Waiting Out the Storm

June 27 2020

The sound of rain

pelting down

on the roof of the car.

I can almost see the heavy drops

ricochet off

its glistening steel,

so hard

the water ponds before it can drain.

Too loud

to hear each other speak.

The smell of dog

permeates the car.

The windows have steamed over,

and water sluices over the windshield

as if we'd been submerged.

It feels like the eye of the storm

in this capsule of steel and glass.

As if the world had shrunk

to this loud dark interior

and we were the last two on earth,

sitting in silence, side by side

in the intimacy

of this small enclosed space.

Where even if we could

we'd have nothing to say.

Where we are both eyes forward

as if mesmerized

by the water cascading down,

by the wall of sound

that comforts, somehow

as much as it unnerves.

Where, without a single word exchanged

we find ourselves inching closer

and closer still,

until we can we feel the danger

of skin

and heat

and weight.

A downpour

that will go as fast as it came.

Because nothing lasts

that comes this fast and hard.

A few precious minutes

before the chance is lost.

Sometimes, the origin story of a poem is uncomplicated; and instead of personal or confessional or biographical, is simply descriptive.

This one began with a brief scene in a small dramatic movie called Outside In. A man and woman are sitting side-by-side on the front seat during a violent downpour. He is just out of prison, and has powerful but confused feelings toward her. She advocated for his release, and is much older. Her intentions are far more maternal and platonic ...but she also has ambivalent feelings, arising out of neediness from a bad marriage, as well as the many years of their distanced intimacy during his long incarceration.

None of which has anything to do with inspiring the poem. The urge to write it came well before his impulsive kiss. It was just my wanting to play with the familiar feeling of being safe and dry in a car during a pelting downpour. It started with sound, and then moved on to the thrill at the violence of the storm; the enforced time out of time; the cozy sense of being protected.

Nevertheless, the movie clearly informed the ending: as I wrote, my stream of consciousness must have called back to the rest of that scene.

The Kindergarten Teacher

June 24 2020

The kindergarten teacher

sits in a tiny chair

in a cluttered room

where watercolours hang to dry.

Mostly modern impressionist paintings

with florid brushwork

and a surprising use of colour.

Artists who aren't afraid

to mix it up

with their fingers and hands.

She waters the plants

on the low tables

that are placed to catch the sun,

each

in its little cup

with the name of a small child.

Where every moment is teachable.

Where children learn

about getting along

and the singing of songs

and when to politely ask,

about quiet time

and clever rhymes

and how seeds give rise to plants.

She has grey hair

and a kindly face

and favours long flowered dresses.

In a month

the bright green stems

will be too big for their cups,

the sun-warmed soil

she took care to keep moist.

As if everything grows, no matter what.

Year after year

as her hair has gone greyer

and she sits a bit longer

and finds it harder to get up

from that twee little chair.

As if she could contain

these small exuberant humans

in this warm cozy room

no matter how much she wishes they might stay,

little seedlings

full of life

at the point of germination.

I loved The Kindergarten Teacher, a little film I discovered on Netflix starring Maggie Gyllenhaal. She plays a married mother of three who, it eventually emerges, feels quietly thwarted in her artistic ambitions. She discovers in her class a precocious but unassuming 5 year old boy who spontaneously composes beautiful short poems, sparely evocative poems far beyond the sensibility or knowledge of any normal 5 year old. He reminds her of a prodigy like Mozart, and she desperately wants him to be cultivated and cared for like a rare hot house flower, despite his Philistine father and a consumerist money-driven society which no longer cares for art. And perhaps, as well, as a kind of antidote to her own adolescent kids, who never read or create and are constantly on their phones immersed in social media. The story takes a surprising turn; which, of course, I will not elaborate.

But it wasn't so much the plot that stuck with me. And while the poetry did, it was mostly Gyllenhall's lovely nuanced depiction of a kindergarten teacher, her tightly bottled up frustration, and her quiet determination.

Just say those words – kindergarten teacher – and the immediate and inescapable image is a kind, patient, and maternal one. An image of purity. It's this that inspired the poem. And also inspired its title: not just as a paean to the film, but because I find its simplicity and directness so appealing.

I lifted directly from the film the cute little chair, the watering of the plants, and the room festooned with watercolours. Perhaps some day I'll write another piece about the poetry teacher who runs her continuing education class, and whom I could only wish to be more like (even if he does flirt with the stereotype of the bohemian male poet): handsome, exotically foreign, very open and enthusiastic, and not above a small spontaneous act of seduction.

Laundry

June 21 2020

The basket of wet laundry

weighed more than I thought.

One-by-one, the pieces hung heavily,

until the line drooped

under a crayon box of shirts,

empty arms limp

colours dark.

That will smell of fresh cut grass

and backyard trees

and August heat.

The ineffable scent

of summer air,

suntan oil

and grilled meat

and the gasoline

that spilled when filling the mower.

Except in late afternoon

the wind picked-up

and clouds scudded in

and some drops began to fall.

When the world turned dark

and heavy rain poured down.

How suddenly things change

in hot humid weather.

Great grey clouds

rumbling with water,

updrafts of superheated air

colliding with cold.

A summer shower,

when the sky clears

and sun reappears

as quickly as it came.

When laundry power-dries,

and the sagging line lightens

billowing in the breeze.

Fresh-rinsed clothes

dried to bone

that smell of summer rain.

Heavy the Head ...

June 10 2020

She was 7

when the puppy entered our lives.

I admired the good nature

of the older dog,

standing there forbearingly

when the little dog would nip

at the loose fur around her neck,

clamber up her legs

like a toddler climbing monkey bars.

Now, 4 years later

they are best buddies

despite the difference in age;

as if an old man

were chumming around

with someone 50 years younger.

They say dogs live in the moment.

So do they remember when they met?

Do they understand getting bigger

growing older

and how the big girl has slowed,

while her counterpart is stronger, faster

sure of herself?

And will the young one mourn

and for how long will she remember

when on a day like any other

her friend disappears

never to return?

We strive and learn

no matter how old we get.

While the knowledge of death

hovers over us,

informing how we live

shadowing our lives.

But dogs are content

to sit, stay, roll over.

Satisfied

with a ball to chase

and the same dry kibble

day after day,

hoovering it up

like famished waifs.

Puppy eyes imploring us

that however much

it's never enough

and please give us more.

So except for the lost step

and the sprinkle of grey

around the old dog's muzzle

the two best buddies have converged,

where they will remain

as if the world were made this way

and will always be thus.

Which, today

is snoozing in a patch of sun

as it transits the floor.

Groggily levering up

every once in a while

and shuffling sluggishly after it,

then slumping heavily back

in its soporific warmth.

Like world weary travellers

grateful for rest.

Two sleeping dogs

taking comfort in each other.

The older one

emitting strangled yelps,

legs twitching

tail thumping

dreaming of the hunt.

While the heavy head

of the younger dog

rests on her haunches.

Trusting

oblivious

she sleeps the sleep of the innocent

and dreams of kibble to come.

These pictures were taken when Rufus (the younger one) wasn't yet full grown. Now, as the poem says, she is bigger and faster. But I couldn't resist these. They may not be on the floor and may not be following a patch of sun, but they are still beautiful, and the photo still captures Rufus' and Skookum's enviable relationship.

I also couldn't resist the irony of the title: “heavy the head ...that wears the crown”. As if they possessed even a tiny bit of either responsibility or angst!

Old Shoes

June 9 2020

On a vacant lot

on a busy corner

a pair of shoes caught my eye.

As if someone had stepped out of them

mid-stride,

walking off in stocking feet

cool and unconfined.

Old sneakers,

uppers faded

worn laces

dangling in the dirt.

In an open field

of stony soil

and long weedy grass,

along with broken bottles

balding tires

scattered mounds of trash.

Where who knows what

lurks beneath

the overgrown surface?

Orphaned shoes, awaiting their owner;

like an eager puppy

abandoned at the shelter,

wet nose

pressed against the bars

pink tongue panting.

But who wants cast-offs

or athlete's foot?

And who knows

how long they've been standing there,

ready to walk off

and once more be of use.

So there they remain

firmly planted in place,

as if, without missing a step

someone might come along

slip them on

and take them home again.

How unlike

our sentimental keepsakes.

Unlike the stuff we're sure

will be of use some day,

and all that random clutter

gathering dust

we swear we'll get around to.

While old shoes,

like cruel jokes

and heavy loads

and lost or broken promises,

are so easily disposed of.

Like the false hopes

told-ya-sos

and grudges you held on to.

Like old enemies

old certainties

the old, infirm, and elderly

we too easily let go of.

Who have lots of wear

still left in them.

Who also need to be needed

and made of use again.

Hand to Mouth

June 7 2020

Blueberries

in a white ceramic bowl,

a silver spoon

to scoop them out.

From forest to table

hand to mouth.

Still warm

in the late August sun

where they've been ripening all summer.

They are easy picking

this late in the season,

raking loosely spread hands

through small green leaves.

From the low bush

where they grew untended,

in sandy soil

in this northern forest

scorched by fire.

Before the bears gorge.

Before they shrink

in the desiccating heat

that will concentrate their sweetness

but leave them small and dry.

Before wild yeast

raining out of insubstantial air

ferment the over-ripe fruit

and turn them potent.

Still plump and firm.

Still bluish-purple

with a blush of white.

Smaller than commercial berries

and more variously sized.

No need to wash

wild fruit

we've picked ourselves.

No need to wait

for the fancy bowl

or fussy spoon.

No cold fresh cream

or adventurous pairing.

We, too, gorge like bears,

as if preparing for winter

and just as unmannerly.

With discoloured lips

and purple-stained hands,

bits of skin

between our teeth

to worry with our tongues.

I really admired and enjoyed this poem, by Maxine Kumin. It came to me via the Writers Almanac newsletter, which is curated by Garrison Keillor and arrives daily in my inbox.

Appetite
by Maxine Kumin

I eat these
wild red raspberries
still warm from the sun
and smelling faintly of jewelweed
in memory of my father

tucking the napkin
under his chin and bending
over an ironstone bowl
of the bright drupelets
awash in cream

my father
with the sigh of a man
who has seen all and been redeemed
said time after time
as he lifted his spoon

men kill for this

I envy her ability to distil and condense, in stark contrast to my weakness for prolixity.

I love how the memory of her father appears in this simple vignette. It's this personal and emotional touch that makes her poem work. If mine fails, it's because it's too bloodless.

What really inspired me was the smallness of subject, as well as how such a small piece allows so much scope in terms of sensation: sight sound and smell, as well as taste. Not to mention the emotional resonance of food in general.

Spellcheck red-lined “drupelet”. So I Googled, and it is a word: each little facet on a raspberry is a drupelet. Stumbling upon a lovely word like that is often enough to kick-start a poem!

I chose blueberries. Because it's my favourite fruit. Because I couldn't have done raspberries any better. And because a poem about the same berry would have been more derivative than inspired.

Oddly, though, my father also relished raspberries. They grew in the backyard of our first house. A suburban house, but wild fruit, since they were neither planted nor cultivated. He was not an outdoorsy guy, or really much attuned to the natural world. But he took great pleasure in harvesting the raspberries from our backyard. Unlike me, he had a sweet tooth, and his favourite was raspberry jam.

Safe

June 5 2020

The nights are quiet here.

So unlike

dense tropical jungle

with its cacophony of calls,

or the lush green wilderness

far to our south.

There are owls

who can sound like barking dogs;

or close enough

to get mine growling in response.

Nocturnal hunters

with muffled feathers

and superbly sensitive ears

they swoop low between the closely spaced trees

and count on stealth.

Loons, who mate for life

paddle in leisurely pairs 
in the platinum light,

barely ruffling the water's moonlit calm.

Their haunted hoots, yodels, and tremolos

seem as elemental as darkness itself,

eternal and mysterious.

Breaking the silence

their cry lingers

on the stillness of night;

resonates, then trails away
like a held note
that runs out of breath,

the last plaintive air
from a lone clarinet.

And while the call of the loon

never fails to excite

it also reassures

with its powerful sense of place,

grounded here

on a northern lake

surrounded by balsam and pine.

Trees whisper

in a fitful wind.

While in the underbrush

something makes a rustling sound;

a small mammal
with large round eyes 
and a racing heart,

either hunter or prey
under cover of dark,

or quietly grazing

away from her young.

And beneath my feet

the loose crunch of gravel and sand

on this familiar path,

leading me nowhere

except back where I began;

trying to be inconspicuous

when it's bright enough for shadows,

surreptitious

when I can't help but be loud.

How clumsy humans are;

stumbling through the woods,

blundering our way

on imperfect ground.

Intruders in the natural world

we have the presumption to imagine

we can ever call home.

Where wary creatures 
fall silent
until we've walked well past,

keeping their distance 
and carefully tracking our every move

until we are safe behind closed doors.

This poem actually began with the third stanza. I wanted to write something about the call of the loon. Which I love, and which is so essential to the experience of the boreal north. But which is also challenging to write about because it's such a cliche.

When I listened in my head to an imagined call, I realized what a silent space it entered. How, in the cacophony of the tropics, for example, it would be lost in all the other sounds. So the poem expanded into a rumination on silence. Which is part of the power of the call of the loon: how it breaks the silence, how it lingers and resonates in the still quiet air. (This line, by the way, appeared here before I realized it – or some version of it – had to be in the poem. This isn't the first time I preferred something I wrote in the commentary over the poem itself!) In jungle of course, it's not easy to be seen; so animals rely far more on their ears than their eyes. And in the more temperate forests – moving north but still well south of us – there are just plain more of them. Here, it's relatively quiet because there isn't nearly the biodiversity nor the density of living things: nature is sparse and the living is hard.

A rumination on silence, then. But also on man in nature, and of man against the natural world. Which is a familiar trope of mine; one I'm afraid I too easily fall into, and that by now must be getting tired from so much repetition. Nevertheless, I'm very pleased with the way the final line inverts expectations. It's not us who feel safe behind closed doors; it's only when we're there that the wild animals are safe from us: "safely" behind closed doors, rather than "safe".

While I love writing nature poems, I have valiantly resisted letting every poem be one. But after a quick review of my last few posted pieces, I think I've come to accept that this is what I am:  a nature writer. I seem to always want to put an animal in everything I write. It's my starting place and my default. I Googled it, and there actually is a recognized school of nature poetry. And not just that, but many celebrated poets -- like Frost, Wordsworth, Keats, and  Tennyson -- are regarded as such. I would as well include a more contemporary figure like the late Mary Oliver. So while I will still try for variety, I think I will stop resisting so hard. There must be an audience for this stuff. There must be a reason we want to read and write it. 

Before the Bugs Hit

June 1 2020

A hot day

in early May,

after the thaw

but before the bugs hit.

When it could be paradise.

When you can step outside, still in your slippers

and however little you wore to bed

and feel the sun on your skin,

fish-belly white

after a long hard winter.

A lazy heat

that purifies and penetrates.

A slow start

to a wasted day

that feels more priceless than squandered.

The sky seems made of light,

that radiant blue, washed clean

you only see in spring.

When the dry brown grass

has a touch of green

where the shadows have receded.

And the first intrepid buds

have split at their seams,

revealing tightly furled leaves

that nest like tiny emeralds.

While nascent shoots are poking up

despite the risk of frost.

Squirrels chatter

and the early birds sing.

Which isn't singing at all

but calls of aggression

and shrill displays of fitness.

The male imperative,

as if territory and sex

were all there is.

My virgin skin

is starting to burn

and I might as well be snow-blind,

even through the red-tinged haze

of tightly shut lids.

In my forbidden garden

of earthly delights

I wonder if Eden ended this way.

After an unforgiving winter,

but before the plague

of locusts, insects, frogs

a temperamental God.

The sun

rocks me gently to sleep

cradled in its heat.

I have lost track of time

all deadlines have expired.

Sound recedes.

The celestial blue deepens.

And the grass imperceptibly greens,

in the life-giving light

that comes to all

free of fear or favour.

I sleep on the ground floor of a back-split, and can step directly out from my basement bedroom onto a large (and very private!) back deck. How luxurious this feels in early spring. When all the snow has melted and the deck is dry, a high sun is radiating out all this unaccustomed heat, and it's bug free: that priceless interregnum before the blackflies and mosquitoes hit. So I can pad about in my pyjamas and bare feet or slippers; or strip down, and soak up some welcome rays. The heat penetrates. It's delightfully soporific. You lose track of time.

We tend to value what we measure, so maybe we shouldn't measure time so assiduously. Unstructured time is not time wasted. It's the opposite. This is when we can introspect, retrospect, and ruminate. When we can be creative and thoughtful. When we can be at our best.

So instead of rushing off to the next scheduled activity, we'd be better off moving through the world like flaneurs strolling through Paris: free, unconstrained, unrushed.