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.