Salt

March 28 2012

The way it pours

and  sounds.

Into my palm, cupped
free, dry, rustling.

A perfect mound

of white.

Each crystal exact,

melts into my sweat

nips my tongue

with briny sharpness,

a suggestion of blood.

From the sea, the sun.

Underground

from its crystal fortress.

I will eat rock

and die for water.

I will live forever

preserved in salt,

a desiccated stump

gnarled, hard.

I will bite my love

mingle sweat and blood,

season her lightly

with my tongue.

I will add a pinch,

lick her down

and up.

I will pepper and zest

pickle and cure,

dissolve with her

in lust.


I could have called this poem Salt of the Earth. Because that’s how salt seems:  stable, basic, earthy.

There is no narrative, or even sequence, here. It’s more a stream-of-consciousness piece on this confounding and contradictory substance.

Because salt is all contradiction. It’s a rock, yet we eat it. Too much will kill, as dehydration kills. Yet it is necessary for life, and also preserves. Salt is universal, from the salinity of all the world’s oceans, to the salinity of our blood. But it also has the particularity of terroire, since unprocessed salt carries the trace contaminants of its origin. It is ubiquitous and cheap; but before geological salt was discovered, it could only be obtained by evaporation, which made it rare and expensive; so much so that it shares its Latin root with “salary”.

We sweat salt, and taste it in all our bodily secretions. And so it adds spice in more than the literal sense:  because salt is the taste of sex. But it also makes language coarse, and wounds scream. 

Soundings

March 27 2012

A ship, at sea.

Time measured in days  —

how many to go,

how many out

from home.

Next port-of-call,

where dark fragrant women

await.

Countless fathoms beneath.

An infinitesimal speck

on the endless breadth

of sea.

Stale air, in hollow decks,

held aloft

by the law

of displacement.

A leap

of imagination,

that fails

the instant

you see yourself.

Steady as she goes

knot by knot.

Unravelling in back

pulling her taut.

Vibrations in the steel hull

that thrum unheard,

phosphorescent wake

goes unobserved.

As the big screw churns,

and bulkhead doors

clang shut.

Looking down

at a flat green sea.

Rising up, in our sleep

to engulf us.

This poem began with the simple attraction of a word:  “unfathomable”, and the related verb “to fathom”.

This is a good example of frequent phenomenon in English:  the “verbing” of a noun. The same thing happened to “toast”; and, more recently, “impact”. I think it was a brilliant piece of writing, the first time a daring author took the mundane measurement "fathom" and applied it to impenetrable thought, to deep and insightful thinking. This is especially so because the word takes you underwater, into utter darkness, and so makes the illumination of thought and mind that much more dramatic. 

(In my notorious conservatism, I still find “to impact” inelegant. I silently cringe when I hear it, and – despite the undeniable economy and clarity of this usage – avoid it myself. Of course, I realize that this is antithetical to my professed love of the English language, since the great strength of English is its flexibility and creativity; not to mention its voracious appetite for words appropriated from foreign tongues. This is very different from, for example, French, where the notorious Academie Francaise strenuously resists neologism, and valiantly stands guard against the contamination and anglicization of  that precious tongue. English, in all its vitality, quite rightly scorns such Gallic notions of purity.)

This led me to explore the language of fathoms and knots, the exotic nautical, the ambiguity of “at sea”.

Here, I see the ship as a metaphor for the steady trajectory of a life, violently interrupted by indifferent nature.

How a ship out of sight of land is an island, a world unto itself. Just as we are all ultimately alone in our journey.

At its best, the poem is an exhortation to live mindfully, and in the moment:  observe the phosphorescence; don’t let the steady thrum of the hull lull you into complacency.

The narrator is detached, mostly observing from the 3rd person (with a single unavoidable instance of the more intimate “you”). Only with the very last world of the entire poem does it unexpectedly shift into 1st person, forcing the reader in.

Another March

March 12 2012

Winter is letting go,

a presumptuous spring, impatient.

Old snow

excavated layer by layer,

giving up

its treasure.

Chilly rain is soaking in,

a heavy slog

through cold porridge.

The palette of early spring

is damp green

dirty white.

A dishwater sky

low enough to touch,

as mist thickens to fog

softening up

earth’s rough edges.

The air is heavy, at rest

and silence deep,

except for the muffled drip

of sodden trees.

The world feels changeless, primeval.

Only the light shifts

receding into night,

closing in

claustrophobic.

But tomorrow will be warm and bright.

When winter’s grip

will have slipped

past the point of no return.

Or is this the false promise

of another March?

Toying with us,

like a cat

its warm-blooded prey;

small furry creatures

so sure they were safe

into spring.

Black Swan

March 8 2012

A ballerina

levitating, lifted,

in diaphanous pink

seamless slippers.

The dancer’s feet

attempting

the clean perfection

of a girlish silhouette,

free of earth;

that acquiesce

in the contorted ideal

of her esoteric art

 —  en pointe, glissade —

are ugly, sexless.

Broken, and hard

and immensely strong,

they are hideous instruments

in the cause of beauty.

But we watch from afar,

miss the sweat, the grunts

the wooden thump

of weightless jumps,

the frantic crush

in cramped and anxious wings.

The punishing routine,

and nagging hunger.

Suspend

our disbelief,

let artifice deceive;

lifted up

in the rush

of applause.

The ballerina sleeps

in her tiny apartment,

bleeding feet

wrapped in ice.

Dreaming sweetly

of unnatural acts.

Of standing ovations

triumphant encores.

Of lily-white swans

and a black impostor.

The title is an homage to the movie that inspired this poem.

The final line is key. Not so much by transforming the poem, suddenly shifting perspective, but that the line nails it shut:  like a lawyer to a jury, closing.

The black  swan is the white’s doppelganger:  conniving, seductive, stealing away her prince. And in the poem – as in the film – it stands in for the black underbelly of the performing arts, the deceptive artifice that conceals hard and precarious lives.

People My Age Are Running the World

March 5 2012

I imagine at some point

I will feel all grown up.

Certainly, I will get old

and look the part,

which is to say

invisible.

A kid

insecure, and immature

in someone else’s body.

Most likely

this was not a question

considered by my parents,

when children followed marriage

and what was expected

of man and wife

easily went unsaid.

Because when money was tight

and the day-to-day a flood,

treading water

took the place of philosophy.

No time for solipsists

indulging 
in existential angst,

paralyzed

by introspection.

Of course, they had a war

to make them tough,

a depression

in which to grow up,

imprinting lessons

of thrift, and loss.

So was it peace and prosperity

that made us soft?

Are we the centre of attention

long after

the admiring gaze has gone?

Like them, we carve a notch

for rites of passage,

the milestones

of house, and spouse

and child.

But feel like impostors,

bad actors

who will eventually be caught

and shamed.

Which would be OK

if it weren’t that people my age

were running the world,

and it’s so clear to see

should have never been 
in charge.

Naked emperors

in their finery,

in mortal fear

of discovery,

just like me.

So I will continue to feel inadequate

while my parents simply got on with it,

and their parents

re-invented the world.

As we 
let our ennui, and greed

tear it down,

exhaust its wealth, and beauty.

Adolescents

never thinking ahead,

'til inertia

carries us over the edge.

When will we feel like grown-ups

who think for ourselves?

Manifestly believe

in our virtue?

Paper Trail

March 3 2012

You wouldn't think shy people

make an impression

leave their mark.

But this is the paradox of the shy,

who keep to themselves

and their intimate circle.

Who firmly shut the door

on an agitated world

and interact by the written word,

settled at a well-used desk

in a pool

of incandescent light.

Sending off

scribbles, missives, epistles,

penning memos, letters

encyclicals.

RSVPs

begging forgiveness,

formal notes

that decline, and defer.

Pushed out under the door,

appearing unannounced.

A paper trail

for historians to navigate,

a treasure map

for future biographers.

Rough drafts of themselves,

anatomically imperfect

but workable.

Like instructions

translated to English from Chinese,

full of amusing errors

and unintended ironies,

one can’t help but forgive.

We introverts are good

at living in our heads,

which are prudently kept

well below the parapets.

We prefer stillness, and quiet,

the beating heart of solitude

all that’s keeping time.

We are hard-wired, we say

born this way.

Popped out into a world

that was too cold and bright,

scrunching up our eyes

wailing unselfconsciously,

barely consoled

by our tears’ salty warmth.

Or wide-eyed

and preternaturally quiet,

already collecting impressions

making poems in our heads.

Which we will someday retrieve

when there’s time enough to think;

and the world

is ready to listen.

I elected to use "shy" instead of "introvert" in the opening stanza. I prefer the sound. I prefer the emotional power of a word that is more visceral over one that seems more analytical and detached. But they actually mean quite different things, and my intent is a lot closer to "introvert" than "shy"

Because shyness is a fear of social judgement. While introversion is what I've talked about in the poem:  a preference for a lower level of sensory stimulation.  This could be an intimate tête-a-tête in place of a cocktail party; or a DVD at home in place of a crowded movie theatre. One can be an introvert, but not at all shy. 

Introverts are not only misunderstood, but easily go unnoticed in a culture that celebrates self-promotion and brash confidence; that is more about personality than character. The poem began with the New Yorker Fiction podcast of a story by Bruno Shulz. He was described as painfully shy; and I appropriated as the central image of the poem the description of him taking refuge in his secluded room, writing compulsively and pushing stories out under the door. Needless to say, I immediately identified with him!

Shovelling Snow

Feb 29 2012

Shovelling snow.

Shedding clothes

layer by layer.

The ruddy glow, the frozen nose

sniffle-dripping.

Giving-in

to my inner obsessive,

fussing over ruled edges

sheer cuts.

I begin straight down the centre,

and finish by sweeping up

the last dusting of snow.

And then, the shovel is neatly stowed

in its appointed place.

This is how we serve our cars

which are otherwise ignored,

left out in the storm

salt-stained, and stoic.

As they convey us faithfully

shuttling to and fro

in dryness and warmth,

peering out

at winter.

I grunt

heaving and lifting,

think

about heart attack victims

who were sure

they were far too young.

About minor victories

that go unsung.

Propped

on my trusty shovel

in contented smugness,

bourgeois duty

done.

And think about sun

that will surely come

in 2 short months,

melt it all

to nothing.

Make my pride ridiculous

my precision embarrassing,

such neatness

hardly necessary.

But in the dead of winter

it’s hard to figure

on spring.

So I clean.

To keep nature in its place

the next ice age

from grinding our homes

to smithereens.

Crushing

human conceit

under mile high mountains

of snow.