Cummerbund - March 30 2022

 

Cummerbund

March 30 2022

I've never worn a tuxedo.

My lifestyle, it seems

is not suited to formal wear

black tie events

debutante balls.

I am not destined, it's becoming clear

for a Nobel or Oscar,

and even a lifetime achievement award

is beyond hope.

I'm more sweat pants and T-shirts

and comfortable sneakers.

So for the big event

I rented one.

Which felt like wearing the bowling shoes

the attendant passed over the counter

laced with disinfectant;

used shoes

but good as new

he amiably reassured me.

It came with cuff links

stud buttons 

cummerbund,

complex paraphernalia

that made me consider the mysteries

of women's lingerie.

Is this what “accessorize” means?

Stiff leather shoes

completed the ensemble.

Unfortunately, they had slippery soles

an embarrassing squeak

hurt my feet.

Basic black

with a trim cut

and traditional tails.

I ignored

the  whiff of mothballs and sweat,

learned to sit carefully

made sure not to spill.

But the clothes make the man,

and it's remarkable

how a person can be transformed

from the outside in.

And after my formal night out

was finally over

the suit was returned

promptly next morning.

My Cinderella moment;

and how surprised I was

to have actually enjoyed it.

Inspired by this piece from the New Yorker's Calvin Trillin.

https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2022/03/28/getting-accustomed-to-my-second-tuxedo

Words of Comfort - March 30 2022

 

Words of Comfort

March 30 2022

She is at rest

no longer with us

passed away.

Went to the great beyond

gone to her just reward.

Has left this vale of tears

and is now at God's side.

I'm not sure

who is truly comforted

when it's put like this.

Nevertheless, we refuse to say dead, died

expired,

will not hear of it.

She was 99, when she left us,

a ripe age, a full life.

Her time had come.

But we are partial to round numbers

and isn't 100

a more fitting end?

A final milestone

a centenarian;

the club we all want to be asked

to join.

So, to celebrate or mourn?

A long life, well-lived,

and she was ready for it —

left on her own terms

when it was time,

shed her mortal coil

crossed to the other side.

Loved one, dear departed

the funeral director called her;

but why not lived well

has died

is dead?

There is no hiding from death;

the grim reaper, in the end

comes for us all.

As I was turning the page to the sports section, an obituary caught my eye. No one I know. But she died at 99, and I thought about the stories of people who hang on: to defy death for a few more days until a close relative arrives from out of town, or a significant holiday gets celebrated. And wondered, was there anything in it for her to hang in and make 100? Could her final act have been a kind of disappointment because she just missed that singular age?

I avoid writing poems about death. Too morbid. Perhaps, in a way, too easy. So when I finally gave myself permission, language and euphemism gave me the perfect opening to take on this prohibition: to challenge the sensitivities around and avoidance of a subject we all think about, but rarely discuss in a frank and open way.

Looking Out Over Lake Superior - March 29 2022

 

Looking Out Over Lake Superior

March 29 2022

My view of the lake

is through a narrow space

between two houses across the street.

A tempting glimpse

of the flat hazy line

of a distant horizon,

and rising above it

a high limitless sky.

Of blue water

sparkling with sun.

Where, from this distance

frothy white breakers

materialize out of nowhere

then as quickly disappear.

I watch them coast toward shore,

randomly dotting the surface

as if painted on

with an artist's whimsical eye.

Small sailboats

ride a stiff west wind.

A rusty red freighter

steams left to right.

Gulls, screeching belligerently

wheel and dive.

The lake is immense,

extending as far as I can see

out past the horizon

and over the curve of the earth.

As if the water drops off its edge

into some terra incognita,

where the maps have yet to be filled

except for “here be dragons”,

and fierce mythological creatures

rise from the sea.

Or might as well

because it's all alien to me.

The big cities

where it's hurry-hurry-hurry

and everyone keeps to themselves.

The factories

shrouded in a heavy grey pall;

the acrid smoke of burning coal,

the sulphurous flinch

of sour gas's smell.

The exotic foreign lands

where the tropical sun is sweltering

and I can’t understand a word.

The great lake,

both an opening to the world

and an impassable moat.

Oh so beautiful,

but moody, and lethally cold;

it seems to invite me to brave

its foreboding calms

and sudden storms.

But makes it easy to stay, as well,

here, in the peaceable kingdom

safe on shore.

As the world outside falls prey

to its dragons and krakens and snakes;

the monsters

real and imagined

that lurk out past the horizon

where the great lake ends.

Motion Itself - March 28 2022

 

Motion Itself

March 28 2022

An unseasonably cold March

but the squirrels can't wait.

After their long winter rest

they have all-at-once emerged

from the trees and burrows

that conceal their clever nests.

Where they've been curled up together

conserving body heat,

steadily depleting

their precious cache of seeds

reserves of fat.

But in surprisingly good condition

after a long hard winter,

and I can only admire

the endurance and skill

of this small flighty animal.

The snow has formed a hard crust,

and I watch

as they flit over the top,

turning sharply

and abruptly stopping and starting

with a hunted creature's

evasive lightness.

Observing these frisky survivors

on such a dazzling day

of blue skies and blinding snow

is an unexpected delight.

It's as if they're seeing the world

for the first time;

as if newly born

and perpetually young.

Perhaps because there are no old squirrels

     . . . but that's another poem

for another day.

They epitomize spring,

soaking up sun,

stretching muscles

that have been dormant for months,

giddy with nimble speed.

And so sure of themselves,

as if untouchable

on that slick smooth surface

they're too light to break.

So like school kids

bursting out for recess

they swarm this playground of snow,

dashing to and fro

for no apparent purpose

other than motion itself.

The Wind in Your Face - March 27 2022

 

The Wind in Your Face

March 27 2022

On a day when the wind

is whistling through the cracks.

When you can lean into it

with all your weight

and not fall on your face.

When the unremitting din

sounds almost threatening,

I think of astronauts

who come back to earth

and report what they missed.

The long hot showers.

Fresh food, familiar beds.

Loved ones

and family pets.

But also a pleasant breeze.

The wind in their face

and tousling their hair.

The fragrant air

of a soft summer day.

Who knew

you had to travel to space,

spend too many weeks

in a cramped metal container

to appreciate such basic things.

Even a fierce wind like this

reminds me of earth's simple pleasures.

A near gale,

toppling trees

stinging eyes

and tearing at the power lines;

so the sagging black wires

play crack the whip, 

the lights flickering

the atmosphere charged.

The thin air

in which we swim,

hardly aware

of its substance and power.

And how wild weather

arouses something in me.

I step outside

into its teeth,

ignore its chilly bite

revel in the thrill.

Breathe deep,

inhaling the pungent smell of wood-smoke

the earthy pong of spring.

I stepped outside this morning, and was immediately struck to see that for the third consecutive day a high pressure wind was still blasting in from the northwest. Inside, the night before, I could hear it whistling on and off. As always, I had been worried about the towering white pine just upwind of the house. And, as it usually does in a big wind, the factoid about the astronauts came to mind.

So yes, another weather poem. But I hope with enough twists to make it worthwhile.

Spring Thaw - March 26 2022

 

Spring Thaw

March 26 2022

When the rain comes,

falling on impervious snow and frozen ground,

it will pool in cold clear puddles,

run-off

in rivulets

that coalesce

into creeks and streams and flood,

refreeze

on subzero nights

and lock the world in ice;

like a dormant creature

over-wintering,

heart arrested and breathing stilled.

Until, when morning dawns

it will come slowly back to life,

mist rising

into dry still air,

beads of water

collecting sun;

jewel-like

in the freshly rinsed light.

Saturated ground, softening,

and the sound

louder and louder;

creeks gurgling,

streams gushing,

and in the distance, rivers thundering

as the run-off rushes

downstream.

Ways of Being Blind - March 26 2022

 

Ways of Being Blind

March 26 2022

From birth.

To me, this is unimaginable.

To slip

from a warm dark womb

into a cold abrasive world

that is just as dimensionless

and as unremittingly dark.

To only know your mother

by the power of scent

the sound of her voice.

To never gaze

on your lover's face,

able only to explore

by the touch of your hand

a tentative tongue.

To cultivate the 6th sense

that tells you who and where and what,

the ineffable presence

of a body in space.

To hear the colours named

and have no idea.

To never see yourself.

No matter how long

you stand in front of the mirror,

how hard

you look.

Or would it be worse

to be in possession of sight

just to see it go?

Until only a pinhole is left,

a black hole

collapsing in on itself.

Or to look straight ahead

and see nothing at all,

so time and again

you must turn your head

to catch just a glimpse

as the periphery shrinks

and the edge recedes.

Incrementally

and ineluctably

disappearing,

so all you can do

is savour the light

and hold the memories dear,

trying hard

not to let them die.

Or, as most of us are

wilfully blind;

seeing what we want to see

and ignoring the rest.

Or having the gift of sight

but failing to attend.

To the beauty of the world.

To things too big to grasp

without stepping back

and opening your eyes.

To the small things

you tend to hurry past

too fast, or distracted

to notice.

My apologies if this poem seems to focus too much on the “dis” part of disabled. I hope the last part somewhat redeems it. Because none of us are whole! And perhaps it's when those lacunes are our own fault and not due to fate or the accident of birth that the true moral stigma should fall.

Actually, I find it useful to remove the stigma of disability by thinking of myself as “temporarily abled”. As we all are. If nothing else, age does that. So, in a sense, the default becomes the state of loss; and our current state of ability becomes not only the exception, but far less taken for granted.

No Weather to Speak Of - March 25 2022

 

No Weather to Speak Of

March 25 2022

Before weather reports

people woke up in the morning

not knowing what to expect.

The natural world was God's work, after all,

ours

acceptance

reverence

gratitude.

Not to mention

that prediction was sorcery

the devil at play.

I don't believe in heaven or hell,

but nevertheless

I mute the weatherman,

skip the page

where the forecast is printed,

have turned off all alerts.

And instead

greet the new day

looking up at the sky

with anticipation and delight,

fatalistic

about whatever comes,

open to a sudden shift

change in plan.

The one area of my life

I free myself

from all illusion,

relinquishing control,

accepting my smallness,

submitting

to how utterly powerless I am.

To acts of God

and chaos theory.

A volcano

on the far side of the planet

spewing ash,

a butterfly

flapping its wings.

Today

dull, cool, calm.

No weather to speak of.

Tomorrow, who knows?

Thunder, gale, snow

an arctic cold snap.

Surprised, each day

watching the sky change;

a finger in the wind

galoshes by the door

umbrella in its stand.

I wasn't sure how to end this poem. But as soon as galoshes came to mind, I knew it was time. What a delightful word! In and of itself, makes the long way there worth it.

Please don't take this poem as autobiographical. I check the weather report pretty much every day. I am not good at spontaneity or changing plans. I still frustrate myself seeking to control things (although I'm not hubristic enough to think I can the weather!), notwithstanding my acknowledgement that I am powerless and insignificant. And I never use and don't own an umbrella! No galoshes, either, I sheepishly admit.

Making Fun - March 24 2022

 

Making Fun

March 24 2022

The schoolyard was tired grass

with patches of bare brown earth.

Asphalt, that may have been once

flat and black and smooth

but now is broken, cracked, faded.

Where stagnant puddles remained

after dark rainy days,

while it was too hot to touch

on warm sunny ones.

The swing set was rusted

monkey bars unsafe.

A chain link fence

leaned badly,

ragged holes in the mesh

exposed sharp galvanized wire.

But this is where we played.

Where we invented games

chased girls

made fun.

Like poor kids everywhere

we didn't know any better.

And our world was small,

contained in this second rate playground

a stuffy schoolroom

a cramped house,

the daily route

to and from school.

I recently returned.

How small it looks

30 years later.

But how little else has changed.

The grass is still ratty.

It still needs repaving.

And kids

in bright winter jackets

still play,

whooping and hollering

and chanting skipping songs.

30 years on,

when it would be nice

not to know any better.

To chase after girls

hoping not to catch them.

Make fun

by simply imagining.

Be happy

just being outside.

To live in the moment

and be satisfied.

Snow Day - March 22 2022

 

Snow Day

March 22 2022

Businesses are shuttered

the library closed its doors.

Events are postponed

school has been cancelled

and even main roads are impassable.

Any city buses

that aren't either stranded or stalled

have been called back to the barn.

But the quiet is glorious.

The snow, piled high, is powder,

absorbing sound

and softening the world.

I am marooned inside,

at home

hunkered down

the time all my own.

It's as if a snow day

absolves us of sin,

because an act of God

is beyond our control.

There is no guilt or shame

for sloth and gluttony,

and even envy gets forgiven

if you find yourself longing

for warm sand beaches

and tropical sun.

Tomorrow

a big yellow plough

will pass in front

and the spell will break;

its soot-streaked stack

belching smoke,

its curved steel blade

clattering loudly,

its pounding motor

revving and roaring

as it thunders by.

The massive diesel

powering through the fresh white snow

like an ice-breaker through the harbour,

leaving a lane of black open water

roiling in its wake.

But for now, it's uncannily quiet.

The city that never sleeps

is at rest.

Even the barking dogs

and honking cars

and shunting trains

mustering down at the freight-yard

have stilled.

Except for some hardy souls

out for a walk

on the street out front,

their footsteps muffled

by the soft carpet of snow.

They laugh and talk quietly,

as if making too much noise

would be disrespectful,

violating the peace

on this extra day

of rest and absolution.

4 Cent Stamp - March 22 2022

 

4 Cent Stamp

March 22 2022

My mother saves things.

While I'm a minimalist.

I'm not sentimental

and dislike clutter,

so throwing stuff out

is my default.

But when she was compelled to downsize

I found myself bequeathed the many treasures

that all these years

had been gathering dust.

Among them is a postcard

from summer camp,

hand written

in laboured cursive,

a young queen

on its 4 cent stamp.

Why it was saved

I don't know —

whatever I wrote

was not worth remembering.

In fact, I suspect we were instructed to send them,

reassuring worried parents

surprising some.

A postcard

from so long ago

from my younger self.

Now, my life is more like a letter,

an ongoing story

where the past is present

and there's a narrative core.

Which leads me to wonder

if I'd be better off

living my life in postcards;

small self-contained moments

enjoyed for what they are.

No story.

No set path.

No worrying about the future,

no rumination or brooding

on what had gone before.

Just a still photograph

and a breezy note

and a promise to write more.

All of me

invested fully

in this exact time and place;

the exquisite present

where the smallest thing

is worth recording for posterity

and sharing with someone close.

Wish you were here, I'd say

and mean every word.

Undertow - March 21 2022

 

Undertow

March 21 2022

I could see it in his eyes,

a pleading look

of wordless desperation

as if calling out rescue me,

I'm underwater

and quickly drifting deeper.

The merciful thing

Is that most of the time

he seemed happy enough,

as is he'd forgotten what he'd lost

and who he once was.

Except for these brief flashes of insight

when he caught me by surprise.

As if the essential self

stripped of all pretence

and the usual defences 

of a proud stoical man

had somehow persisted

behind that impervious skull

and blank bewildered face.

Is this how a drowning man looks,

breaking the surface

and gasping for air

before slipping under again?

Knowing, when nothing can be done

doesn't do us any good.

Ignorance is bliss

when the mind betrays you,

while all self-awareness does

is make the suffering worse.

Mine, as well,

standing on shore

looking helplessly on,

unable to swim

in water like this;

an unfamiliar ocean

that can shift in a moment

from placid to storm,

then turn as quickly back

to calm.

Everyone says we sound alike.

So what I found most disturbing

was how his voice thinned

as his distance grew greater,

his expressive range

became a mumbled monotone.

How his language got simpler

until it disappeared,

regressing from some well-rehearsed phrases

to terse and profane

to an incoherent muddle.

Then animal grunts, instead of words,

interrupted by laughter

no one could explain.

So I stood,

amidst the sun-bathers

and sand-castle builders,

the beach goers, tiptoeing into the surf,

the young men showing off,

and helplessly watched

as the undertow

kept pulling him further out.

His body shrinking

as his distance grew.

His voice receding

until he couldn't be heard.

The man

sinking deeper

into incomprehensible dark.

I recently saw a terrific movie called The Father. A bravura performance by Anthony Hopkins. All I can say by way of elaborating on this poem is to highly recommend the film.