But the Sleeping Dogs Slept

Jan 18 2019

Confused by the light

he sprinted ahead of us,

alarmed, but under control;

as if he could run all night

hardly tiring.

Before he clambered up

the high banks

and vanished into darkness,

leaving a few clumps of snow

runnelling down

the smoothly scoured surface.

Heading north

on a country road

on a frigid winter night.

When the frozen seat had softened

but frost still rimmed the glass.

The warm cocoon, the hum of tires

the heater's steady purr.

A Brahms concerto

coming over the air

from somewhere vaguely south,

before it lost to static

a little further on.

When an impression of motion

in the shifting greys

broke my trance-like calm,

a disturbance

in the cone of light

that cut the icy dark.

A deer? 
                 ...a fox?

                                  ...a large lost dog?

Until my perspective sharpened

and I was certain it was wolf.

Thinking of all the howls

in the lonely hours

when we wondered just how far.

And of its sure powerful stride;

urgent, but not panicked.

Because foxes dart, deer frantically stumble.

And dogs bark

like the overgrown puppies they are.

While the wolf's majestic bearing

left little doubt

who belonged to this land

and who commanded deference.

But the sleeping dogs slept,

their animal warmth

and steady humid breath.

Oblivious

to the feral scent of predators

and ever-present threats.

So up we drove

the winding road

between towering banks of snow.

Like a slender life-line

carved out of winter

by the massive yellow plow,

its acrid smoke, diesel racket

rattling steel blade.

While the lone wolf

bounded freely through the woods.

His keen vision

illuminating the dark,

his enormous paws

padding softly

as he vanished into night.

I was sad to read today of Mary Oliver's death. But as I read the various remembrances, I was reminded how much this beloved and admired poet's style is very similar to mine: often missing the presence of people; revelling in the natural world; descriptive, lyrical, epiphanic; somewhat deprecating of man's place in nature; and written in a direct and accessible style. And I found great encouragement in this, since I often think that my poetry is boring, repetitive, and not coloured enough by deep human emotion and circumstance. What, one more “nature poem”? Another overly descriptive piece, when all I can resort to for inspiration in my uneventful existence (ahh, the romantic life of the poet!) is looking out the window ...again?

So I felt it worthwhile to have a go at this one. After all. Risking “more of the same.” If for nothing more than the pleasure of writing. Not of having written, but of the writing itself. I think as prolific a poet as Mary Oliver would be with me on this, as well.

Germanic

Dec 8 2018

A sturdy ferry, in nautical white.

With a bright red stack, jauntily angled

and wind-whipped flags, crisply snapping

on a brisk blue sea

flecked with froth.

A coal-black plume

chuffs from its funnel

streaming toward the bow.

How disconcerting,

to see it vent its exhaust

in the direction of travel.

Unlike ships, as they're always depicted

bravely steaming ahead

trailing smoke.

But in the artist's eye

we see a working vessel

on a sweet-water sea,

an infernal smudge

on pastel sky.

A tail wind,

yet the sulphurous plume

evokes the resistance of water.

Of glowing boilers

steam erupting,

massive pistons

repeatedly thrusting.

The rusted screw

straining, churning,

an unglamorous vessel

hard at work.

It occupies most of the canvas

but still seems small,

eclipsed

by the indifferent power

of wind and wave,

by a merciless sea

so vastly present

yet hardly seen.

I can hear the clanging of pipes

sense a low-pitched throb.

Feel her steel shudder

at battering waves

and the weight of water.

A workhorse ferry

forging on.

This is the second consecutive time this picture appeared in the weekend paper. A small ad for an art gallery, one among many that also contained full colour reproductions. Yet both times, it was the only one that absolutely compelled my eye: caught and held it, then drew me back. Even though it occupied a small rectangle in the lower half of an otherwise unremarkable inside page.

I know what I found immediately appealing: the bright primary colours; the sure but unschooled style; the ship itself – jaunty, almost festive, but still a humble working vessel. Words like “sturdy” and “dogged” come to mind. But what compelled was that column of smoke, going in the direction of travel. Which is, of course, perfectly normal, and as common as any direction. Yet is also striking because it seems few artists ever depict a ship this way. Yes, a tail wind, but it still makes the ship seems slow: steady, determined, and unaccountably charismatic; reminiscent, somehow, of “the engine that could.”

The artist is Angus Trudeau (1908 to 1984), and the title of the piece is Germanic. Here is a thumbnail biography, which I've lifted from the website of Gallery Gevik, who apparently represent his work:

Angus Trudeau spent his working life as a sailor and cook aboard the Lake Huron commercial ships. He devoted his spare time, and his retirement years to painting and model building. Trudeau's language was Ojibwe and he spent virtually his whole life on or around Manitoulin Island, and in later life, on the Wikwemikong Reserve, where he was much admired by the younger generation of the Woodland School of painters.

Trudeau's inspiration is drawn from the world of Manitoulin, although his vision is imbued with deeply personal insight. His subjects (the lake freighters and ferry boats, the bygone community buildings and events), are often portrayed through the diapason of memory or through reference materials he collected.

The artist's self-taught style is well suited to the purity and freshness of his vision. The approach perfectly conveys the lively delight with which Trudeau viewed the world around him and its ghosts from the past. His paintings incorporate a variety of media, including some elements of collage. Often bending the "laws" of perspective, they are startlingly vivid and richly evocative.

A Sound of Thunder

Jan 13 2019

I tightrope the narrow path

where others have packed the snow,

the heavy treads

of their comings and goings

frozen fast in time.

Following its meandering course;

where the first pathfinder stumbled, perhaps,

or in a moment of inattention

zigzagged left and right.

It is night,

and my headlamp's focused beam

is white on ghostly white;

distilled light

glinting off the virgin drifts

and picking up the sloping limbs

of freshly frosted trees.

Just a small misstep, and I'm up to my knees

in the soft deep snow

that shoulders-in on the path.

As in most things,

following in the footsteps

of those who came before;

grateful

that others have broken trail,

for the solid footing

that grounds me here.

I am reminded of that Ray Bradbury tale

of travellers to the distant past,

who must stick

to the strictly prescribed path

or put the future at risk;

a single blade of grass

inadvertently crushed,

a butterfly's wing

trapped underfoot.

Consequence

that ripples out over time;

the errant step

that disproportionately magnifies.

Yet how tempted I am

to strike out on my own,

depart the well-trodden path

for the dark solitude

and majestic indifference

of uninhabited winter.

But the snow is impassable

excluding us all.

So I negotiate the narrow path

through the preternatural stillness

of the over-towering trees.

Walking by myself

yet depending upon the help

of all who came before.

And adding what I can

for those who come after.

The title is lifted from that Ray Bradbury short story. Thunder doesn't really fit with winter, but I think an homage was in order. And anyway, I've always rather like misdirection in a title.