Dead Air

Aug 30 2015

A blood-orange moon

glows sullenly.

Like an ember, fanned into flare

that will soon consume itself

snuffing out.

Even at high noon

the sky is hazily dull,

its brilliant blue smudged

as if viewing the sun

through heavy-gauge glass,

concentrating heat

subtracting light.

Dead air,

with the claustrophobic feel

of short-of-breath.

Has humidity thickened the air?

Is a volcano spewing dust

somewhere in the tropics?

Or is it forest

going up in dense black smoke,

flashing-over, so tinder dry?

I think of winter nights,

when the desiccated air

is like a clear lens

out into space;

every star, laser-sharp

in black immaculate sky.

But this air is unsettling,

suffocating, thick

malignant.

I sniff for smoke, ozone

decomposing flesh.

And wait for a stiff north wind

to blow it fresh.

It was the moon I noticed most. Especially since it was full. Yet all the conditions seemed ripe for a clear high pressure system: there was a northwest breeze, the humidity was middling, and a thunderstorm had already moved through, leaving settled air. So even though it was sunny, it wasn't: there was a haziness to the sky, in place of that hard blue infinity I thought was due.

It's a descriptive poem, without the narrative drive or human emotion or personal quality that make poems work best. If anything saves it, then, it's the first-person narrator. Of course, I didn't start out with any agenda -- any theme, or story, or deep emotion. I just wanted to get at that blood orange moon down on paper, and then let stream-of-consciousness take it from there.

It turned out to have a very claustrophobic and malevolent feel: there's blood and snuffing and dullness and smudged; there's dead air, thickened ...air, and shortness-of-breath; there's suffocation and malignancy and decomposing flesh; and there are words like heavy and dense and unsettling. So it works rather well that the final word turns out to be fresh; as if a single word could suddenly cancel everything out!

Force of Nature

August 29 2015

You could hear them coming

down the length of the lake.

A couple, late middle-aged

and she, singing all the way

as if serenading nature.

Her voice was big

and sweet

and full of joy.

She was paddling in back, in control

which is usually the man's prerogative.

It must not have mattered

that she wasn't any good,

changing sides randomly

zig-zagging erratically,

accompanied by the dull clang

of wood against aluminum

like some kind of avant-garde jazz.

While he spoke softly

and dutifully paddled along,

pleasantly content

to follow.

They were not the outdoorsy type,

white-haired, and on the lumpy side,

in floppy sun hats

over-sized life jackets.

And the canoe was a clunker, as well,

too fat to be fast

and the battered aluminum

made it slower still.

And unfashionably flat-sterned

where a small motor clamps on.

Except they propelled themselves.

And she, a force of nature, needed no help,

singing lustily

and unselfconsciously,

waving a grand hello

as they paddled past.

They stuck close to shore,

pointing out the sights

as delighted as children

for the first time,

husband and wife

in their own private playground.

Show-tunes, lullabies, rock 'n roll.

This is how to grow old, I thought;

as if you were still in the summer of life

and school was out for good.

In no particular rush,

belting out your song

with the one you love,

as if this was all there was

that mattered.

True story.

Surprisingly quiet on the lake, for one of the last nice weekends of the summer. But this couple were having none of it: they weren't going to waste the last of the good weather!

I admire, and perhaps kind of envy, her utter unselfconsciousness. (Not to mention her ability to carry a tune!) They set a good example. That is, be yourself, even if it's a little eccentric. Apparently, eccentrics are healthier than the rest of us. So it must do some good to ignore the crowd, to stubbornly refuse to conform. (And I have no idea why I just wrote than the rest of us, since if anyone is a bona fide eccentric, I am! ...Maybe it's because to be a gloriously true eccentric, one must lack a certain self-awareness.)

I assumed, quite naturally, that they were husband and wife. But why not illicit lovers? Just goes to show how ageist even I can be!

Arithmetic

Aug 25 2015

Too soon, to see the first leaf change.

It stood out like a bashful orphan,

dull russet

against the green blur

of the densely verdant slope.

But everything in nature

keeps its own version of time

according to some deep internal logic;

the cacophony of life, like a clockmaker's shop

with gears whirring and hands circling and chimes going off.

  ...But really, late August?!!

On second thought

perhaps this leaf is simply acting like us

as we age,

when days flash past, weeks go faster

seasons last a month.

You can see the irony in this --

the perception of time quickening

the less of it we have.

Which isn't cruelty, but simple arithmetic.

Because a year of life is vast, when you're 5;

and merely a 50th

half a century after.

As well as the consequence of habit,

the been-there/done-that

of advancing age.

In contrast to youth;

when everything is new

and all-consuming,

and you’re hungry to learn, and feel.

So do not become jaded, do not keep track.

Scrutinize each leaf, and be amazed

at its light, its shape, its beauty.

Let the seasons unfold,

the succession of plants

the shortening days.

Until spring, when they lengthen,

and you find yourself young, again.

It's been a cold summer here. Today, it feels like fall. So I suppose it's no surprise to have seen that little spot of russet in the green blur of bush. And anyway, whatever kind of summer, it's not unusual for an injured or ill plant to turn prematurely.

The observation was certainly worth a poem. But I'm not sure if it was this one. Because this is uncharacteristically affirmative for me, with its positive prescription and anodyne ending: a bit too much rah-rah and Hallmark card, and not enough cynical realism. On the other hand, I think its form veers a little closer to the conversational and unstylized voice of the prose poem; which I quite like, find challenging, and want to do more and more of.

This is really another poem about writing poetry. It's about the poet's eye, about microcosm, about taking the time to observe and consider. I hope it won't be read as self-congratulatory: as if I were smugly preening about how astute I am to see, how sensitive to notice. Because in reality one of my great failings is the been-there/done-that perspective: I'm so change-averse and conservative, I don't do enough new things or take enough risks to slow my perception of time. Which is just what filling up your days does: while time races by in the moment, when you're focused and absorbed and in the flow, it slows in retrospect, as you reflect back on a full and fulfilling life. ... I'm just fortunate to have my poems as markers of time spent.

(By the way, my arithmetic is pretty bad, considering the title of the poem! Because strictly speaking, it should be 45 years, not half a century. But saying "45 years" right after "50th" is awkward on the lips; "half a century" comes out so much easier. And also sounds significantly longer!)

The Sound of Gunshots At Dusk

Aug 21 2015

Could it be kids, taking pot-shots

at cans on fence-posts

empty bottles?

A man, instructing his son

in the finer points of gunmanship?

Or an old clunker, billowing blue-black smoke

back-firing down

some country lane?

Hunting season, again.

When men

heft freshly-oiled guns,

true their aim

down long steel barrels;

eyes narrowed,
cool metal, brushing the cheek.

When men

sport camouflage, and brilliant orange vests.

When a walk in the woods

can be deadly.

But I could never kill a deer.

My trigger-finger would freeze

squinting down the cross-hairs

at a buck in heat;

head held high, snorting steam,

magnificent rack

battle-tested.

Too beautiful to waste.

Too miraculous

to be so lightly taken.

I'd rather see him run,

muscles taut

legs a blur.

Or stand, in a clearing in the woods

skittish as a coiled spring,

fierce brown eyes

flashing light.

The calculated act

of squeezing-off a shot

seems cowardly, unredeemable;

scoring my kill

out of sight and smell

like some act of God.

Perhaps, if I were a more manly man

I would hunt, as well.

But I'd rather capture the beast

in words,

walk lightly through the bush

and observe.

The fellow feeling

of one lowly creature

for another,

equally deserving of life.

Or even fire-crackers? No, definitely rifles. And since I think it's too early for hunting season, most likely target practice. I've been hearing gunfire in the distance for several weeks. Usually in the late evening. A hunter, just itching to get going again? Kids, taking pot-shots? So even though it's still August (although it feels like fall, so far this year!), my thoughts turn to hunting, and how unpleasant I find it. Especially with all the recent controversy about trophy hunting, big-game safaris, and the targeting of endangered animals.

I know, I know; I'm being hypocritical. After all, I eat meat, wear leather shoes. The only feeble distinction I can raise in my defence is that livestock are raised for the purpose: they wouldn't otherwise have been born. And that their lives are so uninspired and bovine, they somehow seem less worthy, compared to a wild animal. As I said, pretty feeble! So perhaps it's more my repugnance at killing for sport. For subsistence, yes, In self-defence, yes. But not for fun. And to call this "sport" -- when killing is nothing such, and when guns make it anything but fair -- seems hardly sporting. Which is why manly man is most definitely said ironically.

Still, even if I was going to be ruthlessly reductive about taking life, I know I would not be able to pull the trigger if I had a magnificent deer in my sights. I'd have to kill him with my bare hands for it not to seem cowardly. And a wild animal is so essentially alive -- so full of grace and beauty and complexity -- that tossing off a shot is too easy, too disrespectful, too horrible an act of wanton destruction. The suffering of an animal always seems to cut me to the quick. The thought of inflicting that suffering is unbearable.

I use act of God. But of course, as a committed atheist, I never use the word "God" literally. It's more of a short-hand for the presumption and privilege with which we often view nature; or, to be Biblical again, the idea of "dominion" more as dominance than stewardship and custody. Which is why I end the poem with a statement of humility -- lowly creature -- as well as empathy -- equally deserving of life.

Hard Country

Aug 20 12015

The abandoned house,

broken windows

like blackened eyes.

Its out-buildings nearly collapsed;

log walls, angled this-way-and-that,

sagging roofs

like sway-backed horses.

Inside, it was dank and dark,

broken glass

clinked on the floors.

Emerging 
from the cool gloom of the forest

I was caught by surprise;

a sun-drenched clearing, hacked from the woods,

where homesteaders had tried

to start a life.

It was the stillness

that struck me most.

As if time moved more slowly here,

measured by seasons, and years.

Or had entirely stopped;

with everything left

just as it was,

as if they had only stepped out

for a moment or two

and would soon return.

This is hard country to farm.

Thin soil

with its crop of rocks, and broken dreams.

A late spring, and fickle summer

the comes with hail

its share of grief.

But now, it was flourishing;

waist-high weeds, seeding themselves,

wildflowers, arresting the eye

like unexpected gems.

Because nature inexorably reclaims.

Wood rots

land subsides

garden plants run wild.

Roots heave, and colonize.

And trees grow unstoppably,

pushing through roofs, toppling walls.

Even steel crumbles

brittle with rust.

I had taken a rough path

through the backwoods

and stumbled upon this accidental place,

only to find myself blind-sided

by such deep feeling.

Touched

by those long-ago-people

full of stoic hope,

by this frozen tableau

of neglect, and abandon.

And where I couldn’t help but think

how the footprint of man

is so evanescent,

despite our swagger, and pride.

I could easily imagine

the white walls

and bright red trim

before they faded and flaked.

The patch of grass

where children must once have played.

The border of marigolds

that someone tended so lovingly

when there was work to be done.

Before the wall of thorns, and tangled brush

ran rampant through the yard.

 I’m pretty sure I wrote about this before. (But it’s way back in the archives, and I haven’t bothered to check it out.) The dog and I were out for a hike, and ended up exploring this path.

Actually, things were not left as if they had just stepped out:  the house had been pretty much emptied. I found the little shed fascinating. It was chock-a-block with old newspapers and vintage magazines, which I spent too long thumbing through.  There was also some rusting machinery, abandoned furniture, broken farm implements. And overgrown weed-infested fields, of course.

What recalled this memory for me was reading a short essay about a trip to Angkor Wat, and the writer’s description of the trees growing amidst the buildings, the green jungle invading. She nicely evoked the choking fecundity and slowly crumbling structures in that hot humid place. She had me recalling this other place I had seen, where nature was also reclaiming from man. And as I recalled, I couldn’t help but think of the hard life they had led, the struggle eventually abandoned.

Barking Dog

Aug 18 2015

There is always a barking dog

in street scenes

on camera.

Especially after dark;

a signal that this is authentic

with a measure of menace

stylish noir.

I know this

because my dog, sprawled asleep at my side as I watch

bolts

with every pan, zoom, dissolve

of hooker alley, or suburban lawn,

racing to the door

to defend our territory.

After all these years

she still doesn't get TV.

There is no place for art, allegory, impression

in the life of a dog.

She is all about present time.

Is acutely attuned to her kind.

Occupies either inside

or out;

because there is an order to the world

and it cannot vary.

She seems to derive great joy

from all the excitement.

And struts back in triumph, eyes bright, tail wagging

naturally expecting my thanks.

She has kept us safe, after all

the bad guys at bay.

While I feel guilty for waking her,

my trigger-finger

not fast enough to mute.

And feel annoyed

at foley artists who toy

with barking dogs,

don't trust the audience.

Fortunately, the dog never tires of this,

a modern-day Lassie

basking in gratitude

for saving Timmy from the well.

Then takes her well-earned rest,

monopolizing the couch

and returning to sleep, again.

To puppy dreams

of strangled barks, and running legs.

Her own cliff-hanger/who-dun-it, I'm sure,

in which the squirrel always gets caught

and dinner is continuously served.

She's actually a pretty useless watchdog; even though she thinks she's a big shot.

Frankly, I would have thought she'd have figured this out after all these years. A couple of times, she's even paused, nosing the speaker for a second before racing out. But the connection fails: if it's another dog, then it must be outside. It must be both comforting and useful to have the world so rigidly ordered, everything categorical. Sure, we're far more capable of imagination and plasticity of mind; but wouldn't it be a relief just keeping things simple like that, sometimes?!!

It's a silly poem, with a cheap ending. But since I only rarely indulge in a dog poem (I'd write a lot more, if I let myself!), any kind of silliness is allowed.

Sanctuary

Aug 17 2015

One final thrust

and I nose into the lee,

cutting through the glassy surface

in a long inertial glide.

Like a switch, flicked-off

the furious wind, and choppy water

abruptly die,

as my canoe

cuts behind the island.

I feel the tension ease, focus release,

leaning back

and calmly floating.

Which is just how the poet sees,

unhurried, detached, receptive.

The sun's full heat,

playing peek-a-boo

with cotton clouds,

freshly laundered, tumbled dry.

Coarse grass, poking-up in the shallows,

like a still life

of unimproved nature.

Tangled bush, to the edge of lake,

except for the flat grey rock

still bone-warm hot

that slopes down, then under.

And a mother, with her ducklings

kicking quickly away

like little wind-up toys.

I cruise slowly

along the densely treed shore.

The paddling is effortless, and straight

in this protected place

in the lee of the little island.

The kind of secret

not worth keeping,

because no one will believe, anyway.

I was doing just this earlier today -- with the dog, as usual, cockily propped up on the bow deck, nose into the wind. Which wasn't at all challenging; but still, when you cross that line into the lee of the small island, the relaxation is palpable. And as I leaned back and drifted through the calm water, I had this very self-conscious thought that this is what poets are supposed to write about. I could feel a hypothetical elbow jabbing me, as if to say "hey, nothing happening here -- perfect for poetry!" Which seemed true enough: there must be at least some metaphorical potential in turning the corner from the storm into the lee. Which I promptly forgot about, and paddled home. But later in the day, when I felt like writing, I couldn't get away from that calm spot, and taking my ease. Even if I didn't end up working the metaphor for what it's worth.

Of course, the world hardly needs one more lyric poem about nature. Which is the challenge in a poem like this. I always worry about losing the reader, whom I can just see turning the page as she rolls her eyes and thinks "more of the same". Or descending into cliché. Or falling back on platitudes. And, of course, when I put in the part about how the poet sees, I worry about being far too self-absorbed and precious: is it too much "inside baseball" when a poet seems to be writing to himself about writing poetry? ...Oh well. Hope it works for you.

I rather like unimproved nature. It's said with a bit of irony. Because most lakes this near a city are fully colonized with camps and cottages: all the wilderness is domesticated, the waterfront manicured. Unruly weedy grass like this would never be permitted! ...I'm thinking a place like Muskoka, with those home-beautiful boat-houses and river-rock breakwaters and golf-green lawns.

The idea of a secret place came from the idea of sanctuary: like most Shangri-La's, you want to keep them for yourself.

Of course, the lee of a small island is hardly unbelievable. I think a more accurate word would be "unappreciated". Which it would be, unless you slow down, unless you're operating under your own power, unless you discipline yourself to see with intention. But "unappreciated" also sounds superior and supercilious: as if the hoi polloi aren't nearly sensitive as me, the precious poet, and would most likely miss all the subtle beauty here. So I went with the idea of believability, instead.

From Here

August 16 2015

My grandmother was born here

before the turn of the last century.

She was still a child, when they left

not long after;

a mere asterix, in her biography,

when this town was small

and even more remote.

I didn't know her well.

We lived a long way off,

and she was not a big hugger, baker, comforter,

the grandmotherly sort

you tend to think of.

It's shocking to imagine

that touching hands with her

is like reaching across the 20th century,

all that tumult and change

when the world was re-made

so many times over.

And that, through circumstance and choice

I ended up living here as well.

Which means I can claim the history

of 3 generations,

our ancestral name

planted like a flag

in its hard perpetual granite.

When I am really rootless, and unattached,

living without the enmeshed entangled connectedness

of real family.

So how long, before you're from here?

What makes belonging, identity

a sense of place?

Is it real estate?

Is it friends, marriage, blood?

Is it acceptance

from the wary old-timers

who count generations like currency,

and to whom come-from-aways

are born poor

and will die in debt?

Home, which you can only make

the best of.

When I moved here -- to Thunder Bay -- I don't think I even realized that my paternal grandmother spent her early childhood here. (The actual birth was in North Dakota, where her own mother's (father's?) extended family had originally homesteaded, and where her pregnant mother returned to give birth; but that's a mere technicality. And I took some poetic license with the "ancestral name", which -- because it follows the maternal line -- was Lyone, not Green.) They eventually moved on to the big city of Winnipeg -- in those days, the ambitious "Chicago of the north" -- and all connections with Ft. William were severed. (Ft. William, along with Port Arthur, are the twin cities that amalgamated in the 1970s to make present day Thunder Bay. Alright, another technicality: I'm a Port Arthur guy, and her family actually lived in Ft. William. Since the psychological division still exists between the traditional rivals, I feel compelled to specify my allegiance!)

So I have this paradoxical relationship to this place: deep roots; and also rootless. It makes me think of small towns and insular islands, especially when their population inevitably ages: how you have to go back at least 3 generations to even be considered a native. Live in the place all you adult life, and you're still a newcomer and come-from-away.

So this poem becomes an opportunity to explore ideas of place and attachment, of belonging and home. (And I think there is a simple answer to the tortured question of the poem: home is where you have kids. They root you. Of course, since I'm childless, the question for me remains open.)

I also think the 3rd stanza carries a lot of weight, even though it's a bit of a digression. Because to have a first person connection to the late 19th century while standing here in the early 21st is really quite remarkable. I can't think of a more portentous or revolutionary century than the 20th (in which I was born pretty much in the middle), of a century that has changed history more. Especially considering that in the centuries before the Enlightenment, and then the Industrial Revolution, things almost never changed (just as most people, in an entire lifetime, never went more than 20 miles from home)! I look at images of the skyline of Toronto, illuminated at night, and think how utterly gobsmacked and incomprehensible this futuristic mirage would be for someone instantly transported from 1890. Which, in the perspective of history, is really just a blink of the eye.

Doing Only ...

Aug 13 2015

I am a caricature

in my red plaid shirt

insurgent beard,

hair tamed

with kitchen shears.

My weathered skin

is evergreen,

with the resinous scent of spruce

balsam's heady zest.

And my soiled clothes

are steeped in wood-smoke;

so the first wash will be dark as ash,

with the scorched smell

of badly doused fire.

Heading back

from a northern lake

most maps have missed,

a rustic cabin, off the grid.

Where days are set by the sun,

which seems in no rush

in the zenith of summer.

And where darkness

settles over the land

with density, and mass,

a cool heavy permanence.

Where I have accomplished nothing

yet feel no guilt.

No "to-do" list, no keeping up,

doing only

what needs to be done.

Collecting wood.

Cleaning fish.

Keeping pace with the dog

on bushwhacked trails.

And at night, a good tired,

unlike the exhaustion

of urgency, and busy-work.

And mornings, when I open my eyes

to preening birds, squabbling squirrels;

no alarm

no news of the world.

So on the long drive back

as the single lane doubles, and doubles again.

As campers, returning

and traffic is merging

and half-tons and semis

never stopping for a rest.

As fast food diners

and billboards, and signage

shout for attention

try to impress.

And as artificial light

only darkens the darkness,

beyond the faint incandescence

that clings to the side of the road,

those persisting smells

won't let me forget.

The windless lake

with its spill of silver moon.

The ululation of loons,

welling-up

with deep visceral urgency.

The state of mind

that feels more and more like home

the further south I go.

Once again, Garrison Keillor had a poet as a guest on Prairie Home Companion. She's from northern Minnesota (as well as of Finnish descent!), so her work naturally resonates with Northwestern Ontario. She recited a piece about her and her husband driving back to town from their lake cabin. That's pretty much all I remember about it; but I liked the idea enough that I wanted to see what I could do with it. And all credit to her for the central image of the persisting smell, which is how she ended her poem. ...So, should that be called theft, plagiarism, or homage?!!

I also have a place on a northern lake. But I have power, all the amenities, and it's a lot closer to town. ...Although there are only 3 other lots, and motorized vehicles are forbidden; so it does have the feel of a wilderness lake. Or a simulacrum, at least.

I took a big chance on cliché with the moonlit lake and the haunting loons. Hopefully, I managed to rescue the images with a slightly original twist. ...Nevertheless, I like the ending. Because you can stay at a sanctuary like this for just a few weeks of the year, yet it still feels like home: where you feel authentic; where you feel this is the real point of it all. And the idea of "home" is powerfully affective. So it's always good for a strong ending.

Found it!

Wilderness

by Kirsten Dierking

The first few days we have
slow mornings out on the lake,
long afternoons to walk in the woods,
evenings of leisurely innings of baseball
unwinding over the radio.

But time moves faster as the days
of the week accumulate behind us.
Friday passes in a flash of ease,
only now and again it seems the waves
washing on shore have reached an ending.

At dinner I say, tomorrow morning
it's back to real life, you sweep your hand
through the last of the day and say
there's nothing unreal about this.

But the scent of pine is faint on my skin,
as if I had been a wilderness once,
as we merge into traffic, as the lake
falls farther away behind us.