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.