Saturday, February 20, 2021

Let Sleeping Dogs . . .

 

Let Sleeping Dogs  . . .

Feb 20 2021


Counter-clockwise.


The way she always turns,

tightly circling

as if spiralling in on herself,

nose glued to the ground

like a bloodhound on a scent.

Pawing

at the soft loose blanket,

unspooling it behind her

to leave a rumpled unmade bed.

How your own one looks

on those nights you toss and turn.


Then she curls up, nose to tail

and is instantly asleep;

her default state, it would seem

as natural as breathing.


As we are all creatures of habit.

Comforted by routine

and set to automatic,

although not nearly as cutely

or serenely unselfconscious.


She dreams, as well,

legs thrashing

strangled little yelps.

Recurring dreams, I imagine,

like chasing cars, and catching them

stinky things to eat.


As we all fantasize and dream,

before awakening to reality

tangled in our sheets.


“Well, what do you know—turns out he knew exactly what he’d do with a car if he caught one.”


Holding Up the World - Feb 19 2021

 

Holding Up the World

Feb 19 2021


Plants grow toward the light,

shouldering each other aside

as they compete for sun,

old growth

over-shadowing

the young green shoots and leggy saplings.


But in the dark subterranean soil

roots touch,

nurturing their young

and connecting the forest

in ways we never fathomed.


And in the cool and damp

of the forest floor

fungi are decomposing matter

returning it to life.

While underground

their tendrils envelope the roots,

forming intimate networks

that talk, and share.


So we only see trees

disembodied,

dappled leaves and formidable trunks

cut off at the neck.

That would topple in the smallest breeze

and die of thirst.


As we see ourselves depicted,

competing, striving, making war,

all the headlines

blood and gore.

While in the modest places

that are largely ignored

we are going about our daily lives;

the familiar domesticity

of family and neighbours

friends and acquaintances,

the small acts of kindness

and the nobility of labour.

The virtues of the day-to-day

even when falling short.


So just as we see the trees

competing for light,

instead of the forest

working as one, but too slowly to notice,

it's only by digging down deep

beneath the lurid news,

and reconsidering time

with the eye of an historian

that I've overcome my despair;

the small acts and modest lives

that redeem humanity

and have helped restore

my jaded perspective.


The good people,

toiling away and taking care.


The foundational sense

of home and belonging,

rooting us in place

and holding up the world.


I've been reading a lot of botany lately: about fungi* and trees in particular, and plants in general. Especially about the intelligence of plants: the clever ways they interact with their immediate environment; and how they sense and respond and even remember in ways both similar and alien to us. But in whatever way – at least until recently – underestimated or totally ignored by science: because we exist in different magnitudes of time; and because they perform all these surprising and sophisticated acts without nerves or a brain. There is the semantic problem presented by words like “intelligence” and “consciousness” that are perilous to use without careful hedging and scrupulous definition: because intelligence can simply be instrumental; it doesn't require sentience or self-awareness. There is also the bigger problem of understanding a totally alien creature that eats light and is rooted in place.

I also diligently follow the news, and find myself increasingly demoralized, cynical, and jaded. I think the only antidote to this is to be found in daily life. Because the headlines distort one's perspective. “If it bleeds, it leads”, as some wag once said. I wrote recently to someone something to the effect of “being rescued by bourgeois day-to-day domesticity”.

This poem conflates the two trains of thought. It finds an analogy between the modesty of the invisible roots and the virtues of everyday life, both of which are often hidden from sight.

*not strictly botany, since fungi constitute their own kingdom of life


Tuesday, February 16, 2021

2 Million Miles - Feb 16 2021

 

2 Million Miles

Feb 16 2021


There are several blocks

between my place and yours.


I walk briskly

through the vacant streets of night

lost in thoughts of you.

Oblivious to weather

and barging through the reds,

looking neither right nor left

as I focus straight ahead.


The street lamps glare,

illuminating the way

but hurting my eyes,

small pools

of bleached-out light

strung loosely together

by grim stretches of murk.


A short distance

compared to the drive we took

on our long road-trip west,

the white line a blur

and the wind in your hair

in a shared world of two.


And then how far

we travelled in our heads,

imagining the future

as if time would never end

and space did not exist.


And all along

the earth was circling the sun

covering 2 million miles a day.

How fast we moved

and how slow it seemed

when we thought it would last forever,

walking as fast as I can

but not nearly fast enough.


Which is how it is, when you're circling;

soon back where you began

and having to start fresh.


The page turned

and the old calendar tossed.

Making fervent resolutions

to usher in the new.


Here's another poem inspired by a quote. I'm currently reading an utterly fascinating book called What a Plant Knows: A Field Guide to the Senses: Updated and Expanded Edition (by Daniel Chamovitz), and a chapter began with this from John Muir (who was a famous and influential Scottish-American naturalist around the turn of the 20th century):

I never saw a discontented tree. They grip the ground as though they liked it, and though fast rooted they travel about as far as we do. They go wandering forth in all directions with every wind, going and coming like ourselves, travelling with us around the sun two million miles a day, and through space heaven knows how fast and far!”

The “two million miles a day” snagged my attention. Here, by viewing the planet through an astronomical lens, what we think of as the critical difference between our mobility and a plant's rootedness is reduced to insignificance. And in purely human terms, the implication seems to be that however far or fast we move, however frenetic to either escape or come together, our efforts and concerns are petty, dwarfed to nothingness by the vast distance we cover anyway, no matter what: a perspective on human affairs that brings to bear a becoming humility. Which I guess is always going to be true when looking down on earth from outer space.

Here, the end of an affair. But the beginning of another. So at least the poem concludes on a positive note, despite the depressing narrative. The earth's revolution around the sun, after all, is as much about circling as it is about distance: about revolving, getting caught in loops, endlessly repeating; but also about returning to the beginning and getting to start over -- there is always another day, another year, a calendar page to turn.

The 3rd stanza might strike the reader as an unnecessary tangent. But I think it serves to foreshadow: the the hurt, the murk, the grim stretches. And the 5th does some of this work as well: the idea of fantasy and illusion, both of which – since they are both products of magical thinking – inevitably set us up for disillusion and disappointment.


Attachment - Feb 15 2021


Attachment

Feb 15 2021


I think he captured it in a mere two words.

Obliterating sensation

for the act we tactfully call

making love.

Infatuation

compulsion

and consummation, perhaps,

but love?


This word

that by meaning too much

means less and less.

I love her shoes, I love his voice.

Don't you just love it

when the first snow falls?


So where on the scale

from pet to friend

parent to brother

lover to son?


What about longing and lost and one-sided?


And what about opening up

giving all your heart

surrendering yourself?


If love means anything

then it must be as all-encompassing

as the obliterating sensation

of carnal desire.

When time and boundary dissolve.

When the mind is focused

to a tiny point of heat,

and the body turns animal

demanding exquisite release.


To make love

fall in love

be in love.

To ascend

from lust and passion

through intimacy and attachment.


Like the old married couple

who sit across from each other

in the small cafĂ©

and don't exchange a word.

Her foot, under the table

up to no good.


Not because

after so many years

they have run out of things to say,

but because they're comfortable with silence

and mere presence is enough.


The mature sensation

of deep connection

that will keep serving them well.


Two sovereign people

who became a couple

obliterating their former selves.


Making love

across a small round table,

yet hardly even touching

and uttering not a word.


This poem was inspired by a quote from Ian McEwan's Atonement:

They were beyond the present, outside time, with no memories and no future. There was nothing but obliterating sensation, thrilling and swelling, and the sound of fabric on fabric and skin on fabric as their limbs slid across each other in this restless, sensuous wrestling. ... They moved closer, deeper and then, for seconds on end, everything stopped. Instead of an ecstatic frenzy, there was stillness. They were stilled not by the astonishing fact of arrival, but by an awed sense of return - they were face to face in the gloom, staring into what little they could see of each other's eyes, and now it was the impersonal that dropped away."

His description – obliterating sensation – struck me as the the perfectly distilled way to describe orgasmic sex. Trying to narrate the sex act in fiction so often degenerates into cliche and purple prose and embarrassed fumbling. McEwan's prose doesn't degenerate. It's deft and evocative. But if he had stopped after these just two well chosen words, he have artfully said all there needed to be said.

It has always struck me that using “making love” as a euphemism for sex debases the word love. And the word love itself has so many degrees of meaning that true romantic love – the kind we celebrate on Valentine's day (which was yesterday!) -- isn't given the consequence it deserves. And while the infatuation of new love comes to mind, what about the quality of attachment that comes with time?

So this poem is both a rumination on meaning in language, as well as a celebration of a particular stage of love that has nothing at all to do with “obliterating sensation”. Even though it obliterates in other ways, and has its own valence of sensation.


Sunday, February 14, 2021

Voyager 2 - Feb 13 2021


Voyager 2

Feb 13 2021




We are realists,

or so we imagine ourselves.

Seeing is believing

we stubbornly maintain.

So we scoff

at the psychics and mediums

soothsayers and oracles

astrologers and seers.


Yet what child doesn't talk

to her beloved plush toy,

even threadbare and eyeless

its stuffing emptied out?


Who names their car,

and when it refuses to start

threatens and cajoles?

Who doesn't rant

at the ghost in the machine

when the damned computer balks?

And who would agree

to wear a sweater Hitler wore,

unafraid

of the power of transference?


We naturally invest

dumb objects with life,

as if all matter disguised

some sentient heart.


So after 44 years in space,

hurtling away

from the jewel-like planet

it once called home,

I can't help but project humanity

on that nifty little satellite

as it journeys ever outward.

At 12 billion miles, and counting,

35 hours

at light-speed 2 ways.


It's pluck and resilience

in braving the unknown.

Its dogged solitude

so long alone.

And its sturdy competence,

faithfully signalling

like a loyal emissary

of the land-locked human race.


Old technology

built to last.

Like the little engine that could

puffing gamely uphill

chanting “I think I can, I think I can,”

it dauntlessly heads out

into the cold and dark

of our vast uncharted galaxy

and continues to astound.

Where the sun is a star

lost in the cosmos,

and earth extinguished

in the blackness of space.


I sometimes feel the same,

so far from the light

and the heat of human contact,

where even gravity is absent

and there's no turning back.

But still sending out my signal

as Sputnik once did,

a faint insistent beep

as it circled close to earth.


But instead of marvelled at and feared

forgotten and unheard.


Every time I've read about this remarkable spacecraft, I've found myself personifying it like this. I read this article in the Globe today, and the possibility of a poem immediately leapt to mind. This time, I actually sat down to write it!

Of course, a lot of people (most?) are fabulists, not realists; and instead of scoffing at these charlatans, credulously believe them.

I'm not so skeptical, though, of those who distrust their eyes. Because seeing isn't believing. Our eyes aren't objectively recording the world. What we perceive depends upon selective vision: what attracts our attention, what we fail to notice. And what we perceive depends upon how the brain processes the images coming into it: filtering and colouring them by context, expectation, memory, and our own prejudices and habit of mind.


After a year of silence, NASA restores communications with Voyager 2

  • The Globe and Mail (Ontario Edition)

  • February 13, 2021

  • SHANNON STIRONE

Last March, the agency dismantled an antenna in Australia – the only way to send messages to the spacecraft – for upgrades

In the nearly 44 years since NASA launched Voyager 2, the spacecraft has gone beyond the frontiers of human exploration by visiting Uranus, Neptune and, eventually, interstellar space. In March, the agency was compelled to shut down its only means of reaching 12 billion miles across the heavens to this robotic trailblazer. On Friday, Earth’s haunting silence came to an end as NASA switched that communications channel back on, restoring humanity’s ability to say hello to its distant explorer.

Because of the direction in which it is flying out of the solar system, Voyager 2 can only receive commands from Earth via one antenna in the entire world. It is called DSS 43 and it is in Canberra. It is part of the Deep Space Network, or DSN, which along with stations in California and Spain, is how NASA and allied space agencies stay in touch with the armada of robotic spacecraft exploring everything from the sun’s corona to the regions of the Kuiper belt beyond the orbit of Pluto. (Voyager 2’s twin, Voyager 1, is able to communicate with the other two stations.)

A round-trip communication with Voyager 2 takes about 35 hours – 17 hours and 35 minutes each way.

DSS 43 is a 70-metre dish that has been operating since 1973. It was long overdue for upgrades, especially with new robotic missions headed to Mars this year and even more preparing to launch to study other worlds in the months and years to come. So last year, the dish was switched off and dismantled, even though the shutdown posed considerable risk to the geriatric Voyager 2 probe.

Like everything in 2020, what would have been a normal antenna upgrade was anything but. Usually, the mission’s managers at NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory in California would send about 30 experts to oversee the dish’s makeover. But restrictions imposed during the COVID-19 pandemic reduced the team to four.

At the Canberra station, the crew working on the upgrade had to be separated into three smaller teams, said Glen Nagle, outreach manager at the Canberra Deep Space Communication Complex.

So there was always a backup team in case anybody got sick, and you could put that team in isolation, and the other team could come in and cover for them,” he said.

They also split the teams into morning and evening shifts to ensure physical distancing.

While Voyager 2 was able to call home on the Canberra site’s smaller dishes during the shutdown, none of them could send commands to the probe. If anything had gone wrong aboard the probe during the last year, NASA would have been powerless to fix it.

Although NASA has been unable to send full commands to Voyager 2, it did send one test message to the spacecraft at the end of October when the antenna was mostly reassembled. A device on board called the command loss timer, something like a dead man’s switch, is used to help the spacecraft determine whether it has lost contact with Earth and should protect itself by going into a form of electronic slumber.

The October test reset the timer and successfully told the spacecraft to continue operating.

I think there was probably a big sigh of relief there,” Mr. Nagle said. “And we were very pleased to be able to confirm that the spacecraft was still talking to us.”

The work got high marks from NASA officials in the United States.

The DSN folks in Canberra did a remarkable job under the pandemic conditions just to upgrade DSS 43,” said Suzanne Dodd, the Voyager mission project manager and director of the Interplanetary Network Directorate at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory.

I’ve got 100-per-cent confidence in that antenna, that it will operate just fine for a few more decades. Long past when the Voyagers are done.”

Both Voyager 1 and Voyager 2 hold the records for the farthest a spacecraft has ever travelled and for the longest operating mission. Voyager 2 has had a few hiccups over the years, but it is still feeling its way around in the dark, making discoveries about the boundaries that separate our solar system from the rest of the Milky Way galaxy.

I’ve seen scientists whose backgrounds are in astrophysics now looking at Voyager data and trying to match that up with data they have from ground-based telescopes or other space-based telescopes,” Ms. Dodd said.

That’s kind of exciting to go from a planetary mission to the heliophysics mission and now, practically into an astrophysics mission.”

While Voyager 2 keeps chugging along, Ms. Dodd and her colleagues are preparing to switch off one of its scientific sensors, the Low Energy Charged Particle instrument. Doing so will ensure that the spacecraft’s limited power supply can keep its other systems, particularly its communications antenna, warm enough to function.

While that will reduce the spacecraft’s scientific output, the main goal now is longevity.

The challenge is not in the new technology, or the great discoveries,” Ms. Dodd said. “The challenge is in keeping it operating as long as possible and returning the science data as long as possible.”

The team estimates that both spacecraft can operate for another four to eight years, and NASA last year granted the team three more years of flying time.

The spacecraft continues to plug along,” Ms. Dodd said. “It always surprises me.”


Lone Wolf - Feb 10 2021

 

Lone Wolf

Feb 10 2021




There is a lone wolf

lurking in the dead of night.

We glimpse him, furtively scurrying

tail down and head tucked

just beyond the circle of light

that marks our territory.


On our daily walks

we often come upon his scat,

littered with fur

and fragments of bone

and sometimes black with blood.

There are tracks in the snow,

solitary

and too big for dogs

and too long and magnificent a stride.


What could have driven him

so far from his kind,

a pack animal

like our faithful dogs,

a social creature

just as we humans are?

How does he survive,

hunting alone

and curling up to sleep in the snow

without another's warmth?


We hear his plaintive calls

haunting the night.

They resonate

on the cold still air,

then trail-off

like a plea left unresolved.

So he patiently waits

for the promised mate

that by nature is his birthright.


We admire his tenacity,

surviving

and even thriving

day after day.

We are thrilled by his wildness,

reminding us

of nature's beauty and strength,

of our comforting conceit

we are exempt from her reckoning.


And fear him, as well.

The atavistic fear

of man for wolf.

Our uneasiness in the dark.

And our concern for our dogs,

whom we have made in our image

to be civilized and soft

and easy prey.


But have not presumed

to give him a name,

respecting his wildness

deferring to his solitude.


We leave the lights on at night.

Which are strong enough

to illuminate the clearing around the house

but too weak

to penetrate the trees.


Mostly black spruce, standing shoulder to shoulder,

tall and spindly

and thinly needled

and disconcertingly gaunt,

menacing

in their sparse witchy look.

Encrusted

with brittle lichen

a cadaverous colour of grey.


Their dark looming presence

encircling us

in our small patch of light.


There has been talk of cougars in our area, far to the east of their usual territory. These are solitary cats, ambush hunters. But we have always had wolves, and although not yet too close to my house, some acquaintances have described the lurking presence of wolves, and in particular of one lone wolf who reappears. I also recently saw a CBC Nature of Things documentary on a lone wolf – Takaya (which is the word for “wolf” in the language of the Coast Salish First Nation) – who established a home on an island very close to the city of Victoria. (https://www.cbc.ca/natureofthings/episodes/takaya-lone-wolf)

Since I tend toward lonerdom myself, I identify with these solitary animals, who seem to defy their natural sociability. There is also this push/pull of attraction and repulsion in our relationship with wolves: their powerful appeal – perhaps more romanticized than real, but also very understandable in that they remind us so much of our beloved dogs – and our concomitant fear, which I feel when I let my dogs out at night, or hear stories of wolves who are becoming increasingly familiar with and less leery of people.

This is the alchemy of poetry: how currents of thought, often subconscious, bubble to the surface and interact. I had no idea what I wanted to say when I sat down at the laptop: I was just in the mood to write! Somehow the first line appeared, and after that the poem quickly wrote itself.

Wednesday, February 10, 2021

Spider - Feb 9 2021

 

Spider

Feb 9 2021




The cobweb

flexes with the wind,

suspended

on clever gossamer threads

that elastically stretch

from the thin green branches

that tether it down.

Spider silk

spun at will

and preposterously strong.


It walks on water

like impenetrable glass.

Then raises two legs

and sails across the shallow pond,

as if the mirrored surface

were frictionless.

Or casts a strand to the air,

surrendering to the wind

as it takes flight.


Gravity does not apply

if you're small enough.

And the fantastic silk thread

seems to defy physical law,

the tensile strength

of the thinnest strand

stronger than steel.


But in a cool dawn

when the wind is still and the spider at rest

the web is bejewelled,

tiny perfect drops of dew

clinging to its mesh

refracting every colour possible.


Beauty, as well as strength.

And the alchemy of size

that allows an insubstantial spider

to slip between the elements.


Never touching earth.


Walking on water

and rising through air.


Playing with the fire

of light.


Some baby spiders are known to sail through the air on strands of silk. In the poem, I have an adult doing the same, which I imagine is at best improbable. But I've seen video of a spider using its legs like this in order to skitter across the still surface of a pond. And the remarkable properties of spider silk are well recognized.

Spider silk demonstrates the cleverness of nature. Incredibly strong, yet light and elastic. And while our industrial processes heat, beat, and treat at great cost in energy and resources, nature somehow manufactures this brilliant substance at room temperature from materials at hand in the tiny organelles of this small animal.

The poem really turns, though, on is this idea of size: how when you live at a different order of magnitude, the world makes a totally different kind of sense. And, by extension, how what we take as inviolable laws – that we fall through water and are heavier than air – are not at all. (Of course, gravity only stops acting at the subatomic level. Even small spiders are not exempt. So I was tempted, in the interest of accuracy, to change that line to gravity seems not to apply. But I find definitive statements work better in poetry. While “seems” strikes me as a weasel word, too namby-pamby to have the impact a line of poetry needs.)

This is another poem of the sort I seem to favour: poems of microcosm, close observation, and taking a moment in time; of lyric poems grounded in nature. And even though they scare many people, I find spiders both compelling and admirable.