From the Head

Nov 28 2011

Bean bag chair.

Mattress on the floor.

Bare bulb

dangling on its cord.

I must be dressed

as well,

black turtleneck

generic jeans.

Unmentionables

underneath,

so I won’t.

This minimalism

is not a pose.

A sulking phase

of adolescence.

A dead-end man

perversely seeking attention.

And just as you’d expect

my music is a cappella,

from the head.

Distilled down to next

to nothing.

But not heartless

or gutless.

Because in the still space

in between,

in reverberance, and overtones,

in diminuendo notes

suspended on air

that seem to linger

forever,

I can spend

all I own,

expend myself.

Somewhere in there

eyes closed,

where it’s more decadent

and rococo

than you could ever imagine.

I’ve spoken lately about my preference in music:  spare, minimalist, acoustic. Slow. Not over-produced. Lots of space.

This is similar to poetry, where less is usually more, and where all the power is in the momentary pause, the empty space. You notice this most at a line break, where the sense or sound of a word lingers, and sticks.

And this also reflects my values and lifestyles:  a tendency to live in my head, a preference for uncluttered surroundings. I know this cheap shot at materialism makes me sound either an adolescent idealist, or a hypocrite, or both; but it’s true:  the desire for and attachment to things often feels like a burden, not the source of comfort and security we’ve been led to expect. 

Anyway, my eye was caught by an ad in the Arts section of the paper, something to do with “minimalism”. I’m not necessarily a fan of all forms of minimalism in the visual arts (abstract minimalists like Rothko leave me unimpressed and unmoved), but the notion of minimalism in general has an abiding appeal for me. And seems to me an inevitable corollary for someone who is good at living in his head.

This is where the poem began. Of course, such a theme demands to be complemented by a spare writing style – a minimum of words and complexity. This is something I pretty much always aspire to; and often fail at. So I’m not sure if I succeeded here. I do realize that the piece gets more descriptive and wordy towards the end. This is intentional:  I allow the character to become more expansive and animated, opening up as he begins to retreat into himself.

You’d be correct if you took the black turtleneck to be not only a reference to the generic hipster, the self-styled bohemian (not at all me, but it’s a familiar trope), but also a small homage to the very recently deceased Steve Jobs (of Apple fame), who always appeared in his familiar black turtleneck and jeans. Has anyone, in recent memory, been a more successful advocate of simplicity and elegance in design? So what better example of minimalist beauty than his work.

Portal

Nov 23 2011

In the strip mall

where my hair gets cut

the vacant storefront

has finally been filled.

But I’m sure another plate glass window

will soon go dark

papered shut,

so these cheek-by-jowl shops

will again smile jaggedly

   —  a tough guy

in a rough neighbourhood

with a tooth knocked out.

There was The Bagel Nosh

Shawarma Shop

bulk cheese outlet,

Kebab-Stop
Iron Wok

Hawaiian Pizza. 

All-you-can-eat,

until they were eaten out

or driven by

on the way to KFC.

The asphalt is heaving, crumbling

faded black.

In summer, it bakes,

turning off the main road

over the sidewalk

onto the lot.

The whole earth

paved over.

In winter, there’s nowhere for snow,

ploughed into mountains of dirty white

honeycombed ice,

adorned with crumpled wrappers
discarded cups.

Soggy butts,

still blushing

with cherry lipstick.

Once a month

I am transformed

into a well-groomed man.

I sit in the red pneumatic chair

and look at myself

reflecting back and forth,

shrinking, receding

all the way out

to the vanishing point.

Where I disappear,

too small

for human eyes to resolve,

for the physics

of light, and mirrors.

A small strip mall,

that could be bulldozed

and no one would notice.

But there, for a moment

that mirrored wall
was the smooth silvered surface
of a reflecting pool

opening up to the infinite,

and I peered in at myself

falling
into a bottomless black hole.

Imagine

contained in this shabby shop

a portal out to the universe.

Which quickly closed,

returning me to earth

in time for lunch,

well-trimmed

neatly parted. 

Next time, perhaps

I’ll take the plunge.

Snap Frost

Nov 18 2011

A shadow dance

with fall.

From rain to snow, and back.

Flirting with winter

in a sheer white dress,

a mere glimpse

to tempt us.

As hot and cold as the bashful boy

who must asks a girl to the dance,

first time, both.

From frost-bit tongue

to verbal flood,

tumbling out at once.

From blushing flush

to drained of blood,

numb

with exposure.

Cold black rain

hurtling hard as nails

softens into flakes,

filling the air

lightly touching down.

Covering up

the scarred surface of earth,

the sins of neglect

as the season’s end

has me caught, once again

unprepared.

After all these years

why am I still surprised

by cold dark winter?

Suddenly here

in virgin white,

before frozen ruts

and soiled slush

violate its beauty.

A transient dusting,

as much a caution, a tease

as that first slow dance,

before I could feel

even slightly at ease

with girls.

We tried hard not to touch,

clammy hands numb

backs stiffly clutched

at a safe distance,

as if the mercury had dropped

suddenly.

A snap frost

before the harvest is in.

And an early winter

in the school gym.

Marriage Bed

Nov 15 2011

When infatuation cools

and love blooms.

When grief turns to mourning

and morning to night,

and we lie together, holding tight

in the glow of 2 am,

we occupy separate worlds  –

two solitudes

in one familiar room.

The impenetrable inner life

that defies even us.

That others never touch.

You think you know someone,

the marriage bed

the morning light.

I don’t mean the intimacy of sex

or how she brought out the best

of your many selves.

But when you were at your worst,

afflicted with doubt

insecure.

I expected too much, projected some other

onto her.

And she, in turn

is also disappointed;

not the ambitious man

she would have preferred.

But loss makes all this trivial,

the recrimination, regret

intemperate words.

Of course, the only end is death

so you’d think we’d eventually learn.

But the gut doesn’t listen to sense

the heart the head.

So we lie together

in the marriage bed,

tightly spooned.

Not the cooler edge

where I feel exposed, defenceless;

but down in the centre

where it’s slightly depressed

and our bodies fit,

pressed skin-to-skin.

As close as we can get.

The boundary that keeps us out;

the heat

inviting us in.

My apologies to Rilke, for stealing “2 solitudes”. But it’s just too perfect to resist. Really, the whole poem is right there.

This is about the difficult challenge of marriage, of true intimacy, of impenetrable skin. Perhaps the fallacy of romantic love itself:  how idealizing the other, how projecting our own needs onto them, sows the seeds of failure. Yet how we cling to what we have, nevertheless. 

I’m imagining a couple who have lost a child. But really, it could be any kind of loss.

I quite like the hollow in the marriage bed. This says everything about familiarity, intimacy, longevity. And also why I chose Marriage Bed as the title.

Dinner Rush

Nov 15 2011

The sound of wine

as I pour,

my eyes

do not leave yours.

The deep red liquid

sloshes up,

'til the rising pitch of glug-glug-glug

hits the perfect note.

Both half full.

The place overflows,

the white noise of voices

tapping forks.

The anonymity of crowds,

at which we mouth our disapproval

yet still seek out.

So we can speak

freely here.

A middling wine,

given time to breathe

open up

smooth out the roughness.

Half-empty glass.

The clatter of dishes
convivial whispers

a boisterous laugh.

An earnest waiter

reciting specials,

a platter crashed.

And a tipsy old man

navigates tables,

like a listing vessel

that’s leaking fast.

As instrumental jazz

spools from the speakers,

a chair scrapes back.

I say I’ll have

the same as you,

a gesture of trust

a nod to deference.

Which you promptly over-rule

as unadventurous.

And now

your food untouched

I default to topping up my glass.

You pass,

the back of your hand

cupped demurely.

We could be an old married couple

still in love,

who can sit in perfect silence

together.

Or we could be far too young

to have nothing left to say;

or to have said

something regretted.

Here, in the ideal setting

for awkward pauses

grinding stops.

A brooding silence

where there’s too much room for thought.

Immersed

in this pleasant babble

of flushed patrons

and harried waiters

is like a warm innocuous bath,

in which I’d gladly vanish.

I feel as if I’m underwater,

straining for breath

hearing my heart in my head.

Yet dry

barely able to swallow.

A horrible thirst

no wine can quench.

This started with the idea of filling a wine glass by sound:  the rising pitch of glug-glug-glugs. Which immediately became pouring for two. This sound motif became the ambient sound of a restaurant; and the narrative drive the usual romantic complications.

I like the use of countervailing images, such as noise & silence, empty & full, wet & dry. The wine breathes. The man gasps for air.

Hand

Nov 5 2011


Your hand is warm.

As a captive bird

loose-boned, and tiny

enclosed in mine
holds unnaturally still.

The soft flutter

of a muffled heart.

The calm acquiescence

of prey.

Except your hand in  mine

controls me

with supernatural strength.

As if I were a blind man

holding on.

And even could I fly

I'd surely stay grounded,

a bird of prey, a lethal raptor

content to be fed

by hand.

A Room of My Own

Nov 2 2011

I began by knocking down walls.

As if light

could purify the building

let me see clear.

Every direction

out.

What goes on in a house

behind closed doors,

the ghosts of owners past

the taint

of unhappiness.

A warren of small dark rooms

and narrow hallways

heavy with stale air.

I imagined dead rodents

the urine of cats.

I would not go so far as to raise the roof,

yet never feel confined

in this ample space

this cozy room.

Glass, floor-to-ceiling

kept fastidiously clean,

so I can barely distinguish

in from out.

Life in a tree-house,

all green and dappled light

the palette of seasons.

Birdsong, at sunrise.

But in the still of night

inhuman sounds

under cover of dark.

An owl, perhaps;

but I picture something fierce and black

stalking

through shifting shadows.

Hard woods, flat finish,

soft salmon

sanded brick.

One grand room

open concept, simple plan,

a single man’s

modest castle.

Because when I was a kid

my bedroom was shared,

wedged up against the roof

in a small thin-walled duplex.

Cookie-cutter homes

that welcomed soldiers

back from war.

Because we all need a room of our own,

and get there, eventually.

Looking out, content in my aerie

of soaring glass

expansive vistas.

And free to look in,

no slouching beast

no hidden secrets.

But in the dead of night

inquisitive eyes

can see clear through.

Will I drop the blinds, kill the lights,

vanish

into blackness?

It’s surprising how windows conceal

as much as they give,

reflect, as well as transmit.

According to your own

inclination,

the angle

sunlight falls.

A building, a house, a home.

It all depends

on seeing through walls.

Island

Oct 31 2011

I am reading

in my accustomed chair

in a warm pool of light.

Late afternoon

in early fall

when night sneaks-up.

Surprised, to find myself

in cool dusk,

an incandescent cone

peering out.

Edges blur

objects merge,

the room

turns coarse-grained, porous.

I am marooned

on this agreeable island

of tightly circumscribed light,

cocooned

concentrated

sharp.

If I move

the illusion will break,

words

become incomprehensible.

When I return to the page

letters drift

into twilight air,

settle down

in random mounds

of alphabet.

Careful, stepping over them

I venture out,

leave the protected shore

navigate darkness

feel my way to the door.

And in a sudden flood of light

my private Atlantis

is no more.

This is a very agreeable state, indeed:  in my hermetic rarefied bubble, undistracted, sharply focused. I resent intrusion. But like most magical spells, it can be broken; and once broken, hard to revive.

Day can disappear, while I am oblivious to the passage of time. There is this feeling that if I disturb this pool of light, this tightly circumscribed cone, there will be no return.

But once I’ve noticed, it may be too late, and I start feeling impatient. The darkness seems decadent, degenerate, or even threatening. My bubble is lost.

Proof

Oct 31 2011

In the portrait photographer’s studio,

where light is used

for contrast

illumination

concealment.

Where the dark-room arts

can fashion truth

steal human souls.

Where your face becomes you,

becoming, or not.

And even the devout don't believe

are made in the image of God.

The famous portrait of Churchill

as scowling bulldog,

when Karsh snatched away his cigar

snapped the picture.

Captured

in immortal black and white.

When I realized

he wants your hands in the frame.

Which tell as much about the man

as anything.

Because poker-faced

he gives nothing away.

But clasping hands

you can read him blind-folded.

I will grip the arms of the antique chair,

knuckles clenched

stretched white skin.

I will prop them under my chin,

and then regret

appearing so pretentious.

I will brandish a pen,

the writer at work

thoughtful, pensive.

A cheap ball-point BIC,

as usual

the well-chewed end

ink-stained fingers.

A portrait of the man

that will be hung

in a place of prominence.

Who must trust the photographer

with his life.

This poem began very simply – as do most! I heard it said that a good portrait photographer wants to see your hands.

Hands are, or course, a powerful symbol. Even though the idea has been discredited that tool use separates us from the other animals, the opposable thumb still distinguishes us. And hands bear all the evidence of a life. They are our conduit to touch, to the highest intimacy. Even the word – manos – reveals the impossibility of disentangling one’s humanity from oneself. So this should have been self-evident all along: you can’t capture the essence of a man without showing his hands!

The statement immediately brought to mind Karsh’s iconic portrait. Me, I’ve never sat for a picture like this. But I think I would revert to the awkward self-conscious adolescent, who isn’t quite sure what to do with his hands!