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.