It is too small
to appear on maps.
It has many names,
depending on the trees, the season
the angle of sun.
On whether the moon was new, or full;
a silver carpet,
rolled-out invitingly,
or inky-black
bad luck.
Modern explorers
stumbling out of the bush,
onto its shore
give names
to this anonymous lake,
just as those before them.
Because naming things
is our way into the world.
Mud, Bulrush, Boot-Suck Lake
fixing place
as mnemonic, epithet,
metaphor.
It is no northern beauty,
with pink granite rocks
descending to the water's edge,
lush green moss
softening each step.
Where windswept pines
tower over scant underbrush
in even airy light.
No, it is dense scrub
a tangled shore,
with pink granite rocks
descending to the water's edge,
lush green moss
softening each step.
Where windswept pines
tower over scant underbrush
in even airy light.
No, it is dense scrub
a tangled shore,
stunted
spruce, spindly poplar.
Almost muskeg, sphagnum swamp
where the drainage is poor.
You peer back
at the dark damp interior
and realize how this lake was lost,
one tiny patch of blue
in the boreal vastness.
I watch, under a waxing moon,
distilled light, glinting thinly
in
a riff of cool wind,Almost muskeg, sphagnum swamp
where the drainage is poor.
You peer back
at the dark damp interior
and realize how this lake was lost,
one tiny patch of blue
in the boreal vastness.
I watch, under a waxing moon,
distilled light, glinting thinly
mirror broken.
And the ghosting trees
that seem to move
all on their own.
Somewhere, piercing the gloom
a loon gives throat,
its ululation
as eerily pure
as it is alone.
I did not name this lake
will let memory stand.
Anyway, the path has overgrown
there are no maps.
As Canadians, we tend to romanticize the north, celebrate the notion of wilderness. Especially at the end of summer, when we are susceptible to nostalgia. That was the case this Labour day, when the Globe featured a piece by Roy McGregor -- both about canoeing the Petawawa, and as a remembrance of Blair Fraser (a celebrated journalist, who died in the rapids there 45 years ago); and a complementary piece by Lorna Crozier -- about the sanctuary of a tiny anonymous lake, a rare blue moon (which is not just a convenient rhyme, but an actual technical term referring to the occurrence of a full moon twice in the same month), and a moment of rumination on a dying friend.
She wrote: "You're not sure why you've chosen this lake -- no one has even bothered to name it. If it was located in southwestSaskatchewan ,
where you grew up and where water is scarce, you'd find it on a map." I
also lifted "Mud" and "Bulrush" from her (she included
"Antelope", as well) -- her Saskatchewan
names; while her Ontario ones
suggest more congenial places: "Trout, Canoe, Devil's Lake ."
They may be hypothetical, but the names say it all: cattailed and weedy and
soft-bottomed, as opposed to clear pools set into ice-age granite.
This idea of the unnamed and unmapped lake really caught my imagination. Because when you travel through the north by canoe, you encounter countless muddy scrubby aesthetically unmemorable lakes, often resembling as much a wet spongy lowland as a legitimate body of water. You know this place has never been charted, and its only names were uttered by some previous traveler -- likely attached to an expletive!
I also liked the idea of a private meaningful place, no need to explain why it gives you solace and sanctuary; even when it would seem utterly unappealing to anyone else.
This is more of a composite than any particular lake. Although it is a bit closer to mine -- with its heavily wooded shore and dense underbrush -- than that postcard Muskoka landscape of pink granite, majestic white pines, open and airy vistas. The contrast was especially salient with when I wrote this, since I'd just seen a documentary the night before, and it featured a particularly beautiful postcard lake; which only served to remind me how deficient in conventional beauty is my own. Having paddled a bit of the Petawawa myself, I know how pretty it is, as well.
So it was with the conflation of all these images, impressions and personal memories that the poem emerged. I think it's a much more accurate rendition of wilderness than the more conventionally beautiful, than cottage country. Because most of the boreal north looks like this. Although there is a different kind of beauty in the feeling of mystery, remoteness, and inaccessibility; in the lack of human presence; in a less hospitable place unsullied by man.
And the ghosting trees
that seem to move
all on their own.
Somewhere, piercing the gloom
a loon gives throat,
its ululation
as eerily pure
as it is alone.
I did not name this lake
will let memory stand.
Anyway, the path has overgrown
there are no maps.
As Canadians, we tend to romanticize the north, celebrate the notion of wilderness. Especially at the end of summer, when we are susceptible to nostalgia. That was the case this Labour day, when the Globe featured a piece by Roy McGregor -- both about canoeing the Petawawa, and as a remembrance of Blair Fraser (a celebrated journalist, who died in the rapids there 45 years ago); and a complementary piece by Lorna Crozier -- about the sanctuary of a tiny anonymous lake, a rare blue moon (which is not just a convenient rhyme, but an actual technical term referring to the occurrence of a full moon twice in the same month), and a moment of rumination on a dying friend.
She wrote: "You're not sure why you've chosen this lake -- no one has even bothered to name it. If it was located in southwest
This idea of the unnamed and unmapped lake really caught my imagination. Because when you travel through the north by canoe, you encounter countless muddy scrubby aesthetically unmemorable lakes, often resembling as much a wet spongy lowland as a legitimate body of water. You know this place has never been charted, and its only names were uttered by some previous traveler -- likely attached to an expletive!
I also liked the idea of a private meaningful place, no need to explain why it gives you solace and sanctuary; even when it would seem utterly unappealing to anyone else.
This is more of a composite than any particular lake. Although it is a bit closer to mine -- with its heavily wooded shore and dense underbrush -- than that postcard Muskoka landscape of pink granite, majestic white pines, open and airy vistas. The contrast was especially salient with when I wrote this, since I'd just seen a documentary the night before, and it featured a particularly beautiful postcard lake; which only served to remind me how deficient in conventional beauty is my own. Having paddled a bit of the Petawawa myself, I know how pretty it is, as well.
So it was with the conflation of all these images, impressions and personal memories that the poem emerged. I think it's a much more accurate rendition of wilderness than the more conventionally beautiful, than cottage country. Because most of the boreal north looks like this. Although there is a different kind of beauty in the feeling of mystery, remoteness, and inaccessibility; in the lack of human presence; in a less hospitable place unsullied by man.
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