized, in this way.

And all true, except for the usual poetic licence. There was no rain that night. But “rain-slick” works acoustically; and certainly adds an appealing kind of noire-ish atmosphere. And, of course, bumpers these days are crappy plastic, not steel. But really, doesn’t cold hard steel convey so much more than chintzy plastic? (Surprisingly, the plastic didn’t break.)

My favourite parts are “Where wild things/pass quietly” and “on overdrive/to the vanishing point”.

There is terrific pathos to this image of a wounded animal dragging itself to some quiet protected place in the deep dark forest, to die alone. And something dignified and stoical –  resigned, to the “fullness of time”. Not how we see our own deaths, or how we often die. But perhaps more sensible.

And I like this idea of the vanishing point:  a term that conflates the optical illusion at the far end of vision with vanishing, escape, flight. So I get this image of seeking to disappear into the infinitesimally small point of convergence in a scenic painting. This is full of ambiguity and illusion:  how 2 dimensions simulate 3; how art simulates life; how there is no escaping through what is really just a piece of stretched canvas; and  how a painting persists, so you can’t help but return over and over to the exact same image. Which is much like memory, re-visited.