What We Lost in the Fire

Sept 28 2012

The morning after

the small log cabin

had collapsed

on itself.

The inferno at its core

still gassing-off

acrid.

Charred walls

look lost, half-standing,

tumbled logs

blistered black.

And shattered glass

where it fell.

Stagnant pools

singed with ash,

the rutted tracks of trucks.

Hardening into mud,

where volunteers

manned their hoses.

What incites the mind

of pyromaniacs?

The dance of flame

in their eyes?

The rush of agency

in failed lives?

A primal force

gone wild?

Do they return to the scene of the crime

still mesmerized

by light?

What we lost in the fire

was trust.

The traitor, among us

who lurks in the dark,

may burn us all.

Substantial

Sept 17 2012

I write about small things.

The messiness

of daily life.

The quality of light.

The time it takes

breathing in, all the way,

slowly breathing out.

You can see the nods

of recognition.

A thing

you can hold in your hand

hold out.

One small thing

you might even understand.

A snapshot

in the mind,

stopping time

observing closely.

Remember Polaroid?

The small blank square

filling with light as you watch.

An object, a singularity.

Or rolls of film, sent off

developed 2 weeks late.

There was nothing wrong

with waiting,

gratification deferred.

And words

impressed on paper.

The substantial heft

of the pen.

The pleasing friction

of freely flowing ink.

The milky surface

undisturbed,

until the verse

compels you.

Earlier today, I closed my eyes

and heard

a shimmer of wind

in trembling aspen.

As if a flock of tiny birds

had taken flight

all at once.

A susurration of wings.

The barest breath

of a breeze.

Soon, their leaves will drop

crunching underfoot.

The skeletal limbs

of dormant trees

in a world as blank as snow.

Until the colour of spring

bleeds through,

filling with light as you watch.

A poem about mindfulness.

About moving through the world in a quiet, receptive, grateful way.

I’m implicitly contrasting the fleeting digital world we inhabit, with the analog world of the past:  when time was slower, and the things we valued were lasting, material, substantial. This is why I use “singularity”. In a digital world everything is infinitely reproducible. But there is only one Polaroid.

Photographers and poets do much the same:  frame the world, freeze it, observe it closely. In this case, the physical act of writing, the rustle of wind in autumn leaves. So I’m pleased with the “call-back” of the final verse:  the succession of seasons, as the colour of spring bleeds through winter's blank canvas; slowly, like a Polaroid, before our eyes.

A discerning reader will find much the same philosophical approach in two recent poems:  Typewritten, and Spooning. The first celebrates the physicality of a typewritten letter, sent by post. And the second celebrates the mundane objects of daily living:  an exercise in close observation; in taking time out and seeing everyday things with fresh eyes and an amusing twist.  

Easy Prey

Sept 10 2012

The summer of wolves.

An abundance of deer, this year,

easy pickings.

I hear them howl

from 2 directions,

the call and response

of territory

and threat.

And something primordial

in this ungodly chorus

sends a thrill up my neck,

every sense

on hair-trigger alert.

I feel, like them

the intensity of being alive,

as every night

their zeal for living

bursts out, uncontained.

An ancient sound, proclaiming

mastery

belonging

the ties of blood.

I am told my dog

is 90% wolf.

Yet she remains indifferent

to her rightful inheritance,

as she sticks to my side

straining, sniffing

eager for praise.

All the wildness

bred out,

in our collective mission

to civilize

every inch of the world.

But I am elated

at the sound,

filling cool still silence.

And thrilled to know

we are not alone.

That our presumption of control

is a brave delusion,

our dominion

not absolute.

The wolves are restless, tonight.

I test the latch

keep the porch light burning.

The wolves howl like clockwork. On the night I wrote this poem, the pooch and I were out walking after dark. I was hoping to see in her some acknowledgement, some excitement, at the sound. But she remained unmoved, indifferent. I suppose she has drifted too far from her ancestors to feel the call of the wild; to share with me the excited thrill up the spine. 

(And in the spirit of encounters with nature, I'll refrain from mentioning the unmistakeable print of a bear paw on my front door last week; just in case my mother is listening!)

Elegy

for an Ink-Stained Wretch

Aug 31 2012

I will miss

my daily paper.

A dull thunk

on the front porch

on crisp still mornings.

Or falling short

on city snow

dew-soaked grass.

Newsprint

immaculate enough

for birthing babies

kitchen-table surgery.

Serving fish-and-chips

dripping grease.

All the news that fits.

A record of events

that will, in the fullness of time

become history

wrap fish.

Even though

we didn’t know

it was old, by then,

which was good enough for us.

How old news keeps

wrapped in pulp.

Because after almost half a century

I have learned

it’s pretty much the same, day-to-day,

variations on a theme

of venal, vulgar

courageous.

Except the broadsheet shrunk.

Colour

trumped black and white.

And the “Woman’s Section” disappeared,

when it became clear

the Secretary of State

would hardly miss

recipes, and make-up tips.

I never minded ink

smudging my finger-tips.

Inhaled the scent

of pristine paper

crisp and flat,

treasured the heft

news section in hand.

The untouched page, the unexpected,

instead of information feeds

pre-selected.

(Not to mention

Margaret Wente

breezily giving offence!)

I wrote letters, both appalled and incensed,

rejected, mostly.

But sometimes there, in text

cajoling the editor.

A megaphone

for my puny voice,

15 seconds

of self expression,

and a week to preen.

From now on

I must read on a screen,

squinting in

at the hard reflective surface.

Countless papers

tossed across the room

in disgust,

no longer done.

Instead, I will scroll,

silently seethe

at the latest affront,

because screens

are not easily flung.

Yes, I will peer into my plastic machine

at light speed,

on time, and in touch.

But miss the pleasure of the printed page

the kinaesthetic feel.

The end of Saturdays

immersed, but relaxed,

the room strewn

with well-read papers,

coffee brewing black.

Modernity

has overtaken me,

I cannot go back.

I’ve been reading the Globe and Mail – daily, almost religiously – for over 45 years. And August 31, 2012 (the day this poem was written) was the last day the print edition was delivered to this medium-sized city:  a casualty of costs, and our relative remoteness. I fought the change, but ultimately failed.

Today, as I transcribe the hand-written version of this poem into the computer, was in fact the first day reading off the screen. And I must reluctantly admit that it went well. Although perhaps this is just the inner secret techno-geek, who hides out beneath my crusty Luddite exterior, enjoying the novelty of a new gadget.

I’ve taken a little poetic license, especially in the opening stanza. Because our “morning” paper up here never arrived in the morning. But I do recall this from my youth:  that cool crepuscular feeling of early mornings, when paper boys (yes, even I was, for the briefest time imaginable, a very poor one) roamed the streets, expertly tossing their precisely folded projectiles.

I come from a family of readers. Growing up, newspapers littered the den. In those days, in Toronto, there were 3 dailies, all broadsheets:  The Globe, The Star, and The Telegram (later reincarnated as The Sun, which nicely completed Toronto’s peculiarly astronomical taxonomy of papers). We got them all!

I mention letters to the editor. Mine weren’t (and aren’t) often published, but I couldn’t (can’t)  help myself. Because even if they aren’t published (to the everlasting discredit of the editor, I hastily add), there is a great catharsis in the act itself:  the simple act of putting pen to paper. So in high dudgeon, I vent. And as it happens, I had one published on our final weekend of receiving the print edition. So I suppose this will serve as my symbolic farewell to newsprint.

I know I should enjoy the apparent virtue of being more “green”:   fewer trees pulped for my transient pleasure. On the other hand, I am now forced to participate in our technological culture of obsolescence and over-consumption:  all those rapidly out-dated (not to mention over-priced!) iPads and eReaders heaping up in landfills, and leaking who knows what. After all, newsprint is recycled and trees re-grow, assimilating a lot more carbon as saplings than the mature trees they’re replacing. (I’ve always been very good at rationalization!) …On the other hand, the airplanes will fly lighter; the delivery car will remain parked.

And I will continue to read newspapers. Even though the word “newspaper” is quickly becoming as archaic as “dialing” when we make a phone call and “befriending” (I refuse to verb the noun, which I find highly inelegant) when we click a box on Facebook. Ahhh, modernity!

Unfortunately, lacking a scanner, I can't include the actual letter. But I still think the poem stands by itself well enough. I'll add the letter to this post as soon as I can.

 ....Done!  (see below)


Typewritten

Aug 28 2012

A typewritten letter

my elderly parents

found, and sent.

Signed, but not read.

From my father’s father

on a long forgotten

rite of passage

to an adolescence boy.

He speaks

with the stiff formality

of a Victorian man.

His characteristic detachment,

in which my Aunt

was his “wife’s daughter,”

my brothers, the “other two.”

Proper names lost, no doubt

amongst the weighty matters

of his sharp legal mind.

How in a few paragraphs

his idiosyncratic manner

captures the man.

It becomes easier

to understand

my father’s parenting style,

not touchy-feely, or intensely engaged

like modern dads.

He worked hard

earned a living

provided.

Sheltered us

from the daily stress

and never strayed.

No rest

even on the 7th day.

This letter was saved.

Before the internet,

when everything seems cheapened

by easy access,

the promiscuity of the digital age.

By the illusion of posterity,

our deluded faith

in electronics.

Only 2 hard copies,

the secretary’s schooled hand

faithfully taking dictation.

The one-off font

of the typewriter’s mechanical arms,

striking hard, and soft

l’s and r’s

slightly raised.

Signed, but not read.

Yes, the usual clichés

about potential, the future,

a young man

finding his way in the world.

The detached formality

and stern manner

of a strong and silent man,

the no-nonsense patriarch.

Of the disciplined man of habit,

certain of the virtues of his age.

I’m afraid to say

that future is mostly behind me now.

I have probably fallen short.

He is long gone

but his words endure,

conferring on him

a kind of immortality

more robust

than memory.

A man of few words

chosen well.

The reassuring weight

of fine paper.

Still creamy, and stiff,

precisely creased.

Escape Artist

Aug 25 2012

Well practised

in the arts

of misdirection, distraction

the fugitive act.

So all that lasts

is the after-image

that persists

on the light-sensitive retina,

the flash

of recognition

burned into the eye.

Seen best

in darkness.

If the measure of art

is posterity,

artefact

as legacy,

then all he has is subterfuge,

their acquiescence

and credulity.

You can slip away

under cover of night,

vanish

into anonymity,

but never leave yourself behind.

You will always outlast

the abracadabra

and sleight-of-hand.

Even your best act

of deception,

the performance of your life.

Inspiration

Aug 20 2012

You need not think

about your next breath.

The content of air.

The reflex

of letting in

and emptying.

The muscle memory

that separates

life from death.

3 minutes, more or less,

the hunger for air

the struggle against

constricting darkness.

Every second of your life

just that far

from the end.

3 score and 10,

measured out

in increments of breath;

 … the last

         … the next.

And like other automatic acts

of superbly trained bodies, the prepared mind,

you must distract yourself

from thought.

Do not contemplate

mortality

the cruelty of chance.

Imagine only

what lasts.

 As the title suggests, this poem is essentially about the act of creation (even though this was one of those poems that was actually much more of the  perspiration than the inspiration variety!)

In particular, it’s about that sought after quality of “automatic” writing that can best be described as channelling:  when you sit back, and watch it flow from the tip of the pen as you were simply a spectator.

In sports, they talk about muscle memory:  how you have to let go, surrender to your training in order to fluidly swing a golf club or baseball bat; how if you analyze or break it down into steps, the swing falls apart.

It strikes me that this is analogous to what goes on in the brain in that highly desirable state of flow:  you prepare, repeat, train; and then, when it’s working, something that feels as if it’s outside of you takes over.

Another kind of automaticity – that of breathing – provides the framework for the poem. The mundane act of breathing is taken for granted and mostly done thoughtlessly. We rarely pay attention to the 3 minute margin. This is not necessarily a bad thing. If one were fixated on mortality, on this incredibly tenuous life-line, one could hardly function. Without this kind of letting go, life would fall apart as badly as the swing:  nothing creative or worthwhile would ever get done.

Essentially, I set out to write about muscle memory. And how it struck me that this was analogous to the brain in its most creative state. And to somehow manage to do it without this becoming (degenerating into?) a baseball poem!

Ships at Sea

Aug 17 2012

The lighthouse keeper

keeps his thoughts to himself,

perched high atop

scoured rock

in a white-washed tower.

Takes circular walks

on a well-worn path

on his small dominion of land,

navigates borders by heart.

Climbs to the light

in its glass-walled fortress,

a well-ordered man

kept well apart.

The marginal garden he tends.

The giant reflector

protecting ships at sea.

He listens in to the airwaves

but no one listen to him,

and like a dragooned sailor

never learned to swim.

So here he stays,

a beacon of safety

to navigate by.

The unseen keeper

in a blaze of light.

A young and aimless man

in need of a job

came aground on these rocks

and foundered.

And now, voice long lost

he keeps his distance.

Land-locked,

yet marooned at sea.

And then one day

when his legs give out

and the light goes dark,

it will be a ship-wrecked sailor

flung up on the rocks

who saves him.

Good Bones

Aug 14 2012

It’s been neglected, he said,

but the old house

has good bones.

Craftsmanship, like pedigree

is bred in the bone.

Bone deep.

If we hauled around our shells,

surrounded ourselves

in exoskeleton. 

Were soft-bodied creatures

turned inside-out  —

gastropod, cephalopod

turtle, plodding along   —

there’d be nothing concealed.

The dim centre

flung open,

all introspection exposed.

Load strengthens

and age brittles.

And rich marrow thins,

as they ache, and flinch

to the touch.

While an old house

can be re-built

from the ground up

flesh grows weary,

and in the end

only bones are left.

At last, can be read,

like the rings of a tree

fossilized teeth.

The break, the mend,

the year of hunger.

But when the house burned

everything went.

Just scorched brick

smoking rubble,

rivulets of ash

running out.