Nocturnal

June 24 2012

The early risers

have surely fallen

into deep habitual sleep,

doors locked, curtains drawn.

A trusting slumber,

until they waken to see

the glow of dawn

the mist burn off

the cool balm

of day.

But now belongs

to the night people.

We come alive

in the witching time

of subtle shifts

permissiveness.

When the natural order

is brusquely upended,

the things unseen

by occulted heaven.

Not to mention the selfish pleasure

to be out of sync, out of step

with daily life.

Which resumes, first light

all innocent, and bleary-eyed.

But now

in the expectant calm of dusk

the earth seems to spin more slowly,

deadlines on hold

the relentless load

less onerous.

I love how darkness falls

enclosing me,

wrapped in its velvety folds

like soft flannel

on naked skin.

I crave

the weight of cool air,

the density

of silence.

A heavy quilt

holding the world still.

In the desert of night

there is perfect solitude.

Where you can find yourself

lost

or simply disappear.

The way wilderness

is sought out by holy men,

who spend their seven years

unwashed, secluded.

And like them

the denizens of night do not fear being alone

do not feel lonely.

Because the art

of being by yourself

is practiced best in darkness,

when there are few distractions

and no one keeps track

of how many hours have passed

how many more.

When it’s so late

it’s early,

that indeterminate moment

when the dregs of night transform

into the wee small hours

of morning.

Insomniacs suffer

and shift workers struggle

with sleep.

But there is only relief

for night people like me.

Who come alive

when the rest take to bed,

and the world takes its time

to breath.

Watching Birds

June 17 2012

As if knowing their names

would bring me closer to nature.

I recognize crows and gulls

and little else,

a black and white world

of loudmouths, and roughnecks.

The exceptional jay, in blue iridescence

the robin’s red breast.

Both aggressive anti-social birds,

in spite of the beauty

that so delights us.

The woods are full of sound,

warbles, trills, and tweets

I only notice

when silence falls  —

in the shadow of raptors

the gathering storm.

All those small grey birds

in dense protective thickets,

flitting between the trees

invisibly roosting.

But this business of naming

is a human conceit,

another illusion of control.

I value my naïveté,

it makes me attentive, receptive

impressed

by the extravagance of nature,

her endless experiment

in diversity.

Just as my eyes adjust to night,

emerging layer by layer

from darkness,

the longer I look

the more I see.

There is a purity

to such indiscriminate vision,

unencumbered by category

or designation.

I suppose I could pose as an expert

tossing off Latin names

sneering at the common ones.

But I’d rather sit still

and watch,

an inconspicuous witness

who feels no need for lists,

for checking-off species

like keeping score.

Never hoping for an orphaned bird

blown thousands of miles from home.

Song of Solomon

June 15 2012

My grandfather was Solomon.

A good 19th century name

for a man who would practice law,

judicious moderation

in life, and habit.

The patriarch, looking back;

which may be the perfect word

for a man more stern

than tender.

I like Biblical names,

Old Testament prophets

scholars, and saints.

They are not disposable

in and out of fashion.

They have gravitas

story, attached to them.

Solomon, of course, threatened to halve the child,

an inspired test

of motherhood.

So a name that implies

wisdom

parental love.

I am sorry

a family name

with such dignity and weight

has been lost to succession,

the branching branch

the begats, and descendants.

His own children, my father.

My brothers, and cousins

their respective sons.

And me

unmarried, middle-aged

with none to name.

Four generations, and he remains unhonoured.

To be in fashion

is to become obsolete,

the price we pay for novelty.

As we look back, and laugh

“what were we thinking

in those shoulder pads, baggy pants

fat – or skinny – ties?”

Faddish names, no less.

So may the  future rehabilitate

Biblical names,

resurrect

the names of our fathers.

Let Solomon rule,

son of David

ancient King.

Giant Moths

June 13 2012

Giant moths

worship light,

hurtling into screens

thrumming their wings

against hard steel mesh,

so loud, I wonder

will it hold?

Such fierce devotion

to their god.

Fundamentalists,

who would swarm the white hot filament

singe, burn, crisp.

The smell of insect flesh.

Charred bodies, at rest.

They look alien, grotesque,

all bristling antennae and trailing legs

and immense buggy bodies

too big for lift.

Whose unquestioned faith

seems purposeless.

Come day

do they draft high into the stratosphere

in pursuit of sun?

Do they track the waxing moon

to the cusp of dawn?

As they throng my house

in the dead of night.

I flick the switch

plunging into darkness.

A final futile thump,

then blessed quiet

like a long held breath. 

Have exhausted moths

gone wandering off

to some dull glow in the distance,

sacrificial pilgrims

wishing to serve?

Or are they gathering strength

for the next assault

on my open window?

Giant moths,

who venerate electric light.

That false god

who cannot save them.

The Company of Men

June 10 2012

They sat, drinking.

A small circular table,

bottles sweating

wet round rings,

the smell of stale beer.

Foam, clinging to the glass,

dregs

of warm flat liquid.

They don’t talk about much

men with men.

Not money, wives, or kids

sharing, confession, gossip,

metaphysics

the state of the world.

Sports, mostly

and women, of course,

waitresses

as young as their lovely daughters.

And tired jokes

full of “fuck” and “shit”.

The thing is

there is no need to talk

there are no awkward silences.

The company of men is enough,

lads, buddies, chums

mutely accepting each other

as they have done for years.

Comforted

by simply being present.

Heavy bodies slumped

on suspect chairs,

tipped back creaking.

Another round

as he eyes her bum

approvingly.

She wipes the sticky tabletop

reaches across for the tip.

Deftly fending off a hand

as if she was actually flattered.

This poem began with Roddy Doyle’s well known short story Bullfighting. I intended it as a celebration of male friendship. Which is very much in the spirit of the story. Doyle writes with a sweet almost sentimental fondness for his characters. He does not judge them.

Unlike women, most men don’t need talk or confession or the sharing of problems to bond:  the stoic silence of men. I wanted to salute that wonderful quality of old comfortable friendships in which there are no awkward silences.

But I think, despite my intentions, the poem becomes a bit of a lament about middle age. There is a kind of impotence and sad futility here. They could do better than this.

Afraid of the Dark

June 9 2012

At this stage of life

I’m pretty sure about reality,

what isn’t, what is.

But when I was a kid

the boundaries shifted  —

shadows under the bed,

the primal fear

of darkness.

I devoured science fiction,

which now, couldn’t interest me less.

Believed every prediction

futuristic gadget,

imagined fantastic worlds.

Never noticed

the dark dystopian shadows

of here and now,

the best writers understood. 

There is a vulnerable time

in every young life

when reality gets fixed,

surface unerring

edges sharp.

Which, if missed

could lead to art

or even poetry, God forbid.

To dreamy shiftless kids

whose vision cuts to the heart

looks over, and beyond.

Admits a subversive version of truth

no one wants.

Not a disease of the brain

confabulation

or brazen act of denial,

but the exuberant human mind

in flight.

We construct the known world

from the five senses,

innocent of their flaws  —

filling in what we miss,

ignoring the limits

of magnitude

reflected light,

convinced we have it right.

Reassured

by the consistency of sight,

the predictability

that mostly works.

Because we all live in our heads,

not just the dreamers, and introverts.

So when the unexpected occurs,

dropping down like an asteroid

from the cold black void,

no one was looking up

never saw it coming.

I wrote this poem shortly after reading of Ray Bradbury’s death. Which reminded me how I used to love science fiction, and how it now leaves me cold.

The poem questions our basic assumption  about reality:  the limits of perception, which we vastly over-estimate; the thin plane of magnitude we inhabit, among the vast orders of which we cannot even conceive; the narrow spectrum of visible light, along with the bottleneck of the optic nerve; how much we are convinced we see and hear, but actually confabulate. Not to mention the straightjacket of our values, our parochial world view.

There is something in psychology called The Truman Syndrome.  This is a powerful delusion, similar to the movie The Truman Show, in which the victim is living out his life as the unwitting subject of  “reality TV”. The absolute conviction of this paranoid self-referential delusion is what strikes me. From the outside, it’s ridiculous. But inside, where everything is relative, how do you punch your way out of the box, or prove it doesn’t exist? The schizophrenic’s delusion is as real to him as what we know of as reality is to us, and why he so fiercely clings to it, against all “common sense”.  

And in terms of the fallibility of our senses, just refer to studies of eye-witness accounts. I’m thinking of one particularly notorious study in which observers were asked to count the number of times a basketball is passed. Meanwhile, a man in a gorilla suit saunters across the centre of the court. Few observers ever notice this.

I’ve heard physicists talk about parallel universes. Which may very well overlap, co-exist, materialize in our place; but we are oblivious, unable to penetrate to these other rarefied dimensions.

And when I refer to magnitude, I mean the microscopic world we must almost take on faith; and the macroscopic world of astronomical scale we can’t truly get our heads around.

Like most kids, I was scared of the shadows, what hid behind the closet doors. I imagined fantastic worlds. Which was all very real to me, as was the fright. While now, reality is set, and goes utterly unquestioned. Except, that is, the rare occasion I slip, let my mind wander. Which is exactly where science fiction, and writers like Ray Bradbury, took me. And maybe it’s when I let myself wander, stray outside the lines, that the poetry slips in.  …Or maybe not.

Overhear

June 6 2012

Sound carries

over open water.

Its skin, stretched taut

the stillness of air.

Back in the city

in the gritty cacophony

snatches of sound

come at you, and at you,

unbidden bits

of hidden lives.

You can raise your voice

in the anonymous noise

of crowds.

But here

matters of the heart

unburdened darkness

the confession you started

and stopped

are best taken inside.

Or whispered

in the breathy warmth

of lips to ear,

the semaphore

of silent gesture,

your own private code.

We know our neighbour’s business

we overhear.

And passing on the gravel road

feel smiles tighten

wave nicely.

Our own discretion assured,

but never quite sure

our secrets

are safe.

Natural Causes

June 7 2012

They say he died

of natural causes.

As if his end had been pre-ordained,

set in motion

at the moment of birth,

now methodically brought

to its conclusion.

Do they say "natural cause"

because to explain

would complicate things?

Or as consolation,

as if he had slipped so easily away

no one need suffer?

Either way
the natural order of things

went unperturbed

when he passed.

Planets circled, stars still burned,

the black hole at the heart of the galaxy

devoured light.

And millions of single-celled creatures

were returning his body to earth,
as is their nature.

The mortal remains

that resemble him,

but are not.

Had a soul departed

some life force gone?

Had the critical mass of neurons

that sprang to consciousness

been more than flesh and blood?

Is remembrance enough

to count?

The young cannot imagine old age

and death is inconceivable.

Yet their lives, like ours

have no consequence

in the magnitude of time and space,
from hot-house microbes
to the dust of stars. 

The hard truth
of oblivion.

Before we were born

we were not missed.

And now, regardless

the universe will unfold

orbits decay

time run down.

Just as nature

was set in motion,

plays itself out.

He died of natural causes.

As good an ending

as one could hope.

Time Travel

June 8 2012

Time travel

is impossible,

the physicist huffed.

What if you met yourself

coming and going,

not even knowing

who he was?

What if you altered the past,

pulled the present

right out from under?

But the truth is

we are all traveling in time.

Except in only one direction

at identical speed

into the future. 

Or should I say a future,

since an infinite number

all hypothetical

dangle out in front.

Tempting us

like the carrot before the cart,

fixed

in the middle distance.

And our speed is hardly the same,

feeling faster with age

slower

the more we pay attention.

With all the gizmos of modern life

it should feel futuristic.

Maybe no silver lamme suits

or flying cars,

but marvels, in mysterious black boxes

we should find

a constant amazement.

Yet nothing really changes.

Life is hard, bodies ache

we still complain about the weather.

It’s as if we are stuck in the permanent present  — 

our belief in progress

more like superstition;

and with technology

living as we always did

just quicker.

We are time travelers

who also go back.

Except what happened

is never the same.

Because memory preserves the past

rather badly,

and nostalgia

vastly changes it.

So, am I the same man

who began this poem?

Or am I the future me,

who is now typing

this ending?

Or am I trapped

in the permanent present,

inescapably

typing forever?

And will this poem be sent

off into the future,

where some hypothetical me

may read it again?

Perhaps

at last

remember?

The Male Gaze

June 4 2012

To be of a certain age

we say of women,

amused by the innuendo

imprecision.

Another coming of age

but hardly of her choosing.

And men

of whom it is said

grow old more gracefully,

well-weathered

distinguished in grey.

So exactly when

does the male gaze

become undesirable,

turn from welcome lust

to disgust,

and I

a dirty old man?

And does she realize

in so little time

she will surely become

invisible?

Truth is

we are all objectified,

because no one gets that deep

inside,

not even ourselves

our own inner life.

We are all surface

enigmatic and inscrutable.

Even if

the package begins to droop,

the supple glow

is reduced

to a hard protective shell.

I was a man in control

who exercised power.

But now

defeated, deposed

I keep my looks furtive,

my gaze

to myself.

Sunday Drive

June 5 2012 

Back when men did the driving.

Mom rode shotgun

riding herd on the kids behind.

She turned easily, before seatbelts,

her long maternal arm

with its pinpoint aim.

Country drives

on Sunday

in the Buick V8.

His left arm

manfully dark

up to the sharp rim of his sleeve,

a spiffy knitted sport shirt.

The only day all week

I saw him tieless.

No destination in mind.

Just the open road

the powerful machine

the hint of freedom.

And the wind

blustering in,

too noisy to speak.

So I could be alone

with my thoughts.

And now

I wonder about the big bench seat

when they were just a couple

out for the night,

and the drive

was alive

with unbearable longing.

Except it was his dad’s Buick

and she slid tight beside him,

no call to duty

from the back seat.

Some people drove Chevy’s

some Fords.

But we were loyal to the family car

and still are.

Even though no one, anymore

spends a precious Sunday

just out for a drive.
Content 
with nowhere to go. 

Static Charge

June 2 2012

On the edge,

where things intersect

brush-up against

collide.

A fitful wind

distant thunder,

a line of heavy cloud.

Here, in sunshine.

The world feels pent up

tightly wound,

like static charge

high-voltage wire.

Here, at the margin of light

where we are all

outliers.

Sky turns dark

thunder furious.

But it does not pour,

and at the speed of sound

the storm hits

one county over.

I crave release

from unbearable tension.

But am left

on the edge

balancing …balancing …,

no end in sight.