Pure Oxygen - Dec 20 2021`

 

Pure Oxygen

Dec 20 2021

Like the weather these days.

Mercurial.

Whipsawed

from deep freeze to thaw, overnight.

Fierce winds, shifting radically,

and the once-in-a-century rain

that came twice this year,

bracketing a drought

like a Biblical plague.

Her temperament

was equally ballistic

as hard to predict.

Yet it was just this fierceness

I found so lovable

despite all the trouble she caused;

her authentic

unfiltered

impassioned self.

The attraction, perhaps, of opposites;

a phlegmatic man

who only takes action

when considered well,

and a force of nature

who either hurricanes through life

or is a high summer day,

heat lingering on

like a warm embrace

all night long.

So if climate change

means more extreme weather

we're well used to that.

Even though she's not nearly as gradual,

and can't easily be explained

by earthly science.

Because she's more exoplanet

than terrestrial,

with a pure oxygen atmosphere

on a wobbly path

around a waning star.

A volatile gas

that will incinerate

with the slightest spark,

but you still want to breath in all the way

and feel supercharged

on fire.

Storm clouds

on the horizon

and it's close to dusk;

who knows

what more she'll get up to

after dark.

The weather today went through just such a dramatic shift. I've written a lot of weather poems – looking out the window is a great source of found poems – but I think this is a fresh take: using my observations metaphorically; making the poem more personal, less descriptive and detached. Although I'm not thinking of a particular person. This is more a synthesis, or archetype (caricature?!!)

Clearly, the mercurial weather we've had, and that is occurring all over the world, is a direct result of climate change. Which I take extremely seriously, and so hope haven't used it here in too it in too frivolous a way.

We think of oxygen as life-giving and precious. Actually, it's highly reactive and toxic! It certainly was when the only life on earth was anaerobic, and then plants discovered photosynthesis and did them in with it. This is the element that generates those free radicals that are supposed to be so damaging to living tissue. And this is why premature newborns given too much oxygen can develop blindness and permanent lung damage. And, of course a pure oxygen fire is fierce and all consuming. So not so benign, after all.

Watching Shadows Dance - Dec 19 2021

 

Watching Shadows Dance

Dec 19 2021

The beeswax candle burns clean

almost smokeless.

It seems inexhaustible,

burning long and slow

with a naturally sweet smell

that lingers, but doesn't overwhelm.

It gives off a softly honeyed glow,

which not only calms

but flatters us.

I thank the industrious bees.

Consider long summer days

and a season of flowers

captured in its light.

And remember the girl

who gave it to me.

Who must have envisioned

intimate dinners for two;

cooking together

to classic jazz and blues,

then sitting across a small table, elegantly set

enveloped in its scent.

Or lying in bed,

spooning against

her naked form,

our skin glowing

in its soft warm light,

bodies radiant

with a slight patina of sweat.

A candle, which will last all night

and through the lazy day that follows,

lost to time

with our phones off

and curtains tightly drawn.

Still burning strong

as darkness falls.

Except the candle stayed

and she didn't.

And all these years, I've been saving it.

Which may be why it feels like betrayal

to finally set it alight,

sitting awake

in the middle of the night

watching shadows dance on the wall.

A Hard Winter - Dec 18 2021

 

A Hard Winter

Dec 18 2021

Where I could see something had disturbed

the wind-swept surface

of freshly fallen snow.

Scattered feathers,

blood, flash-frozen

turning to rust.

Evidence of struggle.

Perhaps an unwary bird

in the jaws of a fox.

Whose last remains

will disappear beneath the next virgin snow,

or be taken by a strong gust of wind

tunnelling down the trail.

In a hard winter

a family of kits, temporarily fed.

And a bird

whose mate never returned.

Either that, or a solitary bird

who passed in utter anonymity,

unlamented

unmissed.

Except for my brief glance,

and the feeling of poignancy I had

to see life and death

and mortal struggle

reduced

to such a small transient blemish

in the vast expanse of snow.

In our walk tonight (“our” being mine and the dogs'), I barely processed this passing glance. But in retrospect, thought more on it. And then, when I had an hour to sit down at the computer hoping something to write would come to mind, the feeling became clearer, and seemed worthy of a poem.

Supple Bones - Dec 18 2021

 

Supple Bones

Dec 18 2021

The wishbone must be dry and brittle,

flex a little, then snap.

Because a fresh bone bends;

there is no clean break, no winner.

Is there an art to this?

Perhaps more wrist,

a subtle twist

a tighter grip?

A cynic, of course, doubts the worth of wishing

and simply declines to play.

While the devout pray,

because anything less

would be apostasy.

And for those like me

who seem to get the short end, time and again

the game feels fixed,

my desire thwarted

for another year.

Yet I feel deep in my bone,

try my best

to believe in wishes.

And patiently wait,

for the dry winter air

to desiccate its tissue,

a wish to come true.

Does it ever break clean

right down the middle?

And what would this mean?

The end of superstition

or an equal division of luck;

either everyone getting their wish,

or contingent life

left up to us?

Because wishing

doesn't make it so.

The turkey died.

And we are made

of supple bones.

This piece was inspired by today's Writers' Almanac. Nothing to do with the content of that poem — which is a darn good one — but rather just a single word that for some reason struck me. Maybe it was its whimsical quality. Not to mention its timeliness, in this holiday season of the festive bird. / B

“Neck Broken, Resourceful Cyclist Walks to Emergency Room”

                —   from a news bulletin

by Carolyne Wright

Too late the bus slammed on its brakes — the rider

thrown over her mangled handlebars, against

the bus grille’s bent metallic grimace. Her neck’s

seventh vertebra ruptured, the woman gripped her

head between her palms, and stood, and walked

to the ER, a block away — noon darkness aglow

with the accident’s split-second flash: to let go

would kick the stool out from under the noose-necked

prisoner. “But I wanted to live,” she told

reporters later. “I didn’t dare to break

that wishbone with myself.” How else to command

each cell hold its balance — inner fire cold

as knowing Her own life: could she ever again take

it so — completely — in her hands?

Carolyne Wright "Neck Broken, Resourceful Cyclist Walks to Emergency Room" from This Dream the World: New and Selected Poems. © 2017 Carolyne Wright published by Lost Horse Press.

Solstice - Dec 17 2021

 

Solstice

Dec 17 2021

Light is zero sum.

The shortest day of the year

the longest night,

winter here

summer south.

The holiday season,

where some find joy and hope,

while others descend

into lonely despair.

But I take refuge in darkness.

Like the frozen earth, dormant soil

I am inert,

at rest

in my dim underground lair

as time stills

and the quiet thickens,

my pulse slowing

blood cooling

eyes drifting shut.

The underworld of winter;

except ice, not fire

and no judgment here.

While in the Antipodes

it is high summer

under unforgiving sun,

photons

boring down

with the power of fission

the weight of light.

Light and dark, fire and ice

cancelling out.

An exquisite balance

of opposites.

So there would be nothing

without the force

that keeps these poles apart.

Yet how warm, down here

in the constant world

beneath the deepening snow;

the heat

of decomposing soil,

a dim glimmer of light

from above as well as below.

Search History - Dec 13 2021

 

Search History

Dec 13 2021

I search history

for patterns, answers

what might happen again.

Because if history doesn't repeat

at least it rhymes.

My personal search history

       —   while admittedly less interesting

    than conquest and famine

    dynasty and war,

    less beautiful

    than manuscripts and ruins

    and mythological lore   —

must have some meaning, as well.

And which, like Pompeii,

will never be truly deleted

no matter what they say.

The web has it,

and will

for as long as servers hum

and the cloud doesn't fall.

But what about what's missing?

The history that never got written

and only I know?

Which most of it is.

The little things

I remember

regret

may have tried to forget.

Ruminate on, time and again.

That seemed inconsequential, back when,

a minor omission

something unkind I said.

Written by the victors, of course.

While the losers tell stories

long into the night.

Pass on

sagas and songs,

epic poems

they've learned by heart.

I search my memory

for this hidden trove.

What no one but me

would care to know

and will over time be lost,

permanently deleted

like me, when I'm gone.

Except, perhaps, for a poem or two

I may have shared, repeated

recited just once.

That rhymed

with someone else's life,

who found it touching enough

to want to save.

In Need of Repair - Dec 12 2021

 

In Need of Repair

Dec 12 2021

If nothing changed, time would be immaterial.

An interregnum

of perfect calm.

And in this moment,

sitting receptively

looking out at snow softened ground

in the cold winter light

it does seem the world is fixed,

and that holding my breath

in this state of drift

would let it remain still;

in need of repair

and still hurtling through space

but the illusion absolute.

Except the sun is low

shadows lengthen

and my lungs are burning for air.

So the clock ticked on, after all;

the moment lost

the light almost gone.

Because cells keep dying

and being reborn.

Because life can't stop

and time is inexorable.

As Atlas

could only suffer so long

before even he almost faltered and broke;

bending beneath

the weight of the world

and letting it fall from grace.

Out Toward the Centre - Dec 11 2021

 

Out Toward the Centre

Dec 11 2021

The time the lake froze

clear as glass,

hard as obsidian

except not black.

So for one day

I could look down

and see fish swim beneath my feet,

oblivious

to the cold astringent world

with which they coexisted.

Is this how a parallel universe works?

A thin barrier

that's opaque as well as transparent

depending on your point of view?

Is this how it feels to fly;

levitating over the world,

but mostly effortless

and unconnected?

Is this what it's like

when something happens just once

in a lifetime?

Such a rare event,

not only intersecting in time and space

but being aware

of my privilege.

To catch a glimpse

before a change in the weather,

the winter sun

begins to set.

On I walked, out toward the centre,

taking a chance

on a thin patch

and the bottom dropping out,

shocked by the cold

gasping for air

and flailing for an edge that holds.

Like when a wall burst

and the aquarium flooded the floor.

Fish, landing all over,

stranded

by a gravity

they'd never felt before,

tails slapping

gills flapping

scales flashing silver.

Except the reverse.

Propelled into a world

I had only managed to watch

with fascination and fear

and a sense of bewilderment,

nose pressed to the glass

from my usual safe distance.

Too afraid to fall.

Forever looking on

instead of in.

This one once again comes with an appreciative nod to Garrison Keillor's Writers' Almanac. I've taken the liberty of including today's poem here. (See below.)

As usual, my writing usually begins with an urge to simply describe: an experience, an image, a feeling. Or to elaborate on an idea (which is usually a lot harder to distil into good poetry!) But after that, stream of consciousness takes over. And here, it's encapsulated in “nose pressed to the glass”.

This would make more sense if you knew that, if not Asperger's, I'm certainly Asperger adjacent. There is no formal diagnosis, but looking back on my life this makes the most sense, has the most explanatory power. A diagnosis, of course, doesn't change anything – certainly not the past – but it does provide a coherent explanation; validation; a sense of community/belonging (one isn't alone!); and a kind of moral exculpation, in the sense that I can to a certain extent attribute my flaws to hard-wiring rather than personal agency, free will, or moral failure. So when I heard things I've said to myself echoed by people who have been formally diagnosed, it was reassuring: things like “looking in, nose pressed to the glass”, and “an alien from another planet, dropped down on earth”.

Knowing this, you can see how the poem turned, and understand how it led to the ending, with its connotation of alienation, exclusion, and longing.

Anyway, here's Garrison Keillor's excellent selection. The more I reread, the more I love it.

Upon Discovering My Entire Solution to the Attainment of Immortality Erased from the Blackboard Except the Word 'Save'

by Dobby Gibson

If you have seen the snow

somewhere slowly fall

on a bicycle,

then you understand

all beauty will be lost

and that even the loss

can be beautiful.

And if you have looked

at a winter garden

and seen not a winter garden

but a meditation on shape,

then you know why

this season is not

known for its words,

the cold too much

about the slowing of matter,

not enough about the making of it.

So you are blessed

to forget this way:

a jump rope in the ice melt,

a mitten that has lost its hand,

a sun that shines

as if it doesn't mean it.

And if in another season

you see a beautiful woman

use her bare hands

to smooth wrinkles

from her expensive dress

for the sake of dignity,

but in so doing trace

the outlines of her thighs,

then you will remember

surprise assumes a space

that has first been forgotten,

especially here, where we

rarely speak of it,

where we walk out onto the roofs

of frozen lakes

simply because we're stunned

we really can.

Dobby Gibson, “Upon Discovering My Entire Solution to the Attainment of Immortality Erased from the Blackboard Except the Word ‘Save’” from Polar. Copyright © 2005 by Dobby Gibson. Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Alice James Books

Root Vegetable - Dec 9 2021

 

Root Vegetable

Dec 9 2021

I stopped by the loaded bin.

Even though

potatoes weren't on the list

and I was in my usual rush.

But there was something compelling

about this basic root vegetable

compared to all the brightly coloured produce

and mouth-watering fruit

competing for attention.

Or set against the stacks

of processed packaged food

designed to catch the eye;

the needless abundance

that crowds the shelves

in uniform lines

up and down every aisle.

While a potato

is easily overlooked,

irregularly shaped

in its plain brown skin

with a trace of native soil

still clinging to its surface.

No two alike

all of different sizes.

And unapologetically flawed,

with darkened scars

and sprouting eyes

and random bumps and knobs.

Yet I felt oddly comforted

looking in to this dusty bin

of organic russets

sold in bulk.

I picked one up

and felt the pleasant roughness

of its unscrubbed skin.

Hefting it into the air

I noticed how solid it was,

a thing of substance

in and of itself.

Then held it to my nose

and breathed in its smell,

a subtle hint of iron

mixed with raw loamy earth.

So perhaps it's not surprising

that something so rooted and substantial

would leave me feeling grounded

and good.

And no need

for “new and improved”

when nature

has already made them perfect.

Potatoes, straight from the earth,

then into the oven just as they are;

comfort food

baked   . . .buttered  . . .served.

A homely tuber,

yet somehow beautiful

in its unassuming plainness.

Plain cooking, nothing fancy,

no airs, or aspirations

no conceit of greatness.

Who doesn't feel like a potato, most days?

Or hunger for one as well?

One Can Only Hope - Dec 7 2021

 

One Can Only Hope

Dec 7 2021

I hope it can be fixed.

Because I struggle with change

in general.

Because the old stuff was better,

built to last

not obsolescence.

And because it was simpler, as well;

a few basic knobs,

all analogue, no electronics.

But mostly because

there is too much waste in the world;

used once, then tossed away.

The white enamel finish

still shines

and barely has a scratch.

I could only have hoped

to have lasted so long

yet kept my looks.

A load of laundry, of course

is hardly rocket science.

A dutiful wash, rinse, spin,

clicking through its cycle

reliably every time;

then sitting quiet

in its basement corner

until the next wash day.

I can only hope

to be so unassuming,

as competent

in such a modest way.

I am also analogue

and not aging too badly.

At least I try to keep up

the regular basic maintenance,

although admittedly

some broken parts

have needed replacement.

I came, however, with no manufacturer's warranty.

And the older I get

the more unfortunate noises

I seem to emit.

Which can be somewhat embarrassing,

and I can only hope

will be politely ignored.

It would be impolitic

to comment on the newer models

by way of comparison,

the latest stuff

that now comes

in every style imaginable.

Yes, youth is enviable,

but I suspect not as robust

and somewhat prone to breakage,

hardly as content with waiting

as quietly and patiently

without needing to be noticed.

It's now in pieces on the floor

in need of a part.

Good as new, they promise, placing the order.

And how inspiring to hear

that after all these years

a fresh start

is even possible.

One can only hope

I say to myself

as I show him the door.

Puppy Eyes - Dec 6 2021

 

Puppy Eyes

Dec 6 2021

The dogs are exhausting themselves.

Porpoising through the snow.

Rolling onto their backs

and gyrating manically,

legs thrashing

as if bathing in the stuff.

They dart off the trail

then circle through the trees,

noses like a tractor beam

attracted to who knows what

disgusting smell.

No thoughts

of frost-bite, trauma, getting lost.

No concern

they might be too tired

for the journey home.

They live in the moment.

They trust.

They are inexhaustible.

I admire their toughness

and am bewildered by it,

waltzing out in winter coats

paws exposed

and wet noses quivering,

utterly indifferent

to the worst of winter.

While I'm all bundled up,

muffled in a puffy coat, stuffed into layers,

stiff

in big clumsy boots

and mitts like boxing gloves,

my toque pulled down snugly

then tugged even tighter.

I galumph down the road

through knee-high snow,

facing into a wind

that cuts to the bone,

an eyelash freezing shut

nose running ugly.

Even my teeth hurt.

While they are undaunted,

tearing through the drifts

oblivious to weather.

And then will sleep the sleep of innocents

when we're warm and dry inside.

Where they will dream,

all wind-milling legs

twitching eyes

strangled yelps.

Of the dead deer

they found last year,

still warm

where it staggered and fell?

Of the winter wonderland

waiting outside our door?

Or of another dinner,

as I'm sure they dream nightly?

Which it seems is all they live for,

hoovering up their food

like the condemned's last meal;

as always

the old girl making puppy eyes

imploring me for more.