Dark Corners - Aug 29 2021

 

Dark Corners

Aug 29 2021

Living in curved spaces

there are no dark corners,

just shades of grey

and disinfecting light.

A place where flat objects

fit awkwardly,

like a picture on the wall

or standard boxy furniture.

And there are no cheek-by-jowl houses

or ticky-tacky neighbourhoods,

because between round houses

on oddly shaped lots

there can be no straight fences,

just dead space

to either share, or neglect;

the art of negotiation

and talking over hedges.

Neither are there strictly ruled grids

or regimented buildings.

And where streets go on forever,

circling back on themselves

in a steadily pitched turn

you can simply set and hold.

But we are quadratical, instead,

confining ourselves to cells

in boxy houses, row on row

on planned suburban roads.

Hammering 2 x 4s

erecting square corners

drafting rectangular floors,

shapes antithetical to nature

and alien to ourselves.

And in private

in the fractured light

we nurse our dark corners,

out of sight

and out of mind

behind precisely ruled walls.

The inspiration for this poem will seem utterly ludicrous in its indirectness. I was reading an interview in the New Yorker with Martin Short, and the question was asked about his loss early in life of a brother and both parents: the natural implication being that comedy is born from tragedy, that behind every clown's painted-on smile are secret tears. Short strenuously denied this. His comedy does not arise from neurosis, over-compensation, or denial: he is as authentically full of life and positivity as he seems.

Anyway, all that to say that the expression “dark corners” came up, and what immediately struck me about this metaphor was how something both concrete and psychological co-exist in the same expression at the same time. Which I guess is true of all metaphor. I hope the misdirection of the poem works, eliciting the same response as the expression did for me: pulled back and forth between the literal and metaphorical, the merely descriptive and the psychologically dark.

A grateful acknowledgement should, of course go out to the classic folk song from the early 60s, Little Boxes, written by Malvina Reynolds and popularized by Pete Seeger.

Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes made of ticky tacky
Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes all the same,
There's a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.

And the people in the houses
All went to the university
Where they were put in boxes
And they came out all the same
And there's doctors and lawyers
And business executives
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.

And they all play on the golf course
And drink their martinis dry
And they all have pretty children
And the children go to school,
And the children go to summer camp
And then to the university
Where they are put in boxes
And they come out all the same.

And the boys go into business
And marry and raise a family
In boxes made of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same,
There's a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.

Fire Ban - Aug 22 2021

 

Fire Ban

Aug 22 2021

Fires are banned

in this long summer drought

of tinder dry wood

and sun-baked underbrush.

Yet we gather around the fire

as if it burned.

As if it gave off heat and light.

As if our faces were flushed by the flames,

and shadows danced

in the cold dark night

behind our backs.

As if flurries of sparks chimneyed up

when a log toppled down,

red hot embers

were caught in a gust of wind.

A campfire of teepeed wood

enclosed by scorched black stones

in want of a match.

Because it seems so natural

to gravitate here

as we've always done.

Even absent fire.

Even in this chill.

Like a house party, or festive meal,

where, no matter what

everyone ends up

around the kitchen table,

chatting, laughing

drinks in hand.

As if gathering around the hearth,

the warm familiar heart

of any home.

Conviviality, it seems

makes its own heat and light.

And we are creatures of habit

who unconsciously follow

our well-trod paths.

Today, around the fire-pit.

Where we stoically wait

for the drought to break

the ban to lift.

Where we crave the dance of flame

and its sweet narcotic heat,

as if something deep

in our DNA

demanded it.

Absolute Zero - Aug 27 2021

 

Absolute Zero

Aug 27 2021

So what was the point?

Starting with a Big Bang,

when something out of nothing

materialized.

An idea that begs understanding,

but serves its purpose

so never mind.

Yes, I will grant

there was an infinitesimal fragment of time

when life could flourish.

On earth, for sure,

and as some contend

wherever there are planets and stars.

If the universe has a purpose

perhaps this is it;

that given existence

and the laws of physics

there will be life.

     . . .  Although intelligent life

is something else again;

and I have good cause to wonder

about even us.

And then, after more years

than there are atoms in the universe

all that remain

will be white dwarfs, glowing faintly

and the cooling black cinders

of remnant stars,

as dull as the stump of a candle

guttering out,

the dimmest bulb

in a stone-walled dungeon

underground.

Along with photons

incrementally dying,

their energy draining away

as the universe expands

and matter thins.

Until the final dregs of entropy

are completely wrung out

and creation goes dark.

To the ancient Greeks

the circle reflected perfection

and so it will be,

from nothing to nothing

beginning to end.

Which is when the arrow of time

will have reached its completion

and been rendered meaningless,

because at absolute zero

nothing can change.

Or could there be another Big Bang?

A parallel universe?

Or even a God,

in whose mind's eye

we are merely a figment?

None of which matters.

Because clearly, in a fleeting life

there can be only now.

So while the physicists calculate

and nihilist speculate

and theologians wave their hands,

I happily choose

to accept my fate,

living each day

as if it counts.

I'm a nihilist. Not in a destroy everything and let terror, anarchy, and unbridled hedonism reign. I mean in the sense of recognizing one's insignificance in a cold indifferent universe. I have settled on this worldview because it engenders not only a becoming humility, but permits an amused sort of detachment and perspective taking. In other words, don't take yourself so seriously! You are not at the centre – not even close! – and no one but you is keeping score.

Last night, I watched most of an episode of BBC Earth's brilliant Wonders of the Universe, by the Cambridge physicist Dr. Brian Cox. This episode as about time and its relationship to the notion of entropy, and what I took away from it – as I sat down the next day to write – thoroughly informs this poem.

I've always said that nothing ultimately matters, because the earth will be consumed by a supernova anyway. It is all dust, and we will all be as quickly forgotten – even the famous and “important” – just as all our untended graves will be overgrown and our remains subsumed by the soil. But if a supernova is in an inconceivably distant future, the time until the end of the universe is utterly beyond comprehension: so many zeros, it defies counting. Nevertheless, we have the privilege not only of life, but of both intelligence and self-consciousness – something too improbable to contemplate – and so it is incumbent on us to celebrate it. In other words, even a nihilist can construct meaning, live passionately, and choose integrity. So the poem moves from futility to living meaningfully: which may not be a problem for physicists, who have so supple an intelligence they actually understand the Big Bang(!); but is, I admit, quite a stretch for a self-proclaimed nihilist!

These are the hardest poems to write. Not actually so hard to write – because I enjoy big ideas – but hard to write in a way that would interest most readers. This is because complicated ideas lend themselves to prose, not the distilled compression of poetry. And because poetry should be visceral and allusive – evoking emotion and sensation – not intellectual and linear. And because poems are best when they're personal, not detached and analytical. I hope this one succeeds, at least partially. Because it was fun to write. And even if it doesn't work, I appreciate the opportunity this commentary has given me to defend nihilism and express something of my worldview.

Summer Rain - Aug 20 2021

 

Summer Rain

Aug 20 2021

A rainy day,

and I look out

through trickles of water

dribbling down the pane.

I watch

as they descend in jagged lines

no two alike.

Most disappear over the edge,

some merge, and coalesce.

While the rest run dry

their journey done.

Outside

there is nothing to see but dark.

The windows have all steamed up,

and a ghostly reflection of me

hovers in the glass.

I open one a crack,

letting in

the sweetness of evening air,

the mineral smell

of rain on parched soil.

A gust of wind

and a tree brushes the house,

wet leaves

slapping against the wall.

And on the roof

the steady patter of rain,

like slow jazz

or soft background music.

I fix on the soothing sound

and feel myself slipping away.

How easy sleep comes

with a gentle summer rain,

cooling the muggy day

soothing frazzled senses.

Pure imagination! Perhaps wishful thinking. Because it has been hot and dry and we're desperate for rain.

There is a thunderstorm in the forecast for later tonight. So not the gentle summer rain imagined in this poem. But any kind of rain would be welcome now.

I like poems that invoke all the senses. Here, sight, smell, temperature, and sound. And I suppose touch, with the tree against the house. Hard to squeeze taste into it!

A poem like this has no presumption. It's not intellectual, philosophical, or political. It doesn't challenge the reader with deep metaphors, ambiguity, clever allusion, or multiple levels of meaning. It's a simple mood poem, meant to evoke the slightly soporific mood of a gentle rain on a summer evening. Descriptive, but with a personal element that I hope gives it heart.

What Will Happen to the World - Aug 18 2021

 

What Will Happen to the World

Aug 18 2021

I'm becoming less and less interested

in what will happen to the world

after I'm gone.

I suspect nothing good.

But that could simply be my stage of life,

just as every generation

is either baffled by the young

or loses faith in them.

And if not that

then succumbs to nostalgia,

looking back

at a golden age

that likely really wasn't.

Nevertheless

problems multiply, population doubles,

and the world keeps speeding up

too fast to keep pace.

So I've found the saving grace

is a modest life.

Satisfied

with what I have,

and happy to be settled

in this small familiar place.

A quiet night

a glass of wine

a star-filled sky.

And a woman at my side

who will remember when I'm gone;

but I hope not look back

or live in the past

or surrender to nostalgia.

Who will simply by her presence

illuminate the world

and make things right.

Not actually less interested so much as less passionate. I have come to recognize my smallness, my impotence, and the futility of keeping current. Why sweat over coming to moderate informed opinions when you are powerless to do anything about it anyway?

I'm a born pessimist. And I don't tend to wear rose coloured glasses about the past. So yes, I'm not naturally inclined toward positivity! But I really do believe an objective case can be made that as a civilization – perhaps as a species – we are facing unprecedented risk. There are so many existential challenges all at once: climate change, a mismanaged pandemic, the rise of authoritarianism, and a woefully unsustainable economic model. Has culture coarsened? Has education failed? Have superstition, tribalism, and sanctimony triumphed? I don't feel hopeful. I'm glad I got to live when I did, beginning my life in the middle of the 20^th century.

So I take refuge in a small simple life and basic bourgeois values. Age usually has us narrowing our lives. Perhaps it's a wise choice, as well. I realize, of course, what a privilege this is is a privilege: of wealth; of the accident of birth.

Although I don't have this hypothetical woman in my life. But for those who do have a significant other, I imagine such an intimate relationship would be saving grace from cynicism and hopelessness.

Summer Reading - Aug 15 2021

 

Summer Reading

Aug 15 2021

A good beach read

the reviewer said.

As if you'd be that guy

sitting cross-legged by the shore,

swatting flies

dripping sweat

buried in a book.

Squinting against

the sun's reflected glare.

The racket

of children building castles,

their laughing

and quarrelling

and dashing back and forth

distracting you

from your fantasy world.

Forget the surfer dude, who kicks sand in your face,

all the tall tanned girls

so scantily dressed.

And as sand creeps up your crack,

and you wonder what happened to the cool ocean breeze

the sound of surf beckons,

like a party

you weren't invited to.

Something light and frothy,

unlike the weighty tomes

he must have presumed

you spend long winter nights with.

The short precious season

of freedom and flight,

yet here you are

escaping into some mystery, or thriller

as pictures play in your head.

Summer reading?

On a rainy day, perhaps.

But a paperback at the beach?

Wet pages

and sunstroke

and a badly burned neck.

A summer to remember

and a beach read to forget.

The usual seasonal lists of summer reading have come and gone. The highest praise is “a good beach read”, which to me implies simple language, with its share of cliches; a propulsive plot; no invitation to deep thought; and no disturbing content. Pulp fiction. Disposable. Easily digested and forgotten.

But really, reading on the beach? I can't think of a less pleasant activity, nor one more unsuited to its surroundings!

The Perseids - Aug 13 2021 [REVISED - Aug 19]

 

The Perseids

Aug 13 2021

The meteor shower came and went

somewhere overhead

behind an overcast sky.

But when I read that there's a streak of light

just every few minutes,

I realized

there wasn't much to miss.

Because instead of a few random flashes

“shower” sounds like fireworks, and light-shows,

a pyrotechnic display

illuminating the heavens

to astonished ooohs and ahhhs.

So I suspect they're over-selling the thing.

Like a rapid-fire huckster

hawking his wares,

a carnival barker

pitching the tallest man in the world

to all the rubes and gawkers and marks.

Who was just some poor soul

with sad eyes

a sore back

and clown-sized shoes,

who had a hormone disorder

and mostly sat down.

A meteorite

is what little survives,

a scorched rock

still hot

from its fiery fall to earth.

Like an envoy from outer space

with traces that date

to the birth of the planets.

Now this is what I'd pay to see

or happily stay up late for,

something alien

that I could hold in my hand

and forensically examine.

Looking for signs

of the origin of life.

To be inspired

by the majesty of nature.

To reassure myself

that beating the odds

is actually possible.

Or perhaps to remind me

how fragile we are

under the thin blanket of air

that shelters us from space,

a hostile universe

full of hurtling fragments of rock

that couldn't care less

whether or not we're here.

Both. It was cloudy here. And after I read a bit more, the Perseids sounded disappointing. “Shower” is over-selling it.

Where I live, there is little light pollution, so I'm often able to see not just a brilliant night sky, but meteors. So one every few minutes or so doesn't sound worth waiting up for.

But a meteorite would be an exciting find. As the poem says “an envoy from outer space” you can actually hold in your hand: fresh from the cosmos; uncontaminated by earth.

10 Seconds' Notice - Aug 12 2021

 

10 Seconds' Notice

Aug 12 2021

It depends on how much time.

If you could smell the fire

but not see any flames.

If the gargantuan wave

was mere minutes away

in the race for higher ground.

Or if an earthquake warning

gave you 10 seconds grace

what would you clutch to your heart?

They say a sturdy table

the frame of a door.

But when the ground moves beneath your feet

and foundations crumble,

then for the rest of your days

you know nothing is certain

you can never be safe.

Photographs, diaries, keepsakes,

perhaps cold hard cash.

Or whatever you could grab

in those few numb moments

of paralyzed thought.

And afterward, would you wonder

if you'd have been better off

with no warning at all?

Ignorance is bliss, they say

so why meet your fate in fear?

I am closer to the end

than my beginning,

and the years that remain

diminish quicker and quicker.

But who says

it won't come in a flash

in the prime of life;

like lightning, out of a clear blue sky,

over the horizon

before you hear the sound.

So I contemplate what I would take

if taking is even an option.

Not an object, of course,

that would be impossible.

But some quality, perhaps

that would leave an afterlife

well after I'm gone.

So not taken at all

but left and passed on.

That might seem small

in the day-to-day bustle

the urgent now;

but would give meaning to life

make it all have been worthwhile.

I glimpsed this headline (see below) as I scrolled through today's articles on the New Yorker web site. Didn't even stop to read it. These few words were enough to set me off.

We don't have earthquakes here (he wrote, hoping not to spook our good fortune!); so while the question was academic, I did immediately think of the telling time-honoured question “What would you take in the fire?” This is a potentially profound question. It speaks to our priorities; to what we truly value in life. And almost always, it's never an expensive object, money, or fancy job title. I suspect it's most often something with deep sentimental value, something that would hardly be top of mind in the hustle and bustle of daily life.

I had no idea where this poem would go. As usual, I began by just riffing on a theme and playing with language. That it went to a somewhat dark place is not surprising, considering my state of mind these days. But after all, at whatever age we all know that end of life is approaching: we all have warning, it's just that the interval between now and then gets shorter and shorter – and the end, far less hypothetical!

I never do answer the question. Perhaps the reader will.

There’s an Earthquake Coming!

Can ten seconds’ notice really make a difference?