Spooning

Aug 27 2012

Spoons nest.

I find them in the dish-rack, spooning together,

as if their loneliness

were unbearable.

Like lovers reuniting

they fall into embrace, clinging tightly

waiting for the drawer to close.

Because in the dark

who knows

what cutlery gets up to?

Spoons are demur.

They dip in, lightly

take lady-like bites

nibble with the tip of the bowl.

And graceful handles

that are happiest

held.

While forks are bold;

a weapon, barely suppressed.

I notice my reflection

in the concave surface

is topsy-turvy.

A fun-house mirror, cracking jokes,

as it scoop up yolks

jiggles Jell-O

holds its own.

My empty spoon, a needy void,

keen to serve

and me to fill.

My empty spoon, a cry for help,

seeks equal spoons

to nestle with.

Domestic bliss, fulfilled

in a brimming dish-rack.

I'm jumping the gun on this one, putting it up as soon as it was written. So I'll likely be revisiting this, revising and reworking. But in this respect, a first draft isn't that much different than the polished version. It seems a poem is never done; and I'm always tempted to tweak, fine-tuning the life out of it. 

But I haven't written much lately. And the 3 poems I have backlogged aren't (yet) good enough even for this poor orphaned blog! So I'm taking advantage of my usual initial enthusiasm to get this one down. A blog, after all, is in need of attention. 

It was inspired by a review (in this weekend's Globe and Mail) of Lorna Crozier's latest book, The Book of Marvels:   A Compendium of Everyday Things. I love her sensibility:  her poetic prose, and her confident sense of fun and wonder.  And I greatly enjoy writing about small diurnal things:  the mindfulness of microcosm, the pleasure of close observation. And perhaps I find this easier, as well:  the discipline of small things evades the pretension of big themes, while microcosm provides its own inherent boundaries. This is useful, in that it limits things. This is similar to the way the strictures of formal poetry limit choice and impose structure; and how in turn this can make the writing easier -- as counter-intuitive as this at first seems -- than free verse. 

My spoons often find their way together in the dish-rack. They don't dry well this way, which is a bit frustrating. On the other hand, there is the wonder of inanimate objects that appear to have moved!

Vanishing Point

Aug 12 2012

Prairie roads run straight

as lines on a map.

Seem to say

go as fast as you can

away.

You watch them mile after mile

getting steadily small,

until roads converge

and vanish.

The plume of dust

churned up

by sun-softened rubber

boils out behind,

disperses, hovering.

Then settles back,

until nothing’s left

but silence.

The vast prairie sky

they missed,

ducking under the hard-top, squeezing in.

Sun-drenched steel

too hot to touch.

Peering into the distance, could only glimpse

through the narrow slit

of windshield.

The glare of glass

the gooey thwapp

of bugs.

Don’t look back

the highway seems to say.

Too bad

they never looked up.

Stardust

Aug 10 2012

Perfect viewing, tonight,

as earth passes through

a storm of small black rocks.

Just a shard of moon

the clouds' timely departure.

The remnants of asteroids,

as old as the planets' start.

They will spark

flaring fiercely, then go dark,

impersonate falling stars

4th of July

fireflies.

Who go seeking mates

on August nights like this one,

proclaiming cool desire

with chemical light.

Meteorites

rarely touch down,

too small to penetrate

the heat shield of air.

So we freely imagine

make a wish

feel no fear.

And the fireflies

do they feel perplexed?

Do they ascend

into rarefied air

in pursuit of light,

only to die

disappointed?

Or do they get their wish,

burn brief, and fabulous

then turn to dust?

As, in the end

will all of us.

Over Easy

Aug 6 2012

The egg

is egg-shaped.

Like a roly-poly toy

righting itself

on its fat rockered bottom.

But toppling, wobbles,

rolls on its side

off-centre,

gyroscope yolk

resisting momentum.

I buy brown eggs.

White remind me of  Wonder Bread  — 

too uniform,

bleached, and sexless.

While each brown egg

is stubbornly eccentric,

from tanned, taupe, beige

to tawny, fawn, fulvous.

But cracks the same.

The plop of yoke
swimming in its bowl.

The viscous drip
dangling from its shell.

They come in 12’s

in a cozy padded crate,

to a random fate

of boiled, scrambled, fried
over easy
soufflé.

Or sunny-side up.

Who's unflinching yellow eye

returns my gaze.

Poems like this are my favourites:  the smaller and more everyday the subject, the better. I like microcosm. I like to find poetry in the unexpected and the taken for granted. There is a lot of power in this idea of being in the moment, of being mindfully observant. There is nothing pretentious or philosophical or politically provocative here. It's much more about word play and fun, about tightness and technique, about misdirection and the amusing twist. 

The opening might seem silly and self-evident. But I find it not only whimsically appealing, but quite wise, in its own way. We always describe by simile and metaphor -- the "kidney-shaped" pool, or whatever; but really, there is nothing in the world like an egg ...except itself! I like this self-referential metaphysical circularity. It's such an obvious statement it doesn't need saying; but on the other hand, there is a kind of gravitas to such an utter and existential truth.

Allow me to pre-emptively apologize for "fulvous". I resorted to the dreaded thesaurus, and couldn't resist a word like that:  not only completely new to me, but with such a lovely sound and mouth-feel. Not to mention that I'm a total sucker for alliteration. 

I prefer scrambled, stirred up into a froth with way too much milk, then poured onto high heat. Are scrambled eggs the equivalent of vanilla ice cream? Safe and unimaginative. OK, then; let's make it over easy. (Anything but that glistening yolk staring back at me!)

The Hottest Day of the Year

Aug 1 2012

The hail pinged and zinged and ricocheted

sent us racing for shelter.

An attack of pinballs,

with the rat-a-tat-tat

of popping corn

blowing its top.

It came slanting down

in a furious free-for-all,

until the spent white balls

deflected harmless.

Heaven-sent,

to remind us how small we are.

On the hottest day of the year

they would not last long,

tiny emissaries

from the frozen extremities of the atmosphere.

I snatched one up,

a flattened sphere

that looked like mother-of-pearl.

Felt its cold wet glisten

marvelled at the polished finish,

such fragile beauty

to have survived

such a quick and perilous fall.

A mote of dust

to begin,

it took mere minutes

to produce this perfect jewel,

scant seconds

to vanish in my hand.

For how many years

does an oyster secrete its pearl

around a bit of gritty sand?

A precious stone

that lasts.

So how much more

would this evanescent gem command,

if rarity

is the mark of worth?

And then

I popped it in my mouth,

a burst of freshness

on the hottest day of the year.

An epic journey’s

inglorious end.

And after the hail

sun;
all the evidence
of my improbable tale
quickly expunged. 

Newly Made

July 29 2012

I flipped the mattress today.

Crazy-quilt lifted, soiled sheets stripped

cover unzipped.

The unmade bed

laid bare.

The familiar room

seemed empty, cold

mattress exposed.

Like row-on-row

for the homeless.

Or something old

dragged to the curb  —

a frat-house couch,

the clothes

his widow cleared out.

There’s a sag in the middle,

a faded stain

I wish I could blame

on someone else.

A third of my life

spent

in this small rectangular space.

Of restless nights

and loneliness,

of sweat, and sex

and human breath

and sleeping next to her.

Left to air,

the purification

of light.

Tonight will be a fresh start,

no need to re-invent, introspect

make amends.

I will feel the firmness

mattress reversed.

The snap of sheets, stiffly creased

the clean detergent scent.

Slip in

to the cool silky brrrrr.

And in the morning, emerge

from my newly made bed.

As if it could make

a difference.

12 Years In …

July 27 2012

12 years in

to the new millennium.

Another thousand years

and this poem may make sense;

when they look back, again

wonder if anything changed

for the best.

Assuming that man

still lords it over the world,

the calendar, intact

the place

inhabitable.

When we will be

the ancient ones,

their Athenian gods

Hebrew prophets.

Our inscrutable world-view.

Our artefacts, unearthed.

That indecipherable trove

of photographs, and words

we delude ourselves

will last.

How simple life was, back then.

How quaint

their ignorance.

As were we

when the 20th century

was laid to rest.

The worst hundred years,

starting with the war to end all war

then on to the next.

When the word “genocide”

had to be invented,
and bulldozers
buried the dead.

So with giddy relief

we greeted the 21st,

welcomed in

with vigils, and fireworks.

Unbridled optimists

looking brightly ahead.

These lines in the sand

have their usefulness,

as benchmarks, and starting points.

Except it’s a dozen years in

and I don’t see much difference,

a warming planet

hurtling faster and faster

toward the abyss.

But I’m a congenital pessimist.

And perhaps, it’s too soon to say.

So my default state

is taking it day by day.

Anything else

I start feeling overwhelmed.

By the futility

of words.

How long it takes,

how little learned. 

High Summer

July 19 2012

Light lingers

in the doldrums of summer,

acutely aware

the countdown’s begun.

Two short months, this far north

and it’s dwindling to nearly done.

But for now

it’s long days

and easy living.

And like all things precious, and rare

we savour it

try to stretch.

So as the sun sets

we lie together

feeling free.

Exposed flesh, a blush of sweat

making heat.

I think today

is high summer.

Spent

in perfect weather, indolent leisure,

our best intentions

left unmet.

More than enough

to make the season,

grateful

for a single plangent day.

Now, fall can come

we will not complain.

Except, of course, we will.

All winter

wishing it would end,

embellishing summer

with endless sun.

With an abundance of light

consuming heat.

The timeless idle

of exhausted desire,

delightfully weak.

If our worth is judged

by industriousness

we don’t amount to much.

Yet I feel like a million bucks,

the two of us

looking up

as the sun majestically dips.

Thoroughly spent.

Obscenely rich.