After Ourselves

April 30 2013

I know I will give it a name

as hard as I resist.

Something sentimental, honorific

or simply descriptive.

Except 
it’s never the same

imperceptibly shifting, day-to-day,

the light, different

the thickness of air.

Which is strange, because it’s always been there,

unchanged, for eons.

Will always loom over my life,

a massive brooding presence

keeping its distance

receding as quickly

no matter how hard I walk.

Its majestic indifference

keeping me small,

interceding

between me, and the sky.  

I am not mystical, or religious.

I understand

plate tectonics, inanimate rock.

But the lush green forest

wrapped around its shoulders

like a densely woven shawl,

the ragged clouds, streaming off

its white luminous crown

hold me in awe.

Intrude on my dreams

like an igneous wall

between me, and the sun.

Like a lover who spurned me

more than once.

Mere naming

will not tame this mountain.

But we cannot resist

naming the world,

in our own image

after ourselves.

Reducing nature

to strict taxonomy,

navigating creation

by azimuth, and degree.  

The laughable conceit

that man has dominion.

That I could conquer its peak,

even if I hauled myself up

by the skin of my teeth,

scratched my way

to the very top.

Before the mountain

in its infinite whimsy

flicked me off.

Ian Brown is a fine feature writer for the Globe and Mail. I often find myself envying his turn of phrase, his poetic sensibility. He’s on a sabbatical at Banff, occasionally contributing articles to the paper. This weekend, he wrote about the ineffable allure of mountains, their paradox and attraction.

Shortly after reading that, I heard an item on NPR about some fractious goings-on at the base camp of Mt. Everest. I thought about the purity and idealism of the authentic mountaineers – who respect the mountains they ascend, and understand it’s not at all about conquest or altitude or numbers of ascents – and the corruption of this laudable ideal by commercialism and instant gratification.

I suspected I’m more attracted to the wide open spaces and big sky of the prairies than I am to a mountainous landscape – which has an almost claustrophobic effect on me. And, of course, I prefer my own boreal forest. But I cannot deny the powerful mystique of mountains:  how they endure, recede, imperceptibly shift; and most of all, their majestic indifference to our petty conceits.

Ersatz Citrus
April 28 2013


I know how futile
it seems
cleaning house,
making your bed
only to sleep in it.
At best, a momentary pause
in life's tendency
toward chaos.
Because life descends
into disorder,
as implacably

as gravity.

But in its defence
there is simple pleasure
in physical effort, the Zen of routine.
In modest ambition;
because it can only be so clean,
no utopian dreams
of perfection.

A task
you complete with your hands,
and ends
with the satisfaction
of something tangible.
When you can stand back, basking
in order
the illusion of control.
When you let slip
your bourgeois pride
that the things you possess
the people
with whom you spend your life
are taken care.

My mother kept a clean house,
even with all those boys.
She was not the touchy-feely type
who could easily say
"I love you",
3 words that come and go
and sometimes mess you up
depending.

Not that the house matters now.
Because cleanliness
is an ephemeral art;
if not Godly, then comforting,
with gleaming hardwood floors
that smell of polished wax
ersatz citrus.

So her clean house
was incidental.
Except that's how I remember it;
a good woman
taking care.
 

I'm editing this the morning after-- transcribing into type from my impenetrable hand-writing, tweaking the lines. And totally surprised to find how much I like it! Because it was written incredibly quickly, on impulse, and out of thin air -- waiting for the spaghetti to boil, unwatched; and hemmed-in by the timer, about to go off.

Actually, now that I think about it, not quite out of thin air. I had been listening to a podcast of author, humorist, and diarist David Sedaris being interviewed by Terry Gross on NPR’s Fresh Air. Apparently, he’s a bit of a compulsive cleaner. I suspect this interview was circling around my head as I sat down to write, and led me to reflect on my own penchant for neatness.

I used to be a "neat-freak" -- unpleasantly obsessive. I blamed this on my mother. And she, it turns out, blames hers: the mother (my grandmother Esther) who raised her in the early 20th century, when the germ theory of everything held sway, and when women were judged on how well they kept house. So it goes, the sins of the mothers. But with the sensible gift of age, not to mention a new dog, I've learned to let go, and that the world goes serenely on, despite my laxity.

We are not a demonstrative family, either. Although in old age my mother has learned to say -- without self-conscious, hesitation, or irony -- "I love you"; me, not so much. But actions speak with equal, if not more, sincerity; and this is how I choose to shape my understanding of the past.

Tapping Out
April 27 2013


In the art of Brazilian jiu jitsu
you save your life
by tapping out.

Pinned by this hard relentless man,
the sharp point of an elbow
crushing your neck,
breath ebbing, vision edging in,
you simply tap
and all is forgiven.

If only life
could be so simple;
grace in submission,
and absolute mastery
so sure of itself
compassion is a tap away.

Or you can hurt your brain
trying to understand
motivation, misdirection
indecision.
Talk things out
in a civilized way,
without ever resolving
who has the upper hand
where either stands.

The martial artist
sees in white and black,
a zero sum game
of winners and losers,
who carry no grudge
feel each other's pain.
Who believe in respect,
leave ineffable love
to the dreamers, and theorists.

I crave this kind of clarity,
the mechanical body, methodical mind
in real time.

Crave instant relief,
with the ease 
of lifting a finger
a gentle nudge.

Crave a worthy opponent,
the certainty

of touch.

Breaking Up
April 25 1013


In another spring, in the season of love
I watch the lake
breaking up.
A man
standing alone
on an ice-bound shore;

his back to the sun,

lost

in penumbral shadow.

In late afternoon
the water glints blackly.
By morning
a thin crust of ice
is back,
turning to slush
washing over the edge,
in a steady breeze
undulates gently.
Then open water, again,
growing day by day.

Fissures appear,
and heavy wind
cracks them wide,
pans of ice, in every size
kaleidoscopically shifting.
As if in a race to survive
in the shirt-sleeve heat
of a long-delayed spring,
that came late, but quickly.

Until one morning in May
when the lake I remember
reappears
from hibernation.
Only die-hard ice
persisting
in narrow inlets, overhanging shade.

Remnants of a hard winter
that so quickly slipped my mind
in this green and temperate world.

In the succession of seasons
how we forget the feelings
we felt so intensely
let rule our lives.
When we were young, and foolish
and the future set,
impregnable as ice
3 feet thick.

As if every spring
was unexpected,
the fortress of winter
could never end.

Belongings
April 26 2013

Entering the house
for the last time
how clear it seemed,
the light distilled

unnatural stillness.
A layer of dust
had evenly settled
over everything,
leaving motionless air
cleansed.
As I breezed in, trailing freshness,
disrupting
the oddly comforting calm.

Soon, they will be objects
auctioned-off, passed on
newly possessed.
But now, they are still belongings,
and contain the essence, the spark
of a previous life.
When they held him
felt his touch,
when the kitchen buzzed
and they cleaned-up after.

The things we use, and live with
contain a little of us,
are changed
by familiarity.
But not forever,
because even things
are temporary.
So I was reminded of times past,
but also began
to see them as inanimate,
indifferent to the life
they once had served.
Still, it was soon enough to see
the ghost in the machine
leaking out.

There is a painting I always admired.
I know where it will hang;
but will I see his hand
straightening up
surreptitiously dusting?

The clothes will go to the Sally Ann,
where the down-on-their-luck
are grateful to dress
in suits, newly pressed,
a dead man's shirt and pants.

Given free,
no forgetting

no forgiveness asked.

Perfect Pitch

April 23 2013

Other drivers see me in the slow lane

tapping on the dashboard, head bobbing

in my sound-proof booth

of glass.

As if enthusiasm

might excuse

my untuned ear.

I am the woodpecker

who starts at dawn

outside your bedroom window.

The gaggle of geese

in their ragged V

complaining all the way north.

The puffed up warbler

trilling sweetly,

his proclamation

of territorial war.

The birds do not sing

for beauty

as we understand it to be.

Only humans make music

for no reason at all.

Antidote to reason

beauty, or not.

Imperfect pitch

is fine, behind the wheel

no one listening in.

To feel the ecstasy of speed

becalmed, at 5 pm

in a sea of traffic,

big rigs revving

a chorus of horns.

Watching gulls

free-wheeling overhead.

 Birds are a symbol of freedom and agency. But, of course, we anthropomorphize everything.

External circumstances are beyond your control. But our can control we own state of mind. This is a cliché. But by the inexorable logic of survival, and our own helplessness, it’s what we do.

Language is what distinguishes (elevates?) humans from other animals. That, and music. Our cortex light up, our synapses jump, and there is a widespread activation and coordination of the brain when we listen to music. This activation is not only more widespread than language, but more powerful, because music enters directly into emotion -- without cognitive processing, without decoding or interpretation. It is raw and elemental. And a mystery why so uniquely human. What was it  in evolution that so exquisitely tuned out brains to this hypnotic combination of rhythm and pitch?

I envy those with perfect pitch. Mine is only good enough to let me know that I’m off, but not good enough to let me find the actual note! I heard a reference today to Tom Cochrane’s iconic song Life is A Highway, and thought about racing down the blacktop, cranking it out at full voice …and not giving a damn how good or bad I sound!

First Responder
April 18 2013


It was the second bomb
that crushed
my spirits.

Desperately wanting to believe
in the triumph of good, over evil
I seized on the sight of people
swarming in
to help.
Unskilled, unprepared
unfazed by blood,
giving comfort
if nothing else.

Who were taken
in the second blast.

And the men with stunted souls
who feel no pain, but their own
I can only hope
are eternally damned,
whatever one's theology.
As little solace
as this might grant.

A pressure cooker
set to explode.
A simple utensil
stoking distrust
in the everyday
the unknowable other.
But the pressure builds up,
I cannot contain
the numbing refrain
of atrocity.

Reading headlines
it's easy to forget
the 99%,
who, like us, stumble through
unhistoric lives,
well-intentioned
our minor transgressions
unworthy of news.
Overwhelmed by the few
who hate,
claiming attention
dispensing death.
And easy to forget
how certain they'll suffer
in some self-inflicted hell,
justice, or not.
And forget, as well
how such ugly destruction
is redeemed,
by the many others
rushing in
to help,
no second thoughts.

How easily I fall
into despair,
the gall
of impotent rage
corroding away
at my marrow.
And so, how fiercely I cling
to each selfless act,
no matter how futile, or small,
how dutiful
or daring.

As if one good man
could reach out a hand
and repair the world.

April 15 2013, 2 bombs went off at the finish line of the storied Boston marathon. 3 were killed (so far, including an 8 year old boy) and well over 100 gravely wounded, whose injuries included amputated limbs. They were constructed of everyday kitchen pressure cookers, lethally fortified with nails and ball bearings, intended to maximally maim as well as kill.

This poem was written 3 days later, at which time there were no claims of responsibility, and no idea whether this was the deranged act of a lone wolf, or a more highly organized and ideological act of terror. But either way, I don't think the ultimate resolution of this tragedy will alter the intent of the poem.

The 2 bombs detonated 10 seconds apart. I suspect, because they came so close, there was a minor glitch in synchronization. But one can't help but wonder about intent, since there has been a pattern in other terrorist incidents of intentionally consecutive blasts, a tactic calculated to kill first responders. Whether in this case it was accident or intent, and as horrible as this second wave of killing, it reminds me that the vast majority do not wantonly and unfeelingly destroy lives: they rush in to help, with no thought for their own safety or the gruesome scene.

The headlines give a skewed view of human evil: the bad things and the bad guys scream out; while all the small anonymous acts of goodness go unacknowledged. And it was because of the 2nd blast that the role of first responders -- both the professionals and bystanders -- became especially prominent. As I felt myself sink into despair, this widespread demonstration of altruism and selflessness became a lifeline, an antidote and counter-balance to the evil that comes to seem omnipresent and immutable. It's not only that bad things make headlines ("if it bleeds, it leads", as the the hoary journalistic cliché has it), it's the nature of human memory: negative things are much more likely to stick with us. Which is sensible, from an evolutionary point of view: remembering where the lions are is much more conducive to survival than remembering where you can see the most beautiful sunset. So we are descended from those who were best at remembering the bad. (The rest, I'm afraid, were eaten!)

So I am grateful to the commentators who pointed out that it took 1 bad person to do this, while at the exact same time hundreds of people were reflexively acting with bravery and selflessness.

There is a concept in Judaism that has great resonance here; the concept of tikkun olam: the human responsibility to fix what is wrong with the world. Which presumes that things can be repaired -- a reassuring thought to someone as pessimistic, misanthropic, and nihilistic as me!

Regret
April 15 2013

I lived my life 
as if I would live forever.
So I have my regrets,
so much undone
what went unsaid.

In a rare reflective moment
the young, in their headlong rush

will pause, a second
think of death.

Of dying heroic, too young.

Of mourners, struck dumb.
The promise, immortal

of life barely begun.

But rarely of dying old.
Because the old people
they notice
come from another planet,
as if they were always thus.
And because we are immersed in time

which moves imperceptibly forward,
still as fish
in a turbulent sea
breaking against the shore.

You are middle aged
the day you look in the mirror
and overnight, you've changed,
tell-tale wrinkles
a sprinkle of grey,
even in flattering light.
When you see your elderly parents
in the back of a hand

thinly mottled,
a sagging neck

hinting of wattles.

In sombre eyes,
that look like the clothes
you slept in.

When now
you want to be old,

because the alternative
has become unnervingly real.
Knowing

how the old are rarely heroic
how soon the mourning will end
how few
remember.
And knowing, as well
how soon you'll be invisible
to the young and reckless solipsists
who will shortly be running the world.

So you write poems,
which no one reads, any more
probably never did.
Inhabiting other people
as you imagine them,
every now and then
as yourself.

Pretty sure
you will not be noticed
probably never read.
But the kind of risk
you wish you'd taken more of,
to hell with regret.

I talk about risk because I feel I'm taking one, exposing my rather morbid and pre-occupied state of mind: in which the apprehension of death has moved from theoretical to real; in which I mourn my wasted potential. My usual writing style is far more detached, far less confessional; while here, "as yourself" couldn't be anyone but me.

The world-weary sense of resignation -- almost defeat -- is not as one would like to think of oneself. It's not so much an unbecoming envy of youth as it is regret for all that I missed: that I am guilty of drift; that I don't live with enough urgency; that I play it safe. In fact, the poem does not particularly flatter youth: they are depicted as solipsistic, impatient, unempathetic, and a bit vainglorious. As opposed to the older narrator, who knows things -- "know" repeated, and coupled with "old", in a simple refrain (in the 3rd last stanza).

Anyway, drift is a mistake -- even if I am temperamentally prone to drift! I've come to realize that we are far more likely to regret the things we didn't do than those we did, despite the outcome. Because we have an unlimited capacity to rationalize outcomes; and because if we are reasonably happy with our current lives, are more than willing to accept that every fork in the road and twist and turn was necessary to get us there. While the road not taken could have gone anywhere, and we are naturally prone to idealize the destination: easy to do, when there is no reality to test it against, and the possibilities are infinite and mostly good. All this to say that a good life lesson is to err on the side of doing: that you can take that path, confident your old age will not be plagued by recrimination and regret; and that if you demur, you will leave yourself open to permanent second-guessing.

As you enter late middle age, you do become invisible. (Women more than men, I know.) And what was always "the other" is suddenly you. Just as one crosses through an opaque curtain and finds oneself in the world of the sick, one also begins to be relegated to the world of the old; to feel as if people see right through you, in the self-important self-referential headlong rush of the world.

The Country of Winter
April 12 2013


Here, in the country of winter
the borders are closed.

On the wrong side of the wall
in flood-lit shadow
things are black
or white,
like an old TV
getting mostly static.
Or shades of grey,
a Kafkaesque maze
in soft lead pencil
in the hands of faceless clerks.
And the people pale;
in padded jackets, uniformly drab,
too cheap
to keep us warm.

We walk quickly,
avoiding strangers' eyes
guarding our private lives;
the shared misery
and mutual suspicion
that are the usual condition
in a cold war.

But there have been rumours heard
of a free world
somewhere south,
where flowers are blooming, people making love
in private gardens
under lingering sun.
Of soldiers
with roses
in the barrels of guns.

Our time will come
or so we've been told,
the state of siege lifted
winter overthrown.
Revolution
on the first warm day.
When walls of snow soften
water pouring-off,
and the air is sweet
pungent with spring.
When intransigent night
is slowly pushed back,
we stop in the street
smiling, clasping hands.

Winter oppresses us,
and we no longer believe
in its pristine beauty.
We are like that brave and desperate man
standing up to the tank
in Tienanmen;
so sure of spring
and done with waiting.


This poem was written in what feels like endless winter. It is almost the middle of April, and today I am snow-stayed for the second time in the span of a week. For me, this is a guilty pleasure. (As long as the power stays on, that is!) Because I love seclusion. And this is the perfect excuse to spend all day reading and writing, which I find delightful. But even so, I'm starting to share in the universal impatience for spring.

The cold war is a natural metaphor, since it begins to feel as if we're behind an Iron Curtain, our glorious leaders promising us some future utopia, while subversive rumours leak in -- over TV and shortwave and smuggled books -- of a mythical free world, on the other side of the wall. In this case, that utopia is spring -- and equally hard to believe!

I can't help but picture Soviet proletariat man in black and white; see him as ground down, sullen and suspicious. After this long, winter starts to turn us into that stereotype (as unfair and simplistic as it may be). The Berlin Wall is like the line between Kansas and Oz: monotone on one side; then suddenly full cinematic colour.

In another totalitarian state, that brave man who stood up to the tank in that iconic picture of Tienanmen square was the model of stoic impatience: so sick of oppression that he would risk his life, but sure enough of eventual success he was sure he wouldn't be wasting it. This is too powerful an image to let go, even at the risk of debasing his sacrifice with our own puny impatience (which I hope I haven't done).

The first really warm day of spring really is like a revolution, a sudden dramatic softening: the unaccustomed heat, in shirt sleeves and sneakers; the speed with which everything melts; the pungent smell of decomposing soil, loamy earth.

Red Canoe
April 9 2013

My red canoe
blew away last fall.
In one of those fierce grey squalls
that feel like winter, sharpening its teeth.
Upside-down, on the beach,

the wind slipped its tongue

beneath the tilted gunnel,

flung it

like driftwood.

My red canoe

airborne.

I found it snagged, down the shore,

rocking
against a fallen tree,
where a skim of brittle ice
had formed.
Bright red, against smoky forest;
wet bark,
dark needles
of spruce, and fir.

I fell in love
as a 10 year old.
The canoe is a perfect vessel for boys.
Small enough to paddle alone,
when you need to be captain
of something.

And endlessly forgiving;

practically unsinkable,

and equally adept

in either direction.

At an age when right and wrong
did not seem as certain,
and the future
was as much a burden
as possibility.

I loved the sense of control,
the precision
of tiny adjustments.
The resistance
against growing muscle,
and the masterful feeling, to which a boy is unaccustomed
as I teetered on the edge,
body supple
lower gunnel cutting close,
mirrored surface
an inch below.
But most of all,
the secret freedom
of being alone
so far from shore;
which suits a temperament like mine,
reclusive, even the boy.

Who knows
why my canoes have always been red,
the most unglamorous boat
in such a lurid colour.
Blue, or green, would make much more sense,
unobtrusive
closer to nature.
I can only suggest
the force of habit
my ironic bent.

But in the warm light
when the leaves turn
and the sun is long and low
my old canoe glows,
showing-off
its perfect symmetry
and graceful curves,
its silence
and majestic slowness.

And in spring, in receding snow
how it signals winter's end,
emerging from blinding whiteness
brilliant red.

I've been writing blurbs lately, so almost feel obligated to add one here. Except for the inconvenient fact that there is nothing more to say!

Because this poem is both autobiographically and narratively true. There is little artifice, sustained metaphor, or hidden agenda. Although it would have been nice to have pursued the image, in the opening stanza, of "winter sharpening its teeth": perhaps personifying the other seasons; perhaps continuing the anatomical metaphor.

I will note, though, that this piece gets a bit closer to prose poetry (or at least it did before I started messing around with it!); which is actually my favourite poetry to read, but a form I have trouble writing. I like the conversational style and the lack of pretension in prose poetry. I admire the discipline it requires: without the imposed structure of rhythm and rhyme and innate musicality (even if it's the internal rhyme and irregular rhythm I tend to favour), the prose poet has to have the most exquisite ear for language: a sense of cadence, a sensitivity to the natural rhythm of speech. It takes bravery and skill to know, without any external limits and without the crutch of a formal structure, when to stop; when enough is just enough.

Submerge
April 6 2013

Sunday morning, the pool teems.

Small children
learning to swim,
splashing, bickering.
Gaggles of geese
taken under the wing
of earnest teen-aged teachers.

And older kids,
taunting, jostling
showing-off,
inexpertly flirting.
Launching cannonballs
dead-weight off the spring-board,
trading double dares
in the rarefied air
of the high tower.

The white fluorescent lights
are pitiless
on pale goose-bumped skin,
the muffin top, and winter paunch
of soft neglected bodies.
If only the music would stop,
piped-in, raucous pop
thumping, bouncing-off
bare concrete walls,
the glazed tiles
of the slippery deck
that glisten wetly.

And so I descend
into the peace
of unaccustomed silence;
a slow release of breath,
the brilliance
of weightlessness.
The broken surface
repairing itself,
immaculate, seamless
above me.

I remember the solitude
of summer,
when the lake
became my refuge;
the utter stillness
lurking
beneath its dark impervious surface.
Suspended there,
water in water, like in like,
my boundaries slowly softening
a cool balm.
Long enough
and I would disappear,
water-to-water
gone.

How the lake conceals its depths
beneath a dull imperfect mirror,
all the way down
to permanent darkness.
Where bottomless silt
feels like primeval mud,
oozing between my toes, billowing up
imagining slimy alien bugs.
But the pool is clear,
the bottom
deceptively near
in standard azure blue.

Until, hungry for air
I burst back up,
a spasm of chill
the weight of the world
this busy hot-house Sunday.
Its acrid smell
like a chemical burn.
The cacophony
interminable.

There is a lot of sense memory in this poem. But sound was where it began: the noise of so many people in that hard enclosed space; the unnecessary (and unpleasant) music, compounding it all. Which explains why my initial choice of title was cacophony. And it's a useful one, offering the reader a helpful sense of direction from the start. Submerged, though, is where I'd rather end up. I like its powerful with connotation of surrender, containment, and dissolution. So, in the end, that's where I choose to begin.

My thoughts turn to the incessant and omnipresent music piped-in to every public place: as if we are not to be trusted to be alone with our thoughts; as if we would find ourselves in a panic in all that psychic space.

Water is always a powerful theme. In this poem, it becomes as much an actual as a symbolic sanctuary of peace and solitude and home. The pool -- even with its exposure; its sanitized ambience; its incessant sound and penetrating light and toxic air -- provides a version of escape. While the lake, evoked in memory, seems even more welcoming; notwithstanding its hint of mystery and danger.

I wrote a very similar pool poem a few years ago, also using water and submersion as a metaphor for the sanctuary of silence. It's probably somewhere on the blog. But I refrained from checking it out: I didn't want the temptation of plagiarizing myself; I wanted to see what I could do with a fresh start. But maybe now would be a good time to contrast and compare: see if I've improved my stroke in the intervening years ...or am still just barely treading water.

...So I did check it out. I found Holding My Breath, from April 2008. I think the title says much the same as submerge: this sense of a pause, of time suspended, of expectant waiting. I see that I've repeated some images, some word choices. I fear this represents a lack of originality and a very fixed view of the world. A good poet is receptive, almost a blank slate, taking in the world with a sense of wonder and naivete. I guess I tend more toward putting things in familiar boxes, and perhaps being too judgemental. Nevertheless, I do think the recent piece is better, which is reassuring. On the other hand, I'm usually disproportionately juiced about the latest thing. So this may very well change.

Memento Mori
March 31 2013

Cluster flies
lie scattered
by the window sash,
my kitchen counter
dappled with sun.
Their black cadaverous bodies
are weightless husks,
effortlessly brushed
into the trash.

Their lives perplex me,

the beginning and ending

the purpose they serve.
How they wedged-in
over-wintered
emerged in spring,
survived the season

dormant, unseen.

Only to die
after all this time
for no apparent reason.

Single-minded creatures, seeking sun
they hurtle against the glass
buzzing fiercely,
zero-in
on sizzling lights.
Appear as if from nowhere
raining down, piling up,
a memento mori
in this budding season,
when the sun returns
the world's reborn.

In another spring, another birthday,
when I can't help but think
I am a year closer to death,
its inevitability
less and less
theoretical.
I have often thought
about the indignities of age
how death will come.
But not so much
the existential pain
of finality,
that last sentient moment
looking over the edge
into absolute nothing.

All my life
my nose
has been pressed against the glass
fierce with desire, attachment,
wanting what others have

wanting more.

Only to find, at the very end, we are equal at last,
identical eyes, staring blankly
pupils empty, black.
The merciless levelling
of death,
all our uniqueness, potential
reduced to husks.

As an indifferent world
relentlessly turns,

the sun

exerts its steady pull.

I feel conflicted, writing a poem as black as this. Or perhaps it's not the writing, so much, as exposing the darkness.

Am I right to imagine that my turn of mind isn't unusually morbid, that we are all pre-occupied by mortality? Because death is the most absolute mystery, and so who cannot help but be fascinated? Because, in it's inexorable finality, it's the only experience we know we all will share. And because, most important of all, it's our awareness of death that gives life its urgency and sweetness. So rather than a paralyzing act of fear and anxiety, reflecting on death becomes a deliberate act of gratitude, a goad to living well.

I suppose some aren't so pre-occupied. Perhaps they're able to sustain the youthful delusion of immortality, the easy denial. Or perhaps -- unlike me -- they have the consolation of religious belief, clinging to the hope of an afterlife, of some greater meaning.

It's interesting to note that there is a convention among portrait painters (or some, anyway) to include a tiny fly somewhere in the piece -- a memento mori: I suppose as a sobering reminder of mortality; a humble counterpoint to the narcissism of immortalizing oneself in paint. As if a likeness could confer posterity!

I doubt many people want to read poems like this. And, as I said, I'm reluctant to inflict my angst upon an unsuspecting world. But every once in awhile, a poem like this slips out. After all, it's a good time of year to write about cluster flies, and in so doing the topic of death becomes inevitable. Although several years ago I also wrote about these mysterious creatures, and that piece came out more narrative in style and more amused in tone. So perhaps it's age that has made me darker. Or perhaps enough time has passed, and I need once again to exorcise the darkness. Or perhaps it's my craft that has evolved: that I've become more skilful with metaphor, and more comfortable writing in the first person.

Anyway, I think the poem works well enough. And I hope it resonates with some readers, at least.