Wave

Nov 26 2019

It seems to gain strength

as it coasts into shore.

Pushed up by the upward slope

of the sandy bottom,

all the energy

contained in that great mass of water

compressed into a smaller and smaller space

closing-in on land.

Waves roll in

like little kids

in a school pageant

entering from off-stage;

shooed into rough marching order

but not quite regularly spaced

and of uneven height.

Some are forceful, some are shy

and someone always wets her pants,

an imploring face

streaked with briny tears;

the same salt as the sea,

but warm
and somehow comforting.

Out in the open ocean

a wave passes

water rises and falls.

If seeing is believing

you wonder where it went,

the thing that was a wave

and was real enough to be named

and had mass and speed 
you could actually measure.

To have vanished

like a slight shrug of the shoulders

into a vast and trackless ocean

so not a ripple remains.

Waves

lap against the shore

like clockwork,

cresting and troughing

with that hypnotically calming sound

you feel as much as hear.

And end

in thin sheets of frothy water

washing up the beach 
as high as they can.

Then, totally spent, slide easily back to sea,

leaving hard packed sand

smooth and dark.

You walk across,

sinking in

so only your finely etched footprints are left,

like the lost-wax

of who you are.

Until the next wave rolls in

and washes them gone.

The theme song that begins the Showtime TV series The Affair is hauntingly beautiful. Container was written by Fiona Apple especially for the show, and inspired this poem.

Here are the lyrics. Although they hardly do the piece justice. Because as is usual with lyrics, they're flat, almost banal, on the page. But with the music, they come alive: with the accompaniment, the delivery, the human voice. So if you'd prefer to listen, here's a link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6muh9kTlr88.

What particularly struck me, listening to the opening of the show, was this idea of the evanescence of waves: the sense of impermanence they convey, as well as the fluid nature of identity. The song also talks about consequence and contingency: how an action can outlive its actor; and how actions resonant down the generations. I left this theme alone. So my piece actually began with the third stanza. But, as usual, once I got on the topic of waves, I couldn't help myself from riffing on waves in general.

Container

I was screaming into the canyon
At the moment of my death
The echo I created
Outlasted my last breath

My voice it made an avalanche
And buried a man I never knew
And when he died his widowed bride

Met your daddy and they made you

I have only one thing to do and that's
Be the wave that I am and then
Sink back into the ocean
I have only one thing to do and that's
To be the wave that I am and then
Sink back into the ocean
I have only one thing to do and that's
Be the wave that I am and then
Sink back into the ocean
(Sink back into the ocean)
Sink back into the o
Sink back into the ocean
Sink back into the o
Sink back into the ocean
Sink back into the ocean

Pureed, Peeled, Gummed

Nov 21 2019

Just the right blush of green.

Caught

on that single day of perfection,

the exact hour, perhaps;

the tipping point

between over-ripe

and under.

Like that golden age

in your teens or early twenties

when you are invincible

and forever young

and the world is for changing.

True, unlike the fruit

your bruises heal

a backbone keeps you straight.

And you can be peeled over and over,

opened to the world

and its corrupting air;

your protective skin stripped,

soft pale pulp

exposed.

Your slippery outer layer

blackening where it fell,

a vestige of your past

as treacherous to others

as it is to yourself.

Starch turning to sugar,

until the delicate floral notes

are soon overwhelmed

by a sharply cloying sweetness,

the firm satisfying bite

reduced to mush.

Just a matter of days

until the peel thins and slackens

to a softly mottled brown.

The way the back of the hand

reveals one's age

unerringly,

its liver spots

and broken veins

and fragile skin

so waxily transparent.

Along with the wattled neck

and weary voice

and crumbling spine,

painful, bent

shortening.

They say the perfect fruit

that comes in its own container

and can be made into bread, smoothie, split

muffin, pie, chip.

A baby's first solid.

A comfort food

for the middle-aged and time-pressed.

And for the very elderly, spoon-fed

in some messy pureed concoction.

Or eaten straight,

undeterred

by its indecent shape

bright yellow tumescence. 

Voice

Nov 18 2019

Does it happen often

a day has passed

with not a word exchanged?

When you never once gave voice,

like an operatic soprano

giving her instrument a rest?

Never shaped your breath

into meaning,

never shared greetings and pleasantries

your deep confessional thoughts?

Or even the banal back-and-forth,

the mutual grooming

of formulaic speech,

“Hey” ...“hi”,

“how are you? ...“fine

       ... and you?”

Precocious apes, taking turns

plucking pests from matted fur.

The power of presence;

if not through touch

then there in words.

But today, silence.

And meanwhile

that voice in your head

that never stops

was still hammering away at you.

And only the dogs

who are incomprehending, but eager

were favoured with your cleverness,

barking out “fetch, Rufus, fetch”

and cooing “who's a good girl?”

Words, pent up,

contained

by a dam of silence

that will surely give way

in a sudden verbal flood.

Or unused words,

that, like neglected muscle

weaken and waste;

your tongue thickening

cords, thinned to whispers.

In want of company

we begin to hallucinate,

imagining old friends

resurrecting the dead.

While deprived of conversation

words spill out on the page

in incoherent torrents,

washing up on empty shores

unacknowledged

unheard.

Because without language

we are less than human,

dumbing-down, regressing

reverting

to grunts and gibberish.

Or perhaps

you were just waiting

until the fat lady sings,

her fine soprano voice

refreshed and restored.

I'm surprised this is the first time I've written about silence in this way. Because I live a rather reclusive hermetic life, and often arrive at the end of the day only to realize that I haven't spoken a single word to another human being. That if I die an old man, I will probably still have a firm young voice, preserved through disuse.

I suspect that the overwhelming urge to write is particularly strong in me during these fallow times.

What immediately came to mind was the forced voice rest of operatic singers, who train themselves to say as little as possible during the run of a trying performance, or between engagements that were hard on their instrument.

It also strikes me how singular language is in defining us as human, in separating us from our fellow animals.

And how words, like water, are unstoppable, pent-up only so long: seeking their level, penetrating every crack, eventually building up and breaking out.

Brothers in Arms

Nov 15 2019

I cannot help but admire

nature's frugality,

her minimalist beauty

clever thrift.

Over so many eons

what she has conserved

or wisely re-purposed.

How the same molecule

that releases mother's milk

also floods her with love,

as the nursing mom

holds her babe-in-arms

in her fierce protective gaze.

The same drug

that causes men to bond.

Brothers in arms

heading-off to war,

as, it seems, we have repeatedly done

since time immemorial.

The human brain,

suspended

in the sovereign splendor

of its locked black box,

bathed in a chemical broth

of hormones and transmitters.

Like a touchy twitchy druggie

seeking its fix.

So I wonder about free will.

That despite our conceit of agency

we are mere instruments

of instinct, survival

desire,

marionettes summoned to dance

by puppet-master genes.

As oxytocin, the hormone of love

dictates belonging, attachment

the painful contractions

of our passage from womb to world.

As adrenaline, coursing through our veins

mediates rage

and renders pain oblivious.

Enables the racing heart

the clotting of blood,

the sweat-blinded aim

of scattershot guns.

Freeze, fight, escape

it silently screams;

dehumanizing them

while privileging us.

Nature is frugal; nature conserves. So the same hormones we find in ourselves are also identically found in mice and moths and bottom-feeding fish. We delude ourselves with the conceit of human exceptionalism. But in many fundamental ways, we are hardly exceptional.

A gene does not map one-to-one onto a specific trait. Genes function in combination, so a length of DNA can serve multiple purposes: turned on and off by epigenetic effects; brought into critical proximity to other activated stretches by the tertiary structure – the folding and unfolding – of DNA. This is another example of nature's frugality. And, similarly, how a chemical conserved across species can be conscripted to multiple functions within the same species.

In this regard, oxytocin comes to mind. I am struck by how much of human behaviour is driven by belonging and attachment. And how the same hormone that incites a mother's love also drives the sense of belonging, identity, and reciprocal obligation that enables men to commit war. Because without those deep abiding bonds – the brothers in arms, the camaraderie and fellow feeling – who would fight or risk his life for some abstract cause? And, of course, essential to this psychology is exactly what the final lines say: how necessary it is to demonize and dehumanize the enemy in order to kill; and, conversely, how we somehow delude ourselves into seeing our allies and comrades in only the best light.

There are a couple of recurring tropes here that will be familiar to my readers (and probably strike most of them as tiresome!) There is the questioning of free will. There is a strain of misanthropy. There is the nature of perception: the brain, residing in what amounts to its own virtual-reality world. And there is the levelling down of man: not man, in all his abiding hubris, against nature and subduing her; but man as part of nature, or – even more so – subject to her power and whim.

This was a challenging poem to write. First, because it gets a little technical, and physiology is not exactly conducive to good poetry. And second, because it's another of those philosophical poems, which always risk coming off as plodding, or pretentious, or bloodless. I can only hope it does none of those things.

Poetic Licence

Nov 8 2019

The taste of a fresh tomato

even a poet can only describe

as tomato.

If all language is metaphor

then perhaps this is best;

because here, there is no approximation,

no flawed comparisons

florid words

processed flavour.

It depends, of course

on how you taste

    . . . and when.

Sliced, quartered, halved.

Or eaten whole, like an apple,

plucked from its vine

on a sun-warmed day

cradled in one hand.

A bright tomato-red.

Your nose, almost touching

inhaling its floral/citrus scent.

The slight resistance

as you bite in,

a little give, then release

as you penetrate

its firm smooth skin.

Then the satisfying dive

into soft sweet pulp,

as sticky juice

dribbles down your chin

on your fresh white shirt.

The terroir

cultivar

degree of ripeness.

So each tomato is unique,

like taking poetic licence

and making it yours.

Tomato-y

tomato-like

tomato-ish.

A supermarket tomato,

hard and cold and tasteless

rescued from the back of the fridge.

I suppose this poem raises the age-old question of subjectivity: do we all experience the world the same way; is your colour red identical to mine?

But for me, it's more about my process as a poet. Am I a scientist, reducing everything to its elements, trying to describe and reproduce every attribute and aspect? That is, my tendency to over-write; to spoon-feed the reader. Or do I trust the reader, and all I need do is point her in the right direction, inviting her to call up her own memory and imagination? This is the insecurity of writing too little, of asking the reader to do all the work.

But even more than that, it's simply a fun poem. It involves two of the things I enjoy most: First, the exercise of close observation: the slowing down of time, the narrowing-in of focus. And second, word-play and the mouth-feel of language.

I cannot do justice to the taste of a good tomato. Except to say “the taste of a good tomato”: ripe, sun-warmed, and freshly off the vine. So much better to simply hand the reader a tomato than try to reproduce it in words. Language can only do so much. Poetry is, at best, a pallid version of life.

When I sent the initial rough draft off to one of my first readers, I began my email with what follows. I decided to include it here, since it says something about my process.

I've kind of written this poem before. My only excuse for plagiarizing myself is that I sat down to write, and this is what came. Perhaps it was reading the latest poem in The Atlantic (didn't like it much, but that's beside the point) which had something to do with flavour, and so planted a seed in my mind.

 

But what is actually much more interesting about this one is that I wrote directly onto the computer:  fingers tapping away on the keyboard, rather than holding a pen and writing by hand on a blank sheet of paper. I wonder how much process affects the way I write? Can you see a difference here?

And yes, the writing seems to have become compulsive. I seem to be churning out a new one every day. Oh well. I guess as addictions go, it could be worse! Money ...power ...meth ...sex ...food. So at least it's not fattening, dangerous, ethically dubious, or bad for the teeth! 

Dust to Dust

Nov 7 2019

What surprised me

was that even the empty house

kept accumulating dust,

a fine patina

evenly dispersed,

converting every surface

to a soft dull grey.

Windows sealed, blinds drawn.

Vintage furniture

under white cotton throws;

the way snow
softens a landscape,
rugged contours smoothed

sins concealed.

And the same stale air,

as undisturbed as ancient lakes

preserved under glaciers.

Air, you'd have thought

that would by now have been fully distilled.

Abraded bits of skin

particles of soil.

Mould, spores, flecks of paint

toxic with lead.

The stuff of ancient stars, long exploded

so that interstellar dust

is steadily raining down,

rare and precious atoms

settling out on the planet 
like manna from heaven above.

All matter

boiling-off and decomposing,

inexorably eroding

with the passage of time.

Even here

in this abandoned house

with its perfectly preserved interior

time is relentless

and nothing lasts.

Because there is always dust

falling, drifting, piling up;

the third certainty

along with taxes and death.

So why bother cleaning up

when there is no end to it?

Perhaps because neglect

would be surrender,

that incriminating layer of dust

a memento mori

we cannot bear to contemplate.

While a pristine surface

gleaming with wax and elbow grease

is an act of defiance,

calling out to the gods of cleanliness

to prevent us returning to dust

at least before our time.

For the longest time I've found myself looking to The Writer's Almanac for inspiration.

( http://www.garrisonkeillor.com/radio-categories/twa-2018/ )

Garrison Keillor's taste in poetry tends toward simple language, as well as the mundane stuff of daily life. I aspire to the first and admire the second, attracted as I am to microcosm and close observation.

This poem appeared today, and was the inspiration for mine. Ted Kooser does it so much more brilliantly, of course: saying the same thing, but so much more concisely; and expressing it with great misdirection and artfulness, as well as such a light hand with metaphor. I err far too much in the direction of telling, rather than showing. While he has that brilliant final couplet, transforming the poem with such sudden sharp finality.

Carrie
by Ted Kooser

"There's never an end to dust
and dusting," my aunt would say
as her rag, like a thunderhead,
scudded across the yellow oak
of her little house. There she lived
seventy years with a ball
of compulsion closed in her fist,
and an elbow that creaked and popped
like a branch in a storm. Now dust
is her hands and dust her heart.
There's never an end to it.

 "Carrie" from Flying at Night: Poems 1965-1985 by Ted Kooser, © 1985. Aired by permission of the University of Pittsburgh Press.

Rain Turns to Snow

Nov 4 2019

Rain turns to snow

and back again.

Such a fine balance,

teetering on the point of a pin

tipping this-way-then-that.

A breath of wind

imperceptible tremor;

a mote of dust

landing at random

a slight perturbation of sun.

The incalculable sum

of what little we know

and the innumerable things we don't.

Meanwhile, snow fills the air

but does not accumulate.

So the ground is the usual

dull brown fallow of fall,

cold and wet

in the flat grey light.

Soon, a shroud of snow

will be scoured by wind

and piled into drifts

and conceal our sins of neglect,

the chores we omitted

in preparing for winter

the scars that disfigure the land.

Transforming the lawn

    —   its stranded implements and rusting tools,

prickly weeds

and long-dead patches of grass   —

into a flawless white nirvana.

Then back, next spring

as seasons succeed

the circle turns.

But will this be the year

the balance is lost?

The heavy steadying weight

that, up to now

the centre has always found,

like a roly-poly toy

that tips but doesn't topple?

They talked of nuclear winter

then a hot-house earth;

a small disturbance you'd hardly notice

that exponentially grows.

And all I can do is watch.

A miserable day,

whip-sawed between unseasonable snow

and cold and bitter rain.