Returning to Earth

Nov 23 2012

We stacked the wood

in early fall.

Our work gloves

were too thin for the cold,

flimsy coats

no comfort.

We were caught off guard

by early dusk,

how seasons quickly shift.

As unnerving sun, stingy with heat

strobed through the trees,

enmeshing us

in long arthritic fingers.

Still creatures of summer

we were thin-blooded

reckless with light.

Now, the garage is redolent of birch,

the spicy earthy scent

of seasoned wood.

And surprisingly warm,

ever so slowly

decomposing.

In the fullness of time

leaving only dry rot,

light as balsa

crumbling, soft.

Like any dead body

returning to earth.

Wood locks into place,

stacks naturally

easily bears the weight.

And when dry

makes a high hollow sound,

tapping lightly

on the concrete floor.

Piled tall as a man

I look on smugly,

a conscientious ant

a good provider.

The growing season

is short, intense

this far north.

When decades of sun

were captured, and stored.

The patient majesty of trees,

we spend all our lives

and barely notice.

Light, and warmth

I will squander

in a single hard winter.

Burn through

my tidy stack.

Return the ash to soil.

Hiding in Plain Sight

Nov 26 2012

I am looking down

from my open window,

a 3rd story 1-bedroom flat.

I am a potted plant

in badly tended soil,

perched on the outer ledge.

A baby grand

winching up,

unstrung, in frayed suspense.

Only the paranoid

glance my way,

and who would listen to them?

I see tell-tale bald spots

shining pinkly,

which even their owners

would disbelieve.

Majestic bosoms

I ogle, freely,

jiggling directly beneath.

Cracks in the pavement

children at play,

a paper trail leading away.

A spilled cup of coffee

erratically rocking

like a lazily luffing sail.

Spattered liquid, mocha pale,

the indelible human stain.

From the corner of my eye

I see the car careen,

suddenly jump the curb.

See it still, in my sleep

keep hearing them scream.

Now, in my basement apartment

a window-well lets in the light.

And all I see

are disembodied parts;

a furious blur of legs,

strutting, shuffling

running past.

I have the impression

of one-way glass.

Where time

is mere succession

and I find contentment

in endless now.

Where there’s nowhere left to fall,

and no one looking down. 

Skin-Deep

Nov 20 2012

Sometimes, the cover does.

Lined-up, spine-to-spine

they hint

at secret lives

foment desire

spin their lies,

the calligrapher’s shameless art

of suggestion.

Social climbers all,

they clamour for the top shelf

strive for my affection,

the foreplay

of bed-time reading.

Then, utterly spent

sprawl upon the bedside table

in satisfied sleep.

We all know

red books are over-sexed.

Blue ones penny-pinch, are heretics

and brown covers slow,

the stupidest.

That black’s

obsessed with death,

shades of grey

unself-aware,

and strutting white

illicit dares,

the hypocrisy, and swagger, of power

uncontested.

But just as we are skin-deep, and tribal

dust covers

conceal surprises,

virgin bindings, long untouched

their inner lives

still uncorrupt.

An insignificant object

containing multitudes.

Many have gone unread.

Admired, like a trophy wife

in whose reflection I bask.

Because sometimes

their mere existence

is all I need,

that all this wisdom

has been inscribed

and simple possession

makes it mine.

That truth, like beauty

is merchandise.

At random, I crack a spine,

tease back

the creamy vellum.

Feel the weight

of virgin paper,

as I surrender

and she is taken.

And come to see

how foolish I was

to have been so colour blind.

To have believed

their mean self-serving tales.

This poem is based on the simple conceit of the  book cover as metaphor for stereotyping, tribalism, racism.

There is also a strong sexual innuendo running through it. I can’t be sure whether this works, or seems contrived and laboured. (All I now is that it was fun to write!)

The 4th stanza, as well, interrupts the flow of the main theme, going off on a tangent about unread books, and about how our bookshelves are constructed by us – or read by others – to reflect us: our sensibility, erudition, class. Perhaps, in a age of e-books, this is already passé. Although I’ve heard of interior decorators ordering books by the pound, and arranging them by the aesthetics of their colourful spines, facing out and artfully aligned.

At least the final stanza brings the poem back to its theme; to this idea of skin-deep and unfair ethnic stereotypes. And perhaps hints at a kind of transgressive love story – like Romeo and Juliet – violating clan or race or religion. 

The inspiration for this piece came form the book section of the Saturday Globe and Mail (Nov 17, 2012). Here’s how it was introduced:

Want to build the best li­brary ever? Take a page from the project that asked Mal­colm Glad­well, Junot Diaz and other cul­tural heavy­weights to dish on the tomes that in­spired them

What’s in our li­braries says a lot about who we are. Jane Mount asked some 100 writ­ers, artists, food­ies and film-mak­ers to de­scribe the books that in­spire them. Then she painted the spines, asked her sub­jects to com­ment and put the re­sults in a book called My Ideal Books. The ex­am­ples be­low are just part of a ros­ter that in­cludes Dave Eg­gers, Patti Smith, Alice Waters and Michael Chabon.

Malcolm Gladwell’s contribution included this observation (amusingly self-incriminating, and therefore brave) which is what set me off.

I’m in the mid­dle of writ­ing my new book, which is about power. I’m very in­ter­ested in the strate­gies we use to keep peo­ple who are pow­er­less in check. And the ways in which the pow­er­less fight back. So I started read­ing about crime. I’ve prob­a­bly ac­quired 150 books for this project. I haven’t read all of them, and I won’t. Some of them I’ll just look at. But that’s the fun part. It’s an ex­cuse to go on Ama­zon. The prob­lem is, of course, that even­tu­ally you have to stop your­self. Other­wise you’ll col­lect books for­ever. But these books are mark­ers for the ideas that I’m in­ter­ested in. That’s why it’s so im­por­tant to have phys­i­cal books. When I see my book­shelf ex­pand­ing, it gives me the il­lu­sion that my brain is ex­pand­ing, too.  

Geography Lessons

Nov 15 2012

In the heart

of a land-locked continent

built on Precambrian rock,

you would never guess

this is the water planet,

a pendant, dangling

luminous blue

in vast indifferent blackness.

They say the pounding surf

creates waves of sound

that carry for thousands of miles,

too deep

for human hearing.

That the heat

of the tropical sea

powers everything,

the engine of weather

even here.

That we arose in its depths

and bear its pedigree;

the salt in our veins

hypnotic rocking of waves,

the atavistic pull

of weightlessness.

I look over the land

with a reassuring sense

of permanence,

solid ground

underfoot.

But they say great cities

have been swept away

by a hurricane,

the unstoppable force

of wind and waves

on vainglorious towers.

One-way glass,

clinging to the edge

of land.

While we felt nothing here.

Perhaps a day

of scattered rain.

I slept fitfully, that night,

restless, rolling

like the constantly changing sea.

My heartbeat up,

and a low deep rumbling sound.

Struggling to breathe,

like the incubus

were holding me down.

And turbulent dreams

of a helpless child

about to drown.

Hurricane Sandy blasted the US North-east, especially New York City and the Jersey shore. All that weight of human suffering, yet here we would have been oblivious if it weren't for TV. As if we could be protected here, in the heart of a vast and stable continent.

But, of course, we are all connected:  just as the primordial sea still runs in our blood; and just by virtue of our highly complex and interdependent society.

The most heart-breaking story was of a young mother whose 2 small children were torn from her arms, and lost.

Dream Palace

Nov 6 2012

She insisted on white.

Cool hallways

flowing into airy rooms.

Up, and over ceilings

in a seamless cocoon.

Tall windows, open wide,

curtains billow

also white.

She said this was California style.

Where she had grown up

unloved

in a haze of sand and sun.

She imagined herself    

in this pure space,

a blank slate

in which to compose

a tranquil future.

It would be furnished sparely.

A single bed, a classic chair,

falling water

purrs, somewhere.

Nothing primary, or bold,

in its smooth curves

muted tones.

Where I felt angular, and bright.

To be painted over

re-arranged

stowed away.

White-washed walls

cannot be touched

surreptitiously.

You leave fingerprints,

traces of sweat

remains of skin.

Like a linen dress

in a summer breeze,

sullied

with blood-red wine

you can’t get out.

Ice Age

Nov 1 2012

I awaken

to the first snow,

blanketing the world

in dawn's thin chill.

And by noon, is gone,

brown earth

and grass, like shrivelled straw

and ochre leaves

curling into fists,

all coolly glisten

in the long light

of fall.

And then, that night

a crisp frost,

sure to purify the soil.

Quarantine summer,

which has been over-run

with weeds and bugs

the teeming stuff

of warm black earth,

incubating microscopic life

and fat burrowing worms.

So the garden breathes

a grateful sigh,

and settles

into deep sanitized sleep. 

Which I, too, crave.

One day

it will stay,

undulating white, undisturbed.

Will soften the world,

cloak

its imperfection.

We will be 4 months

locked into winter,

its hard reflection

austere palette

of blue and pale.

And the feeling the cold

will keep descending,

this northern extremity

tip

into ice.

Next spring

a millennium away.