This poem was recently revised, and because it never appeared on the blog, it is now posted out of chronological order.

Out of the Blue

March 15 2009

The lightning came

from a clear blue sky.

An act of God, someone said.

I scoffed

“Why, that’s just insurance talk

for no one’s responsible.

Why bring Him into it?”

Because while those mythic gods

messed about with vengeance

hurtled lightning bolts

lusted after mortals,

the prophetic God

leaves well enough alone.

It split an ancient oak,

singed branch, fallen

scarred trunk, curling smoke.

When it hit

I felt my hair frizz, skin prickle, muscles twitch,

then couldn’t remember

what year this is.

I awoke,

soaked with rain

the sting of hail

sky as grey as cinders.

A storm you could truly describe

as Biblical.

Now, we find it hard to trust

clear blue skies.

And wonder if the tree

will live, or die.

And are still surprised

there never was a rainbow

I have as much trouble remembering

as I did before.

I feel His absence

even more.

This poem was recently revised, and due to formatting problems has been re-posted out of chronological order. 

Odds

Sept 5 2009

A bird flew into the car.

As if shot from a gun,

no one saw it coming.

Even at cruising speed

its airy body

- hollow-boned, plumage puffed -

did not dent the metal,

just a smudge

of iridescence

something wet.

A hawk, I judged

wheeling in the tricky breeze,

its telescopic gaze

distracted

by a flicker of prey

in the underbrush.

So our intersection

in time and space

was as improbable as falling frogs.

As the man who took a bullet to the heart,

stopped

by his pocket Bible.

As future lovers

bumping into each other

at rush hour.

Which happens all the time.

The unlikely, not impossible;

no need of divine intervention.

And all those others we brushed against

conveniently forgotten.

The bird, of course, died instantly.

Which is how we console ourselves

- “instantly”,

no pain, no warning.

Death, dropped into our path

from a clear blue sky.

Like everything else has done

looking back;

as if all of it was planned

to perfection.

This poem is about magical thinking; about the illogic to which the human brain is prone.

Things like selective memory and confirmation bias (paying attention to the things that confirm our preconceptions and prejudice; and conveniently ignoring all the rest.)

Things like the misattribution of cause and effect.

Things like the inductive reasoning we use to make sense, looking back.

Things like our intuitive misunderstanding of probability and dumb coincidence.

Because our genius -- the unique ability of the human brain -- is to seek out patterns, to make meaning. Which, in my opinion (admittedly, the opinion of a rigorous skeptic and confirmed atheist) is what leads to magical thinking, to superstition, to religious faith. And we've all seen where that eventually leads: Crusades, Jihad; the Promised Land.

This poem was recently revised, and due to formatting problems has been re-posted out of chronological order.

No Stone Unturned

Sept 29 2008

Pluck a stone from the earth

in cool green forest.

Expose rich dark soil,

and alien creatures

who scurry from light.

This stone has sat

undisturbed

since the last glacier scoured the surface,

before man set foot.

You dash through the woods

leaving no stone unturned,

revealing world after world.

Each a tiny time machine

from an age long past.

And you, in your quest for something

leave a trail of destruction

in your path.

This poem was recently revised, and due to formatting problems has been re-posted out of chronological order.

My Road Trip With the Polka Queen

May 24 2009

She holds it upside down,

scanning the map

for odd names, open spaces.

Invents off-ramps, and getaways

in the frayed no-man’s-land

of its folds.

There are plenty of those,

fanning open wider than her out-stretched arms

poking-in her nose.

She plays navigator like she plays accordion -

my polka queen, cavorting out-of-reach,

pumping-out squares and reels

wheezing slightly off-key.

And so we go, to and fro,

reversing-up gravel roads

bumping over farmers’ fields

sinking axle-deep in swamp.

She pirouettes, I watch

obediently taking her lead -

an inexperienced dancer,

counting steps

eyes fixed on my feet.

At dusk, we stop

unroll the tent

go early to bed.

Then spend the night

learning to tango.

When a friend, a spouse, or a lover is riding shotgun and in charge of the maps, you may be at the wheel, but you eventually learn that the path of least resistance is total surrender.

This poem was recently revised, and due to formatting problems has been re-posted out of chronological order.

Migration

Aug 9 2005

In winter

in the highlands of Mexico

a branch breaks,

the weight of butterflies

too much to bear.

Packed so thick

the trees seem wrapped in orange wool,

rippling

with each fitful stroke of wind.

They hang motionless

in cold dry air.

But when the sun breaks through

some flutter-off in flight.

Then more and more

in successive waves

in a great susurration of wings,

majestic columns

ebbing and flowing

in rivers of coloured light.

I wonder if they dream

of wild milkweed

2,000 miles away,

the fields they first took flight.

Such tiny creatures

to be endowed with the secrets

of navigation

and home.

Or if these Monarchs doze

with the sureness of their namesake.

A king

who has imperiously surveyed

his sovereign domain,

pronounced himself pleased

with the affairs of state.

This poem was recently revised, and due to formatting problems has been re-posted out of chronological order.

Manual Labour

Sept 11 2007

You dig a hole

on a hot summer day;

sweat-soaked, flies buzzing.

It starts off easy enough.

Honed steel

knifing through tightly groomed turf.

Then riding the blade

with all your weight

through thick-soled boots.

Then loose soil,

a few worms, frantically squirming.

And underneath, clay

heavy as wet concrete.

When you hit thick roots, going every which way

strong as steel cables.

And rocks, locked in place

since an ice age scoured the land;

the shovel pinging-off

making sparks

as curses scorch the air.

And finally, packed wet earth;

like hauling water

arms out-stretched.

Dig a hole, and fill it in again

makes little sense.

But you feel compelled

to breach that smooth green turf.

To break free,

feeling your muscles strain, shoulders stretch

clenched body ease.

To feel dirt and sweat

on blood-warmed skin,

salt stinging your eyes.

To feel cleansed

through the purification of work.

And to leave a mark

that says you were here,

even a tiny scar

on the earth’s vast surface.

And because

like the next bend in the road

a man wants to know

what’s there.

In the bottom of a hole

in the constant shade

it’s cool and dark.

A tempting place

for a tired man

on a summer day,

cradled in soft loamy soil.

This poem was recently revised, and due to formatting problems has been re-posted out of chronological order. 

Making History

Nov 2 2008

As I write this

we await, breathless

the election of the first black President,

whom we hope will transcend

the blue states

the red states

the purple prose,

the culture wars

that divide the great Republic

we foreigners all love

to loathe

and envy.

May you live in interesting times

some sage once said,

both a curse

and a blessing —

the self-importance of now,

the big event

that means everything.

But immersed in the noise,

the end of history

the new beginnings,

times are always interesting.

Because someone, somewhere

is falling in love

or falling to death

or falling

to his inner demons.

And on cold wet nights

when darkness comes too early

he trudges home,

to the light in the window

the steamy kitchen

the soft warm bed

he will share,

making history

one small kiss at a time;

one timeless night

making love.

Oblivious

to the sturm und drang

of politicians.

I wrote this poem to mock the pompous self-importance, the preening narcissism of the present, the now: it's always the most important election, a transformational moment, the end of times. The trouble is, we too easily forget the past; and when we remember it, patronize it with soft focus nostalgia. By way of example, the 50's was not a time of father knows best and drive-ins; it was the beginning of mutual assured destruction and the scourge of McCarthyism. 

And even if there are "in-between" times when nothing important really does seem to be happening, the personal always transcends the political. So even then, cataclysmic change is happening, and it's happening a million times every second of every day. 

My thanks to Francis Fukayama, whose premature proclamation allowed me to give "the end of history" its full ironic potential!

This poem was recently revised, and because it never appeared on the blog, it is now posted out of chronological order.

Love in a Cold Climate

Jan 29 2002

Shiver replaced

by warm embrace

through layer after layer.

The conundrum

of winter love.

The ordeal

to peel,

tedium

to come undone

when naked flesh congeals.

All that layering

so frustrating to unveil.

Cocooned parkas lumpy

curves smothered numbly

desire cannot touch.

Clumpy boots are laced

and mittened hands chaste

and woolen mufflers draped,

disguising one from the other.

But passion never may

be left to cool.

The urgency

of touch and stroke, caress and hope

the fire that glows

within.

The lamp turned low

the shadows dance

the solar winds race,

the northern lights

the endless night

of Aphrodite’s praise.

This poem was recently revised, and because it never appeared on the blog, it is now posted out of chronological order.

Life Drawing

Nov 14 2005

Life drawing.

The naked body

as object.

From the neck down

stiff as rigor mortis.

While the eyes still dance,

peering-out, as if trapped

in flesh and bone.

For the pleasure of others

one more unnatural pose.

Students scattered

on every side,

except an awkward young man

who draws from behind

eyeless.

Line drawing.

Soft graphite

rubbed into paper.

Hard charcoal

you cannot erase.

Black on white

in a bare fluorescent space,

cold enough

to make skin shiver

goose-bump, shrink.

Draw water.

Draw breath.

Draw blood.

You draw because

the hope that function follows form.

That shades of grey, on plain white paper

might make today

immortal.

This poem was recently revised, and due to formatting problems has been re-posted out of chronological order.

Illumination

Nov 14 2010

We burned the chairs first,

splintered, kindling

kiln-dried wood.

The table, next,

fed, leaf-by-leaf

into the stove.

And beds stripped bare

screws, worked loose;

sagging mattress

stacked against the wall.

We pried-up floorboards, crow-barred 2-by-4’s

exposing joists, gaping holes.

But still ...the cold.

You’d think books would be easy.

But they smolder, blacken, smoke

dousing the stove.

So we burn them page by page,

feeding the flame

hand-over-hand

entranced by fire.

Floor to ceiling, bookcases stripped clean

like wasted cadavers.

They lean weakly against the walls

empty, yet sagging;

dust bunnies in back, gaping shelves.

They too will burn

eventually

- the bone after the meat.

Most of the lines are gone,

except for those

we know by heart.

But the work of words goes on -

a flare of pure white light,

illuminating us

one last time.

I’m very pleased how the last line transforms this poem. Or, at least, abruptly pulls all the threads tight. Not just pleased at the line break between “good”/ “and lucky”, but the reference to “light, left behind.” Because despite the optimism in the idea that matter and energy are ultimately conserved – even fire does not destroy – it is the angst of this man in later middle age that sets the poem’s tone. Until you get to the very last word, that is; where there is the possibility that his life might be redeemed by the light he gave to the world. This metaphorical meaning of “illumination” is very powerful: there is light, and then there is illumination – insight, truth, revelation.

The poem didn’t start with this intent at all. Rather, it was given to me by means of that mysterious stream of consciousness, that exalted state of free association that somehow manages to break down the brain’s rigid compartments. I’ve previously referred to this inspired process as “channelling”: an exhilarating and intensely pleasurable creative state that feels like automatic writing. Let the analytic and critical gate-keepers stand down, and see where that inner voice takes you.

So the poem actually started as a simple descriptive piece: with the first snow and first fire of the season. The key turning point was the word “behemoth” (which was itself given to me by the intrinsic music of language: logs/crossed/top, and behemoth.) I couldn’t help but think what an ignominious end to a life of such longevity and beauty. And what an irreverent act to simply toss a log on the fire, another log to be quickly and casually consumed. That, conflated with my apparent subconscious preoccupation with getting older, made this poem much more personal; and I think, that much more compelling.

I think it would also nicely qualify as one of my notorious “physics” poems. I like the way it plays with time and perspective. I especially like the way it shows natural law unifying such seemingly different phenomena as a growing tree, a fire, human metabolism, the oxidation of metals, and a material interpretation of the after-life.

This poem was recently revised, and due to formatting problems has been re-posted out of chronological order.

How Rivers Run

Jan 12 2008

It puzzles me how rivers run

in winter.

The trickle under thin ice.

Open water

where the narrows never freeze.

And where a foot broke through

a heavy greyness

spreading through the snow.

Inexhaustible water

in air so dry your skin cracks

and the frozen land’s locked-in,

gurgling like spring,

shrugging-off the freeze.

So I was surprised it could rise

so quick

behind the ice jam,

a chaotic jig-saw of jagged blocks

tightly locked.

The river inexorably higher,

like one body, at war with itself

- the weight of water,

the strength of ice.

As downstream, we wait;

houses built on flood plains,

our arrogance humbled,

nothing to be done.

A calamity that would be biblical

if you believe in judgement

misfortune

if you believe in luck.

But either way, not enough to make the city papers,

this footnote of trouble

in a world with so much disaster

in which to drown.

I will keep watch from the ridge

well above high-water,

waiting for the ice to give.

Like Noah,

watching

as the world’s washed clean.

This poem was recently revised, and because it was never originally posted to the blog, it now appears out of chronological order. 

Home

May 18 2008

The place I was born

is occupied by strangers.

And my parents, unsentimental

threw out box-after-box

moving on.

As I did, once;

so now I live

one time zone late.

Here, there are mountains

instead of lake,

and the streets are wider, straighter

with no secret places

from childhood.

So I feel off-kilter, some days,

wishing I could stand at the shore

lulled by waves

a steady fragrant breeze.

And if the world ends

it will be one hour later

- as if an hour was warning enough

to prepare.

The sun is the same, of course

but the light is different,

a thin pale glow

so things look cool, distant.

It’s the pure mountain air, they say

but I don’t know;

could be my eyes

just getting older.

I suppose I have lived here long enough

to call it home.

In this house,

where I keep my things,

where I go

to sleep,

and where days seem unnaturally brief

hemmed-in beneath the peaks.