Shallow Lake

July 13 2012

At 3000 feet

the ocean is dead black.

Entire lives
gliding through this vast aquatic space
knowing nothing of light. 

As if the sun had departed, the planet gone dark,

in an exhausted cosmos

of burned-out stars.

But here, in this shallow lake

light filters all the way down.

Where an even layer of silt

lies undisturbed,

over waterlogged trees

becalmed rocks,

the pollen of countless springs.

It looks like an ancient ruin

through the green pelagic murk,

as well-preserved

as Atlantis, Pompeii.

Submerged plants

like some grotesque alien flora

strive sunward

on long exotic stems.

Bend back, parting

from the water I displace

trawling the bottom

holding my breath.

Where a cool layer rests,

persisting

in this heat-wave summer

like a remnant

of a long expired ice-age.

And I dive, again

all the way down

into bracing cold.

Reach out, and touch,

watch ancient silt

billowing up

from the muck and mush

of this soft-bottom warm-water lake.

I think of dust

on the lunar surface,

so finely preserved

for so long

until now.

Just 10 feet down

and I am Apollo.

Or the first explorer

of a dark continent

never seen by man.

Or an astronaut

in low gravity

and inhospitable air,

venturing out

on a strange green planet

circling a distant sun.

I like the way this poem moves on an imaginative trip through space and time. It goes from dark to light, from ice age to space-age, from claustrophobic dive to hypothetical cosmos, and from ancient ruins to a new continent.

I like the sense of this alien and timeless landscape, as close as a few feet down.

I like the depiction of man as intruder, who interferes, thoughtlessly and irrevocably changing things.

Quite a trip for a casual swim and a short dive!

Lilac, and Liquorice

July 16 2012

Down by the shore

on a flat spit of land

of sand, and gravel

and scrubby grass,

a small stand of plants

has rooted itself.

Actually, just one,

a metastatic clone

on subterranean runners,

consuming sun

colonizing soil.

Small white flowers

in delicate cones

rise knee-high,

redolent of lilac, and liquorice.

The intense fragrance overwhelms,

like an old lady

who has lost her sense of smell

and reeks of perfume.

You can hear the bees from 20 feet,

warning, swarming

foraging for food.

So I go slow

down to my rustic beach,

try slipping through

invisibly.

“Busy as a bee”

is no idle saying.

I admire their industry,

conscientious bees

who somehow make a living

in our short summer, up north,

then that much more

to last the winter.

So we live and let live,

keep a respectful distance.

The property owner

willing to risk eviction.

The invasive plant

which has colonized the spit.

And the band-saw hive

who ferociously gorge,

sweet abundance

in this window of warmth. 

After I wrote this, I remembered something similar from a few years ago. And when I checked, realized that I had chosen the same title. So I've included that as well. It's the second poem; newly revised, after revisiting it 4 years later. But I still don't like it as much as the new one:  it seems pretentious; takes itself a little too seriously.

Perhaps the most revealing thing about these two poems is the similar way I've used the dormant volcano as metaphor:  for the essential uncertainty of existence; the awful bargain life makes.

Solid Ground (2)

July 10 2012

Does it feel like this?

Perched on the rim

of a dormant volcano

looking in.

Scorched rock, sulphuric stink.

The blasted caldera,

where tough plants cling

to the cracked and lifeless surface.

You wobble

for one vertiginous second

peering down from the edge

into incomprehensible depths

of earth,

and wonder

is a volcano ever still?

Where cauldrons of magma rumble

and poison gas might erupt

in a flash of sudden death,

after thousands of years at rest.

So you choose to trust the experts,

who tut-tut

their reassurance.

But life is always precarious,

hurtling through space

on a molten planet

on its cool outer skin,

brittle as eggshell.

And precious air

which is just as thin.

You feel short of breath

and infinitesimal.

You feel a quiver

as if rock had shifted

under your feet,

filled

by deep subterranean sound.

And never again will you feel

on solid ground.

Solid Ground (1)

Feb 23 2008

You become complacent

living beneath a volcano;

its gentle slope, fertile soil,

dense green foliage.

Occasionally, the ground will shudder

sulphurous steam erupt.

And curls of toxic smoke

rise-up from the blasted caldera,

the charred rim

that’s been off-limits

since memory exists.

You glance up,

reassured that underground, the fire-god still simmers

content for now.

Entire lives have passed

beneath the volcano,

resigned to its rule.

The cruel symmetry of nature,

blessing us with riches

then making us pay

with blood, and treasure.

The fickle pleasure

of an immature god.

Everywhere, there are dormant volcanoes.

In acts of faith

and appeasement,

the zero-sum games we play.

In the risks we take

for comfort

and love.

But it’s so pleasant living here

where everything grows

in this verdant jungle.

Where succulent fruit

just waits to be plucked

from low-lying branches,

redolent, and ruby red

tempting us to bite.

Or where, left to ripen

the first gentle tremor

shakes them off.

Filling the air

with sweetness,

the sickly scent of rot.

The Manly Arts

July 9 2012

The neighbours are building

a big garage,

2 cars

2nd story loft.

Beginning at dawn

the industrious clatter of hammer and saw

diffuse across the forest,

the lush green wall

between us.

Hard work

in cool mornings.

And the off-colour talk

of men at work,

considered commands, contagious laughter

expletives, from high in the rafters

when the hammer drops.

They have drawn

on a large circle of friends,

like an old-fashioned barn-raising.

There are trucks parked haphazardly

and men who are new to me

beetling over studs

shouldering lumber.

Who are clearly at ease with construction,

well turned out

in custom knee-pads, and tool-belts

flush with toys.

My neighbour is the kind of man

who is handy,

enthusiastic

about manual labour

good with his hands.

But it is the son

who has returned from the coast

to take charge.

Who has surpassed his dad

in the manly arts

of carpentry,

the loading of bearing walls

the soundness of joists.

How quickly the boy has grown,

now a leader of men

and his father content

to let him.

I see the pride

in his mother’s eyes,

but ambivalence, as well.

I think she feels her age

watching her husband gently displaced

by this man-child.

And though uncertain

how he learned these skills

a mother’s fierce pride.

I hammer badly,

am not to be trusted

with power tools.

So I keep out of their way

watch, amazed

this building quickly take shape

on its firm foundation,

where once there were trees

and cool wet earth.

The place he grew up

to leave,

going out into the world

to make something of himself.

A good start

for this prodigal son.

Who now has come

full circle.

Weekly Visit

July 4 2012

The measure of happiness

is difficult.

That I can recite this passage

before, and after,

and she will light up, entranced

smile her thanks

as if the very first time.

Her favourite lines

read back.

Flattered

I remember.

Yet I feel unworthy,

this reliable stanza

she has heard, and heard

and heard,

and thrills her still.

As if my credit

was undeserved,

her pleasure inauthentic.

That I had taken advantage

of her ingenuousness.

A man of sound mind

might envy this,

her singular focus

simple joy.

To be so completely filled

by these few familiar words,

while his head’s full of chatter

the constant distraction

of random thoughts.

But that’s not what I feel;

only fear

that I, too, may forget.

They say that as memory is stripped away

the true personality comes through,

one’s essence

preserved.

So I am touched

by her gratitude
love for language,

this beautiful woman

who no longer knows my name.

Who knew

happiness worked this way?

So pure, and unconstrained.

That a damaged brain

may soon forget

but feels as intensely.

That joy

may quickly vanish

but is no less worthy.

Because if the measure

of true happiness

is that it lasts,

then nothing counts.

Just more sadness

in the world.

Object of Desire

May 14 2012

I was caught off-guard

when she quickly slipped her bra 
over her head,

ducking out

as if shucking a T-shirt.

This seemed like cheating,

after fumbling with her fussy clasps

with my blunt clammy fingers.

And I secretly missed

how a woman reaches back

to unclip.

The saucy arch

of her body.

Shoulder blades

like small delicate wings,

moving freely

under smooth brown skin.

Her perky breasts, vulnerable neck,

flitting pulse

extended.

Done so matter-of-factly,

as if a woman’s bra

were not

an object of desire.

Not one more mystery

in the forbidden world

of girls.

Not skimpy, or sheer

under-wired, fortified, formidable

but simply practical,

an article of clothing

like any other.

Then quickly peeling skinny jeans

inside-out
snagging feet,

she sling-shots off 
cotton socks

and wriggles down her panties.

Awkward, self-conscious
rushed,

but nothing like that bra.

Which I would have loved to watch.

The beauty of a woman’s back.

Urgency

tempered by shyness.

Her wilful compliance,

smiling at me

as she surrenders herself.

But she was fast

and practical

and we couldn’t wait.

Next time

I will teach her to be slow
learn to be patient.

Instruct her in the male gaze,

the give-and-take

of temptation.

Gently explain
how creative minds
can improve upon nature;

the erotic arts

of anticipation

self-restraint.

The Past Was a Simpler Place

May 25 2012

The past was a simpler place.

Because we were young.

Because we know now

it turned out well enough.

Because we remember the good

and forget

when times were rough.

How we laugh

at the ghastly clothes

extravagant hair.

And cringe at our naïveté,

yet wish we could trust

as we did, back then.

And in 10 years time

they will mock our fashion sense

be even more ironic.

And reminisce, nostalgic

at how simple it was,

when the world was 10 years younger

and seemed to make sense.

Like us, getting too caught up

in the breathless importance of now,

the narcissism

of small differences.

Because 10 years

is too small to measure

in the history of life

the planet.

So show compassion

for the past

humility for the present.

And protect our future

from vanity, and greed.

Inhabit time

as if we were pagan gods   — 

immortal,

but deeply flawed.

Ungodly Height

May 10 2012

Most airplanes are painted white.

To make them seem lighter.

To ease our disbelief

in miraculous flight.

Perhaps this is what sustains

this massive machine

at such ungodly height.

The collective will

of sweaty palms

and tightly clenched teeth,

the concentrated thought

of a hundred souls

who all believe.

Who may have been schooled

in drag, lift, and speed,
seen planes ascend

with graceful ease.

Felt the power of wind

yet still can’t resist

the snake of doubt,

the hiss

of uncertainty.

Most miracles must be taken on faith,

waving incense

clutching amulets.

But here,

so near to heaven

with heathen admissions of death,

we console ourselves

with laws of physics

a shot of Scotch,

ritual cruising

the rite of taking off.

Where the drone of engines

is meditation

a balm.

Although for one heretical moment

I was overcome by a vision

of fuel dumped, altitude lost

luggage frantically tossed,

overhead bins

ransacked for carry-on.

A random congregation

of crew, and passengers

imploring the god of gravity,

desperate to stay aloft.

When the plane pitched, and dropped

and I swiftly barred the thought.

Because we must all devoutly believe

in this cramped aluminum container.

Only then

can sinners be forgiven,

the fallen, raised.

Air-Brushed

May 20 2012

The ad

on glossy paper

in a magazine baited with scent

I find cloying

and objects of envy

I find annoying

earnestly reassured

the reader

he is different, unique, heroic.

“Very” unique, I suppose

since we are all unique,

some just more so.

So kudos

for stating the obvious.

For tempting the vanity

I try to resist.

The thing is

we are designed to be different.

Each one

a biological experiment,

like Jell-O thrown against the wall

to see if it sticks.

Resilience

through diversity,

in a game of genetic roulette.

So when the asteroid collides

Wall St. crumbles,

that ostracized stigmatized misfit

we snickered about

in high school

might just rescue the human race,

like drawing aces

in a high stakes game.

Not different untouchable

but different with a self-assured strut,

as the magazine ad

so flatters us.

Or maybe there will be no calamity.

He just grows up, gets older

somewhere no one knows him,

and, unexpectedly

finds love.

Things change

and there he is,

a perfect fit.

She may not look

like the models in the magazine,

air-brushed, glamorous.

And their possessions

may not be much.

But at least they won’t be seduced

by ads like these.

Will not give a damn

about seeking status,

fitting in

or out

of fashion.

Just survive, and flourish.

A modest hero

who had no plan.

This is one of those infrequent philosophical poems, an occasional indulgence. They’re tough for me, because I prefer the small and particular, the microcosm; while these play with big and ambitious themes, and can too easily become presumptuous, sanctimonious, preachy.

But this one scratches a lot of itches.

It’s dig at the delusional  world of advertising:  the absurd universe of materialism, conspicuous consumption, and status; the tantalizing idea that some new possession will transform.

The pedantic purist in me flinches at the expression “very unique”. Yet it’s not actually redundant. We are all unique; but, as in most things, there are degrees. As someone who feels like an outlier – even, at times, an alien – this thought has particular resonance for me.

I’ve done a lot of physics poems, but not so much  biology; an odd omission, for a doctor. I love this idea that we are all genetic experiments, utterly unique (that word again!) mutations and recombinations just waiting to find our niche; all tiny individual insurance plans that guarantee the resilience of the species. So even the oddest duck among us may some day find himself a swan. There is an intrinsic tension in this, because by the most fundamental design of life, we are different. Yet we seek comfort in conformity and belonging. 

And to bring this full circle, advertising also embraces and exploits this paradox:  flattering our courageous individualism; yet appealing to that powerful drive to fit in.

And a couple other itches, as well. I hate scent in magazines (Actually, I hate it most places!) And the ending isn't just that way because it rhymes (not the only reason, that is!) Too often, we think inductively, looking back and finding pattern, purpose, even destiny. But if the randomness of genetics and evolution teach us anything, it's that nothing can be planned, there is no destiny, and the idea that human beings can control much at all is mere conceit.

Old-Growth

July 6 2012

8 centuries

spared from fire

human greed.

Old-growth

in this dark cool cathedral

of massive trees.

Towering over

an ancient forest

of dark understory, complex soil

that teems 
with invisible life.

In dignified silence

this giant cedar survived

empire, wild fire

dire cold;

but now, barely grows,

its core

most likely rotten

cleansing little carbon

from over-heated air.

And in a stiff wind

may well have toppled

and snagged,

or crashed

through shattered branches,

returning to its soil.

So, have I romanticized this tree?

Did it serve, in any way

or just a monument to age?

There is beauty, for its own sake,

and we all knew

it was beautiful.

Immensely large,

gnarled bark, scarred with age

over-arching shade.

But most of all

it made us small.

Late to this place,

insignificant actors

in an intricate play

we barely understand

or acknowledge.

Only now, I think of this.

Because yesterday

it was felled, and carted away,

vandalized

under cover of dark.

This defenceless tree,

unthinkably long-lived

and regally indifferent

to man’s petty conceits.

A venal end

for such a venerable thing.

You can buy shakes and shingles

cheap.

But all our ingenuity

will never reproduce

an ancient tree,

an extravagance

beyond our means.

Time

which is not for sale.

And hardly the patience to wait.

When the Earth Stood Still

July 2 2012

A high haze

and the sun glares, relentless.

This heat wave

rolled in from the deep south

and stayed,

rippling off the pavement,

weighing down

torpid air, tinder branches

brown dejected grass.

I think of cold snaps

sub-arctic blizzards,

the flat gloom of winter

easy on the eyes.

Of spring,

green shoots, dew dripping

high transparent skies.

A brisk October’s

chill pellucid light.

But now, the earth stands still.

Sun, a million miles closer

heat that builds and builds.

“Just wait,” we chide,

“a change of season, and we will pray for this”.

Until it breaks

with black anvil clouds

the crack of thunder.

Hunkering down, it comes,

pounding rain

drowning out our voices,

power fried.

And in an hour, sun,

boiling off, steamy hot

air too thin to breathe.

“It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity” we say

nod in agreement.

Watch sleeping dogs

sprawled in the shade.