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.