Simulacrum

Dec 20 2012

Easy to believe

nothing lies

between us, and reality.

But the world

is not what it seems.

Take this slab

of honeyed wood,

close-grained, finely finished.

Its molecules, like distant planets

repulsing, and attracting

in a vibrating lattice

that’s mostly empty space.

Orders of magnitude

we cannot fathom,

trapped 
in our infinitesimal layer.

The line of winter trees

through the glass,

captured

on my retinal map,

compressed

through my optic tract,

and in the inner blackness

in which I dwell
assembled into guesswork, 

synapses crackling

their tiny voltages.

A rough simulacrum, at best

of just what I expected.

How reassuring

the world persists

as it’s always been.

But how is this 

proof of anything?

Words, too, are inexact,
no better than metaphor. 

So the simplest declarative statement

makes us all unintentional poets,

who can only come close

never say what we mean.

I am here, you proclaim,

but which version of yourself,

how deep

beneath the polished surface?

And exactly where

on your journey through time

have you let your mind wander,
the erratic passage
of future and past?

You awoke abruptly

blood pounding

cold with sweat.

She was so real, you swear,

and we nod, indulgent

at your fever dreams

delirious grief,
drugged-up 
hallucinations.

Scoffed at the prophet

who gazed upon the face of God,

in awe, dropped to his knees.

Lost all fear

and proclaimed it miraculous.

Here, in the fallen world

where we just as much believe.

Rely

on the blunt instrument

of the 5 basic senses,

cautiously reaching out

like looking through gauze

swaddled, and water-logged.

So we fill in

the empty space

ignore inconsistency,

confirm

our cherished beliefs.

And oh so rarely achieve

perfect clarity.
Let go
of certainty,
transcend ourselves.

What I'm  mostly trying to say here could be put quite simply:  that the solid hands-on real world we regard as fixed and immutable -- a kind of anchor of stability -- is actually mediated, subjective, and not nearly as reliable as it seems.

This is probably best conveyed in the line " ...the inner blackness/in which I dwell ..."; as well as " ...the blunt instrument/of our basic 5 senses ...".

I also quite like " ...Orders of magnitude/we cannot fathom,/trapped /in our infinitesimal layer."

Philosophical poems like this are a challenge, better suited to essay than poetry. Because an argument of ideas is better served by being more detached and intellectual than visceral and experiential; more precise than ambiguous; more expansive than distilled.  In a poem, I'd rather show it, not say it; feel it, not think it.

This is not only an existential exploration, but also a bit of an homage to Oliver Sachs' latest book, Hallucinations, in which he talks not just about the unreliability of our brains and our senses, but also about the universal human longing for transcendence -- whether through drugs, religion, or love.

Sixth Sense

Dec 18 2012

As much disgust

as the queasy flush

of fear

in its phantom presence.

Not that I actually see

the small grey blur

scurrying through

my peripheral vision.

The sensation flashed

from the dull rim of an idling retina

directly to my reptilian brain.

And the primal rush

of blood

seconds before

I came to my senses.

A small grey mouse

in the wedge of darkness

behind the bookcase.

I imagine it trembling,

whiskers twitching

delicately sniffing the air.

And tiny fingers

on pink-skinned hands

that remind me of a little man’s,

one who understands

the power of stillness.

Did I read somewhere

their DNA is nearly human?

That we are descended

from mouse-like creatures

much like them?

Which would explain the confusion

as to man’s essential nature   —

predator

or prey?

Sometimes cowering darkly,

and sometimes swagger

as if divinely ordained.

In mean Septembers

they squeeze in nimbly

rarely glimpsed.

But I cannot bring myself to share

my space,

panic

at Malthusian contagion

their pestilent reign.

I contemplate the limp grey body

dangling from its neck.

Small black eyes

still shiny, but fixed.

Delicate hands

surprisingly pink.

And the long stiff tail

that seems snake-like, alien,

repulsive with death.

But it was either freeze

or this merciful end

I console myself.

And take small satisfaction

I am no longer squeamish,

fastidiously lifting the puny spring

featherweight, released

into the dormant garden.

Such an insubstantial thing

landing soundless.

To be gone

by morning,

which I also never see.

When my neck went stiff
suppressed a shiver.
As if a brisk September's
cleansing air
could make me less
complicit. 

A Simple Declarative Sentence

Dec 7 2012

Say what you’re going to say.

Say it.

Say what you said.

I remember this from high school English.

And that essay

is from the French, to try.

So why poetry?

Why, when poets never say what they mean?

Like listening to jazz

sometimes you wish you could shout

“Just play the notes, already!”

But jazz is a conversation.

So even the trumpet, and sax

stop showing-off

long enough to listen,

to call-and-response

to handing-off

to more homely instruments

like double bass.

On the other hand

poets are blowhards

who love the sound of their own voice,

or failing that

insist you read in yours, out loud.

Who say they let a poem

go out into the world

and you can make of it what you will.

But really, they’re jealous of their precious words,

consumed by envy

when other’s work

wins the prize.

You’d think

all this poetry

would at least make me good at flirtation,

the subtle wink

and sharp repartee,

the artful misdirection.

But when she says I love you

a cleverly ambiguous response

a metaphor for deep affection

some breathy innuendo of sex

are far too much.

The master of compression

reduced to mumbling

fuzzy-tongued, and face-flushed,

who cannot utter love

in the 1st person.

Or if able to say it

mean what he says.

A simple declarative statement

as hard as he tries.

Extinguished

Dec 3 2012

There are still dark places

left in the world.

Where no man-made light

diffuses through the murk.

And where I try to believe

nature won;

the planet survived us,

we succumbed

to our greed.

And me, an accidental witness.

To stars

that have never been seen.

Black,

too deep to bear description.

The aurora, its magic restored

from the cold reduction of physics.

You get to such places

by human-powered means.

Past the end of the road.

In nifty boats

you can paddle, and carry.

Where you extinguish

all artificial light,

learn to see in the dark

feel your way,

cultivate

your 6th sense

and intuition.

And listen, of course.

Because the world is never still,

especially when you quiet yourself

pause long enough to hear.

Crashing through the wilds

‘til I stop.

Which is when I look up

at a clear night sky

unobscured by light,

and feel myself shrink

to insignificance.

So when the last dark place is gone

the night sky lost,

will my cosmos contract

to a dull uniform glow

with nothing beyond?

And I
imagine myself a god

on a claustrophobic planet

circling a single sun?

An Ontology of Snow

Dec 2 2012

The perfect geometry of spheres.

Stacked, and smoothed by hand

he stands

in a field of trampled snow.

You can see the furrows

where he was rolled;

snow, begetting snow.

A boulder, slowly fattening,

until small children

slithered and fell, face-first,

overwhelmed

by their creation.

He is not two-faced, multi-layered

complicated.

Unblinking eyes

betray no inner life,

his roly-poly girth

is mirthless.
He is the same

through and through,

smooth unblemished skin

the undeceptive grin

of brittle plastic.

A poor simulacrum

of his busy makers,

whose stressful lives

we minimize

have grown to forget.

He sags leans shrinks

in quick decline

in winter’s pitiless light.

Briefly rallies

on colder nights.

A short and frugal existence

justified

by the joy he gives.

All the children

in their colourful coats

and whimsical hats,

who felt, for a moment, like minor gods

on that primeval field of snow.

Not even disappointed

his life is short,

so certain they’re immortal.

Surrender

Nov 28 2012

The dog is restless.

She is at the picture window,

regal nose

smearing the glass.

The front door

where heavy winter air

presses in,

molecules of scent

she sniffs like a vintage red,

but without the pretension.

Cruises by her empty bowl

with a dog’s unquenchable hope,

licks again.

She is insistent with my hand

cajoling pats.

Her majestic head, and silky coat,

this beautiful pet

innocent

of vanity.

It’s the reassurance  of touch, she seeks,

a creature whose body and mind

are one,

unhampered

by analysis, and rumination.

Whose inner life

is no less movement and sensation,

racing in furious circles

just because she can.

No longer the impatient pup

she stoically waits;

because, unlike us

she has no illusion

of agency.

In the fullness of time

things come,

or they do not.

She holds no grudge

slips from under the past.

Her happiness

is uncontingent.

So she resigns herself to sleep,

a dog’s sensible default.

In my lap

as I try gamely to read,

her weight, her heat

a reassuring presence.

Language fills my head.

But her exquisite ears

hear only my breath,

quietly in and out

accompanying hers.

Deep brown yes

dilated wide

lock onto mine,

mildly perplexed

but with utter acceptance.

Black bottomless pools

I cannot penetrate.

She sighs and stretches

settling.

The unknowability of others,

even those we love.

Words, not connecting

sentences empty.

OK, I relent, let’s go.

A walk, in the bracing cold.

Where she is in her element,

all animal spirits

the wonder of snow.

She has snapped me in

to her long invisible leash,

inexhaustible energy

connecting us

urging me on.

As if a weight had been lifted

I relinquish control.

For now, the dog will lead;

and for me

peace

in surrender.

Returning to Earth

Nov 23 2012

We stacked the wood

in early fall.

Our work gloves

were too thin for the cold,

flimsy coats

no comfort.

We were caught off guard

by early dusk,

how seasons quickly shift.

As unnerving sun, stingy with heat

strobed through the trees,

enmeshing us

in long arthritic fingers.

Still creatures of summer

we were thin-blooded

reckless with light.

Now, the garage is redolent of birch,

the spicy earthy scent

of seasoned wood.

And surprisingly warm,

ever so slowly

decomposing.

In the fullness of time

leaving only dry rot,

light as balsa

crumbling, soft.

Like any dead body

returning to earth.

Wood locks into place,

stacks naturally

easily bears the weight.

And when dry

makes a high hollow sound,

tapping lightly

on the concrete floor.

Piled tall as a man

I look on smugly,

a conscientious ant

a good provider.

The growing season

is short, intense

this far north.

When decades of sun

were captured, and stored.

The patient majesty of trees,

we spend all our lives

and barely notice.

Light, and warmth

I will squander

in a single hard winter.

Burn through

my tidy stack.

Return the ash to soil.

Hiding in Plain Sight

Nov 26 2012

I am looking down

from my open window,

a 3rd story 1-bedroom flat.

I am a potted plant

in badly tended soil,

perched on the outer ledge.

A baby grand

winching up,

unstrung, in frayed suspense.

Only the paranoid

glance my way,

and who would listen to them?

I see tell-tale bald spots

shining pinkly,

which even their owners

would disbelieve.

Majestic bosoms

I ogle, freely,

jiggling directly beneath.

Cracks in the pavement

children at play,

a paper trail leading away.

A spilled cup of coffee

erratically rocking

like a lazily luffing sail.

Spattered liquid, mocha pale,

the indelible human stain.

From the corner of my eye

I see the car careen,

suddenly jump the curb.

See it still, in my sleep

keep hearing them scream.

Now, in my basement apartment

a window-well lets in the light.

And all I see

are disembodied parts;

a furious blur of legs,

strutting, shuffling

running past.

I have the impression

of one-way glass.

Where time

is mere succession

and I find contentment

in endless now.

Where there’s nowhere left to fall,

and no one looking down. 

Skin-Deep

Nov 20 2012

Sometimes, the cover does.

Lined-up, spine-to-spine

they hint

at secret lives

foment desire

spin their lies,

the calligrapher’s shameless art

of suggestion.

Social climbers all,

they clamour for the top shelf

strive for my affection,

the foreplay

of bed-time reading.

Then, utterly spent

sprawl upon the bedside table

in satisfied sleep.

We all know

red books are over-sexed.

Blue ones penny-pinch, are heretics

and brown covers slow,

the stupidest.

That black’s

obsessed with death,

shades of grey

unself-aware,

and strutting white

illicit dares,

the hypocrisy, and swagger, of power

uncontested.

But just as we are skin-deep, and tribal

dust covers

conceal surprises,

virgin bindings, long untouched

their inner lives

still uncorrupt.

An insignificant object

containing multitudes.

Many have gone unread.

Admired, like a trophy wife

in whose reflection I bask.

Because sometimes

their mere existence

is all I need,

that all this wisdom

has been inscribed

and simple possession

makes it mine.

That truth, like beauty

is merchandise.

At random, I crack a spine,

tease back

the creamy vellum.

Feel the weight

of virgin paper,

as I surrender

and she is taken.

And come to see

how foolish I was

to have been so colour blind.

To have believed

their mean self-serving tales.

This poem is based on the simple conceit of the  book cover as metaphor for stereotyping, tribalism, racism.

There is also a strong sexual innuendo running through it. I can’t be sure whether this works, or seems contrived and laboured. (All I now is that it was fun to write!)

The 4th stanza, as well, interrupts the flow of the main theme, going off on a tangent about unread books, and about how our bookshelves are constructed by us – or read by others – to reflect us: our sensibility, erudition, class. Perhaps, in a age of e-books, this is already passé. Although I’ve heard of interior decorators ordering books by the pound, and arranging them by the aesthetics of their colourful spines, facing out and artfully aligned.

At least the final stanza brings the poem back to its theme; to this idea of skin-deep and unfair ethnic stereotypes. And perhaps hints at a kind of transgressive love story – like Romeo and Juliet – violating clan or race or religion. 

The inspiration for this piece came form the book section of the Saturday Globe and Mail (Nov 17, 2012). Here’s how it was introduced:

Want to build the best li­brary ever? Take a page from the project that asked Mal­colm Glad­well, Junot Diaz and other cul­tural heavy­weights to dish on the tomes that in­spired them

What’s in our li­braries says a lot about who we are. Jane Mount asked some 100 writ­ers, artists, food­ies and film-mak­ers to de­scribe the books that in­spire them. Then she painted the spines, asked her sub­jects to com­ment and put the re­sults in a book called My Ideal Books. The ex­am­ples be­low are just part of a ros­ter that in­cludes Dave Eg­gers, Patti Smith, Alice Waters and Michael Chabon.

Malcolm Gladwell’s contribution included this observation (amusingly self-incriminating, and therefore brave) which is what set me off.

I’m in the mid­dle of writ­ing my new book, which is about power. I’m very in­ter­ested in the strate­gies we use to keep peo­ple who are pow­er­less in check. And the ways in which the pow­er­less fight back. So I started read­ing about crime. I’ve prob­a­bly ac­quired 150 books for this project. I haven’t read all of them, and I won’t. Some of them I’ll just look at. But that’s the fun part. It’s an ex­cuse to go on Ama­zon. The prob­lem is, of course, that even­tu­ally you have to stop your­self. Other­wise you’ll col­lect books for­ever. But these books are mark­ers for the ideas that I’m in­ter­ested in. That’s why it’s so im­por­tant to have phys­i­cal books. When I see my book­shelf ex­pand­ing, it gives me the il­lu­sion that my brain is ex­pand­ing, too.  

Geography Lessons

Nov 15 2012

In the heart

of a land-locked continent

built on Precambrian rock,

you would never guess

this is the water planet,

a pendant, dangling

luminous blue

in vast indifferent blackness.

They say the pounding surf

creates waves of sound

that carry for thousands of miles,

too deep

for human hearing.

That the heat

of the tropical sea

powers everything,

the engine of weather

even here.

That we arose in its depths

and bear its pedigree;

the salt in our veins

hypnotic rocking of waves,

the atavistic pull

of weightlessness.

I look over the land

with a reassuring sense

of permanence,

solid ground

underfoot.

But they say great cities

have been swept away

by a hurricane,

the unstoppable force

of wind and waves

on vainglorious towers.

One-way glass,

clinging to the edge

of land.

While we felt nothing here.

Perhaps a day

of scattered rain.

I slept fitfully, that night,

restless, rolling

like the constantly changing sea.

My heartbeat up,

and a low deep rumbling sound.

Struggling to breathe,

like the incubus

were holding me down.

And turbulent dreams

of a helpless child

about to drown.

Hurricane Sandy blasted the US North-east, especially New York City and the Jersey shore. All that weight of human suffering, yet here we would have been oblivious if it weren't for TV. As if we could be protected here, in the heart of a vast and stable continent.

But, of course, we are all connected:  just as the primordial sea still runs in our blood; and just by virtue of our highly complex and interdependent society.

The most heart-breaking story was of a young mother whose 2 small children were torn from her arms, and lost.

Dream Palace

Nov 6 2012

She insisted on white.

Cool hallways

flowing into airy rooms.

Up, and over ceilings

in a seamless cocoon.

Tall windows, open wide,

curtains billow

also white.

She said this was California style.

Where she had grown up

unloved

in a haze of sand and sun.

She imagined herself    

in this pure space,

a blank slate

in which to compose

a tranquil future.

It would be furnished sparely.

A single bed, a classic chair,

falling water

purrs, somewhere.

Nothing primary, or bold,

in its smooth curves

muted tones.

Where I felt angular, and bright.

To be painted over

re-arranged

stowed away.

White-washed walls

cannot be touched

surreptitiously.

You leave fingerprints,

traces of sweat

remains of skin.

Like a linen dress

in a summer breeze,

sullied

with blood-red wine

you can’t get out.