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.)