Wabi-sabi

Dec 25 2017

The Japanese have a word

for the beauty to be found

in imperfection;

its artlessness,

its unaffected truth.

Because it's the needy

who bring out our best,

the cracks

that let in the light.

Because symmetry is boring,

and perfection

leaves nothing to chance.

Because if DNA were infallible,

we would still be single-celled creatures

in a warm primordial sea.

And because of all the mistakes

I couldn't help but make

to bother keeping score,

the many more

I will.

The curious object

odd, and flawed, and homely

I circle, and circle again,

compelled to observe

from every angle possible.

The broken, the quirky, the hurting

that draw me in,

the outrageous character

I cannot resist.

Like the stunted tree

that has struggled to grow

in parched depleted soil,

its rings compressed

wood dense

twisted branches bent,

I find myself circling

and circling again.

So much to see

in its imperfection;

the singular beauty

of nature's testing

in every crook, and burr, and break,

each scarred and gnarled limb.

There is the blank slate

of a newborn babe

cooing in its cradle.

While the stories written

in the parchment skin, and haggard face

of the old man on his deathbed

show the worth

of a consequential life.

How suffering, overcome

becomes us.

How transcendence emerges

beneath the glossy surface

we so artfully construct.

The Black Obsidian Lake

Dec 17 2017

In the middle, the ice was black;

gleaming, like volcanic glass

and dark and dense as ebony.

And in the shallows

transparent as a clerestory window.

So you could look all the way down

to the silty sandy bottom.

To winter fish

in their mammoth aquarium

swimming blithely past.

To every ripple, and sheltering crab,

lost lure, discarded can.

To water-logged timber, a century after the drive,

vintage giants, sunk

in beds of weeds

and blooms of blue-green algae.

All the absences

that must be present

for a lake to freeze this way:

no thaw, or snow

or wind, or flow;

flat settled water

in persistent cold

left deep, and undisturbed.

Scientists explain

how light passes freely

through uniform parallel crystals.

But to the skaters

who glide without resistance

and feel as if gravity didn't exist

         –   hovering above

    crystal-clear layers

    of invisible water and ice   –

the effect is pure wonder

and needs no explanation.

Although leaning in

to each swift sure cut

        –   the rhythmic shhhht - shhhht - shhhht

    of keenly sharpened steel   –

she feels a twinge of guilt,

the immaculate surface dulled

by showers of shaved ice,

the etched white lines

flashing blades inscribe.

It is as if we cannot help

but obliterate beauty

in the act of admiring it.

Contaminate

the purity of nature

by merely being present.

The brilliance

of transparent ice

the black obsidian lake.

Which will only last a few more days;

susceptible

to any change in the weather

the entropy of sun.

But is this not, after all, beauty's intangible essence,

how it is precious ...and transient ...and rare?

And the meaning of beauty, as well;

futile

if it goes unwitnessed

and there are none to mourn its end?

I was moved to write this after reading the following piece in this weekend's Globe:

Black ice and ‘the most Cana­dian day ever’

'The Globe and Mail Metro (Ontario Edition)' - 2017-12-16

CAR­RIE TAIT

Lisa Roddick is wearing a pink toque with a blue pompom. She’s in goal. Her husband, James, wearing a black Leaside Lancers hockey jersey from his high-school days, is coming her way with the puck.

The pair did not come to British Columbia’s Lake Windermere just to play shinny with their pals. They came to see a scientific rarity: black ice.

Right now, skaters near Lake Windermere’s shores can see the bottom as if they were looking through a window. Fish swimming. Clamshells resting in sandy ripples. Makeshift boat anchors connected to rusty chains waiting for next summer.

Farther from shore, where the water is deeper and light cannot penetrate, the ice looks like it is dyed black. The Roddicks and three friends adhere to shinny etiquette, playing far from shore to stay clear of kids and casual skaters in Taynton Bay. The lake’s ice sheet is nearly flawless, smooth on the surface with uniform clarity and colouring below. Frozen water has folks here in Invermere, B.C., on the northern tip of the lake, excited.

Mr. Roddick plays the puck off his skate, back to his stick. He banks a shot off the puffy purple coat serving as a goal post but cannot get the rubber across the imaginary goal line.

“Eat that, husband,” Ms. Roddick says. The boys-against-girls shinny game in the Columbia Valley plays on. The Rocky Mountains line the east side of the lake, the Purcells frame the west.

The Roddick crew came from Golden, about 120 kilometres away, after watching a Facebook friend’s video of himself skating on the see-through ice.

“This is the most Canadian day ever,” Mr. Roddick says as the group drinks Pilsner and grapefruit Palm Bays after the game. “You have a rink that is flooded perfectly and goes forever. No one has to shovel.”

Dozens of skaters glide on this winter anomaly. Some push baby strollers. Gene Matsalla is 77, has lived here for more than 30 years and never seen the ice this clear. “Everything is kind of freaky,” he says. Mr. Matsalla is wearing a trapper’s hat and gets a kick out of how many kids are here rather than in school. “What the heck,” he says. “Mother nature is co-operating.”

Perfect conditions are needed for black ice. No wind. No snow. No moving water. A slow freeze. Lake Windermere is not a prime candidate because it is so large – about 17 kilometres long and a couple of kilometres across. It is technically a wide stretch of the Columbia River.

“It is such a unique situation,” says Brian Moorman, a geography professor who specializes in permafrost and glaciers at the University of Calgary. “To get a really nice clear black ice like that, it is going to take days and days.”

All ice crystals have six sides, grow from the top down, and bond to their neighbours to form a sheet. Black ice forms when the crystals grow perpendicular to the surface and parallel to each other, undisturbed by wind and other factors. These crystals will be the same size and shape, like a new set of dinner candles perfectly packaged and standing on end. When ice crystals grow vertically and bond perfectly, light passes through without distorting.

“That’s why it looks so clear,” Prof. Moorman says. “It is magical.”

He estimates Lake Windermere’s ice crystals would be between a few millimetres and one centimetre wide. The ice is about 13 centimetres thick right now, meaning the crystal columns will be the same length.

Most bodies of water have “white ice” when they freeze. These crystals are smaller and grow in different directions. Perhaps moving water interrupted a crystal’s growth or influenced its direction. Maybe snow mucked up the freezing process. The water probably froze quickly. The crystals still bond together, but because they grew in all directions and are different sizes, uniform columns are impossible. Light cannot get through mishmashed ice crystals. The result: opaque ice.

Gas also messes with perfection, according to Matti Lepparanta, a geophysics professor at the University of Helsinki in Finland. “Gas bubbles accumulate in the ice cover and the more there are bubbles, the more opaque the ice,” the snow and ice expert said. Gas can come from lake water and lake bottoms. Bubbling springs also cause interference.

Calgary is about 275 kilometres from Invermere, which sits between Radium Hot Springs and Fairmont Hot Springs. Lake Windermere is the area’s defining feature.

Geography does not limit black ice. It has formed on Russia’s Lake Baikal, which holds one-fifth of the world’s fresh water. It has taken over parts of the Ottawa River. Calgarians rush to mountain lakes when the phenomenon strikes. This year, black ice formed on Two Jack Lake, Parks Canada says. That lake is about 130 kilometres west of Calgary.

Black ice’s cosmetic characteristics are fleeting. The white streaks skaters leave are instant imperfections. Snow will, inevitably, cover the ice. Melting and refreezing changes its complexion. That’s why folks like Theresa Wood keep ducking out of work to go skating.

“It feels surreal,” she says after returning to work at Taynton Bay Spirits, a distillery near Invermere’s Kinsmen Beach. “It feels like you are skating on nothing.”

She spotted a black pair of sunglasses under the ice the other day. Her son Bryan, who is 5, tracks discoveries, too. “Shells and golf balls and some trash,” he says.

Isaac McLeod is skating for the first time, unaware of his lucky timing. He’s four, his skates are blue and white, and he falls frequently. “That’s one thing I know,” he says.

Meanwhile, the Roddicks and their friends are tabulating the day’s stats: An iPhone app tells them they skated about 17 clicks. They ripped around for three and a half hours. The three girls beat the two boys 4 to 1, maybe. “Okay. We’ll say 5 to 2,” Marcie Trenholm says.

Canis Lupus

Dec 20 2017

The dead wolf

seemed so much smaller

than that beast who howls

beyond the circle of light.

The lifeless form

so unnaturally still.

His muscles slack,
piercing eyes
now sightless slits,
the long limbs
of a distance runner
surprisingly thin
limply splayed-out.

His ribs are clearly visible,

and the thick grey fur

has turned brittle and dull;

not unexpected

in the middle of a winter

when prey is scarce

and the cows fat.

Not a lone wolf

but a pack animal, just like us.

Who will be missed, and even mourned

when he fails to return home.

Who had to be shot,

for protection

a lesson

petty vengeance, perhaps.

Still, no one takes pleasure

in the death of wolf;

who looks so dog-like, lying there in the cold,

heat bleeding out of him

the blood-stained snow.

Meanwhile, the cows steam-up the barn,

the farmer lies down with his wife,

a full moon rises

in cloudless sky.

And you can hear the manic howling

beyond the circle of light.

The golden retriever growls, barks, struts,

peering out the window

on high alert.

The atavistic urge of dogs,

hackles up

at the scruff of her neck, the base of her spine.

And something fierce

in her tightly focused eyes,

a wildness

that even the farmer

would hardly recognize.

This is based on a true story. So the photos are also authentic; not the boilerplate pics I usually download from Google images. (I say “based”, of course, because I've taken a number of poetic and narrative liberties.)

It was hard to look at the body of the dead wolf, an animal that so closely resembles our own beloved dogs. And also an animal with which we ourselves so easily identify: an intelligent apex predator living as a social animal in a tightly-knit group. It's a difficult trade-off, even though one wants to be sympathetic to the farmer: the lives of the fat dull cows over such a charismatic creature; the numbingly domestic over the wild and independent; the plain and pedestrian over this feared beast of myth and legend.

On the other hand, the wolves have been known to brazenly take some local dogs. So I can't help but think that one fewer wolf is one less threat to my own precious pets; who would, of course, be helpless if confronted by a wolf, distant relative or not.

I quite like beyond the circle of light (which, a careful reader will notice, is repeated, and so acts as a kind of recurrent leitmotif). There was so much I could have gone on about in order to contrast the sense of threat of the dark foreboding wilderness with the familiar and tame and civilized. But these five words, by implication, do it all. I think they convey with elegant compression and simplicity the image of us huddled within out small circle of light, besieged all around by encroaching and unknowable dangers – both the real and the imagined. And simply referring to the howling sound of a wolf pack barking at the moon immediately elicits the thrill and and threat; no need to actually describe either its quality or our visceral response. This is a good example of two cardinal rules of poetry I find myself repeatedly falling back on. First: show, don't say. And second: trust the reader; let the reader be rewarded by doing some of the work herself.

I chose golden retriever because I think this breed offers a great contrast with her feral relative: a trusting, gentle, attentive animal bred to a very human aesthetic of beauty, from her luxurious coat to her long raised tail and floppy ears. But, of course, within her genetics lies a seed of wildness and wolfishness: a good note for the poem to end on. 

Yard Work

Dec 12 2017

There is always yard work

that needs to be done.

In a world of trouble

and fraught browbeaten lives

a few hours of keeping your head down

and your hands in moist sun-warmed soil

kneeling over the hydrangeas

or repelling an invasion of slugs

is all you could really ask for.

A simple chore, a certain end;

something you can see, touch, measure.

The virtue

of honest work,

the satisfaction

of muscle, sweat, dirt.

Of standing, hands on hips

and surveying your small sovereign domain,

all squared away

under control.

Yes, you are hopelessly bourgeois,

a pathetic example

of conventional suburban man

with your postage stamp yard

and shed of neatly stacked implements.

Depending on the season

shovelling, raking, pruning, planting

and always cutting the grass, it seems;

whatever needs doing,

no matter what's in the news

the politicians are up to

the doomsday clock tolls.

A modest home, metaphorical castle,

with the drawbridge up,

your loving companion

in a lofty tower,

vats

along the battlements

filled with burning oil.

Peripheral Vision

Dec 6 2017

It scurries along the baseboard,

as if lost in a maze

and feeling its way out.

I don't so much see the mouse, as sense it;

the distant rim of my retina

on continuous high-alert.

While my conscious mind

is distracted by the obvious;

the direct line of sight

spot-lit,

like jangling keys

before a giggling grasping infant.

So I wonder how much of the world

I've been missing.

Even more, how much of myself.

Of my body,

performing all its complex tasks

with such marvellous skill

unseen, unheard,

as if I were merely a passenger

along for the ride.

And even more, of my mind,

flattering itself I'm in control

when most of my brain does perfectly well,

unencumbered

by awareness

memory

sense of self.

A brief thaw

in a merciless winter

and the mice find their way in.

A new arrival, I think

as he pauses, eyes darting, looking completely lost,

then bolts, start/stop, across the living room floor

into open danger.

I can read his confusion, and fear.

His desperation

for a small dark place

the smell of kin

the calming touch of fur;

a cozy nest

hidden behind the sheet-rock.

Where a mother is grooming her pups;

tiny hearts fluttering,

pink

          ...and warm

                                 ...and sightless.

I experience a real sense of violation when I find mice inside. But I'm getting used to it. Even though they threaten the comforting division between in, and out; between the predictably domestic, and the contingently wild. My house no longer feels like my impregnable castle.

I'm impressed by how infallible my peripheral vision is. How I don't see, but experience the same absolute certainty of sight. I'm almost thrilled by the survival skill of both my unconscious mind and my primitive faculties.

I think the poem does three things.

It recalls a true experience.

It flirts with a philosophical discourse on the nature of consciousness. I say “flirts”, because anything more would be better suited to essay than poem.

And it alludes to the commonality of all living things – reading his state of mind as automatically as I read his furtive movement. And among all living things, mostly mammals. And especially those to whom we're closely related; which, unlikely as it seems, very much includes mice.

Happy Feet

Dec 4 2017

Stiff, used sweat socks

tossed upon the floor.

Hand-knit wool

soft, and fleece, and warm.

Supple cotton slippers, that seamlessly conform

to cold callused feet

pleading for relief.

So it's through the door

and oxfords, brogues, and mary-janes

are instantly kicked-off,

cool athletic high-tops

chucked, or doffed, or dropped.

Along with heels, slip-ons, winter togs

chukkas, derbies, clogs,

patent leather, all-weather

made-to-measure

lost.

Galoshes, gumboots, steel-toes

and orthopaedic walkers,

the posh, and hip, and stylish

tacky, frumpish, awkward.

Tube sock, formal sock

shrunken, stretched, and torn,

new sock, used sock

hand-me-down and worn.

Ankle sock, knee sock, single size fits all,

darned sock, orphaned sock

on the door-knob in the hall.

Happy feet, and toasty toes

and nicely padded bottoms,

whimsical creations

with Santa Clauses on 'em.

The gift of socks

you hated as a kid,

but all a man could want

who has acquired the wisdom

of cold feet

and warm hearts

and hefty thermal socks.

Who is comfortable

in his own skin;

kicking-off his shoes,

and slipping-in

to thick cozy softness.

Ice Fog

Dec 2 2017

Ice fog, as evening descends,

turning the sky

a grey gauzy wash.

Water condensing, as the air cools,

and the full moon, a pale disc

in its softly lit corona.

I walk surrounded;

a dome of lunar light

enclosing me,

while the rest of the world

is lost to sight.

White snow, like a cat's retina

still brightly reflecting

despite the fog;

while the shadows are softly smudged,

a chiaroscuro painting

giving depth to the path.

I move through this space

of gentle contrast, watery shadow

with no need of artificial light.

The moon is enough,

nature provides.

Tonight, no stars.

Even the earth

has contracted around me;

an enchanted glow

like a winter cloak

I gather tight to my chest.