Dog Days - Aug 30 2020

Dog Days

Aug 30 2020

The dogs days of summer

sound like what they are,

a panting dog

sprawled in a patch of shade

on a sultry windless day.

When crickets chirp lazily,

and sprinklers tick hypnotically,

and even the best tended lawn

is a wan limp green.

But are named for Sirius, instead,

the brightest star

that rises in August

in the constellation Canis.

In an age when we rarely look up,

when the night sky

is so often obscured by light.

I recall my very first view

of the Milky Way,

as a boy of 10

sleeping under the stars

and feeling amazed;

how profuse they were

and how they kept on appearing,

as if materializing

before my eyes.

And here and there a shooting star

that briefly flared and faded,

so the sky

seemed that much more alive.

But saw no constellations.

Perhaps because

I was not searching for gods

or patterns

or to make it make sense

but took it for what it was,

a vast glittering dome

composed of dense absorbent blackness

and brilliant pinpoints of light,

no two quite the same.

And perhaps because children accept

things just as they are,

before growing up

and seeking order

and imposing their worldview,

assigning names

as if to somehow assert control.

A clear night

with a chill in the air.

When the dogs days

will soon be over,

when the grass will brown

and the dog scratch at the door

to come in from out of the cold.

When the brightest star

might just as well be nameless

but would shine just as well.

On Shifting Sand - Aug 27 2020

On Shifting Sand

Aug 27 2020

When we returned after the storm

the beach had disappeared.

Scoured down to bedrock

by wind and wave,

granite glistening pink and grey

in the unaccustomed light.

Leaving in its place

blow-downs and driftwood

and badly weathered leaves,

pools of standing water

cut off from the sea.

There was seaweed, plastered to rocks

shrivelling in the sun,

ribbons of kelp

dredged from the deeps

dead fish stinking of rot.

But sands always shift,

deposited further down the shore

by invisible currents

and moonlit tides.

Carved

by run-off streams

as water seeks its lowest point,

branching and bending

and channelling through the silt.

And wind,

stirring the beach

into sandstorms and vortices,

whipping up dunes

that will, over time

march to leeward before it.

When we returned after the storm

we realized

we'd also been living on shifting sands

we'd mistaken, somehow

for solid rock.

We'd always known nature

was indifferent to our lives

but imagined we were clever enough.

Then, watching over us, there were our gods,

along with the wellsprings of hope

that are eternal

until they're not.

But the shore was still there,

waves breaking

and salty air

stinging our eyes.

And somewhere, a new beach has formed

which surely we shall find.

Hot sand, curling between our toes.

A soft place

to rest our weary bones.

The poem whipsaws from despair to hope. When I wrote ...the wellsprings of hope / that are eternal / until they're not, I was thinking of the bedrock hope that even in the black depths of despair somehow keeps us going ...until even that foundational hope is exhausted, which is when the rapid decline begins and the inevitable end is near. I think this is what suicidal depression must feel like.

But in the poem, the survivors resurrect hope, rescuing themselves by imagining a better future. Because we are, by nature, filled with hope. Perhaps unreasonable hope. Perhaps hope that denies reality and rests on illusion. But hope that leads us to rebuild houses on floodplains, persist in tornado alley, and reconstruct in the wake of hurricanes.

Because the beach has always been there, a permanent feature. Forgetting the lessons of the past. Forgetting that sand, by nature, never lasts. And forgetting that we have built our lives on shifting sands: the shifting sands of luck, contingency, and the accident of birth; the shifting sands of our own hubris and delusion. A word that could just as well go unsaid, because there is no other kind of sand than shifting.

The idea for this poem came very simply. After reading about the latest hurricane to hit the gulf coast, I was scrolling through some pages of something or other and the words “Sand Dunes Park” (or something close!) caught my eye. I'd also recently listened to a podcast on the origin of beaches: the different kinds of sand, and how it gets there. Whatever alchemy it is that creates inspiration, this poem immediately started to form in my head. Not where it would go – that's almost always a mystery, even to me – but at least where it would start.

~~~~~~~~~

I have no idea whether granite would be found under a typical sand beach. Or even bedrock of any sort. Probably more likely sandstone. But I like the hardness and permanence implied by both bedrock and granite. And I like glistening pink: like a newborn, blinking in the unaccustomed light.

~~~~~~~~~

Actually, instead of being a cause of erosion, it's run-off streams that replenish most of the sand on mineral sand beaches; not, as I previously thought, sand deposited by the ocean.

~~~~~~~~~

I was tempted to use “dust devils” instead of vortices: the more visceral and evocative term almost always wins out over the more technical and fussy one. But vortices had a nice resonance with beach. And “dust devil” elicits a kind of cognitive dissonance: wasn't this supposed to be about sand, not dust?

~~~~~~~~

In the final stanza, in the line which surely we shall find, I was reluctant to use shall: not only does it sound somewhat archaic, it's one of those very “poetical” words I try hard to avoid – ones we only hear in poetry, and almost never in everyday speech. But I really like the subjunctive form here. It evokes a less certain future than “will”, and therefore reinforces the sense of unreasonable hopefulness.

Too High For Us to Hear - Aug 24 2020

 

Too High For Us to Hear

Aug 24 2020

The whale brain

dissected, weighed, compared

suggests that the facility for language

of these ancient mammoth creatures

may be greater than ours.

Across thousands of miles.

Too high for us to hear.

And in musical passages

instead of dry prosaic words.

But converse about what?

Do they gossip and dish?

Do they relate long treasured tales

as old as the sea?

Do mothers coo lullabies

and do lonely males

sing courtship songs,

or try to seduce their quarry

with poetry and verse?

A blue whale

would dwarf the largest dinosaur.

But how big

is her inner life,

how much philosophy

preoccupies her time?

And when we slaughtered them

like miners exhausting the sea,

to how much suffering

were we deaf and blind?

Capturing calves,

then killing the mothers

who rushed to the rescue,

letting their carcasses rot

in the hunter's frenzied greed?

So few remain

patrolling the vast uncharted deeps.

Such a great obscenity,

our disregard

of the natural world

and the life-giving sea,

our insistence

that our blinkered humanity

is the only one of worth.

I chose the title because while we can be communicating at the same time, we might as well be doing so in parallel universes that never intersect. It demonstrates in a very tangible way the difficulty of trying to inhabit an entirely different world view, of the utter inscrutability of another being that might just as well come from an alien planet: a sentient creature that – despite our common mammalian origins – lives undersea, has no hands or written language, and does not build or even imagine such things as technology or cities or captive animals; that lives nomadically, instead of being bound by nation states or ideologies or religious identity, and spends a lifetime in a multi-generational family that is both matriarchal and matrilineal.

From the article What Have We Done to the Whale (New Yorker – Aug 24 2020) by the Oxford philosopher Amia Srinivasan.

https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2020/08/24/what-have-we-done-to-the-whale

“Scientists know that whale vocalization—the singing of humpbacks, the chattering of belugas, the powerful clicks of sperm whales (at up to two hundred and thirty-six decibels, the loudest animal noise on the planet)—performs an important communicative function. Whales converse, and perhaps commune, at great distances. Songs of humpbacks off Puerto Rico are heard by whales near Newfoundland, two thousand miles away; the songs can “go viral” across the world. Some scientists believe that certain whale languages equal our own in their expressive complexity; the brains of sperm whales are six times larger than ours, and are endowed with more spindle neurons, cells associated with both empathy and speech. Yet no one knows what whales are saying to one another, or what they might be trying to say to us. Noc, a beluga that lived for twenty-two years in captivity as part of a U.S. Navy program, learned to mimic human language so well that one diver mistook Noc’s voice for a colleague’s, and obeyed the whale’s command to get out of the water. A recording of Noc’s voice can be heard online today: nasal and submerged, but also distinctively like English. (Oooow aaare you-ou-ou-ooooo?) At the very least, it’s a better impression of a human’s voice than a human could do of a whale’s.

The whale’s aura lies in its unique synthesis of ineffability and mammality. Whales are enormous and strange. But—in their tight familial bonds, their cultural forms, their incessant chatter—they are also like us. Contained in their mystery is the possibility that they are even more like us than we know: that their inner lives are as sophisticated as our own, perhaps even more so. Indeed, contained in whales is the possibility that the creatures are like humans, only much better: brilliant, gentle, depthful gods of the sea.”

"A Guy" - Aug 6 2020

 

“A Guy”

Aug 6 2020

Who knew someone

who knew someone

who knew a guy.

Who can mud drywall

repair a typewriter

get a good deal

on a 2^nd hand car.

We all have “our guy”

whom we jealously guard

from offers, distractions, and greener grass.

Whom we only share

with blood relatives

and intimate friends.

We are all connected

by byzantine networks

of acquaintance, obligation, and reciprocal trust.

Of former friends

and friends of friends

and a guy you once met 

in a casual conversation

stuck waiting in line.

I am not handy

have few practical skills.

Should the well run dry, the pump break

I would die of thirst,

the car not start

I'd go back to bed.

I depend on others to get by;

the kindness of strangers

a social web.

Because there is no such thing

as the self-made man,

no castaway

on a speck of island

of the sovereign self.

Luckily, “my guy” is a jack of all trades

who knows a guy with a boat

who can come the next day.

Perfect Weather - Aug 23 2020

 

Perfect Weather

Aug 23 2020

When it's perfect weather day after day

I find myself wishing for rain.

We need change

while also dreading it.

We crave novelty

no matter how ill-prepared.

Because sameness arrests time.

As lethargic

as a muggy day

it seems to move lazily, aimlessly

glacially slow

back to where it started.

Awakening, again

and lounging in bed

in the stuffy hot-house air,

thinking here we go once more

and will this ever end?

You imagine lightning, blizzards, hurricane winds

hail, freezing rain.

Anything   ...but this

numbing Eden

of sun and warmth and bliss.

The sin of ingratitude, I know.

How good fortune makes us complacent,

how easily

we find ourselves bored.

Yet how I relish the coming storm.

When I'll go out in the rain

and turn to face heaven

and greedily drink it in;

hair slicked down,

wet clothes

shrink-wrapped tight around me.

My feet squish-squishing

through puddles and mud

as a chilly wind picks up.

A break in the weather

and time has begun

and it will soon be another month.

The coming season

like a tempting beacon

beckoning us ever on.

I don't envy people who live in places like San Diego, where they could just as well tape record the weather report and replay it every day. How boring. How unappreciative I'd soon become. How I'd not only wish for a change, but crave the adversity and challenge of bad weather: that feeling of triumph you get battling a tough winter, as well as the delicious coziness of being storm-stayed in a raging blizzard. I imagine the movie Groundhog Day, awakening to the same unremitting sun and warmth, feeling as if time had stopped. As if there were no landmarks or milestones. As if you were at sea, going nowhere except on and on.

I know this because even though summer is ending too fast and feels too short (which it is, this far north), I find myself anticipating the coming fall. ...Just a little, anyway. And after a good long Indian summer, of course! (Or is"Indian summer" now regarded as politically incorrect? ...Really? Even this?!!)

Proof of Life - Aug 21 2020

Proof of Life

Aug 21 2020

When asked to provide proof of life

they did not mean

an alien planet

or the deepest strata of rock.

Not some new taxonomy

and not a compassionate God;

proving His presence

despite the evidence

we've long been left on our own.

And not an ultrasound

of the beating heart

of some indeterminate soul.

It was a war zone,

and the authorities wanted to know

how to identify

my body after death.

The blemishes at birth

and the scars I have earned

and the features that mark

me alone.

Proof of life, postmortem

in this infernal place

of smoke and rubble and pain,

of fine desert dust

and men on the run

at the sound of planes overhead.

They must be optimists.

That enough of me will be left

to be sure;

that proof I once lived

is proof of life

in a place ruled by death.

In the shallow grave

where the bulldozers doze

and the bodies have started to bloat

they are nothing but anonymous.

Unproven, and soon forgotten,

as all of us

will eventually be,

as life goes on

and there's the next good war

to add to what's been lost.

I was carrying a load of laundry up the stairs, listening to the latest podcast episode of Radiolab. It was about a Lebanese ex-patriot who takes a road trip across America in order to visit all the namesake towns and cities of his place of birth. In the introduction, he talks of an official trip he took to Iraq, and how the soldiers assigned to protect him began by asking for “proof of life”. I was momentarily perplexed by this, until he explained. Was it the irony, or the grim euphemism, or the fatalism of this singular expression – or perhaps all three – that arrested my attention? Whatever it was, I was immediately sure there was a found poem in it. So I dropped the laundry right there, sat down at the computer, and watched as this poem wrote itself.

If you're interested, here's a link to the podcast.

https://www.wnycstudios.org/podcasts/radiolab/articles/lebanon-usa

Morning Dip - Aug 20 2020

 

Morning Dip

Aug 20 2020

The new robe was thick terry cotton.

What luxury, I thought

warm, heavy, soft.

On a dull chilly day

descending to the lake

clutching it close.

And then, like a tightly clenched bud

unfurling itself,

a hard chrysalis

splitting apart

so its delicate winged fledgling, fully formed

could freely emerge,

I slipped it off

and stepped into the cool still water

which was dark, and unwelcoming.

Which I know intimately

having swum here for years,

but is still keeping its distance

mystery

allure.

The exhilarating cold.

The mesmerizing rhythm

of a practised powerful stroke.

The full measured breath

and the cleansing exhalation

completely emptied out.

And the robe, where it had dropped

in a pile of supple folds.

Like a boneless creature, left onshore

awaiting my return,

heavy, soft, and warm.

It's unseasonably cool this week. All summer, the lake hasn't really warmed up, and the recent rain has left the water even colder. So I was in a wetsuit, instead of my usual au naturel.

But I did break out the thick terry-cloth robe for the first time today, and it was a delight. I don't stay in fancy hotels (I only travel when absolutely necessary!), but I'm pretty sure this is the type of complimentary robe they lay out at the Carlyle, Four Seasons, or Pierre.

And the lake, which I've been swimming in for decades, continues to give me pause in this cool overcast: its still dark surface a little forbidding; the cold shock on entry.

I often try to make something universal (presumably profound, but more often than not pretentious!) out of the particular in my poems. But this one is purely mood and setting, a stylistic exercise. I'm glad I didn't feel the need to justify it with an attempt at some greater message. Poetry doesn't need that to be worthwhile.

Camouflaged by Light - Aug 19 2020

 

Camouflaged by Light

Aug 19 2020

Deep sea predators

in the dark forbidding depths

are fooled by phosphorescence.

They look up,

discerning shadow

against the meagre light

that weakly filters down

through cold inky water.

But their prey illuminate,

adjusting perfectly

to wavelength and strength

to make themselves invisible.

They are camouflaged by light.

They mimic the sun,

never having felt it

or even seen the sky.

Yet they are oblivious,

the brilliant alchemy

of cold chemical light

they perform unconsciously,

just as our hearts steadily pump

our cells battle viruses

our eyes take in the world.

The sea is full of such creatures,

as if the cold dense blackness

was lit up by fireworks

ghostly sparklers

and shooting stars,

a pyrotechnic display

air-breathers like us

could never have imagined.

Light from the sun

travels almost two hundred billion

metres to earth,

but at a mere one thousand

creation is sunless.

Like the universe

before the big bang.

Or as if a black hole

lurked not far beneath the surface,

lethal

and bottomless.

On a moonless night, the ocean is calm.

As we walk ankle deep

along the shore

through the still black shallows,

a trail of bluish light

is swirling round our feet

where the algae have been disturbed.

Either protesting our intrusion,

or lighting up

to welcome us home.

As if the ocean were alive.

Which it is, beyond our wildest dreams.

So many things

we never imagined

hiding in plain sight.

So much we have to learn

outside of ourselves;

shining our light

into unfathomable darkness

that too soon swallows it up.

It's humbling to contemplate the alien world that exists a mere 1000 metres beneath the surface. Where it's as if the sun doesn't exist. Where it's as dark as the universe before the big bang. Where in the impenetrable darkness, instead of illuminating, light could become camouflage. What else could we not have imagined, do we not know?

And yet this magical experience is right there, a foot from shore: in bioluminescent algae, who warn of predators by lighting up.

We came from the ocean. Salt water runs through our veins. It may feel alien, and it may be lethal, yet it is our ancient ancestral home. There is great power in the word “home”. I used it intentionally in the poem, and I hope that strong emotion comes through.

The idea for this poem came from the most recent episode of the podcast Every Little Thing (https://gimletmedia.com/shows/every-little-thing/o2hoo86/why-is-the-ocean-glowing). I listened a few days ago, and at the time thought fleetingly that there might be a poem in this. Apparently, that idea was fermenting somewhere deep in my brain ever since, because the first few lines came to me today. So I sat down at the computer in my usual pleasantly caffeinated state and riffed on it. It pretty much came out as you see it here.

(The earth/sun distance is closer to 150 billion metres. But “200” scans a lot better than “150”, so I took some poetic licence, figuring that the “almost” was enough to make up for the extra 50 billion, Not to mention that gargantuan numbers like those are pretty meaningless, anyway!)

The Law of Large Numbers - Aug 18 2020

The Law of Large Numbers

Aug 18 2020

Somewhere under the curve

you will find yourself.

In the spacious middle

beneath its rounded peak,

shoulder to shoulder

amidst the teeming throngs;

reassured

how normal you are.

Or ducking under

the downward slope

of its smoothly ruled perimeter.

Like a cramped attic

repeatedly bumping your head.

Or a struggling poet's dank garret;

a place that only sounds romantic

if you haven't actually been there.

Then the oddballs, misfits, and cranks,

the eccentrics

who go about their business

mercifully oblivious

to being judged,

yet are somehow happier

than any other.

Who inhabit the long tail

of the normal curve,

sometimes so far out

they go unseen.

Someone once said

there are lies

damned lies

and statistics.

Who didn't understand

how the law of large numbers

and the rule of averages

so neatly predict us.

And that it's nice to have a place

where you know you belong.

Under the fat part of the curve

where you're never alone.

Or in the long tail,

where every teenager feels

they've been cornered by fate;

but where a man of my age

has come to find himself

contentedly home.

I suspect this may be the first poem ever to be written about the normal distribution curve! But I've often thought a good nickname for me would be “long tail”, because that's where I often find myself. Like an anthropologist from Mars, nose pressed against the glass, peering in at these strange earth creatures with a mix of bewilderment and wonder. So I'm gratified this poem came to me. And all it took was being in a well-caffeinated state of mind and simply seeing the word “normal” – a highly problematic word, I know, since even when it's used in a purely statistical sense it seems to presume a value judgment (and should probably, at best, only be used ironically) – to spark it.

It's true about eccentrics: they are obliviously unselfconscious, and they do tend to enjoy above average happiness. And weren't we all once awkward teenagers? Didn't we almost all long to be “normal”, accepted, cool; but almost always felt we were not?

Long Tail was the original title. It summarizes the theme of the poem, and succinctly gets right to its heart. But while it has the vagueness and inscrutability (who wouldn't immediately be misled into thinking of an animal, reading it?) that make a title compelling, I thought The Law of Large Numbers would intrigue a reader that much more.