A Sense of Place
May 18 2013
May 18 2013
When I see a map of the continent
my eyes are drawn
here.
Zero-in
on the Great Lakes,
you might mistake
here.
Zero-in
on the Great Lakes,
you might mistake
for a squashed bug,
right of centre, a little up.
Where I feel grounded, right away,
that warm flush, a sense of place
on the upper edge
of Lake Superior.
They say backwater, middle-of-nowhere
remote,
compared to the great metropolis, cosmopolitan coast
where important things get done.
Fly-over country;
unplumbed
at 30,000 feet.
Place shouldn't matter so much.
After all, we are defined
right of centre, a little up.
Where I feel grounded, right away,
that warm flush, a sense of place
on the upper edge
of Lake Superior.
They say backwater, middle-of-nowhere
remote,
compared to the great metropolis, cosmopolitan coast
where important things get done.
Fly-over country;
unplumbed
at 30,000 feet.
Place shouldn't matter so much.
After all, we are defined
by people,
entangled, embedded, embraced.
But everyone needs to feel at home,
find a landscape
that resonates, and consoles.
I see forest and lake
hear the rustle of leaves.
See rushing water
on its way to the sea;
seeking its level, coming to rest;
salt, freshened by sweet.
See the line of darkness
approach from the east
and suddenly feel the speed;
as if riding the earth
as it steadily turns
into night.
This magnificent sphere
suspended in space
in all its ponderous grace,
the precise choreography
of gravity
and place.
Where I hover, weightless
looking down.
See the beacon of light
on the shore of the lake,
darkness all around.
I like the way this poem telescopes in and out: from the local landscape, celebrating nature, all the way to the astronomical. And I like the way it evokes (or at least tries to evoke) a sense of place that is both spiritual and geographic.
I'm a regular viewer of The Daily Show. On the set, behind Jon Stewart, is a large illuminated world map. And every day, I find my eyes inexorably drawn to that little squashed bug -- over his right shoulder -- where I drop an imaginary pin, exactly here. So, is this pride? Or is this insecurity, a desperate need for validation and recognition? Other than that, I've always had a fascination with maps; the older the better. On Antiques Roadshow, for example (yes, more TV!), I find myself especially excited when a vintage map or atlas comes up; and then find myself despairing at how undervalued they almost always are.
The poem began when I was reading an article on modern cartography: how imaginative maps have become; how artists and geographers use them to convey all sorts of unexpected or esoteric information. The piece also made a point of the importance of sense of place: how idiosyncratically each of us would fill in the outline of the same geographic space.
When you see us in satellite pictures, at night, we really are a solitary dot of light, surrounded by darkness. So, are we isolated and remote? Or could we just as well be the centre, and everyone else remote from us?!!
entangled, embedded, embraced.
But everyone needs to feel at home,
find a landscape
that resonates, and consoles.
I see forest and lake
hear the rustle of leaves.
See rushing water
on its way to the sea;
seeking its level, coming to rest;
salt, freshened by sweet.
See the line of darkness
approach from the east
and suddenly feel the speed;
as if riding the earth
as it steadily turns
into night.
This magnificent sphere
suspended in space
in all its ponderous grace,
the precise choreography
of gravity
and place.
Where I hover, weightless
looking down.
See the beacon of light
on the shore of the lake,
darkness all around.
I like the way this poem telescopes in and out: from the local landscape, celebrating nature, all the way to the astronomical. And I like the way it evokes (or at least tries to evoke) a sense of place that is both spiritual and geographic.
I'm a regular viewer of The Daily Show. On the set, behind Jon Stewart, is a large illuminated world map. And every day, I find my eyes inexorably drawn to that little squashed bug -- over his right shoulder -- where I drop an imaginary pin, exactly here. So, is this pride? Or is this insecurity, a desperate need for validation and recognition? Other than that, I've always had a fascination with maps; the older the better. On Antiques Roadshow, for example (yes, more TV!), I find myself especially excited when a vintage map or atlas comes up; and then find myself despairing at how undervalued they almost always are.
The poem began when I was reading an article on modern cartography: how imaginative maps have become; how artists and geographers use them to convey all sorts of unexpected or esoteric information. The piece also made a point of the importance of sense of place: how idiosyncratically each of us would fill in the outline of the same geographic space.
When you see us in satellite pictures, at night, we really are a solitary dot of light, surrounded by darkness. So, are we isolated and remote? Or could we just as well be the centre, and everyone else remote from us?!!
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