Burden

Feb 27 2106

The small trees

are still bowed and bent

from an early snow

that fell heavy, and wet

and froze in place.

While the infirm were broken

the weakest felled.

In a hard winter,

as unpredictable

as a changing earth.

Their contorted forms

look like little old men;

hunch-backed

skinny-limbed

silver-haired.

Who knows

how close they are to death,

how permanent

their cramped deformity.

Will they spring back, shaking-off adversity?

Or will they bear the scars

of the hard life

that we all eventually carry?

Especially the wild rose,

bent double

almost touching down.

I am told a dying tree

will muster all its strength

and go to seed,

producing a single flower, at least.

So come spring

a succulent rose

may be its last bequest;

luscious, redolent

red.

As bright as the burning eyes

of the little old man,

bed-bound

and reminiscing.

The surprising strength

of his dying grip.

The life stories

his descendants will cherish.

I apologize for another weather poem, another poem about snow.

But I’ve been observing these pathetic trees all winter, fearing that this burden – if not terminal -- will be ugly, and permanent. Especially the hard hit rose:  it used to be framed in my dining room window, but is now too cramped and contorted to see.

The image that immediately came to mind was of little old men, shrunken and bowed and bent. I think the key to the poem was calling back to this imagery:  invoking the resilience and strength a real old man at the end of life.

Barista

Feb 26 2016

The coffee shop

is all dark wood, soft music,

the bittersweet waft

of freshly ground beans.

The heady buzz of caffeine.

The cute barista

who makes a cup a work of art,

seductively dripping cream

stirring-in exquisitely.

Who serves-up mugs

with open hands

like precious offerings.

Who coaxes elixir

from temperamental machines;

mocha, macchiato, melange,

cappuccino, latte

espresso.

Who coquettishly winks

at all her regulars.

Jazz

ornaments the air,

baritone sax

a sultry voice.

The sweet pungence of pot

unfurls like heavy rope,

drifting

like sweet sedition

from somewhere in back.

Conversation buzzes, laughter erupts,

keyboards tap sporadically.

At a small round table

in a dim recess

a writer contemplates his screen.

A cup of coffee

has bought him a lofty view,

the comings and goings

the hoi polloi.

He is the privileged observer

who goes unseen,

the narrator

of his own creation.

A self-proclaimed god

he sits astride a private world,

like the deeply flawed Oz

behind his curtain.

The screen is blank

the cursor blinks demandingly.

The cold dregs

that stain his empty cup

remind him of a stale ashtray

overflowing with stubs.

Hot coffee

has gone to his head.

The cute barista

controls the rest of him.

I don’t write in coffee shops. I need absolute silence, no distractions. And I’m too fussy about my coffee (scalding hot and uncorrupted black) to let anyone make it for me! So my coffee shop scenario is pure imagination.

This poem began when I ground my first batch of a new brand of coffee. I’ve always found the scent of freshly ground coffee intoxicating, Even as a kid – before I drank coffee, and at an age when taste buds are far too sensitive to bitter to enjoy it. I remember the big red coffee grinders at A&P:  their Eight O’Clock brand, or Loblaw’s Pride of Arabia. (Back in the day when everyone was perfectly content with supermarket coffee.)

So when I smelled the fresh grounds, I felt myself transported into a trendy hipsterish coffee shop: the kind of place where artistic types mingle; where impoverished writers monopolize a table and try to get unblocked.

But where, as I said in the opening paragraph, there are too many distractions. Or apparently one too many, anyway! On a more serious note, one could also argue that from time immemorial, men have only created art in order to impress women:  a form of macho display, a demonstration of fitness. Like lions’ manes, rams in mortal combat.

I’m quite pleased with the strong analogies in this poem: the pungent pot unfurling like heavy rope; the narrator as deeply flawed Oz; the cold coffee compared to a stale ashtray. And even though it’s probably just padding, I couldn’t resist the delightful expression hoi polloi. Just the sound of it, if nothing else.

(Btw, the new brand I mentioned is Blue Heron, which is made by Salt Spring Coffee. Excellent!)

Morning Paper

Feb 21 2016

It arrived like clockwork.

Dropped-off at dawn,

then folded, locked

and expertly tossed

onto lawns cool with dew

at blank front doors.

Or lost in the shrubbery

wind-caught

rained upon.

Day-old news,

appearing on my porch

like a familiar nod

of reassurance.

That the world went on.

That calamity

was the lot of others

far away.

That nothing ever happens here

in the humdrum calm

of this settled street

tsk-tsk’ing sympathetically;

shades drawn, doors locked

sleeping dogs lie.

Except for natural disasters

and Moon Landing

it spoke in a low voice,

no megaphone headlines

plain black print.

The cheap ink smudged,

a forensic trail

of fingerprints.

And its flimsy pages were tissue-thin,

butter-stained, toast-crumbed.

But along with hot coffee and ticking clocks

it was our morning rite,

before off-to-school

the workday slog.

And the paperboy, up by dawn,

who was our lifeline

to the world outside.

To birth and death

and newlywed.

To war and peace

and what was said.

To big event

and consequence. 

But most of all

to home-team triumphs

grocery flyers

the classifieds.

And in the end

bird-cage liners

starting fires

marking time.

Cheap pulp

that isn’t meant to last.

History’s first draft,

in random piles

yellowing on the back porch.

I’ve read the same morning paper for too many years to mention. I feel vaguely guilty about this, despite my dedicated attachment to this comforting ritual.

The daily paper seems like an act of responsible good citizenship:  keeping up-to-date, cultivating informed opinions.

On the other hand, newspapers – padded out with quirky side bars and human interest and “news you can use” – have the breathless urgency of the “now”, without the perspective and analysis of the long view – at least they did in the pre-internet days, before the daily paper had to re-invent itself as a more thoughtful observer.

And how important, really, is being in the know, keeping informed?  I may have impressive knowledge and insightful opinions, but if all I do is sit and pontificate instead of taking action, what’s the point? How virtuous, really, am I?

I think this ambivalence is here in the contrast between “big event and consequence” and what we secretly value in a newspaper – the sports scores and flyers and classified ads. And in its ignominious end:  lining a bird-cage, yellowing on the back porch.

I guess this is another of my nostalgia poems. Because physical newspapers – on actual paper, home-delivered, before there was even colour – are quickly becoming an anachronism.  They will soon be something only the old remember, and the young only see in movies:  as exotic as newsreels and typewriters and big black telephones heavy as bricks.

Dry Stone Wall

Feb 12 2016

A dry stone wall

is built with a hammer

a practised eye.

Found rock, placed with exactness

and left to gravity

to hold.

It goes
no higher than a man,

according to the strength of his back

his calloused hand.

It hugs the land,

settling

as the hard-scrabble soil subsides.

Rock that will weather

and soften

and last

as if it were the most natural thing on earth.

Standing

in a fallow field,

sagging, leaning

holding heat.

Over the years, the wall has greened,

hardy seeds

rooting in,

climbing plants

festooning it.

Like an ivy-covered cathedral.

Like some living breathing thing.

Someone’s great grandfather

built this sturdy wall

with skill, and toil.

I doubt he ever imagined

such permanence,

or thought of beauty

in his utilitarian work.

But things were made to last, back then.

And now

his great grandson

leans his weight against,

resting a hand

on the sun-warmed surface.

As if reaching back

and feeling his ancestor’s touch.

As if adding another small stone

to the unbreakable line

of descent.

The Globe and Mail has a daily piece called Lives Lived, in which family members or friends write a remembrance of someone who has recently died. It’s like a feature obituary; but of uncelebrated everymen (and women), who lead often remarkable lives, but in obscurity.

These can be excellent inspiration for poetry. And this proved so today. In the short introduction that preceded the latest Lives Lived -- along with a few words about his family and professional life -- he was described as a builder of dry stone walls; presumably, a beloved hobby. I recalled a poem I wrote about just this, many years ago. (At that time, it was inspired by a fascinating article in the New Yorker.) There must be something about dry stone walls I find irresistible, because I again felt compelled to write another version of the same poem. (And “compulsion” is the perfect word, because it must have been just half an hour and the rough draft had pretty much written itself.)

It was only after I completed today’s piece that I dug into the archives and unearthed this, from 2004. I’m pleased by the comparison, because my writing has clearly progressed:  smoother prosody, a little simpler. Which is all one can hope for, over 10 years on! (Although I think, with some judicious editing – mostly shorter lines and a little more compression – the original stands up very well.)

Stone Wall

June 2 2004

This wall was built

from the ground up,

a taciturn man who worked by touch

piling stones without mortar

nesting one above the other with infallible judgement

to make it strong and level and snug.

The way it hugs this ancient land’s soft contours

and settles hard against the soil,

impregnable to eventual subsidence

and flood waters rising

and heaving frost

that would crack mortar and topple cemented rock.

By hand

thickly calloused and impossibly broad

whose powerful grip you would not mistake for a sedentary man,

discarded rocks scattered on the fallow land

that in time the sod will swallow.

But never this sturdy wall.

Which is all anyone might hope for.

To make something that lasts,

how a humble man becomes immortal.

The Arms of Venus

Feb 7 2016

Love is an act of faith.

So its opposite is fear

not hate.

Like lovers’ leap

an act of surrender.

So while the skeptics are busy

measuring gravity, and mass,

attraction, resistance

the quantum of chance,

he takes her hand in his

and submits;

the giddy drop,

the sudden stop

at the end.

Agnostics waffle

the doubters pause.

Is it just chemistry, lust, wish?

Does he see her as is?

Or is she an idol, a pagan goddess;

down on his knees

before a marble Aphrodite

cold as rock.

While the lovers believe.

You can tell

by their rapturous faces

their weightless walk.

Free of fear, in the arms of Venus.

Saved, despite the odds.

I came up with the first 3 lines – which I quite like – and wrote a completely different poem. Which didn’t work at all, and was soon deleted This second try -- starting with the same first 3 lines -- seems to have come out much better.

I had fun with the religious metaphor. And I’m stylistically pleased with the rhyme that starts around the middle (with quantum, but more obviously with drop) and then runs through to the end:  lots of “aw” sounds, cinching the thing tight. Which could sound as if they were shoe-horned in for the sake of rhyme (or as if I’m showing off my verbal dexterity!) But which I think, instead, manage to sound as if they naturally follow. This is one of the great pleasures of writing poetry: walking the verbal high-wire, but making it look easy.

Lady Day

Feb 5 2016

It’s not the beauty of her voice

it’s the imperfection.

The rasp in her throat.

How she reaches

for that sweet round note,

so achingly close

your own silently tightens

urging her on.

The minor key

she toys with.

But most of all

her restraint.

Holding back, in spite of her strength,

scatting, jazz

a capella.

Like a fast car

idling, cruising, flirting with speed

you’re keen to hear it floored,

pushed

until its smooth powerful purr

betrays the strain.

Full throttle

open road.

So when she finally lets herself go

you feel exquisite release;

spent, like urgent sex,

emptied, cleansed

complete.

You never imagined

the human voice

could contain such power.

That less is more.

Or how grateful you’d be

she takes it slow;

sings

just as she pleases.

The great singers always show restraint, hold their power in reserve. They have the confidence of an effortless voice, and understand the power of anticipation – holding back, making you wait.

I tried to write this piece without using the word “catharsis”, a word that seemed too bloodless and analytical for poetry. But it’s exactly what I was getting at.

There is also a sexual subtext here (or maybe not so “sub”!):  of sexual release; of female empowerment (especially the last 2 lines).

The only contemporary singer that immediately comes to mind (and I hardly know anything about popular music!) might be Adele. Or maybe the jazz version of Amy Winehouse. Or K.D. Lang, at her best.

But what I really had in mind were the great torch singers and their iconic interpretations of The Great American Songbook – the kind of music I love most. People like Ella Fitzgerald, Billy Holiday, Sarah Vaughn.