Imperfect Veg
Oct 28 2014


Pumpkins by the truckload
in corrugated bins, as big as dumpsters,
out front
where customers trundle by
wheeling loaded carts.

All summer, they have grown
on redolent soil
under soft warm sun.
Bursting with sufficient seed
to colonize the world
with tiny orange globes,
whose only purpose
is also to repose
in pastoral fields
growing large.

The only real food
in the grocery cart
will be carved, but never eaten.
The bizarre artistry

of 10 year olds,
digging eager hands
into slimy guts
delightedly screaming.

And in a week, will be left to rot
like all the pumpkins

someone bought.
Carted off, and dumped.
Or shattered and crushed
to orange goo
under passing cars,

marauding teens

purloining pumpkins.

I picked out the oddest,
an orphan pumpkin
whose homeliness seemed sweet.
A kindred spirit
I will not carve, or candle
but will turn into pies, and roasted seeds,
a dignified end
to the industrial harvest
of Hallowe'en.

After which

the supermarket will dump the discards,

the squashed and rejected
lop-sided, off-centred
discoloured and dented
imperfect veg.
Along with all

the good ones left,

in the early hours

of November 1^st.

Bulldozed into landfill,
where not a scintilla of sun
can penetrate
cold anaerobic earth.


This poem is mostly about waste, whipsawing the reader from a long golden summer -- and the hard work of farming -- to a quick and dirty end. I think the most telling bit could easily be missed: the irony that the "only real food in the ...cart" is for display, not eating.

With this in mind, I think Industrial Harvest would have been a very suitable title. But it sounds awfully serious, almost scolding, and would have missed the light-hearted word-play that makes the poem (I hope) more delightful than an earnest lecture. Imperfect Veg better captures that tone, while still alluding to this idea of waste: because where it appears in the body of the poem, I would hope that "the good ones… " was voiced with a note of irony.

There are lots of fun quirky lines and nice sentences (and since I'm so bad at narrative and dialogue, I'm all about the sentence). But one of my favourites is the contrast between "redolent soil/ under soft warm sun" with "cold anaerobic earth". To me, this depicts the virtuous circle of life interrupted by an unnatural end. I see segments of pumpkin all stacked-up and squished together, forever trapped in funereal darkness under dead compressed soil: unable even to decompose into new life. They could excavate a hundred years from now, and turn up perfectly preserved pumpkins.

(In the interest of full disclosure, I should confess that I'm not nearly so virtuous as the narrator here. In my defence, I don't bother with the seasonal pumpkin; but if I did, I'm not nearly a good enough home-maker to either bake pies or roast seeds. I'd probably let it go to rot, as well.)

Their North Atlantic Home
Oct 27 2014


My house is 2 shades of brown
with a beige interior.
It is camouflaged by trees,
so I look out
from the high bedroom window
at a soft green canopy,
into trembling leaves, and dappled light.
As if I lived in the upper branches,
the tree-house
of every boy's dream.

If I lived in the North Atlantic
in the grey light, and fog
clinging to scoured rock
I would paint in primary colours.
Like Iceland, or the Labrador,
fishing shacks, tumbling down the rocks,
small salt-box homes
immaculate.
How hard men
who work with their hands, and prefer not to talk
state their claim,
a defiant antidote
to bleak, and marginal, places.

But here, where the forest is lush
and quickly swallows-up

any man-made structure
I keep my head down.
Defer to the majesty of trees;
which break the wind, and soften light,
invite restraint.

So I am the tree in the forest,
deep
in fertile subsoil.

In the Travel section, there was aerial picture of Reykjavik. I was struck by the colourful houses, and immediately thought how much in common they had with Newfoundland: as if colour could be an antidote to their mutual home in the harsh North Atlantic.

In the crowded city, an act of such eye-catching colour would be almost anti-social: in the hyper-stimulation of busyness and density, one tries to be easy on the eyes and not stand out. And in a softer place -- like the temperate rainforest of the Pacific coast, where nature is magnificent and generous and fecund -- colour is restrained, because one doesn't presume to compete.

I admit, I've always been afraid of bold primary colour. I tend more to faded blue jeans and pastel paints. But it seems odd that you have to go to such bleak isolated places to find colour. And that it's not the product of artistic types or effete metropolitans; it's the product of hard men who work with their hands, and prefer doing to saying.

I started this poem wanting to depict that iconic Newfoundland outport, and somehow draw a line connecting it with this new image of Iceland ("new" because we are usually struck by Iceland's natural beauty, not the man-made). But I had trouble finding my way in; until I realized it had to be personal, and begin here (even though this is also a somewhat marginal place, and hardly the Pacific northwest!)

When I walk up to the 3rd floor of my back-split, and look out the big window into the canopy of white pines, it's easy to think of a tree-house. Not just the view, but the accident of colour choice: the lower floor its trunk, in dark wood and soft yellow; and the upstairs of pastel green, its leaves. I think "the tree-house/ of every boy's dream" may be my favourite part; perhaps if only because I've often thought and enjoyed this idea, but never shared it in a poem.

On the other hand, I really love the line in the 2nd stanza that begins "Like Iceland ...". Unfortunately, that stanza also contains the part I think a good editor would probably urge me to lose: " ...a defiant antidote/ to bleak, and marginal, places"; which is not only essentially redundant, but "says it" more than "shows it", which is always less powerful. What led to this is not unusual. It's a result of these blurbs, and the different way I both think and express myself when I'm writing prose instead of poetry: both more wordy, and more explicit. So the words "marginal" and "bleak" and "antidote" appeared as I wrote this piece, and then I couldn't resist revisiting the poem and shoe-horning them in. I'm afraid I have a very bad tendency to fall in love with the sound of my own voice!

I can suggest one reason I'm inclined to stick with the status quo, and it has to do with sound. I like the way "antidote" picks up "Labrador" (as well, in an even more sideways rhyme, "immaculate"); and how -- working forward instead of back -- "place" resonates with "restraint", ending both stanzas with the same finality. The trouble is, I wonder whether I only hear this because I'm anticipating the words, know what's coming -- something that would be lost on the naive reader; or whether the sideways rhyme would act, anyway, even if not explicitly noted. This is the trouble with any kind of writing, and poetry in particular: as the writer, you never really get to read it for the first time. I think a lot of the time I spend writing is spent trying to empty my mind, so I can go at it again as if I had no idea what's coming.

One final note: I hope "break the wind" is not taken the wrong way!

Animal Spirits
Oct 25 2014


A clear astringent wind
barrelled-in from the west.
Pent-up energy, released

like a wild stallion in heat,
kicking down the fence
in a furious break

for freedom.

Flushing out

the muzzy warmth
that had crept up from somewhere south
and settled-in,
days of torpid air
in an unseasonable fall.

Sturdy trees bent, the frail snapped.
Dry leaves swept downwind
circling like water-spouts,
until they came to rest
in the lee of the fence,
pockets

of wind shadow.

It blew the sky clear,
an eye-popping blue

cottoned with clouds.
The air was brisk, but sun-warmed

and I took slow deep breaths,

like a lifer

released from solitary.

A high pressure system
is like beginning fresh.
I throw the windows wide

and let it cleanse;
wind-whipped curtains, billowing out,
the house

purified by light.

Animal spirits are high
the old
newly young.
As once, I was able to run,
through unresisting air
the crunch

of skirling leaves.
Down a forest path
with the wind at my back
urging me on.


Several years ago I wrote a poem about a similar weather system. I think it ended with the mildly amusing phrase "idling somewhere out over Saskatchewan": anything with "Saskatchewan", after all, is bound to amuse!

Anyway, the last thing I wanted to write was another "weather" poem. But it was hard to resist today, with this powerful wind, and this welcome freshening that makes the world seem remade.

I probably dropped the ball on the animal metaphor. The title, and then the stallion analogy in the opening stanza, could have be followed up a lot more decisively; but except for fog "creeping", there isn't much. And water-spouts certainly don't fit! (Although in my defence, I did try a dog-chasing-its-tail, but couldn't make it work.) At least the last stanza, with its "running" and "animal spirits", calls back to that spirited stallion, and helps pull the poem tight.

I think the main feeling I had -- and was trying to express -- is in a single word in the second last stanza: "purification" is pretty much the nub of the thing; all the rest is mere ornament!

Is this the second poem in a row I've used "muzzy"? One of those useful words whose sound seem to express its meaning: you don't have to know what it means to know what is meant.

Sit-Down Dinner
Oct 21 2014


Dishes drip-dry
in the wire rack
on the counter beside the sink.
October sun, angling-in
glints off shiny porcelain

stainless steel implements
the big ceramic mug.

A still life
on household virtue, domestic bliss.

Except
for the shattered plate
that might have slipped,
the hurled glass
in broken bits.
And the heavy 10-inch chef's knife

that’s gone missing,
its German steel, and razor edge
and latent fingerprints.

Tomorrow, the dishes will be put away
in their pre-appointed places,
the floor conscientiously swept.

And the empty rack
will serenely wait
for the next family dinner.

                        ~~~~~~~

I read this poem in this week's New Yorker (Oct 27 2014):

SNOW IN YOUR SHOES
BY ANA RISTOVIĆ


Cutlery does not a home make

though an extra spoon

comes in handy.



New curtains do not a home make

though some windows

are best covered.



For a home to be a home,

you need many items

you’d rather have discarded.



What Eskimos advise:

build a sturdy igloo with

snow in your shoes;



the safety pin, forgotten

in the coat collar,

at your jugular.



(Translated, from the Serbian, by Steven and Maja Teref.)


On first reading, I got pre-occupied with the beginning; then lost focus, and skimmed through to the end. Now, in retrospect, I see how I've substantially recapitulated her work, with a similar sinister turn. So, in my defence, I really didn't intend to so nearly plagiarize!

(And also now -- after several re-readings, and slow as I am to figure things out -- I've come to appreciate just how much better her poem is, with its economy and naïve obliqueness and the power of that final word: why she's in the New Yorker, not me. I'm still not completely thrilled, though, because the shocker that ends it strikes me as a bit of a cheat: the only foreshadowing of something off-kilter is "snow in your shoes", so the final sensational stanza seems to come too suddenly, leaving me feeling I've been sucker-punched. ...On the other hand, maybe this is exactly why the New Yorker editors thought it was so good! (Especially since it holds up in translation, which is hard on poetry.) Unlike me, the magazine's poetry editor realizes that good poets don't under-estimate the reader, or feel the need to take her by the hand; which is my great failing. The most powerful poetry doesn't feel the need to spell it out.)

Anyway, I began with the simplest idea possible: a poem about kitchen implements. I thought a quiet poem of close observation about cutlery might go somewhere -- some nice inanimate object like a spoon. There is something about a spoon that makes it the most inoffensive and domestic thing in creation. When I read "cutlery" in Ristovic's piece, I would have pictured spoons, even if she hadn't gone on to mention one. (Actually, I already wrote that poem awhile ago, a sweet piece about nesting spoons.) When it came to thinking about my favourite utensil, though, I immediately thought of my big Henckels chef's knife, not spoons. And when it comes to knives, you can't avoid the lethal subtext of things that cut and pierce. So the poem took a turn ...

The poem started with the image, and was then quickly carried along by the word play -- something about the sound and precision and even "mouth feel" of those first 3 lines really hooked me, with their alliteration and rhyming "i's" and hard "k's". This conjured up a nice still life, but is essentially boring. So I called it just that -- a still life; which is when "domestic bliss" led me to it's ironic opposite (not to mention the perfect opening for my favourite knife!)

I've also just finished binge-watching this summer's featured offering from HBO, The Leftovers, in which there are a lot of slow reveals about hidden selves and family dysfunction; insights into conflicted inner lives of ambivalence and guilt and suffering. In retrospect, I think that show must have had a subconscious influence on the lives depicted here. (Because it certainly doesn't represent mine!) And how coincidental that it's also October, and that the poem explicitly points this out: the fateful day upon which The Leftovers hinges was Oct 14. ...Not to mention that "leftovers" is the perfect corollary of family dinner!!

Local Wood
Oct 20 2014


An unimposing house.
With tall leafy trees
for shade,

a wide veranda
skirting 3 sturdy walls
that invites you to stay.
It sits lightly
on its native soil,
as grounded as its inhabitants.

It was made from local wood,
mature trees
rooted in the same stony soil
as its strong foundation,
felled by hand
and left to season

in whatever sun there was.

How would it feel, instead
if kiln-dried 2x4s
had come by long-haul truck?
Strapped-down
in neat rectangular piles
on the double-axel flat-bed,
then dumped
in a freshly clear-cut yard.

Does wood have a sense of place
the affinity of birth?
Nurtured, like me
on a stream-fed lake
on a height of land
on a rocky shore.
In the boreal forest
where life is marginal,

the trees

hardy, but small.

And will it return
to its glacial soil
with the same organic grace
as those once majestic trees,
hollowed-out, by decay

and toppled in a minor breeze?
A falling-down house,
slumping into gentle curves

where the land has settled out,

obscured
by wild overgrowth.
Crumbling into rotten wood
the colour of earth.

I think a house
made of local wood
will last.
And it will feel like home,
creaking in wind, expanding in heat,
letting in
the perfect light
no matter what the season.


The real estate section had a small article about a new library somewhere in China. (Here's the cut-line from the photo. Unfortunately, the picture itself wouldn't copy: "The Liyuan Li­brary, de­signed by Li Xiaodong, in Jiao­jiehe, China, is made for the lo­cal cli­mate, runs with­out elec­tric power or me­chan­i­cal ven­ti­la­tion and is a vi­brant com­mu­nity in­sti­tu­tion.") It was made of locally sourced wood, and was beautiful. It looked warm, comfortable, inviting -- as do most things made of wood. The provenance of the wood was emphasized, and seemed critical to the architect's vision. 

I thought, of course, about this recently popular ideology of the “local”: the celebration of terroire; the sourcing of food from nearby and in-season; concerns about a global economy; and the environmental cost of distance.

Which is how I came to writing a poem about "local wood". A library would have worked. But a home, even better.

The Knowledge of Cars
Oct 17 2014


The rambling road curves,
in inexplicable double-backs
decreasing-radius turns.
Shoulders up against the woods,
its dark thatch of trees
even high beams
barely penetrate.
Either the path of least resistance
or for no reason at all,
as if a drunk surveyor, staggering back
had mapped his footsteps home.

Where after dark

I must be vigilant for deer.

For that vague silhouette,

a deeper murk, against the muzzy murk

of night.

For the glint
of alert brown eyes
lurking on the gravel verge.
Skittish animals of prey, spooked by light,

who dart out

in a blink of blur.

But more and more, they seem to wait,

as if inured

to passing cars.

As if only the quickest learners survived,
while the rest
were ruthlessly culled.
As if mothers schooled their young,
somehow passing on
the knowledge of cars.

Not instinct, but culture
in a dumb ungulate
we thought had none.
Who could just as well be city deer,
street-smart sophisticates
poking fun
at their rustic cousins
who know only to run.

Jaded deer
of a certain age

grazing at the side of the road,

warily look up

as I approach.
Who have learned to live

with passing cars,
the blinding light, ungodly noise
that breaks the peaceful night.

The last thing I wanted to write was another deer poem. At least this one is rescued by its rather original premise.

I have to wonder whether my observation -- about more patient deer -- is legitimate, or simply a case of confirmation bias: that the few times the deer unexpectedly stay put are far more memorable than the more numerous times they behave as expected. But if it is legitimate, this might be an example of natural selection in a localized population, weeding out the more skittish deer while favouring the more patient survivors, who are older and wiser and more likely to reproduce. Or even, as the poem suggests, an example of a collective learning curve: a transmission of knowledge, which is closer to culture than instinct; that is, a skill that's passed on through learning, not genes. I find this explanation -- culture -- the more fascinating and appealing possibility. Which is why I chose to highlight it in the title.

But still, the darn things have an uncanny knack of waiting until you're right on top of them before they dart out to late and too fast to avoid. The road isn't nearly as bad as the poem depicts; but it is hard to navigate while keeping a sharp lookout for deer. Especially since not only is it unlighted, it also has no reflective markers or centre line. Add in a little fog and a moonless night, and deer/car collisions are almost inevitable.

This is the first time ever I've used the word "muzzy". I was a little dubious about it for 2 reasons:  first, it came from the thesaurus, which I always feel is cheating; and second, it's not a word I'd ever use in "real" life -- not the big impressive word I try to avoid, but nevertheless uncommon. On the other hand, it seems to convey exactly what I wanted. And the context makes the meaning perfectly clear (that is, "perfectly unclear"!) Not to mention the alliteration for which I'm always a sucker. I also like the repetition of "murk", even though I usually avoid redundancy:  I think this doubling-down reinforces the impression of the layering and deepening of unrelieved darkness.

The 2nd stanza -- and into the 3rd -- flirts dangerously with cleverness. In my defence, the elaborate rhyme -- murk, alert, lurk(ing), verge, blur, inured, and learn(ers) -- was kind of accidental. But I think it's just enough to be fun without showing off. And I like the way rhyme like this pulls everything together, cinches it tight.

The Observant Child

Oct 13 2014

The observant child

clutches a plush brown bear

to her slender chest.

Her eyes are too large for her head

and seem to absorb all the light in the room,

like pouring liquid

into a reflecting pool

that never overflows.

She is the little girl

we feared was slow.

Who spoke late, and sparingly;

but turned out to have chosen muteness,

preferring to wait

until something worthwhile to say

came to mind.

She is still inscrutable.

And reticence can be useful,

because the taciturn

are easy to like —

we mistake their silence

for complicity,

they leave us space

to prattle on.

And because we attribute wisdom

to those who are frugal with words.

But this is the business of childhood,

to observe, and learn

make sense of the world.

Better to attend, than talk.

In her absorbent gaze

we call upon our better selves,

not sure if it’s wonder, or judgement

we see in those eyes.

And in her scrutiny

find ourselves wanting our own plush toy.

The one that was once inseparable;

with the same worn fur,

thin stuffing

spilling out.

To press against our nakedness,

keep us warm, and safe.

I’ve heard of high-functioning autistic children who were like this. Everyone thought language was a lost cause; but it turns out they had rich inner lives they kept to themselves, until they felt the time was right. I find something very appealing in this reticence, this assured sense of self. Most of the rest of us are eager to pontificate and pronounce; want to claim attention, make sure the world doesn’t ignore us or forget we’re here. I think the ending illuminates this contrast:  the needy adult, regressing and insecure, while this serene self-assured child unselfconsciously soaks everything in.

The immediate inspiration for this poem was one by Louise Gluck. I was skimming through a New Yorker article about her latest book Faithful and Virtuous Night. I’m not a big fan; but  this excerpt caught my eye:

My aunt folded the printed wrapping paper;

the ribbons were rolled into neat balls.

My brother handed me a bar of chocolate

wrapped in silver paper.

Then, suddenly, I was alone.

Perhaps the occupation of a very young child

is to observe and listen:

In that sense, everyone was occupied—

I listened to the various sounds of the birds we fed,

the tribes of insects hatching, the small ones

creeping along the windowsill, and overheard

my aunt’s sewing machine drilling

holes in a pile of dresses—

I felt compelled to do something with that arresting line:  “Perhaps the occupation of a very young child/ is to observe and listen …”. I immediately had a picture of this precocious little girl; her stillness, her ineffable gaze. This poem is the result.

Good Dog
Oct 11 2014











The dog sits
staring into the distance,
nose twitching
at any hint of smell.

There is a dignity in her posture,
back straight

neck raised,
her noble snout, held high
as befits the mistress
of all she surveys.
I admire her patience
watchfully waiting
there on the porch,
sniffing the air
regally gazing
right, then left.

There is no philosophy
in this dog.
She does not contemplate
existence, or sex
the meaning of death

the rationale of fetching.

Has no vanity
despite her handsome strength.
And language is merely static noise;
but she understands faces,
is exquisitely tuned
to tone.

She accepts the universe
as given.
That I have always been there.
That she lives in her body, not her head,
fully absorbed
by food, and touch
pursuit, and scent.
That darkness comes, winter falls,
and it is always now
and forever.

She is unselfconscious;
her emotions, incontinent,
spilling-out
in excited jumps
a frantically wagging tail.
She forgives, and forgets
and carries no grudge.
She is loyal, and tough
and seems to know love
better than I could
ever.

And then she's off,
a brown streak, barking proudly,
inhabiting a world
of sound and scent
to which I'm utterly oblivious.


This bit of doggerel (forgive the pun!) is a complete indulgence. Every once in a while I feel compelled to write a paean to dogs. This just wrote itself; in a stream of consciousness that came quickly, and almost without effort. Dog lovers will enjoy it. All the others will roll their eyes at its sentimentality and idealization.

This poem began when I heard developmental psychologist Paul Bloom being interviewed about the origins of morality in babies. He said he'd give 6 months of his life to spend some time in a baby's head. Then he added -- perfectly seriously -- that he'd also love the privilege of getting inside the head of his dog (a greyhound, it turns out.) He wondered how it would feel to experience the world in an utterly different way. He wondered what goes on in his pet’s mind, spending all that time sitting, staring off into the distance?

I recently read about a new GoPro camera that's designed to fit snugly on any dog's head. It will allow an owner to experience moving through the world from his dog's perspective. I initially thought I might use this clever bit of technology as the hook for the poem. But then I realized what I wanted was not to see the world through a dog's eyes, but to get into its head. So I began instead with Paul Bloom's image -- which applies equally well to Skookum, my own beloved Lab -- and went from there.

I tried to touch on all that I admire in dogs: their ability to live in the moment, complete lack of vanity, utter physicality. Their essential dignity. Their ability to read us so well. Their innocence, and pure unselfconsciousness. Their unconditional loyalty, and love. I know there are bad dogs, and even more bad owners. But my dog is sweet, smart, and loyal. So I'm prone to see all dogs through her: if not the superficial lens of GoPro, then perhaps the rose-tinted glasses of a great dog. 

Handwritten
Oct 10 2014


According to science
I learn better
writing by hand.

The tactile art
of forming a letter
the feel of a pen.
The rolling friction, pleasing weight
of its steel nub
on the white absorbent page.

My mind and hand engaged,
messy penmanship
an aide-mémoire.

As synapses in my brain
strengthen the connection
between manual effort
sub-conscious thought.

Mistakes remain, all the second-guessing,
crossed-off
in dark blue ink,
rubbed-out
in a smudge of lead.

When I write too quickly

my back-hand grip
spreads fresh wet ink.

Smears soft black pencil

across the page,

its graphite sheen

shining greyly

in a certain light.

But between keyboard and screen
something goes missing.
The ghost in the machine
exorcised
by uniform letters, precisely set.
Defaulting, as always

to Times New Roman
in 12 point font.

Where poetry sounds the same
as a legal brief

divorce petition.

Except when the tap-tap-tapping stops
in a long pause,
of expectant quiet,
the machine patiently idling
as I wander off, somewhere
hungry for touch.

The Festive Bird
Oct 8 2014


The one day in the calendar
we allocate to thanks.
Which seems hardly adequate,
a bank holiday
on a Monday in fall
when the days are rapidly shortening.

Gratitude
for another season's harvest;
as if starvation were possible,
when supermarket shelves
overflow with abundance
a surfeit of choice.

For peace
in this green and pleasant land,
after a decade of war
on some foreign shore
we mostly forgot, and ignored.

For the privilege of being loved,
which we either take too much for granted
or feel unworthy of.

The only day all year
when it seems appropriate
to begin with grace.
When the family patriarch
must stand up awkwardly
and think of something to say,
not quite sure
for what, or to whom.

He reflects
on the accident of birth,
born unimpaired
to parents who cared
in this favoured time, and place.
Which means we won the lottery
at the very start,
and for the rest of our lives
have no damned right
to expect anything but.

Was it dumb luck
or providence?
And if there is such a thing as justice
does that mean a future of suffering
in the cruel symmetry
of zero-sum?
Or is fate indifferent
and we will go on living
a life that's more of the same?

He thinks of family fights
and a querulous wife
and incomprehensible kids.
About a meaningful life
or putting in time
in semi-contented drift.
And a handsome back-split, bulging with shit,
yet all its pleasures

sadly short-lived.

But the turkey is plump
and the gravy is rich
and his angst
hardly worthy, or fit.
So with a "let us give thanks"
he raises his glass

takes a satisfied glance
and toasts the cook.
Then retakes his seat
and hands start to reach
and the over-eating
begins.

I found this poem very difficult to write. (Frankly, the first draft really stunk. The only reason I kept hammering away at it was that I sensed some basic promise, a hint of possibility. And I suppose I was right, since I've obviously deemed it a keeper. Of sorts, anyway.) Difficult to write because the basic premise is kind of adolescent: that is, cheap shots at middle-aged angst, materialism, and unexamined lives. And presumptuous, as if most people commit gratitude only on the designated day! And challenging, because it touches on some complicated philosophical questions; but, as good poetry must, only tangentially. There are allusions to the nature of happiness, fate and agency, godlessness and providence, an indifferently random universe, and even justice and good and evil!!

It starts in the 2nd stanza, when I point out the irony of a harvest holiday when we are so disconnected from agriculture and food security (not to mention real food!) And contained here -- at least if you share my world-view -- is an allusion to the contingency of all this: all that colour and abundance and choice, which depends on a complicated interdependent system that would disappear in a day if the trucks stopped running.

The reference to war -- which I'm sure no one will recognize if this is ever read a few years from now -- was of course Afghanistan. But we contracted that out to our small volunteer armed forces, and it required neither much reflection or sacrifice from us.

For the rest, I think I had in mind the atomized nature of modern family life, where everyone has their nose buried in a mobile device, and families never sit down to dinner together. (A bit of a caricature, I know!) So not only is "grace" a kind of awkward and unfamiliar formality, but the festive meal itself is a big anomaly compared to the usual fast food and customized menus.

The emptiness of bourgeois existence, of the unexamined life, is pretty much exemplified by the compulsive over-eating on which the poem ends: how material things are not ultimately fulfilling; how short-term gratification displaces mindful living. ...As I said, definitely verging into the adolescent and presumptuous: more heavy-handed sermon than nuanced poem!

I have my doubts about "shit". The expletive seems jarring. Not just because there is no other vernacular language in the poem, but because it indicate a sudden shift in his state of mind: it has him veering from a sort of desultory perplexed reflection into sudden vehemence and conviction. It would seem more like self-indulgent ventilation for my sake than a consistent rendering of this man. ...On the other hand, it is powerful and does rhyme, which is good enough for me!

(I also ended not only a line, but an entire stanza, with a preposition (“ ...or feel unworthy of”, the alternative being “of which we feel/ unworthy.” ). Yikes!! I know a poet is allowed to get away with this. And here, the rhyme gives it the punch the preposition lacks. The informal rule against the terminal preposition is one I very much follow, since prepositions are the weakest form of speech, and that privileged position at the end of a line -- with its slight resonance and "end-emphasis" -- is almost always wasted on those little words.)

The Metaphysics of Jazz
Oct 5 2014


How many notes
in a musical scale?
A sweet round "C"
bent, sharpened, tweaked
in a continuum of sound
infinitesimally down
to its fundamental particles.

Like the constituents of atoms

the matter of song

can never be pure,

exquisitely altered
by having been heard.

How singers, in chorus
conjure that third voice,

surrounded

by the disembodied sound

of soft harmonic chords.

The metaphysics of song;

verse, given birth

by some ethereal choir
that sings, on-high.

The alchemy of jazz,
with its call-and-response
its handing-off, and improvised riffs
played by ear, and heart, and lips
in dim little bars
after hours.
Her rough-edged voice

simmering with sex,

and helpless as a little girl’s.
The high, nearly reached,
a half-step off
the propulsive beat.

It's her restraint
that holds us rapt,
the unbearable tension

of a powerful voice
held back.
Like a powerful engine’s

quiet throbbing

as it teasingly idles,

before foot-to-the-floor

and the turbine roar

of its wide-open throttle.

Until the last note
lingers on,
trailing away

on a final breath
in the blue smoky stillness.
As insubstantial as air
and as indestructible as matter,
all its energy
given-up
in a flash of naked light.
Exposed
down to our cold white bones,
or wherever the soul resides.


I've encountered far too many people who just don't "get" jazz. All I can do is encourage them to try listening again, and feel sorry for what they're missing. Not that my tastes are for esoteric or particularly challenging forms, since I'm most inclined to the so-called "Great American Songbook" style of jazz: especially the slower ballads and the great female vocalists. I love the clever lyrics. I love the space in the music, so unlike the "wall of sound" of more contemporary stuff. And I love the virtuoso sound of a tight jazz combo or a big band: the energy, the sweet pure notes, the musical genius of improvisation. (No swearing, misogyny, auto-tuning, or guns!)

I was listening to the TED Radio Hour from NPR. The podcast's theme was creativity. In one piece, they talked about jazz players improvising -- a perfect combination of virtuoso skill and creative chops -- in an fMRI machine. So I started to write about jazz.

Unfortunately, the same podcast also left me feeling unusually self-conscious: because I wasn't in that creative a mood to begin with, and because of the science itself. Since the experiment revealed a shutting-down of the busy self-monitoring centre in the frontal brain, I paradoxically became more self-conscious, and found myself becoming as hyper-vigilant as if I, too, were under the microscope while trying to be creative! But it's this shutting down that's crucial: not only as the source of that mysterious feeling of "flow", but by opening us to making mistakes, taking flyers, and losing our fear of being wrong.

It's clear how the science (or more precisely, physics) informed the jazz: from the Heisenberg uncertainty principle, to metaphysics and alchemy, to the conservation of energy and Einstein's famous equation. In the final stanza, I'm picturing not just an X-ray, but the flash of an atomic bomb: its incredible energy rendering a fleeing human body momentarily transparent; the fundamental particles of matter a call-back (admittedly, pretty obscure!) to the first stanza.

I've written several poems about jazz. And I'm certainly guilty of -- once again(!) -- plagiarizing them, repeating some of the same ideas, words, and motifs I've used before. I like to think that I'm keeping the good parts and winnowing down the bad, and one day will produce the perfect jazz poem that supersedes all the rest. (Or perhaps, will simply block myself in to a narrowing passage of self-referential meaninglessness, as if running full speed into a rock wall at the end of a blind canyon!)

The race car analogy comes out of nowhere, and isn’t picked up again. My only justification is that the image immediately came to mind, and I couldn’t let it go. I could feel as much as hear that low powerful throbbing, and the excited anticipation of it roaring into over-drive, breaking free of all restraint. I think this is similar to that cathartic release when the singer finally opens up from the bottom of her diaphragm, carrying us along with the full force of her voice.

I apologize for any musical faux pas. I realize that, consistent with a descending scale -- with its arbitrarily designated notes, and infinite gradations of sound -- I probably should have said "flattened" instead of "sharpened"; but I liked the edge and energy of the latter, so let it stand. And I suspect the singer is Billy Holiday, and the style, mostly hers: singing the blues, slightly behind the beat. I think I heard Ella Fitzgerald when I began to write; but the tortured soul of the jazz singer pushed her aside. Other than that, I'll invoke the defence of ignorance: I can't play a thing, only sing in the shower (and still self-consciously, at that!), and have no formal musical training or knowledge. "I know what I like" is the extent of my musical authority!

Trophy Buck

Oct 2 2014

Hunters in the woods

humping through the underbrush,

stumbling over fallen trees

mucking through the sodden leaves

in florid orange vests.

Who warm themselves with drink,

sweating underneath

camouflage, and gumboots.

Eyes squinting, fingers twitchy,

hair-trigger

at anything that moves.

But the woods are oddly lifeless.

Just scolding squirrels, out of sight

and distant birds, in soundless flight

and shape-shifting shadows.

They will trash-talk their buddies

knock back steak and beer.

But there will be no trophy buck this year.

No winged deer,

dragging itself off

to lick its wounds, and die.

Except on the drive home,

when a skittish doe

was startled by the headlights.

A fair fight, pick-up vs deer.

No guns.

Dead tie.

I was out walking the dogs, on our familiar path through the woods, when they took-off into the bush, barking nervously (I say "nervously" because they're not really the courageous heroes they imagine themselves!), and I could make out a distant voice. I immediately had visions of drunken hunters, straying onto private property and hair-trigger at anything that moves. Turns out it was our neighbour -- who was of course perfectly sober -- had been bow-hunting, and was searching for a grouse he might have missed; but also might have killed, or winged. The dogs came up empty, and we were relieved to think there had been no wounded animal left to die.

I don't hunt. Nevertheless, I respect the notion of killing what you eat, and of our necessary role in maintaining the balance of nature, having eliminated most of the other top predators. And I get the argument that the animals they take were given the chance to lead a far better life than those raised for our thoughtless consumption on feedlots and factory farms. And I like to think that most hunters are responsible and safe, and that they operate with reverence and gratitude. But being as generous as I can in this, there is still no case to be made for this being a fair fight: guns vs defenceless creatures is inherently uneven. (Needless to say, a bow gives the animal a little more of a fighting chance.)

When we met, I joked with our neighbour that he'd probably have better luck taking his truck out on the nearest road and hunting with it! (There are a lot of deer around here, and driving after dark takes constant vigilance.)

I'm probably unfairly hard on the hunters in this poem, depicting them as loutish good ol' boys who hunt drunk, who crash through the woods in their ridiculous camouflage and lurid orange, who shoot haphazardly, and who leave wounded animals to die.

Anyway, all these strands of thought were the beginnings of this poem: the crude hunters (no aspersions on my neighbour, who is a good hunter); a wounded animal; and skittish deer jumping out into the road. And led -- quite unintentionally -- to its end; with its fatal symmetry, and oddly satisfying fairness.

I originally had something about "crashing through the windshield" there. I know one of my failings is to over-write, and that I do this out of not trusting the reader enough. So I'm pleased that I stuck with cutting this. Because any attentive reader can quite capably make this inference on her own. And because it must be mildly annoying to get the message that you need your hand held as you navigate the poem, like an uncomprehending toddler crossing the street. After all, a "skittish" deer that's "startled" says all that needs to be said. (And in the spirit of "less is more", a good editor would probably try to persuade me to drop the entire third stanza, as well!)

It took many permutations of "pick-up/ fight/ gun/ tie" before I settled on this final version (which ended up a-b-b-a instead of a-b-a-b). Without being able to read the poem cold, it's hard for me to tell how well it works. But I'm still really pleased with "dead tie": how short, sharp, and strong it is; how it implies a conclusion, without definitively stating it.