Make Rain

May 29 2012

Spring

fatally late.

We needed rain.

Parched ground

crunching underfoot,

last year’s leaves

winter deadfall.

The unnatural quiet

of homeless frogs, pinched blackflies,

who won’t last long

this dry.

Did someone pray?

Rend their garments

speak in tongues

repent their ways?

Or were we flimflammed

by some fast-talking scammer,

who vowed he could make rain

conjure salvation?

Or was it chance,

the long arm of the law

of averages,

this badly delayed

precipitation?

A deluge, a torrent

a biblical storm,

as if a dam broke

sluice-gates opened.

Manhole covers

rattled and popped.

Streets were awash

reservoirs bursting.

Little trickles

we’d never noticed before

overflowed

and swamped us.

Not seen anything like it

old-timers declared, nodding sagely.

Scientists shrugged

deferring to nature.

While the holy-rollers

gave thanks to the Lord,

who had clearly been moved by their prayers

and replied

with all His righteous might.

Unknowable, and all-knowing,

if intemperate

in intercession.

Atheists, and apostates

got soaked as well.

A magnanimous God

who rains down His gifts

not just on the saved, who serve Him,

but disbelievers

the undeserving.

To which I say

please, pray to your heart’s content.

But excuse us

if we seem ungrateful.

After a week of incessant rain, there was extensive flooding in the area.  Perhaps the apocryphal “100 year flood”; except that with climate change and all the variability that entails, I suspect 100 years is far too long to hope for.

As usual, I take another opportunity to bash religion. So please excuse the self-indulgence. But the thought crossed my mind that surely someone was praying for rain (among innumerable other things), and to them this must be incontrovertible proof that a well-intentioned creator does indeed answer prayer.  And I suppose this same someone explains the rather intemperate result with the usual disclaimer that God works his wonders in mysterious ways, of which mere mortals cannot possibly know.

So if you are a believer, this become a poem about the law of unintended consequences:   as in “be careful what you wish for …”. And a cautionary tale about the suspect theology of intercessionary prayer.

And for atheists like me, it becomes a sarcastic swipe at the irrationality of belief, the tautological fallacy of prayer.

The lake is flat …

May 15 2012


   …impenetrable.

The weight of water

the unbreakable surface.

Like dark glasses

on a beautiful woman.

I want to read her

sound the depths,

descend

to the cold heavy heart.

But she remains a façade,

as inscrutable

as water.

A perfect stone for skipping

is smooth and flat

with soft round edges.

It skims, deflects, exhausts,

disappearing cleanly

into blackness.

On a lake that’s dark and hard

as obsidian.

Except when a gust of wind

ruffles the surface,

like a hand unknotting a scarf

and with one magnificent toss

long hair shakes free.

Close enough to see

into her eyes

unguarded,

and sink

dead weight

dropping at constant speed.

Find the bottom.

Come to rest.

Took

May 28 2012

He took his life

for granted.

One day at a time.

Far too serious.

He took his life

like a thief in the night

absconds.

From his friends, his wife

his God.

As if it wasn’t his

to take, or give

or even live out,

unentitled

to meaning, or happiness.

He took his life

with him, when he went.

Empty flesh

waxy, heavy

grotesque

left behind,

as if all the lightness

had gone.

I consider how unlikely

consciousness is,
how priceless he was.

The vanishing chance

of sentient beings.

The coincidence

of lovers meeting

time after time.

The million-to-one odds

of a long-shot sperm, a good swimmer,

who had earned 
the single-cell version

of immortality.

And before all that,

a Goldilocks planet

circling a yellow sun.

Perhaps he thought too deeply
felt too much,
was too self-aware.
So he took his life

with him,

who knows where.

Petrel

May 23 2012


Dismal weather

has settled in.

The urge to cocoon 
to bed you,

head buried, covers tucked

incessant clock

unplugged.

We spoon into each other.

The warmth of bodies, shared

reassuring breath.

The firmness, against. 
Like a mooring, anchorage, port

impregnable home, in a storm

I explore you.
Your sandy shores

hypnotic surf,

your tide’s

irresistible pull.

I am a seafaring bird

of long endurance journeys,

who scarcely sets down on earth.

A rare sighting, so near to shore,

wings, tucked trimly 
head alert,

undisturbed

by cold, or wetness.

I am at rest.
Let your gentle waves
rock me weightless.

The Smell of Rain

May 24 2012

The smell of rain

on blacktop,

baked hot

in long dry summers.

With sweet notes of tar

the electric singe

of ozone.

And the earthiness of dust

that has settled

on everything.

Asphalt

black, when it was laid

steam-rolled, steaming

is now cracked, and grey.

Where tired weeds poke up,

as greedy for rain

as us.

Just a smattering

a sheen, a glisten,

and the distinctive scent

is overpowering.

Takes me back

to doldrum days

when time weighed heavy.

And who would admit

looking forward to school?

Or to feelings of guilt

for the waste

of something so precious?

Sitting by the road

tossing stones

at nothing.

Even then

when summer seemed endless.

And after that

all the time in the world.

The Fullness of Time

May 12 2012

In the fullness of time

I hear myself say

again.

A measured step back

from urgency, self-importance,

the messed-up priorities

we fix on.

I suppose time

attains fullness

at the end of a life.

Because we are all solipsists,

and the universe stops

with us.

So on my deathbed

if I am privileged to die with grace

will I achieve the wisdom

of this tired refrain?

The distillation

of what truly counts,

as the clock ticks down

to darkness?

It’s hard to imagine revelation, clarity

in the panic, and pain

of nearing the end.

Because how many die peacefully

in bed,

having answered the final question?

No, I cannot wait

for time to be filled

the sands to empty.

Which is why I caution myself

to pause,

consider the fullness of time

the deathbed regret.

The trajectory of a life

interrupted.

To Miriam

May 4 2012

An old girlfriend

put in these modest beds

for me.

She once worked summers

in her mother’s greenhouse

and knew about plants.

But she had trained as a geologist

then nurse,

went from inanimate bedrock

to soft, and perishable,

from hardy perennials

to touchy annuals.

Demanding plants

whose gaudy blossoms

don’t last long.

I should say former

in case she reads this;

because none of us

likes to be called old,

no matter how true it is.

Anyway, I think of her each April,

when crocuses poke through snow

alarmingly green,

their blooms defiant

in cold bleak spring.

I did not tend this garden well,

under the illusion

perennials take care of themselves.

Yet the flowers surprise me, each season.

as if I’m expecting them to fail.

Needless to say, I also neglected her,

the constant gardener

who was good at taking care.

How little it takes.

Add water, pull weeds

make room for sun.

Especially the light, this time of year

so thin, but clear.

Which not only sustains

but illuminates,

unforgiving

in its glare.

One of my few autobiographical poems. After all, it would have been too easy to just make up the convenient progression from horticulture to geology to nursing. I don’t think the poem works very well unless you know this is true.

I should mention that I am so bad at gardening, I’m not even sure if those are crocuses. All I know is that they come up ridiculously early, and that crocuses do as well. Simple syllogistic logic! They have stems like lilies, and pale yellow blooms.

Miracle Fibre

May 8 2012

Spider silk is incredible

the scientist said,

the new miracle fibre.

Tensile strength, and weight

we never imagined.
Spooling out

in long sturdy strands,
extruded
through precision-milled nozzles.
Brewed in stainless steel vats
and spun

from room-temperature soup,

a broth

of spider goo.

The cobweb caught the light,

depending on the breeze

how I shifted.

An elastic orb

of iridescent silk,

shimmering 
in morning mist.

Tiny perfect drops

clung to the tightly strung strand

reflecting rainbows.

A black spider

round, hunkered down

at its core,

tuned to the slightest vibration.

In another life …

May 8 2012

In another life

I will be rakish, louche, dandified.

I have always felt apart

but in a way that was wanting, lacking,

like looking through one-way glass.

Sometimes, painfully scrutinized.

At others, nose pressed-up

excluded.

But in the hypothetical future

I will dress outlandishly

not give a damn what they think.

I will seduce the ladies

with wit, and charm

rhyme, and gallantry.

I will die young

or ancient, doddering.

I will be 95

and die in bed,
shot by my lover’s jealous spouse.
A superannuated poet

who left life

as he led it.

A bit of fun with the poet as caricature. Perhaps channelling a smidgen of Oscar Wilde.

But really, the only reason I wrote this poem was that I wanted to use that wonderful word “louche”, and couldn’t think of any other way!

A Thin Emulsion of Light

May 7 2012

I am looking at snapshots

taken on our old Brownie camera.

They have softened, over time

into grey, and dirty white.

And Kodachrome slides

with primary colours

not found in nature.

These images are not autobiographical

evoke no nostalgia.

Yet their power

is undeniable.

Does it lie in unflinching reality,

a moment in time, precisely captured?

Or is it the impossibility

of the still photograph

I find so compelling?

Because we never experience life

this way.

A frozen moment

that can be scrutinized, interrogated

replayed.

In which the tiny details, the marginalia

have equal weight,

the background, and periphery

we rarely see

or notice.

In which serendipity, and fate

hold sway,

what would have been missed

had the shutter not clicked

that moment.

If only pictures

could be trusted.

If only the black arts

of the dark room

did not make me suspect.

But there is no photographic truth.

Pictures are as fallible

as human memory.

Still, I can’t help but be overwhelmed

by their timelessness.

Challenging the lens

or avoiding its gaze,

candid, or posing stiffly,

these subjects have the weight of permanence,

a dignity, and gravitas

you miss

in real life.

A thin emulsion of light

that is hyper-real, and false

all at once.

Inscrutable faces

that will mutely remain

forever young.

Cycle

May 2 2012

Dusk comes quick.

Suddenly cool,

as if the blanket of air had thinned

let light slip through

its flimsy threads.

I gather my collar

close to my neck.

Shadows lengthen, smudge

as a soothing greyness covers-up

the messiness

of hard-edged day.

The rocks are hot

and I cup them with my hands,

like a holy man

offering-up

his benediction.

The soothing heat

penetrates deep,

to skin, and blood, and bone.

Ancient rocks

worn smooth

over eons,

where water once flowed

to some primordial sea,

turned to rain

and fell again.

The infinite patience

of nature,

where cycles nest in cycles

and rain must fall.

Tomorrow, the weather will change.

I can feel it in my bones.

Long before dawn

the rocks will have cooled.

Until the next clear day

when they will bask again

in unobstructed sun,

soaking-in warmth.

Save it up

for the chill

of night.

Smooth rocks

I can’t help touching.

Like sun worshippers, turned-up to the sky

they are quiet observers of time,

storing, and releasing heat

softening the cycle.

The seamless succession 

of night and day.

Water rising,
the fall of rain.