Lost Dog - May 29 2021

 

Lost Dog

May 29 2021

The prodigal dog returned,

eyes bright

tail wagging

fur soaked to the skin.

With a stick gripped in her mouth

giving a goofy grin,

blissfully unaware

of all the distress she'd caused.

Where an old dog

and homebody

who doesn't wander much

went on her recent great adventure

will remain a mystery

for good.

I'd love to accompany her, someday.

Perhaps engineer my own escape,

blithely vanishing

from all the everyday annoyances

expectations

and plans,

and find my own secret lake;

along with something to chew on

and roll in

and dig,

if just for the sake of digging

to see what's there.

A filthy stick

clenched between my lips

on my triumphant return.

But always sure

to be home for dinner

and a soft warm bed.

We were out canoeing, me paddling and the dogs swimming -- as usual. I looked behind, and Skookum had disappeared. We had just started, so hadn't gone far, and I eventually spotted her across the lake (it's narrow here, so more like a river than a lake) in front of the neighbours heading home. I figured she's an old dog and was tired and had had enough. So Rufus (my younger chocolate Lab) and I went on.

But when we got back, Skookum was nowhere to be found. Nowhere. This isn't at all like her. She doesn't run off. She stays with me and sticks to home.

Then, about an hour later, after recruiting the neighbours and scouring everywhere for her, I went back to the beach for about the 5th time and there she was, dripping wet, wagging her tail, a stick triumphantly clenched in her mouth!

(I see that I've posted 2 dog poems in a row. My apologies to all the cat people and dog haters!)

Sleep, Mostly - May 27 2021

 

Sleep, Mostly

May 28 2021

She barks at the mailman.

Sniffs the trash

circling back to sniff again.

Ignores the cat,

who flashes his claws

whenever she comes close.

Laps at the water bowl,

and doesn't think about her bladder

or when or where she'll pee

because dogs do not think

more than a minute ahead.

Keeps busy,

sniffing

scratching

licking her own behind.

But sleeps, mostly.

And wanders,

from the chair to her bed to yours,

the forbidden couch

that mat in front of the door.

Doggie dreams, legs thrashing

about running and rabbits and food.

Her tail wags,

thumping the floor

when her imagination turns

to your coming momentous return.

The hugs and pats

and scratches behind the ears.

The tempting scents

embedded in your clothes,

the kibble filling her bowl.

The clink of the leash

the walk, the breeze

the stops to sniff and pee.

What does she do

when you're away all day?

Sleeps, mostly,

a pack animal

who's gotten used to being alone.

A friend of mine asked me for some feedback on a poem she wrote. And with each version, I found myself getting hung up on a small digression she included about a dog. She is making tea in a basement apartment in a faraway city, and it reminds her of her absent family. The dog stirs overhead, and the loneliness she projects on it emphasizes her own. I'm not a great editor, so instead of suggestions to improve her voice, I kept rewriting what she wrote. Here's an example: “There's a scratching overhead. / I must have awakened / the landlady's dog / who is left alone all day / and mostly sleeps and waits.”

Later in the day, I noticed an article in The Atlantic about how all the pandemic dogs, who have gotten used to their humans being home all day every day, and sometimes known nothing different, will fare once people return to work.

All this came together to inspire this little trifle of a poem.

Frost - May 26 2021

 

Frost

May 26 2021

They're calling for frost.

Yet yesterday was a scorcher,

muggy and hot

as if summer were here to stay.

Odd weather, these days,

whipsawed this way and that

as if the gods of weather

were at war,

and we

the poor earthbound creatures

who thought there was some kind of order

to the ways of the world

are collateral damage;

dressing in the wrong clothes,

watching our gardens

succumb to the cold,

looking up at the sky

bewildered.

But, of course, there are no gods

no one's in charge.

And change, as they say, is good.

So let go

of any expectations

illusions of control.

Cover the garden.

Get out the wool socks.

And if it snows

don't bother shovelling,

it will summer be soon enough.

Aftermath - May 25 2021

 

Aftermath

May 25 2021

You can smell the smoke

where lightning hit the tree,

a ragged scar

of charred black bark

defacing the trunk.

And the frightened dogs

who cowered in the thunder

are still kind of jumpy

and hovering close.

The lights flicker

the sky darkens

a cold wind picks up.

I can feel the hair on my arms bristle,

as if my DNA

connected me to weather

in some atavistic way,

despite the distance we keep

from nature.

The atmosphere is charged

and I can feel the pent-up power,

the urgent need

for release.

And then, when it's done, the relief.

How, on a muggy summer day

a storm clears the air.

And leaves us feeling humble

and small.

At nature's indifference

and overwhelming power.

At the contingency of life,

whether by flash flood or blow-down

lightning or hail.

I take a deep breath

of the cool dry air.

There is a clarity to things

in this limpid light,

the grass greener

the sky a blue transparent lens.

And the smouldering tree

that by all rights should be dead

has survived,

its freshly rinsed leaves

incandescently bright.

We are on the periphery of a summer storm, as if it's flirting with us. I stepped outside, under a darkening sky in the swirling wind, and I could feel the excitement: the power of weather; the transgressive sense of danger; and the smugness of our illusion of safety. It made me want to write about a lightning storm, but I didn't want to simply describe it: too uninteresting and old-hat to the reader; too susceptible to cliché. So I thought I'd bracket it instead: the before and the after.

With generous poetic licence, of course! Because no lightning hit a tree. And because my dogs aren't fazed by anything.

I emailed the first draft of this poem to a friend. Here's part of how I introduced it. I'm including this because it succinctly describes what I'm often trying to do in my poetry, and therefore how I measure my success. And this poem is as good an example as any of how this works.

It betrays my usual tendency toward descriptive lyrical poetry.

So the challenge for me, in order to engage the reader and make his/her commitment worthwhile, is to make the poem both bigger and smaller than that: that is, to not only somehow personalize it and inject emotion, but to go from the small -- close observation and microcosm -- to the large -- some philosophical musing or greater truth.

Dharma - May 22 2021

 

Dharma

May 22 2021

His compact body,

scrambling up, and falling back

the smooth curve of the tub,

jet black

on glossy white enamel.

Hot water

wide-open tap,

a slowly rising flood.

A reverent Buddhist

could never kill a bug.

He scrutinizes the ground

before venturing a step,

lets flies

bite freely.

But I am not nearly so virtuous.

a non-believer

who eats meat and swats mosquitoes

ignores the peril of worms.

Yet I reached down,

and with cupped finger-tips

gently slid him up the slick vertical cliff

and over the edge.

So why could I not bear

to let him swirl down the drain?

Eight legs

paddling madly as he cooked,

his buoyant body

flushed airily away?

Perhaps because I despair

at all the suffering in the world

but feel powerless to change it.

Because I mostly feel unseen

and inefficacious.

All around us, all the time

the merciless churn

of life and death goes on.

And here, a small harmless spider,

as disposable as breathing out

and inconsequential.

Nevertheless,

from a faithless man

a simple effortless act.

As if the hand of God

had reached down from heaven,

and with the merest gesture

could revoke and dispense life.

A Dharmic act

to set the world right,

even if only

infinitesimally small.

I find that the older I get, the more exquisitely I feel the suffering of others – human or not.

(Also, unfortunately, the more misanthropic, pessimistic, and nihilistic. Which may make me an ideal subject for the study of outlook on mental and physical health. Although I suspect I already know the answer:  sunny and optimistic would probably fare much better!)

I read an article today that referred to a traditional Chinese dish that involved boiling crabs alive.(https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2021/05/17/the-gatekeepers-who-get-to-decide-what-food-is-disgusting ) Which may tempt us to judge another culture and feel disgust. But only if we forget that many of us give no second thought to eating lobster that have been similarly boiled alive. While reading this, I reflected back on how earlier today I had carefully redirected and slowed the stream of hot water in the laundry tub to spare a small spider who was on the verge of being washed away. I also refuse to eat lobster. Not that I'm even close to the virtuous person any of this might make me appear. But somehow, this small inconsequential gesture left me feeling better about the world, as well as my very modest place in it. Perhaps the path to virtue consists of many small steps.

I thought not only of dharma and the Buddhist reverence of all life, but of the Jewish concept of tikun olam, which has come to mean one's duty to “repair the world”. But I prefer the Buddhist worldview, because it does not privilege human life; it reveres all life as if we are all sentient and equally deserving. This may explain why I personified the spider: instead of “it”, I very intentionally used “he”, “him”, and “who”. (“She” and “her”would have worked just as well, but I guess I allowed myself to be lazily led by the weight of literary tradition, in which the male gender has customarily been the default.)

I really like the hand of God line. I think it's the irony:  a militant atheist, using religious references. But is also literally true, because this simple act is equivalent in its mercy and consequence as any notion of Godliness. Anyway, to have power over life and death and not exercise it seems horribly negligent and solipsistic.

I generally prefer to avoid “big” words for two reasons. First, they tend to evoke an intellectual rather than an emotional response because they take that much more processing. In my poetry (prose is different) I want language to enter the brain as close as possible to the way music does:   directly, with no processing or deconstruction. And second, most people are unfamiliar with “big” words, so their use can be counted on to interrupt the flow, perhaps even turn a reader away from the poem. No one likes a show-off! Nevertheless, I couldn't resist “efficacious”. The rhyme was too perfect, so when it struck me I couldn't drop it. Even though I probably should have for another reason, as well: it's redundant, since I already referred to powerlessness. . . .Perhaps, though, redundancy is sometimes OK:   if something is important to say, it can benefit from the emphasis.

Let the Wind Have Its Way - May 17 2021

 

Let the Wind Have Its Way

May 17 2021

I've never suffered from ambition.

Even out fishing

I'd rather just sit

eyes drifting shut,

my small wooden skiff

at the mercy of wind.

Where a tug on the line

is just a minor annoyance,

because catching fish

was hardly the point,

so back they get thrown

with a vague twinge of guilt.

Stagnant water

sloshes in the bilge.

Bait bakes

in unforgiving sun,

biting bugs buzz.

Ice melts

and the beer remains undrunk.

Is this why she left me?

For some go-getting hail-well-met

boosterish type?

Type A, they call it.

Which leaves the rest of the letters

for lesser men like me.

No keeping up with others.

No keeping score with money.

And no faith in posterity,

when even celebrated men

are no different than the rest

and end up in oblivion as well;

forgotten

no matter how eminent and beloved.

And will ultimately end

when the sun explodes

in a brilliant supernova,

consuming our descendants

and what legacy remains,

every creature, plant, and saprophyte

on a vanished planet earth.

So I say teach a man to fish

and let the wind have its way.

Eventually bumping into shore

in some unfamiliar place,

snoozing in the sun

in the warm swampy shallows

at the bottom of a bay.

While the lake is left to itself,

fish

eating or being eaten

and competing for mates,

just as their counterparts on land

are racing for first place.

The line “I've never suffered from ambition” wrote itself, and I thought it gave me a good opening to write about my essential nihilism. But I soon found the piece taking a serious philosophical turn, and I quickly realized how poorly that suited poetry. That's the business of prose. Instead, the rhyme led me to “fishing”, and – even though I don't – it seemed like as good a way as any to express these ideas: that is, showing instead of saying.

Of course, I'm not entirely without ambition. It's more that I'm not ambitious in the conventional sense – keeping up; status; accumulating wealth. And it doesn't help that I'm cynical about posterity and struggle for meaning. Not that I think it's unusual to contend with meaning and purpose in life. But perhaps harder for me, since I'm not a man of faith, and so have no easy answers.

I couldn't resist “saprophyte”, even though the unfamiliarity of the word and its technical sound will probably interrupt the flow for most readers. Couldn't resist because this 3^rd great branch in the kingdoms of life is too often ignored. . . .Not to mention that the rhyme and cadence of the word fit the line perfectly!

From Behind - May 16 2021

 

From Behind

May 16 2021

 

I saw them from behind.

 

The measured pace,

as if not only in no hurry

but nowhere to go.

The journey

an end in itself.

 

The backs of their heads,

blank slates

for every couple in love

any face I imagine.

 

Their hands finding each other

then ever so lightly brushing.

Their grip shifting

and fingers probing

and touch tightening

until they were closely interlocked,

a single clenched fist

swaying in time with their gait.

 

Did I feel illegitimate,

a voyeur

surreptitiously taking them in?

 

A parasite,

feeding on their happiness

as if I could somehow inhabit their life?

 

Or envious,

longing for a kind of love

so effortless

present

at ease with itself?

 

You sometimes see those couples

who grope and kiss and hug

with adolescent abandon,

who might as well undress each other

unselfconscious and in public.

But that's lust, not love;

the urgency of sex

in place of contented attachment.

 

Which is so much harder to find

yet can last a lifetime.

 

We are all romantics at heart,

even those who have lost

or fallen out

or never stood a chance.

 

Even glamorous sisters

and spinster aunts

and women who live with cats.

 

Even a single man

who stays unattached

and keeps his hands to himself.

 

This picture appeared in today's online edition of the New Yorker, headlining a collection of short stories for Sunday reading.  I wasn't in the mood for fiction, so read no further. And I barely glanced at the picture before continuing to scroll down. But it stuck with me. It reminded me of all the couples I've seen walking hand-in-hand. It speaks to romance, love, and attachment.

I'm single. I would accurately be labelled a confirmed bachelor. (Which I mean literally, and not as an allusion to gayness!) But my feelings are complicated. There is clearly some envy. I'll let the poem speak for itself.

I chose the title for two reasons. It's taken from the opening line, so doesn't give anything away. But it also speaks to the sense of exclusion, as well as the slightly guilty feeling of observing while being unobserved. (And no, not a reference to the rather impressive endowment of the woman in the photo!)

Interregnum - May 14 2021

 

Interregnum

May 14 2021

 

The buds are still tightly closed,

hard glossy nubs

that have somehow over-wintered

through the dark and cold,

as if summer were certain

when we had our doubts.

 

And when they unfurl

the bugs will hit;

spring’s rite of passage,

when the air is filled

with single-minded blackflies,

fulfilling their short blinkered lives

by afflicting ours.

 

And then the usual succession

of mosquitoes

deer flies

and ankle biters.

 

But for now, the buds are biding their time,

and the sun is hot

and there’s the promise of May

and the land has finally dried

from the annual thaw,

puddles and mud

and clunky gumboots.

A brilliant interregnum

between the harshness of winter

and the season of bugs.

 

So we give thanks for our blessings,

2 weeks of good weather

and freedom from bites.

 

Outside, in T-shirt and shorts.

 

Or even naked, if we like;

slow moving creatures

with soft skin and warm blood,

for now undisturbed

in our northern paradise.

 

I was lamenting with my neighbour the imminent arrival of the first brood of blackflies. He reminded me that their appearance usually coincides with the opening of the buds.

I replied that with climate change, one never knows any more:  many of the natural cycles are out of sync; the timing needed for creatures to successfully mate and raise their young is often off these days. Pollination, as well.

Still, it seems as if things are on track this year. So we are still in that lovely interregnum. I noticed tonight that the buds are tightly closed. I hope they stay that way for a while! 

Object Permanence - May 13 2021

 

Object Permanence

May 13 2021

There is a black that absorbs

almost the last photon of light.

So if you cover yourself in this

would you become invisible?

Eyes closed

so your whites do not betray you,

lips pursed

to mask your gritted teeth.

And like a small child

who thinks that putting his hands over his eyes

doesn't just hide the world

but extinguishes it,

would you recede into yourself,

all existence melding

into matte black-on-black?

But nanotubes

made of pure atoms of carbon

are not absolute.

There are no black holes on earth.

So even when all seems lost

         —   that the darkness will never lift,

    that you could paint a hole

    and fall all the way into it   —

there is always a glimmer of light.

You cannot hide, despite yourself.

And the world goes on,

whether or not you turn away.

There are two types of black made from two separate processes that each absorb over 99.9% of light: Vantablack, and Black 3.0. They are composed of vertical nanotubes of carbon (hence “Vanta-”), and have uses in technology, as well as art.

If art is a process that subconsciously probes one's inner life, I wonder what this poem reveals about me? I don't write confessional poetry – not intentionally, anyway – and I don't write for the purpose of personal therapy. The first would be far too uncomfortable for a private person like me, and the second strikes me as unacceptably self-indulgent: I write with a hypothetical reader in mind, and whatever therapeutic benefit it happens to have for me is in the ventilation, the sharing, and the exercising of my compulsive need to put words on paper. But perhaps something leaked out here. The poem certainly suggests a very dark place. But then, isn't that the universal human condition: don't even the sunniest and most optimistic have their 4-in-the-morning moments of despair and alienation?

I wrote this after listening to this interesting podcast from the 99% Invisible series (see link below).

https://99percentinvisible.org/episode/their-dark-materials/