Embodied

Jan 24 2018

It hardly left a scar.

Not that this matters much

to an average man

who has lost a step

and whose looks, at best, were passable.

Amazing, how a cut near the eye bleeds,

one even far less deep than this.

And odd, but you hardly feel it

until you see the blood

startling in its redness.

Pooling in my palm, spilling to the floor.

Dripping thickly,

as if beginning to congeal

the instant it slows.

The horrified look

in the eyes of others

hustling hurriedly past.

But more amazing still

is the body

invisibly mending itself.

The wound

edges opposed, and tightly dressed

and left on its own to heal,

out of sight and mind.

The cascade

of complex molecules

which somehow know.

The ends

of severed vessels

that seek each other out.

Proliferating cells

in place, on task

in a closely choreographed dance,

assembling themselves

the way columns of scurrying ants

find order, somehow;

as mysterious

as the hive mind's emergence

from its simple singular parts.

And me, profoundly ignorant

of the intricate machine

in which I'm embodied.

The small incubus of consciousness

I call "myself",

so unaware

of my own doings

within this black box of flesh.

So who am I, exactly;

and how much less

than I imagined?

Looking in

at the inscrutable mind

and its vain conceit of will.

Peering out

at reality,

the surface of things

I take on faith as true.

Nevertheless, my body has once again

made itself whole.

Like a clever boat, battered by waves

that automatically rights itself.

Like a ceramic vessel

on a rapidly spinning wheel,

shaped and smoothed

by invisible hands

coated in cool slip.

Look close

and you'll barely make it out,

one more scar

in the succession of marks

a lifetime leaves.

Old faces

full of character, and strength.

Each glowing

with its own pride of scars,

the seasoned beauty

of lives well-lived.

After too many years to mention, you can read my life history in my body's accumulation of scars. Inanimate objects are broken, and done. The nicks and scratches never disappear. But living bodies heal. Invisibly. Invariably. Automatically. Unconsciously.

If we did not understand this as a natural phenomenon, we'd call it miraculous. And with the constantly increasing knowledge of cell biology and immunology and the immeasurably complex components of blood – its hormones and molecular messengers and self-regulating feedback systems – it does almost come to seem miraculous. One of the everyday miracles that surround us, and which we take for granted. I think, for example, of the human brain: the approximately 3 lbs of jelly-like material every single one of us carries around in our heads and blithely accepts as given, yet is the single most complicated thing that exists in the known universe. Who needs to look for biblical miracles or supernatural intervention, when we all carry around on our shoulders the most miraculous thing you could imagine?

The narrative here is exactly what happened: I immediately opposed the edges and applied a pressure dressing, and – except for dressing changes – left it like that: out of sight and mind, hidden under a bandage where I could ignore it, sure my body would heal itself; yet utterly detached from the process. A full thickness wound: yet a week later, it was virtually unseeable.

Which I think is analogous to how consciousness works: we think we know what's going on in our heads, we imagine we're in charge, we never question our sense of “self”. And yet so much of our brain is functioning outside of awareness; so much of our mind is subject to drives that have nothing to do with free will or agency. The workings of the body are as inscrutable as the workings of the mind. This blind healing is like our unconscious actions and thoughts. Except that the former we easily acknowledge; while with the latter, we find it hard to believe we aren't nearly as in charge as we think.

Perception is analogous, as well: it's truer to say that rather than believing what we see, we see what we believe. We see the surface of things, and are often content to go no deeper. We see what we expect to see, too often oblivious to the blindingly obvious.

These are the philosophical musings that occupy the centre of the poem. If I haven't lost the reader by then, she'll be relieved to find the ending brings it back to earth: the face, the scar, the life well-lived. Or if not well, then at least fully.

Designated Mourner

Jan 15 2018

A black ribbon

attached to a small button

pinned to my lapel;

handed to me by a harried man

who seemed anxious to move things along.

Was the schedule backed up?

The small chapel

over-booked?

This simple pin

was to indicate a mourner,

a family member

an intimate friend.

Whom I suppose is expected

to perform his mourning

in that very public way;

the ritual

of conventional death

in all its formal black solemnity.

Not deceased, corpse, carcass,

but the loved one, the dear departed

at peace

passed on.

Not dead, or expired,

but at rest, met his Maker,

the late . . .

called to God.

My father had died

in a hospital bed

where his body withered

and his mind wandered

and fitful sleep

came brief, but often;

a welcome respite, it seemed.

My mother, frustrated he slept so much

in his final months

and hardly touched his food;

cooking and talk

all she had to offer

and both feebly declined.

If only she had known

her simple presence sufficed;

but the need to “do something”

is a mother's calling

and a wife's declaration of love.

It was winter

and a bitter wind was blowing

and frozen ground was sprinkled with snow.

I imagined the trees

full, and dappled with sun;

but that day

their jagged branches were bare,

like bones, flensed of flesh.

Trees that seemed to stand apart

in their still majestic permanence,

indifferent

to the affairs of men;

the living and the dead,

the yet unborn.

A beautiful box was lowered,

its blonde wood, elegantly carved.

The closed casket

then disappeared under hard clods of earth;

a work of art

too briefly admired,

a piece of fine craftsmanship

a practical man, my father

would have bequeathed an after-life.

I felt detached, almost disembodied

as the funeral rite progressed;

pulled and pushed

through remembrance

procession

interment and prayers.

And when it was over

could only wish I had been

more whole-heartedly there.

That button still sits on my cluttered desk

where years ago I left it;

so familiar, I rarely notice,

such a vessel

of difficult feelings

I cannot throw it out.

By now, the box has probably rotted

the body decomposed.

Yet I wonder still

have I sufficiently honoured my father

or at all fulfilled his hopes?

The black pin, which I noticed again today;

a designated mourner

who doubts himself.

How worthy he is?

How worthy he was

when that hurried man sought him out

and pinned it to his lapel?

Perception

Jan 11 2018

Why is the sky blue

when we really mean how;

the size of molecules

the scattering of light.

Because to ask why

is too metaphysical for science.

It implies that we

are at the centre  –

         that there is intention;

               that the sky is meant for us;

                     that our perception of colour

                     is absolute.

And so many shades of blue,

not to mention the leaden skies

the twilight greys

the milky light of dawn.

How it changes, as I watch.

And how, at night

the warm blanket of air

       –  eggshell thin

   around an embryonic earth   –

becomes invisible

clear out to the stars

as fast as light can go.

Transparent air

on which birds seem to levitate,

buoyant, and hollow-boned.

Too far for us to see

the powerful wings

clawing them higher,

the strain of muscles

flushed with blood,

enormous lungs

like glistening bellows

pumping deeply in-and-out.

All we see

are their slowly circling forms;

wings extended

spiralling-up

on thermals of sun-warmed air.

From where they look down on earth

oblivious to us;

who are too small to notice,

too incidental

to the fugitive life of birds.

This poem touches on so many familiar tropes, I feel I'm becoming tiresome, repetitive, boring. There are animals, of course. There is insignificant man, set against the magnificence of nature. There is close observation and microcosm. And there is also imagery I seem to return to again and again: the image of the earth's atmosphere, the transparent night sky, the telescoping and sudden reversal of perspective.

On the other hand, I think this poem puts all my old tricks to use in a new and interesting way. And I'm pleased with the distillation and compression; especially the opening, where a relatively complex philosophical idea – one that could easily merit an entire essay – is neatly encapsulated in a few lines.

I'm generally reluctant to take on a poem like this: a poem of ideas; a poem with no narrative structure; and poem that is more intellectual than visceral, more detached than personal. It's hard to make that kind of poem work. Mostly because there isn't enough emotion or sensation to grip the reader. So I hope I rose to the challenge here.

Terminal Velocity

Jan 8 2018

The urge to jump.

The fear, peering over the edge

that my body will act without me.

An irrational compulsion, I know.

Yet I take another step back

or tighten my grip,

the crawling sensation

of my clammy palms

against the metal bar.

The compact car

halfway across

the narrow wind-whipped bridge,

wildly rocking

as if about to lift-off.

The apocryphal man

impelled from the ledge

into the subway pit,

power pulsing

in its dingy depths.

That vertiginous look

over the edge.

The dread

of the momentary lapse, subversive thought.

Minor intent,

and the fatal consequence

it irrevocably starts,

as out of proportion

as chaos theory.

Yet I'm not sure the end

would be so painful;

the abruptness of death,

the clever brain, protecting itself

in the mind's terminal blink.

So mostly, it's the gut-wrenching plunge,

so final

so full of banal regret.

Too quick to achieve

the steady state of constant speed;
free-fall,
when the world goes still
and it feels like time
is holding its breath.

I've read how many suicides

would have wished for a second chance

half-way down.

We know this from the survivors

and think about the rest,

the fateful step

that was one too many.

But still, the ancestral fear

of snakes

                   ... height

                                      ... death

exacts its strange fascination.

How we are drawn, and repelled.

The presumption

of free will,

the mad compulsion to jump.

The crowd at my back

on the subway platform

as bodies press toward the track.

And here

on the skyscraper balcony,

a waist-high balustrade

brittle with rust.

Where I stand alone;

my fugue-like body

automaton legs.

Someone read  this poem, and came away with the impression it was about suicidal ideation. Which it isn't at all. Rather, it's about a common phenomenon called "the urge to jump from high places". I thought this would be immediately and universally recognized, and that the poem would not only make sense, but reassure readers --  as they read along and identified with the feeling -- that  they were far from alone in experiencing this fascinating and paradoxical urge.

The inspiration for Terminal Velocity was this piece, which appeared in Nautilus, a science/culture magazine (which appears both on-line and in print). I've recently begun to read Nautilus, and highly recommend it.

http://nautil.us/issue/46/balance/why-you-feel-the-urge-to-jump

Shared Silences

Jan 7 2018

In silence, we're most often alone;

letting the mind wander

listening to our own thoughts.

But I see the old couple

dining together

who haven't said a word.

Do they enjoy the shared silence?

Or after all these years

have they run out of things to say?

Either way

they seem at ease with this;

where most of us

would feel the awkward heat

of social expectation

burning ears and tongues.

An older couple

who are still in love,

but whose infatuation

has naturally given way

to the quiet attachment of age.

I envy their comfort,

even if it's only the residue

of resigned familiarity.

Because the pressure of speech

builds in us like steam

in a closed vessel

testing its strength;

the social grooming, polite inanities,

the need to display

find meaning

connect.

We may be visual creatures,

but hearing is the most powerful sense;

setting-off alarms

that make the pulse quicken, muscles tense,

acting at a distance

in spite of walls

darkness

denial.

And most of all, the spoken voice;

because the power of speech

is the fundamental thing

that makes us human,

even a simple conversation

about the day's weather

idle gossip

or really nothing at all.

He glances up, she passes the salt.

Who knows

If under the table

their feet surreptitiously touch?

If in the exchange

their fingers brushed briefly?

Man and wife, I assume

for no good reason at all.

An indifferent pair

seated across a table,
blank looks, and distant gazes

as they dully chew their food?

Or a constant couple
who feel no urge to talk,
sitting together
in well-contented calm?

Deaf

to the clatter of plates
the buzz of the crowd.

A sentimental song

from when they were young

filling in the lulls.

The Demolition of Sandy Hook

Jan 5 2018

The demolition of Sandy Hook

included kindergarten chairs

and cute little desks,

blackboards, still covered in chalk.

Terrazzo floors

unlocked doors

shards of shattered glass.

The entire place

levelled, bulldozed, razed;

then its flag folded

its pole dismantled

its rubble carted away.

The elementary school

where 20 small children were shot

point-blank,

sacrificed

on the alter of guns

in a country that kills too much

and doesn't spare its young.

And now, many years later

while the shooter is dead

and the children are mourned

and the families crushed,

the guns persist

the laws still stand.

But the building was deemed unbearable,

too painful

to even look at.

An act of forgetting

that reminds me of the dull grey men

saluting from the Kremlin's steps,

air-brushed out

by the new regime.

Reminds me of the elementary texts

that sanitize the sins of the past

excuse our moral blind-spots;

simplifying history,

omitting the unthinkable.

Another decade of carnage,

and all the names

will have coalesced

into hazy numb acceptance.

Another decade

of daily death

and words like Newtown, Sandy Hook

SIG Saur, Bushmaster, Glock

will have all lost their meaning;

the subject changed

the shooter expunged

the school utterly gone.

The bodies buried.

The small headstones

atop their graves.

I don't write political poetry. (By “political”, I mean public policy and advocacy, not partisan politics – which not even the most ideological would submit to poetry!) But sometimes, I think emotion is all we're left with: that on some issues, we are way past the cool detachment of analysis, the carefully considered exercise of balanced fair objective thought; that on some issues, we're in a place where all that argument and essay and debate have to offer has been exhausted.

There was a piece in this month's National Geographic (Jan 2018) called The Science of Good and Evil (by Yudhijit Bhattacharjee), and it opened with a picture of Sandy Hook Elementary. I was impressed by its attractive curved facade of wood and river-stone. I was surprised when the caption informed me that this was all new: that the original had been torn down, as if even the sight of the building where the massacre took place was too much to bear. Down to the flagpole, the caption was careful to say. So, was this an act of reverence and honouring? ...or was it an act of intentional forgetting, where history is sanitized and bad memories expunged? How ironic: the school was demolished, but the gun laws were never changed.

(I very intentionally left out the name of the shooter. He (yes, as usual, a “he”) deserves to be forgotten. We should never risk allowing the notoriety and perverse celebrity of mass killers to become an inducement to other alienated and deluded misfits.)

(The litany of guns is taken from an actually account of his arsenal (as a cursory review on Google has it).)

(There were also 6 adults gunned down. I'm sorry if the poem diminishes this loss, but my intention was to emphasize the killing of the children: if such a depraved act was not sufficient to push legislators into reforming gun laws, then nothing will.)