Beginnings - Mar 28 2021

 

Beginnings

Mar 28 2021

Beginnings,

when all things, it seems, are possible.

That intoxicating mix

of energy

anxiety

anticipation.

That discombobulating fizz

of young infatuation,

like hot rich blood

pulsing through your veins,

flushing your brain

with giddy desire.

Even though you're pretty sure

how the middle will feel,

the ambivalence and doubt

the grievances you've nursed,

the quicksand of inertia

tugging at your leg

and pulling you quietly under.

And know for certain how it ends,

in animosity and regret

or rejected and abject.

Or even worse,

the intolerable sin

of boredom and neglect.

Happily ever after?

It may seem mythological

but I know it actually happens.

That there are older couples, still in love

even if the lust has stilled

and the grand performances

have given way to small telling gestures,

as simple as a word

a glance

an offered hand.

Much like it began, you may recall,

but infatuation's rush

has become intimate attachment,

fantasy and lust

turned to lasting love.

Beginnings can be so addictive, one is tempted to repeatedly start over. But infatuation burns out. While attachment is steadfast and more deeply satisfying. Trouble is, it takes work and time to get there. So much easier to simply start again!

I chose the title because thinking about beginnings is where the poem began. But it's as much about middles and endings, of course: distilling the arc of love into a three part narrative device. Or it can be read as a “choose your own endings” book: and naturally, for my ending, I chose idealized love over the familiar acrimony and angst.

Anyway, however lame (or sentimental!) a poem turns out to be, getting to use the word “discombobulating” always makes it somehow worthwhile!

A Simple Rule - Mar 25 2021

 

A Simple Rule

Mar 25 2021

They are made from tall dense hedges

rows of corn

bales of hay.

Even blocks of ice

stacked together.

Anything, really

that seems impenetrable.

But whatever the maze

a simple rule

will unerringly guide you through:

keep a hand

in touch with the wall

and faithfully follow.

Life, as well

has its blind canyons

and double-backs.

The rising panic

you feel when you're trapped,

the desperation

when you can't see over the wall

and can't climb out.

Which why you must steady yourself,

keeping grounded

and staying in touch.

And anyway,

who's in a rush to get to the end

where we all eventually end up,

that long dark tunnel

the tempting light?

So hold on tight

and take your time,

let the journey

be an end in itself.

A labyrinth is different.

It leads to the centre

no matter what,

and its purpose is to help

you find yourself;

no misdirection

no dead ends.

While a maze will toy with you,

defeat your defences

break your morale.

Which is why the need

for this simple navigational rule,

one that works

with even your eyes closed.

A simple rule

you've probably learned well

if you've ever felt lost

discouraged

confused;

ever reached out for help,

or been reassured

by the touch of a hand in yours.

Homebody - Mar 24 2021

 

Homebody

Mar 24 2021

I do not travel well.

Like a sensitive flower

that only flourishes

if its roots are not disturbed.

Or the nesting instinct of birds,

returning from a long migration

to the same tact of forest

same tree and branch

as every spring past.

“Homebody” sounds quaint,

an old woman, knitting needles clacking

rocking on the porch,

a man telling stories

we've all heard before.

So am I complacent

cleaving to my comfort zone?

Or sensible,

tending to my own plot of land

and leaving well enough alone?

A small life

but hardly tethered.

Because I live in my head

and travel as far I please,

back and forth in time

and with whomever I choose.

Or immerse myself in words,

and through the power of fiction

not only accompany my fellow travellers

but actually inhabit them,

taking fabulous journeys

that are unimaginably real.

And, like Odysseus, determined to return

no matter how far I stray,

home

the place where someone who loves me awaits

and I feel most content.

The best part of travelling,

when even the most restless must wonder

why ever they left.

We admire and envy travellers, just as we admire and envy the extroverted and gregarious. They seem to live big romantic lives. While homebodies must be fearful, lazy, or complacent; closed to new experience; or simply lacking in imagination.

But some of us are good at living in our heads. And reading can not only take us on great adventures far and wide, but also exercise our powers of empathy, inviting us in to other lives and world views.

“Home” is a perennial trope of literature, a universal theme. It's a powerful word that evokes strong emotion. As a homebody, I would question my parents about their penchant for travel, and my father invariably said that the best part was coming home again. So this poem is my attempt to rehabilitate the homebodies and introverts: the hot house orchids who prefer familiarity, over the robust dandelions who so easily take flight.

I'm ambivalent about the last line. (Which, I'm very much aware, is not a good line to be ambivalent about!) The inversion of ever and they sounds too “poetical” to me: kind of formal and archaic. I much prefer a conversational tone to any such inauthentic sounding voice. But for some reason, even though the number of syllables is the same, it reads so much better this way. So I went with prosody over style, and took a chance on sounding arch.

Small Miracles - Mar 21 2021

 

Small Miracles

Mar 21 2021

Water

at the turn of a tap.

The thermostat

as simple as touch.

Floor-to-ceiling glass

made from coarse brown sand

walling me off from the world.

And just imagine

no electricity

painless dentistry

or modern plumbing,

the basic flush

as mysterious to me

as Schrodinger's cat.

The many small miracles

of daily life

we take thoughtlessly for granted.

Miracles

that are hardly miraculous,

bestowed not by gods, and their fickle passions

but by generations of clever men

on whose shoulders we stand;

our inheritance

deserved or not.

And how small acts of gratitude

can fill us with wonder.

Nose pressed up against the glass

looking out.

From a bright warm room

into the cold and dark.

Intentional acts of gratitude make us happier. I suppose this poem is just such an exercise.

The trouble is, instead of gratitude, we simply take things for granted. We habituate too quickly and easily, even to the revolutionary new. Think about your smartphone, which so quickly transformed from an envied technological wonder to an everyday – and suddenly essential -- appliance. We lack the historical perspective to appreciate our good fortune and comfortable lives, and we fail to consider the complexity, specialization, and interdependent systems that make daily life in a big city possible. Just picture an average supermarket: fully stocked, everything we want and need right there – fresh and prepared, canned and packaged, frozen and bulk, as always. Except, of course, it was almost never so! Or a simple wall socket: who ever thinks about the generators, transformers, and high tension wires upstream, or the complicated controllers that 24/7 keep power generation and consumption in perfect instantaneous balance? Electricity, the beating heart of civilization as we know it, just there to plug into.

We don't even appreciate our own good health. At least not until we lose it. For example, the simple act of urination seems unremarkable; in fact, often a bother to have to get up and go. But after having your kidneys fail, how transcendent would it feel after a successful transplant to be finally untethered from the dialysis machine and able to watch that powerful stream of beautiful golden liquid flowing freely? (Yes, I actually do briefly reflect on this every time I pee! It's an exercise in empathy, as well as gratitude. And you don't have to be a nephrologist to do it.)

A simple flush toilet is a great example of what's been called “the delusion of explanatory depth”. Explanatory depth is the certainty that you know how everyday things work. The delusion becomes apparent when you actually try to sit down and explain, and are forced to realize your ignorance about the basic things we take for granted. And just as I don't know how a toilet really works, neither do I have any idea how sand gets transformed into glass; or have ever imagined what it would have been like to live in a closed structure completely impervious to light.

Put someone from a century ago in a time machine and whisk him to the present and what we regard as mundane would to him seem miraculous. Words like “wonder” suggest an ecstatic spiritual or religious experience. But there is also wonder in the everyday if you slow down, step back, and take the longer view.

Following the Sun - Mar 16 2021

 

Following the Sun

Mar 16 2021

The dogs are sprawled on the deck,

eyes drifting shut

big barrel chests

rising and falling

in slow shallow breaths.

Where they follow the sun,

panting bodies heaving up

then padding slowly left

and dropping with all their weight,

as if the few short steps

had exhausted them.

It's only March,

but the unaccustomed heat

feels like the doldrums of summer.

And the weathered wooden deck

which only yesterday

was wet with cold sloppy snow

is high and dry and welcoming.

Animals are inherently wise,

conserving energy

and skilled at passing the time

in mindless reverie.

So are they truly mindless

or are they mindful as masters of Zen,

silencing

the monkey chatter that fills our brains

and being simply present

in the here and now?

My faithful dogs

are full of love and free of angst,

never ruminating on the past

nor anxious about the future.

And if they have free will

which we flatter ourselves we do

they are oblivious,

moved simply by whatever it is

in front of their noses.

The smell of dinner, perhaps.

The same dry kibble

they've had ever day

for as long as they remember.

An occasion

for bright expectant eyes

and manically thrashing tails

and great gobs of saliva

frothing to the floor,

impatient

to Hoover it up whole

then lick their bowls clean.

And then return to sleep

in the soporific heat

of an unseasonable March,

dreaming

the contented dreams

of the innocent and good.

I've written numerous poems about the virtues of dogs: not just their superhuman sense of smell and Olympic calibre athleticism, but their essential character. Things like unconditional love; a lack of judgment or the holding of grudges; an ability to live in the moment; their unguarded and unselfconscious displays of emotion; the absence of physical vanity or materialism or pride (although I suppose competitions for dominance can be a form of pride); and their loyalty and attachment. Perhaps what we envy most is their unawareness of death. (Although, as I've written before, there is much to be said for contemplating our mortality. It focuses us. It sharpens our appreciation of life and our gratitude. It critically contributes to the enriching experience of the search for meaning and our place in the universe.)

This begins as a purely descriptive piece that reflects my propensity for poems of close observation. But, of course, it can't help but become another encomium to the noble dog.

(There is also a passing reference in the poem to free will. I had just been reading a chapter in Sam Harris' excellent Making Sense: Conversations on Consciousness, Morality, and the Future of Humanity in which he talks with the neuroendocrinologist Daniel Sapolsky about how their understanding of brain science suggests that free will is a myth: that between genetics and epigenetics, prenatal environment, and key developmental influences, our choices are made for us and we simply rationalize after the fact. Which, of course, has implications for criminal justice, ideas about morality, and even our sense of the self as sovereign individual.)

The Great Dismal Swamp - Mar 15 2021

 

The Great Dismal Swamp

Mar 15 2021

In the state of Virginia

there is a place called The Great Dismal Swamp.

A place clearly named

by a plain-speaking literalist,

a methodical maker of maps

not given

to poetry or metaphor.

Because aren't all swamps dismal

one much like the other?

Does the definite article even belong

when a great dismal swamp

would be far less presumptuous?

Slaves hid there

protected by its wildness.

On small islands

in houses raised on stilts,

more fearful of their masters

than panthers and bears.

But civilization encroaches

and nature comes under threat,

drained and tamed and emptied out.

So how does this swamp persist?

Too dismal

too big,

too boggy, humid, hot?

Just be grateful is does,

a refuge from our greed

reminder of our fears.

“Dismal”, of course, depends on the observer,

and hardly applies

where snakes and spiders flourish

fertile water gives life,

slaves risked all for freedom

and this poet is inspired.

A name so literal, it compels me to embellish.

Yet could stand by itself,

a found poem

of four words

in one simple line.

I didn't even complete the sentence of the article in which this appeared before I was up out of my chair and at the laptop. A found poem that could easily have stood by itself! When I googled (of course I did!), I expected there might be numerous great dismal swamps: it seems more of a descriptor than a proper name. But this one came up, now a wildlife refuge straddling North Carolina and Virginia. It was also the subject of a very popular podcast. A link follows (episode 271 of 99% Invisible).

https://99percentinvisible.org/episode/great-dismal-swamp/

Field of Dreams - Mar 13 2021

 

Field of Dreams

Mar 13 2021

A spring training game

appears on TV.

Played on lush green grass

under Florida sun

it seems like another planet.

Where tropical palms

sway languidly

beyond the outfield fence,

while in the bleacher seats

tanned women put up their feet

and lean breezily back,

laughing and flirting and teasing their men

with supple southern ease.

Sporting pink and coral tank-tops

and too short shorts.

While here, in a lingering winter

a day after the blizzard

the world's still swaddled in white

and there's a bite to the wind-driven air.

But I am reassured

to know it's spring somewhere,

and that grown men

still play boys' games

at summer's leisurely pace.

Where no one watches the clock

and no one cares who scores

    —    all except the minor leaguers

hoping to get noticed.

There is much to be said

for what's worth waiting for.

For anticipation

the deferral of gratification

being tested by adversity.

Knowing that winter will end

and spring will come

and baseball will be played,

the snow will melt, the sun ascend

the field of dreams awaits.

The Warmth of the March Sun - Mar 12 2021

 

The Warmth of the March Sun

Mar 12 2021

All winter, the skylights are covered with snow.

Obliterating the sky,

and taunting me, through the dark season

within these looming walls.

I am surprised

at the warmth of the March sun,

as the earth tilts marginally closer

and the landscape is transformed.

When light pours freely in

and the snow quickly clears.

When melt-water trickles

until it turns to flood,

small lakes are formed

and soil churns to mud.

So why am I reluctant

to leave the close embrace of dark,

the protection

of its cozy restful stillness?

To let go of cold's bracing permanence

with its power to preserve,

suspending the world

in the state of winter

beneath the weight of snow?

Perhaps because

I find change challenging.

Because I prefer slow and steady

to transformation and flood.

The unaccustomed heat

and the rapidly lengthening days.

The return of the sun

and the earth revealed

in all its vital disarray.

I repainted, knocked down walls, and installed windows and skylights when I renovated because the house felt claustrophobic: small rooms, not enough windows, the paint mostly dark. But failed to anticipate that when needed most, the skylights would be useless!

The melt accelerates like crazy in early spring. The heat of the sun surprises; trickle turns to flood; and overnight, the skylights seem to clear their heavy load.

I'm always rather discombobulated by spring. It's the pace of change. The re-acclimation to heat. How intrusive light feels to unaccustomed eyes. I believe that the incidence of depression peaks this time of year. So perhaps the discomfort I feel adjusting is not only more common than I think, but as much due to biology as to my temperament. I feel vaguely guilty about this: instead of celebrating the season of light and rebirth, as any virtuous person would, I'm glum and resist it. I find myself revelling in that last blast of winter, which often interrupts the downhill rush of spring.

I vacillate between favourite seasons: the ease of summer, the beauty of fall, the coziness of winter. But there is no doubt that mud-and-bug season is the one I dislike most: when the world is reborn . . .but not without all the usual mess and pain of giving birth!

Troy Weight - Mar 11 2021

 

Troy Weight

Mar 11 2021

My father kept silver dollars.

When we cleaned out his desk

at the end of a long life

they came to me.

He was not a hoarder

or collector of coins.

But I understand their appeal

to a child of the Depression

and a hard-won world war,

who lived with uncertainty

and through unnerving change.

Their size and heft.

The troy weight

of precious metal they contain.

And the noble images

with which they're engraved

that speak of permanence

and continuity.

They are rare now.

And inflation has made them valuable,

pure silver

from when a dollar was really a dollar.

They may talk of real estate,

but no form of wealth

is more real than this.

I rarely use cash.

My savings exist

in pixels and bits

on a server in some bank.

And compared to a thin dime's

utilitarian metal

a silver dollar feels like the manhole cover of currency,

which takes a crowbar to budge

and is built to last.

I could cash them out

for a substantial profit.

But I am my father's son

and prefer to keep them as talismans,

unspent

in a tall clear glass

on a corner of my desk

where they can't help but be noticed.

In a time of unsettling change

they are reminders of the past,

when money was money

and a man's word

counted for something.

And in a time of weak leaders

and their credulous followers

they honour my father,

a man who knew the value of a dollar

and the genuine article,

preferred substance over idle talk

and always kept his promise.

Prosody - Mar 10 2021

 

Prosody

Mar 10 2021

When you say a word over and over

the meaning drains out.

It becomes pure sound,

the abstract jazz of English

as it must fall on others' ears.

Not Italian

where the hands also speak

like a manic Latin maestro,

nor well-accented French

with its soft seductive purr.

Not hard guttural German

nor a Swede's sing-song tones.

And never Portuguese

which simply confuses us,

sounding too much like its cousins

to put your finger on.

I find it disturbing, this emptiness.

A hollowed out word

the fragility of thought.

Because if language makes us human

then imagining its loss

is to contemplate oblivion.

But I am also reassured

that as long as music's in the soul

feeling will persist.

Even the frail old man

whose mind has slipped

and can no longer feed himself

remembers the songs of his youth,

the lyrics

he didn't know he memorized

the poetry he drilled.

The muffled sound of words

first heard in the womb,

the gentle coo of nursery rhymes

imbibed with mother's milk.

An interesting thing is that Chinese children – who are exposed in the womb to a tonal language – emerge with an ear for subtle variations in pitch that babies with English speaking mothers are incapable of. Even the sounds we're exposed to before birth shape our brain's ability to attend to sound. One reason why Mandarin is hard for us Westerners to learn!

The poem also addresses the simple notion that thinking and feeling are mutually exclusive mental processes. Or, to put it another way, the head vs heart dichotomy. . . .Although actually, I think emotion is an essential heuristic that helps us in decision-making. If we were pure logical automatons like Star Trek's Spock, I suspect we'd find ourselves paralyzed: repeatedly stuck for what to do. So we aren't the rational coldly calculating individuals we sometimes imagine ourselves. There is no such thing as pure thought uncontaminated by emotion. But music, in its purest sense, really does evade thought: unlike language, it enters the mind directly, without processing. It activates emotion and memory without reflection. It remains with us, even without the conscious effort of remembering.

As for the title, here's a simple definition of "prosody": the rhythmic and intonational aspect of language. So it's really the music of poetry: the way it lands on the ear, the way it feels in the mouth.

I began this poem with a simple urge to write –anything – and a couple of minutes of time. I originally intended to take advantage of that constraint and finally keep it SHORT: I was determined to make it a 5 to 10 line poem. And that's all I started with – a constraint, but not even the germ of an idea. Somehow, my mind went into this unstructured receptive sort of flow state, and this thing appeared on the page like automatic writing. So that this came out not only coherent but actually pretty good is surprising, as well as sobering: if it's really that easy, why do I usually sweat it so much?!! The alchemy of creativity still baffles me. Too bad my creativity is so one-dimensional: just language; nothing else.