Climate Controlled - April 28 2021

 

Climate Controlled

April 28 2021

Snow in July.

A small island

with a northern exposure

a short kayak away.

In a cave-like opening, just above the lake,

where cold water

lapped at the shore.

Superior

which is frigid all year,

only dashing in for a swim

in the sun-warmed shallows

on a sweltering summer day.

We paddled our kayaks close,

and could see remnants of snow

in the cool gloomy grotto.

The darkness

of the constant earth,

the deep sweet-water lake.

It was hot,

but a bit of winter

had managed to persist

in this one sheltered spot.

I know that cold is the absence of heat

and not a thing in itself.

But I could still feel the temperature

suddenly drop,

the cold radiating off

as if opening a freezer door.

Or how it felt as kids

stepping out of the blistering heat

into the theatre's cool darkness.

With the popcorn smell

and sticky floor

and kids talking back to the screen

at the weekend matinee.

Where you could sit all day

as the movie played

over and over again,

even though

we were supposed to exit the place.

In the hot doldrums of summer

a sanctuary

of climate-controlled air,

where the light was low

and the reels rolled

and the teenaged usher slept.

They didn't advertise “Air Conditioning”. Instead, the terminology was “Air Cooled” or “Climate Controlled.” (Now, of course, this wouldn't bear mentioning. It's universally assumed.) Which may have been more appropriate. Because entering into that cool dark sanctuary was like entering into another world, one with not only its own weather, but its own micro-climate!

Exiting, though, was a whole other thing: instead of sweet relief, it was instant headache opening the door to the blinding sun and suffocating heat.

This was well over 20 years ago. Caribou Island (I think), in Thunder Bay harbour. It was just Emir Vidjen and me, paddling out together. We were white water guys, but would occasionally “slum” and do some flat water paddling!

The theatre was the Glendale in north Toronto, and I distinctly recall that headache on re-entering the world! I'm sure that theatre has been gone for more years than I care to think about. . . .After writing this, I Googled “old movie theatres”, looking for a generic image. Then I figured I might as well put in “Glendale movie theatre”, and Google came up with the photo that accompanies this: the actual Glendale theatre on Avenue Rd. in Toronto that I remember.

I have no idea what made this image come to me today. Perhaps it's because while it's the first warm day of spring, there are still remnants of snow persisting in places under the trees.

Puppy Eyes - April 27 2021

Puppy Eyes

April 27 2021

The dogs are easily entertained.

A tossed ball

a tummy rub

a regular evening walk,

where even the same old place

day after day

is of endless fascination

to an off-leash dog.

Where they can explore a world of scent

in all 4 dimensions   —

fresh new smells

along with the old decaying ones,

carrying a signal of time

as well as of space.

As other creatures

see in ultraviolet

echo-locate.

Hear infra-sound

from thousands of miles away,

discern earth's magnetic field

inherit a map of the stars.

But only dogs

look at human faces

and seem to understand.

Look into our eyes, as we look back,

engaging with us

as no other animal can.

I know this is merely a matter

of basic survival.

Because our best friends and loyal companions

depend on us.

Because their evolution

was never a product of chance;

like earthbound gods

we fashioned them after ourselves

and selected them to serve.

We focus so much on difference,

and over all of human history

have been busily killing each other

over really nothing much.

I realize how fear

misunderstanding

and the unknowable mind of the other

make this hard to overcome.

Yet what could be more dissimilar

than 2 distinct species,

2 apex predators

who should be competing for prey

somehow sharing space?

Who, with no common language

depend on sight and smell.

Who have no sentences or grammar

beyond a few recognizable words

like sit, come

good girl.

Who have only loyalty

obligation

and trust.

The only creatures

who can look into each other's eyes

and feel the heady heart-racing rush

of deep attachment

unstinting love.

I find inter-species relationships and attachment endlessly fascinating. It speaks so much to the basic commonality of many, if not most animals; not just mammals. Basic needs like love, touch, play, belonging. Contrasted with this is the human illusion of race: how we are so much more alert to superficial differences than the deep commonalities.

Most of us don't get to work with corvids or cetaceans or cephalopods: our sentient and intelligent counterparts in the animal kingdom. But most of us are intimately familiar with dogs. And there is no better example of similarity overcoming difference; of the exhilarating feeling of reaching across the species divide.

I was reading an article on the potential for artificial intelligence to some day allow us to communicate with animals, to understand their languages. I disagree. Of all the things we once believed distinguished human beings from the other animals and that we have since learned are hardly unique to us, language stands up as the unbridgeable divide. Animals make vocalizations, but they do not have language as we understand that word. And without language, they are incapable of abstract thought.

Yet even without this essential tool of communication, we interact deeply and precisely with our dogs. They interrogate faces: while other animals don't respond to facial expression, dogs do. Eye contact in most animals is taken as a threat. It evokes aggression. But domesticated dogs do not avert their eyes; they look directly into ours. Some evolutionary biologists have even postulated that the prominent whites of our eyes – a prominence not seen in any other primate – may be a result of our co-evolution with dogs: they read us through our eyes, and this makes them easier to see. (I'm not so sure of this. If the domestication of dogs goes back at most 30,000 years, this seems too short a time and probably too inadequate a selective pressure for that kind of evolutionary change.)

I love looking into my dogs' deep brown eyes, each of us holding our gaze. Our love for our dogs seems to some less worthy than love for our fellow human beings. We naturally privilege our own species. And I do realize how much easier it is to love a dog, because dogs are simple and subservient creatures. Nevertheless, I disagree. There is nothing illegitimate about this kind of love. Nothing to qualify or apologize for.

Harbinger - April 26 2021

Harbinger

April 26 2021

Spring thaw,

and melt-water fills

every ditch, depression

seasonal pond.

Heart-stopping cold,

and this morning

a skim of ice on top.

Yet the peepers were out

for the first time this spring,

small reclusive frogs

chorusing lustily for mates.

I say reclusive,

but only because I never see them,

concealed in their soggy habitat

and quieting when I approach.

So it seems nothing will chill desire,

and, like us

the males of the species compete;

if not for the biggest bankroll

or flashiest car

then to see which is loudest.

For me, they are the first sign of spring,

a harbinger of rebirth

emerging from winter sleep.

But are late this year

and more subdued.

Was it a hard winter

that lasted too long?

Is it too dry a spring?

Or is this a sign of change;

the planet warming

and the weather erratic,

the time-tested cycles of life

badly out-of-sync?

How sad

if these tough little creatures

did not survive.

How ominous

when the world shifts beneath our feet

and we carry on regardless

oblivious to the signs.

A silent spring, as Rachel Carson foretold.

A last lonely peeper

chorusing alone.

I heard them for the first time this year, out walking last evening. It's a wintry spring: April 26, and right now it's snowing. I'm always amazed at their ability to withstand the cold. Even my furry warm-blooded dogs are reluctant to get into that recently frozen water!

When I completed the first draft, I recalled having written a similar poem; and looking back, it was 3 springs ago. (And I'm pleased to see that it stands up well. I can't say as much for a lot of my old stuff!) I see that I touched on many of the same ideas. But that poem ended on the poignant note of the last peeper of spring, the one who couldn't find a mate. This one ended more soberly, with the last peeper altogether: a dark parable on the climate crisis we have failed to face.

So the title is ironic: the sound of peepers a harbinger of the season of rebirth; but also a harbinger of dying and displaced species, and the critical loss of biodiversity.

Pseudacris Crucifer

May 24 2019

The peepers

must have some long taxonomic name

that would make me sound learned

but would convey nothing of the sound

that inaugurates spring

as reliably

as trails turning to mud

the smell of earth.

The mating urge of males

that even pools of ice-cold water

cannot suppress.

Who somehow survived winter,

and in their tiny frog minds

grasp the need to procreate,

the imperative

that animates nature

with its drive

desire

haste.

Despite the precarious weather

that can see-saw overnight

from freeze to thaw and back.

Such a loud piercing call

from so small a creature.

Who fall silent

as the dogs and I approach

resume as we pass,

uncannily alert

in their hidden amphibious world.

I have never seen a peeper

know no one who has.

But their chorus fills the nights

and seems to shout

longing

toughness

rebirth.

The promise of spring,

when a young man feels his blood

and wants to make some noise

and goes searching for love;

or at least something

that feels close enough.

In a few weeks, we will hear just the single peep

of the the pond's last inhabitant,

who couldn't hit the high notes

or sang too soft

or was awkward with the girls.

A lonely bachelor frog,

singing out another spring

like every spring before.

Interior Design - April 25 2021

 

Interior Design

April 25 2021

When I was growing up

it was burnt orange shag

and almond appliances.

Today, it's the all-white interior.

Cleanly ruled lines

uncluttered and sleek,

like a surgical suite

where no one's ever lived.

But this is the nature of fashion,

which is all about keeping up

seeking status

happy nothing lasts.

Knowing that we're seekers of novelty

and followers of trends.

That change is inevitable

    —   even change

for its own sake.

That obsolescence

is the essence of commerce,

and if we are no longer citizens

and have less and less in common

then at least we can be consumers,

exercising our sovereignty

by shopping and buying.

But really, I'd rather have shag

than that cool sterile look.

Which reminds me of the dead-eyed glance

of a high-fashion model,

her hands-on-hips strut

and hard aloof exterior.

Perhaps this cold hermetic white

is a statement on our time,

a desire to escape

from a dangerous world,

an illusion of control

when events seem to be spiralling

with chaos at the door.

But all it does is hurt my eyes,

too angular

and inhospitable

and almost brittle in its brightness.

Like my draw-string sweatpants

and soft cotton hoodie

I prefer comfort over looks,

modest and constant

over status and staged.

So instead of aseptic white

and futuristic spaces,

there are scattered magazines

and pillows piled up

and thick Persian rugs.

Inviting furniture

that says come and sit,

sinking in

to an overstuffed sofa

or big leather chair.

And warm wood everywhere,

along with soft adjustable light

from funky lamps

and quirky overheads.

It's still a refuge from the world;

but one that welcomes you in

and feels like coming home.

This poem makes it seem as if I prefer clutter, a homey domestic mess. Yet I'm as much a minimalist as the fashionistas of contemporary interior design. So why does minimalism have to mean no warm colours or soft materials? And what's wrong with enough tchotchkes and randomness to at least give the place that look lived-in?

I realize, of course, that all the pictures in the Home Beautiful magazines and real estate sections of newspapers are staged: no one actually lives like this! But I've still felt compelled for a long time to write something about this unappealing trend: about the cold alienating feeling I get from the all-white interior, which seems more about show than daily living; and about my more general revulsion at fashion – which is also more about show than comfort – and doesn't exist without an unsustainable economy based on consumerism and waste. Waste, especially. Because it's an unavoidable consequence of the uncritically accepted ethos of obsolescence that is at the heart of fashion. Because it's inextricable from being “fashionable”; from the pursuit of newness, of the latest thing.

I was very pleased to have ended the poem with “home”. It's a powerfully evocative word. It contains its own poem in a mere 4 letters. The entire piece converges there, because it's all about the nature of a house. Is it a showplace, designed to convey a certain image? Or is it a home, a place where you can actually live and be comfortable?

The Starving Children - April 22 2021

 

The Starving Children

April 22 2021

You'll spoil your appetite, she barked

when we pestered her for snacks.

Children are starving in Africa

when we we poked at the overcooked liver,

turned up our noses

at brussels sprouts.

Or I slaved all day

over a hot stove,

and as a last resort

wait 'til your father gets home.

Who was exhausted after work

and the slog through rush hour traffic,

looking less the strict enforcer

than bewildered at all the fuss.

But we'd sit together around the table

and eat as one.

Late dinners

because our father's business

wouldn't run itself.

The dog lurked in the darkness,

padding around our legs

scavenging for scraps,

big brown eyes

gazing up imploringly.

She had an unerring instinct

for the weakest link,

and would perch her head on someone's knees

which was usually me.

Clearly, she had a big heart

and was eager to do her part

for the starving children,

hoovering up anything

before it hit the floor.

Perfect Stranger - April 24 2021

 

Perfect Stranger

April 24 2021

 

She was a perfect stranger.

But then, what stranger isn't?

 

Before you've met,

when you naturally project on them

all your wants and needs and desires.

When she was just hypothetical

and I was free to conjure

my idealized woman,

perfect in every way.

 

Or perhaps it's “perfect”, as in absolute --

when there's not a chance

that you've met before,

or have the slightest sense

of who they are.

 

And later

when the disillusion sets in

and the imperfections are plain

the strangeness remains.

The unknowability of others

when we can only guess.

When even loved ones

remain inscrutable,

and friends and acquaintances

are too distant to say.

How unknowable the other,

and really

how little we know ourselves.

 

Of course, I knew her better when she left.

No longer a stranger, then,

and a long way from perfection.

 

Estranged and flawed.

 

Gone   . . .

     without a word.

 

And for me, a world of perfect strangers

if I'm willing to try.

 

 I enjoy deconstructing clichés:  listening closely to language, then contrasting a colloquial expression with its literal meaning. So there is the perfect stranger, as in absolute and incontestable; and then the perfect stranger, as in an idealized human being.

I think that in the infatuated beginning of love, we are susceptible to this process of projection and idealization. The less well you know someone new, the more perfect they seem. And the more familiar we become, the more we acknowledge the flaws.

I also think that there is this essential unknowability of other people. Even someone we're intimate with. A philosophical question a cognitive scientist might ask is: “How do I know that I am not the only one who is conscious? Who's to say that while I am conscious, sentient, and self-aware, everyone else is simply impersonating a human, that they are all cleverly programmed artificial intelligence machines?” I suppose that would be the ultimate in unknowability:  imagining consciousness, when there is none; seeing depth, when there is really only surface.

Old Cedar - April 23 2021

 

Old Cedar

April 23 2021

 

The home renovation guys

have their tape measures out

and are circling the house

with long sure-footed strides,

chatting, laughing, cracking jokes.

 

I wish, like them, I also worked with my hands.

 

Could justify a big rugged pick-up

that's hard on gas.

 

Could head off each day

in well-weathered jeans

and kick-ass boots,

leather as soft and supple

as the well-worked pocket

of a treasured baseball glove.

 

Could strap on a tool belt

as if I were holstering-up,

sagging

from the hammer

where the gun should hang.

And with all the specialized tools

that proclaim I'm a working man

who has mastered his craft.

 

Could sport practical shades

and a shabby ball cap,

well-worn

from sun and rain

and labour’s honest sweat.

 

The old cedar siding

will be replaced

by some low maintenance material

made in a factory somewhere.

The beautifully aged wood

with its well-weathered patina

and expert tongue and groove

will be sacrificed

for practicality.

 

If only it were so easy

to do the same,

reinventing myself

from the outside in,

presenting a new face to the world.

 

And while I may be old cedar

    —  prized for durability

      and being easy to work,

      yet also soft and sensitive  —

life is long

and wood is not.

The sun has been hard

in the exposed spots,

and even though I've aged

gracefully enough,

I could use a coat of paint

a little sprucing-up.

 

So while the building will look like new

I will be a few months older.

But not any handier

and still not as casually dressed.

Because reinvention is hard.

And the passage of time 

steady and relentless.

 

I'm planning some exterior finishing to this old house. Necessary work that has been neglected too long. It began with a simple bit of maintenance:  cleaning out the clogged gutters. Which is when a close look revealed everything else that needed doing.

I woke up today to a couple of big pick-ups parked in the driveway and a couple of guys doing exactly what the poem says. The bones of the building will be left: the foundation; the joists and framing. So it is, in a way, cosmetic. But in the way that inanimate objects can be reinvented – a little sprucing up from the outside in – we cannot. (Short of incurable vanity and plastic surgery, that is!) I have aged along with the house. If only personal reinvention were also as simple as a coat of paint!

I'm not at all handy. I hire people when anything needs to be done. But I sure would like to sport that tool belt. Sport it legitimately, not for show. And I know how satisfying it is to work with your hands; to have a task with a definite beginning and end; and to finally be able to stand back and admire a tangible quantifiable thing.

Writing a poem is a little like that. There is something to show for it in the end – a kind of object, even if it's one you can contain on a screen or in your head. And it is as much about craft as art. And I do use my hands – on the keyboard, if that counts. Still, writing a poem is hardly the same as measuring and cutting and then hammering nails into a 2 x 4!