Perfect Ice - Jan 26 2022

 

Perfect Ice

Jan 26 2022

The lake froze smooth and black and hard.

The skater's long rhythmic stride

cut the ice

with a firm crisp schuup ...schuup ...schuup.

With a steady wind at his back

it felt almost effortless.

As if swept away.

As if his legs

had become disembodied

and he'd just gone along for the ride.

His breath turned to frost,

each exhalation

leaving a small suspended cloud

that seemed to last unnaturally long,

as if the frigid air was too dense

to take it up.

A festive scarf trailed behind,

bright red

against the deep white snow

that covered the shore.

The sun was snow-blind bright.

Cold air

burned his throat.

And his speed was such

that exposed skin

would take mere seconds to freeze.

But this is the allure

of perfect ice.

And the lake to himself,

when extreme cold

had kept the rest of them home,

hunkered down

and huddling around a fire.

Such simple pleasures

   —   speed, freedom, focus,

the cleansing cold.

That sweet hypnotic rhythm,

when time disappears

and the chattering brain

quiets itself.

Exhilarated, he made it to the far shore.

Then turned to face the wind,

and leaning in

churned hard,

short choppy strides

all the way back.

The price of freedom, I suppose.

But hardly zero sum.

And sometimes even priceless;

like a sunny day

on perfect ice.

There was a photo essay in the Atlantic today: scenes of winter. I saw cute little kids speed skating in Beijing, and a horse drawn sleigh in the middle of a lake of perfect ice in Turkey. I thought about those rare times I've had perfect ice. All this imagery must have combined with whatever alchemy creates a poem, and this is the result.

I also thought about that feeling of flow. That feeling of intense focus, when you lose track of time and feel disembodied. It happens with exercise. It happens making love. It happens during a creative act. I recall sitting to write with a space heater under the table, and when I recovered from my creative trance I had a 2nd degree burn on one leg. I was surprised to hear that some people are unfamiliar with this highly desirable state. Because it isn't rare for me: I get it almost every day, each time I sit down to write. Which may be one reason why I'm so prolific: it's great feeling; almost as addictive as drugs!

An Atheist Contemplates Scripture - Jan 25 2022

 

An Atheist Contemplates Scripture

Jan 25 2022

When God tested Abraham

   —   commanding him

to sacrifice his son   —

was it proof of love He sought?

Or a trial of trust,

a rite of obedience

unwavering faith?

Or was it more like bullying,

how the schoolyard braggart

needs a show of fear

to feel in charge?

As the insecure

who feel unworthy of love

must be repeatedly reassured.

Or as the powerful

are feared and followed

deserving or not.

Or perhaps to demonstrate

His magnanimity,

a merciful God, who dispenses compassion,

wresting the knife

from the executioner's hand.

Whatever it is, this is no god for me;

either too much human weakness and passion,

or a neediness

unbecoming of gods.

A Heavenly Father

made in the image of Man,

when He should be ineffable

not of this world.

Especially since the universe I inhabit

is indifferent and random;

more clockwork, than worship,

more physical law

than gods or virtue.

A place where idols don't rule

contingency does.

And where Man is not the purpose;

faith may place us at the centre

but is this not the sin of pride?

Because just as the sun

does not circle the earth,

I am no apple

in the eye of God;

I am insignificant,

and there will be no deliverance

no mercy dispensed.

I'm glad Abraham relinquished the knife

and spared his son.

But how sad

that human sacrifice is still with us;

the millions lost to war, genocide

the demonized “other”.

To man-made disasters

concocted famines

the cult of personality.

And if not on the pyre Abraham built

then on the altar of ideology.

So either godless, or an absent God.

Who doesn't deserve

to be feared or obeyed.

Who isn't worthy of love.

I was reading a piece about the response to the SARS-CoV-2 pandemic that explored the difficult balancing act between the costs of prevention – social distancing, vaccination, masking, and most important in terms of economic cost, lock-downs – with the human cost in debility and death. The article was framed using this metaphor of human sacrifice in general, and incidentally referenced the Bible story of Abraham and Isaac.

I'm loath to write political poems, avoid philosophical ones, and have already alluded more than enough to my own atheism and lack of faith. But this story immediately triggered a thought I've often had: how the frequently wrathful, mercurial, and patriarchal father figure that is the Old Testament God is so much a projection of us, our needs, and our family and communal experience. In particular, His abiding insecurity: this constant need to be reaffirmed and reassured that His flock obeys, fears, loves, and has absolute faith in Him. Really, how unbecoming for such an omnipotent and omniscient being!

Returning to the Soil - Jan 23 2022

 

Returning to the Soil

Jan 23 2022

The twister touched down

where no one noticed

in a forest of swamp and bush.

Dead bodies,

animals caught in the wind,

sound that went unheard.

And trees, torn from the ground,

strewn like fallen columns

when the temple was sacked.

Tornadoes rarely happen here;

or at least the ones that count.

So we feel exempt

from the wrath of nature

in our prosperous peaceful land.

But when we stumbled upon this scene

walking in the woods

we felt less sure;

the destructive power of wind

its utter randomness.

Yes, today passed uneventfully.

But somewhere on the planet

the sky fell

the water rose

the drumbeat of war grew loud.

There is always calamity

if you open the aperture wide enough.

That meteor in Siberia, the volcano in Greece.

The continental plate

floating under our feet

on a roiling magma sea.

When even solid ground

can't be counted on.

So I go about my business,

resigned and fatalistic

and sometimes in denial,

accepting what I can't control

and managing what I'm able.

Yet when we returned, 5 years later,

we were surprised to see the ground had greened

birds sang

the air was soft and fragrant.

New shoots had sprung

from living roots

and were reaching for the sun.

And the fallen trees

— where flowers bloomed

and fungi thrived

and verdant moss grew lushly —

were almost beautiful

as they crumbled and softened

and slumped into the ground.

Returning to the soil;

because nature wastes nothing

even when she destroys.

Fire and Earth - Jan 22 2022

 

Fire and Earth

Jan 22 2022

I don't know the difference

between stoneware, porcelain, pottery.

This I leave to the artisans,

with their hands in clay

and heads bent over the wheel.

Anyway, my preferred word is earthenware.

Its muted colours

organic shapes.

Its reassuring weight

and thick substantial handle.

Its roughly textured surface,

as compelling to the eye

as it is to the touch.

I cup it firmly

in two steady hands,

run my fingers

over its hard impervious glaze.

But never glossy

only eggshell and matte.

Hand thrown, and one-of-a-kind.

I cradle the mug

of hot black coffee

in two cold hands.

It grounds me

imparts a feeling of calm.

I bring it close to my face,

inhaling the earthy scent

of dark chocolate

bright citrus

roasted nuts.

The provenance

of found materials

dug from the ground.

Human ingenuity,

and the ancient art

of fire and earth.

And perfectly suited to its use;

nothing more, nothing less.

An everyday object

with the permanence of clay

and the timeless beauty

of something simple, and unadorned.

An empty vessel,

unembellished

and true to itself.

There was a feature on contemporary Canadian design in this weekend's Globe. One category was housewares, and the pictures I've reproduced here really caught my eye. This is the work of Dawn Middleton, whose studio is located in Picton On, and called The YE11OW Studio.

I love the rich but subdued finish of these objects. And I dislike ornamentation and embellishment. Rather I like simple design with clean uncluttered lines. There is also something about clay that appeals: its earthiness, as well its long and enduring history in human civilization.

The Morning Sun People - Jan 21 2022

 

The Morning Sun People

Jan 21 2022

The two tribes

who occupy this building.

The morning sun people

on the east side,

who forget to lower the blinds

and are awakened early,

blinking in the unforgiving light

that streams in horizontally

through floor-to-ceiling glass.

And those facing west.

Who have leisurely mornings

over steaming coffee

and fresh croissants.

And then, at day's end

gather on their balconies with drinks in hand,

taking in the setting sun

as it drops into the harbour

in a brilliant reddish glow.

So pick your side,

be one with your people

and all you have in common.

Who, like you, may have very well forgotten

that there is more to the sun than they see.

And that there are people

who live across the hall

living vastly different lives

in diametric light;

who'd be shocked at the darkness

in your benighted apartments.

But we never cross the hall

can't imagine knocking.

Don't even stop and talk;

just nod politely

encountering each other

on uncontested ground

in artificial light,

in the lobby, perhaps

or checking our boxes for mail. 

Who knew

that every day

the world was reborn

in glorious sunlit mornings.

Or on lovely evenings ended

in orange, pink, and rose

crimson, fire, gold.

I suspect my descriptions favoured the sunset tribe. Because the last thing I am is a morning person: I know which side of the building I'd want to be on! Since I've always lived in a house, though, I get 360 degrees of exposure. No closed door and blank windowless wall along one entire side, cutting me off and hemming me in.

Horse Barn - Jan 20 2022

 

Horse Barn

Jan 20 2022

On a January day

the barn was warm and cozy.

It smelled of hay, manure, horse.

So sweetness, and something earthy,

along with that fleshy animal essence

we share with all living things

that breathe the same air

and pulse with blood.

The sound of heavy breathing,

and steam, hovering briefly

with each exhale.

A soft whinny

the clomping of hooves,

the dull thwack

of a tail against a stall.

Their handsome heads were lowered

into loose bales of hay.

They had that middle distance look

of simple contentment,

massive yellow molars

grinding back and forth

at a steady measured pace.

I'm a city boy.

I do not ride

and I'm wary of horses.

But in the barn, I felt at home.

There is something calming

about these big working animals

and this peaceful refuge.

Beasts of burden

but somehow noble.

Skittish

and creatures of flight,

but also formidable

in strength and size.

Flat-footed, in such an enclosed space,

yet in motion

so full of grace.

A carrot, to tempt her,

and she offers her head over the gate,

taking it ever so gently

between strong prehensile lips,

her dexterous touch

as sensitive as a human hand.

For a second, our eyes connect,

and as I gaze into hers

I notice how soft and brown and liquid they are,

am surprised

by the extravagant lashes

that curve from her lids.

How unexpectedly girlish they seem.

Yet how perfect, I think,

as she bats her eyes

and lowers her head

and calmly returns to her feed.

I was listening to an interview with Benedict Cumberbatch about his role in his recent film The Power of the Dog. Images of a hyper-masculine cowboy in Montana and what he went through to prepare for the part put me in mind of horses: the appeal of these great equine creatures. A charisma I think I understand, notwithstanding my own wariness around them. And not that I have much experience. Actually, so little, that this portrait is mostly an act of imagination. ...So I hope I got it right!

If there is any point to this poem, it's the commonality between the lives of animals and men. Domesticated and warm-blooded, of course; but also all living things that breathe the same air. Because — just as we do with our fellow humans — our unfortunate tendency is to focus more on difference than similarity.

I've used the verb exhale as a noun. “Exhalation” seemed a little clunky in that short line. I checked, and this is not strictly correct. But I suspect spoken language is evolving in that direction, and written will follow. The verbing of nouns is more common (to wit, “verbing”!) But there's no reason it can't go the other way.

Cold Water Swimmers - Jan 19 2022

 

Cold Water Swimmers

Jan 19 2022

The cold water swimmers

stood in the cool clear air

in late October sun,

doing jumping jacks

and running on the spot,

warming up

on the black slippery rocks.

Slim young bodies

and zaftig ones.

Women of a certain age

who are proud of their strength

and vow to be last one out,

as well as greying men

in vintage Speedos

which show too much.

Who have lived hard

and have the scars to attest,

but are still vain

in the way the weaker sex

never seems to outgrow.

They are evangelists

for cold water immersion.

Energy, they enthuse, clarity of mind,

a test of stamina.

And toughness

  —  the camaraderie of suffering

and having overcome.

If not purification by fire

then cleansing of another kind,

a baptism

in mental grit.

A reckless-no-return plunge,

throat constricting

lungs gasping

heart racing madly.

But the mind has been steeled

and the body quickly adjusts,

so when the rush of endorphins comes

the feeling is almost ecstatic.

And afterwards

wrapped in towels and talking excitedly

they are giddy with vitality.

A simple bargain

with the gods of water and ice

   —   comfort sacrificed

for a promised afterlife.

While I look on from shore, warm and dry,

somehow envious

but too timid to join.

Next year, I promise myself

like some kind of rote incantation

or prayer for intercession,

next for sure.

But it's always next, and next again

and never taking the plunge.

Never reckless enough to risk

or brave enough to live

the big life

I won't get to do over.

Because they say when you die

it's not what you did you'll regret,

it's what you didn't do

or even try.

Precious Salt - Jan 18 2022

 

Precious Salt

Jan 18 2022

The highway was closed.

The pavement had vanished

beneath a seamless blanket of snow,

no telling

where the roadway ended and fields began.

As if man

had disappeared from earth,

our meddling presence

hardly registering

in the planet's long memory

of geological time.

Miles south, idling cars

filled the truck-stop parking lot,

their blue exhaust

fouling the air.

The bright fluorescent lights

through the steamed-up glass

obscured as much as they revealed,

shrinking the world

to this small paved island

in a vast wilderness of white;

leaving us blind to the dark

beyond its perimeter.

A newly muted world

muffled by snow,

sheltering

under cover of night.

Lit only by stars,

their ancient light

at the end of a journey of billions of miles

casting a soft alien glow.

Where a gaunt deer ventured out

onto the buried road

and pawed the blacktop clear.

Then lowered her head

and began licking it clean,

greedily after

the white-stained patches

of precious salt.

No traffic

to force her off.

No sound,

except her thick powerful tongue

rasping back and forth.

Black Box - Jan 17 2022

 

Black Box

Jan 17 2022

Waiting for my teeth to be drilled

I reach in

among the well-thumbed magazines

and tattered back issues

scattered on the table top.

And remembered the one

they handed out at school,

its chatty articles and lame jokes

harmless time-wasters.

There was always a brain-teaser

where you had to find the hidden objects.

You would stare at the picture

look to one side,

go cross-eyed

or soften your focus,

and the image would suddenly emerge,

the mind’s eye

resolving the thing

if left to itself.

The key was not to try too hard;

to look away

and let the mind wander.

Like when you walk,

lost in thought

undirected.

Or play

and free the mind from rules.

Even boredom has its uses,

the human brain

feverishly seeking

to fill unoccupied space.

It feels like revelation

when a vision comes stunningly clear

and you wonder how you missed it.

A memory emerges

dredged from some deep mental recess,

the word on the tip of your tongue

trips seamlessly off;

like crystals

appearing out of vapour

on a frozen windowpane.

Our own minds

are inscrutable even to us;

black boxes

revealing the world

according to their own internal logic.

At least the version of the world

we have no choice but accept.

Things hide in plain sight.

And the workings of the mind

are ineffable,

despite our conceit

we are in charge.

My tooth hurts like hell,

until the needle prick

and the flood of numbing liquid

makes it disappear.

I sink back in the chair,

neck tense

hands tightly clenched,

head filled

with the high-pitched whine of the drill.

My brain, in the dark.

My jaw no longer there.

Futility - Jan 16 2022

 

Futility

Jan 16 2022

Pushing on a rope.

Nailing jelly to the wall.

The parachute

you started knitting

halfway to the ground.

If this is how futility feels

I know it well.

Futility

as cause, consequence

emotion.

But I am dogged, stoic

and carry on regardless.

Because this is the human dilemma  —

surely, things will get better . . .

     . . . and what choice do I have?

Meanwhile

it's nose to the grindstone, shoulder to the wheel.

Two more cliches

with a kernel of truth.

So I pull instead of push

and feel something move.