Intentionality - Feb 15 2022

 

Intentionality

Feb 15 2022

A bowling ball

rumbling down an alley

on a polished hardwood floor.

The bright click

when billiard balls connect,

or unerringly roll

over the smooth felt surface.

A sprinkler, circling,

its phhht phhht phhht

breaking the calm

of a hot summer night.

Where street lights

buzz with electricity,

and the lawn is a jewel

of verdant green

in an encroaching sea of darkness.

The rustling paper

of autumn leaves

stirring in the breeze,

their brittle crackling underfoot.

The crunch of shoes on gravel,

the squeaky creak

of winter boots

through cold dry snow.

Distilled

from the cacophony that surrounds us

we delight in these small familiar sounds.

So everyday

they take intention to notice.

And so evocative

a mere mention

can stir deep emotion

resurrect the past.

And absolute silence

on a still winter night,

stopping here

so deep in the woods

far from any road.

Where all I hear

is my beating heart

and the rush of blood in my ears.

It's too cold

to stop for long

so I resume my midnight walk,

at a steady pace

down the narrow path

of loosely packed snow.

With my body on automatic

I recede into my head.

And in the darkness

with little to see

and less to distract me

my ears are free to hear.

The rasp of breath,

condensing into clouds

in the dense arctic air.

The sound of hard granular snow

compressing beneath my weight

with each deliberate step.

Is it fair to say that this notion of intentionality captures the sensibility of a poet? The idea of paying attention; of reduction, distillation, compression; of encountering sensation fully and freshly; and of regressing to the lost sense of wonder that comes so naturally to a child.

So this is a poem of microcosm and close observation. A poem with no narrative, no character, no theme or moral. Just a poem about being in the moment and closely attending.

And it centres on hearing, as well. Which, even though we are primarily visual creatures, is the primordial sense. Because it works in the dark. It works at a distance. It is our first line of alarm. And it is the medium of talk. When language, after all, is what made us.