Incognito - May 28 2022

 

Incognito

May 28 2022

A wall of fog moved in

as I slept,

like a stealthy intruder

under cover of night.

Silent and slow

it rolls on unstoppably,

an insubstantial mist

that seems unaccountably solid.

Everything clouded

by a dull grey shroud.

So dense, even I am lost in it;

my hand

reaching out, and feeling my way

seems unattached,

a pale simulacrum

surreal flesh.

But what surprises me

is the distortion of sound;

its energy absorbed

and intensity softened,

the source

impossible to localize.

Which leaves me

feeling cut-off from the world;

as if I, as well

had become insubstantial

and nothing around me was real.

Yet also oddly comforted;

the world softened,

and the urgency

of the day-to-day

mercifully on hold.

Because it's quiet here

and easy on the eyes.

Because I feel protected

with the cool mist 

enfolding me.

And because, like the fog

I walk on cat's paws

with light-footed stealth.

As if a cloak of invisibility

had enveloped me,

and I could ghost through the world

unheard

and unobserved,

not even sure of myself.

A Little Good News - May 27 2022

 

A Little Good News

May 27 2022

You can't pick up a newspaper

without wondering about your fellow man.

Is it that bad news sells?

That good people, doing virtuous things

and outcomes you'd expect

is not novel enough

to count as news?

That puffball pieces

about dogs lost and found

and the high school glee club

are scorned

by the hardcore newsmen

who cover politics and war

and Wall Street shenanigans?

Of course, few of us remain

who read a newspaper every day;

most, at most, a headline

in a social media feed,

a poll

about celebrities acting badly.

Then those

who don't believe a word.

Who see conspiracy everywhere,

feel victimized

and self-righteous.

Who watch TV

that tells them what they want to hear

and what to think.

Descend down dark twisted rabbit holes

of deranged imaginings

and paranoid thought,

soak up ideologies

bled of nuance and compassion.

And the apathetic many

who claim they “aren't political”,

when choosing not to be engaged

is very much that.

Because citizenship

is more than paying taxes

cutting the lawn

picking-up after the dog.

So, has exposure left me cynical

uncaring, desensitized?

Or am I a disillusioned idealist,

my misanthropy deepened

morale barely breathing?

The headline today

is about 19 children killed

in a shooting rampage

in faraway Texas.

Once again,

young men

easy weapons

mass death.

Meanwhile, the lost dog and her family

were reunited.

The video touches my heart;

Fido wagging

licking manically

and dancing in tight excited circles

while the man is down on his back,

happily overwhelmed

by the big shaggy mutt.

But America is broken,

and a little good news

can't mend the hurt.

In her column commenting on the Uvalde Texas shooting, Elizabeth Renzetti wrote those very trenchant 3 words: America is broken. I read her the following day, and ever since have felt that there is really nothing more to say.

I shared the first draft with Ms Renzetti. Here's the note that introduced it:

I write poems every day, but assiduously avoid political ones. Because if anything, the writing is an antidote to my cynicism and despair. But this one started to write itself, so I let it have its way.

Your words (as noted in the short commentary that will accompany the final version on my blog (brianspoetryjournal.blogspot.ca)) have remained with me, and provided a perfect ending. No elaboration needed. Less is always more in poetry. So I leave it to the reader to think the many ways our southern neighbour is indeed broken. Because if I were to list them, the poem would quickly become unreadable. The polity and culture are broken. And so are our hearts.

Anyway, I thought it only right to share this with you. At least what I have so far.

Complex Affairs of High Finance - May 26 2022

 

Complex Affairs of High Finance

May 26 2022

Where is everyone off to

this early afternoon?

A blur of cars

coming and going

every which way,

as if they all cancelled out

in a zero sum game

of getting nowhere fast.

Old beaters

trailing the blue-black smoke

of half-burned gas.

My over-heating car

stuck for consecutive reds,

harassed

by someone's booming bass

before finally inching ahead.

Manoeuvring

past loaded carts

down narrow aisles

between densely packed shelves.

Cooling my heels

and gritting my teeth,

as the tired looking lady

with the 3 shrieking kids

picks over the bin

of loose roma tomatoes.

She eyes them closely,

holds each to her nose, sniffing noisily,

then gives a squeeze

to tease out ripeness.

As if the best 

had been hidden underneath

for discerning shoppers like her

to triumphantly unearth.

A long line at the bank,

and a lone teller

dealing with a man I can only assume

must be heir to the Rockefeller fortune,

seeking advice

for his complex affairs

of high finance.

Either that,

or a bad cheque.

And next, the slow-talking guy

who has all the time in the world,

and no idea

how ATMs work.

It's exhausting, these days

navigating city life.

Which is how all these nameless people

must see me as well;

merely an object

placed in the way

to obstruct and frustrate 

the seamless completion of their appointed tasks.

Yes, we are social creatures,

comfortable

in our small related clans

of 150 or so.

But not with thousands of others

all at once.

The cacophony

of honking horns

and gunning cars.

Non-stop construction.

The sum of all that talk.

The cart

with the wonky wheel

running roughshod over my toes,

and the kids she's given up on

tearing up and down the aisle.

The tomatoes, tasteless and hard

now that the good ones are gone.

I just had that kind of a day. Nothing more to this poem than that!

The number 150 wasn't just pulled out of the air. Robin Dunbar was a British anthropologist and evolutionary psychologist who studied primate social relationships, and extrapolated from brain size the number of relationships a typical human being can successfully maintain. He gave his name to what has become known as the “Dunbar number”. Some dispute his findings. But the number rings true to me. I believe modern tribal groups who lead a traditional life, as well as studies of prehistorical clans, all suggest that 150 is close to the optimal group size for social cohesion and ultimate success.

Victoria Day - May 25 2022

 

Victoria Day

May 25 2022

On Victoria Day

we honour a long dead queen,

as if this is the most natural way

to celebrate

the beginning of summer.

No one cares much about Her Majesty

or even knows who she was,

even though

she once ruled over

an empire that spanned the globe.

Or the current queen, at that,

who has reigned even longer

if over less.

A long weekend

catching a ballgame

grilling steaks

driving up to the lake

to fish and drink beer.

Or opening the cottage, cabin, camp

chalet or shack

   —  depending on where you are

in this vast and varied country  —

before the bugs hit.

Hardly a surprise

it's cobwebbed and musty inside,

after a long hard winter

vacant and shuttered

and home to mice.

Which leaves me wondering,

what has Queen Victoria

to do with all this?

And why does summer begin

a month before it should

on June 21st?

When stubborn patches of snow

still persist in the woods

and they're warning of frost?

Perhaps because we are starved

for short-sleeves and sun

in this country of winter,

c'est pais d'hiver.

And because tradition suits us;

an irrelevant Queen

we've been just fine with all these years.

Not to mention

that in our short precious summer

is it really worth the fuss

of changing the name

just for the sake of it?

The Trouble With Poets - May 24 2022

 

The Trouble With Poets

May 24 2022

There's the usual learning curve.

Although whether “steep” is the word

and just what it means

I'm not quite sure.

A hard uphill slog?

Or fast,

quickly ascending

to the fertile alpine meadow

of certain mastery?

That's the trouble with metaphor.

Or is “curve” analogy

in this expression?

But either way, why not speak plainly

say what you mean?

Politicians

con-men

poets,

suitors and seducers

and sellers of used cars

are all guilty of this.

The second hand sedan

that had that big accident,

previously owned

previously loved.

Lower taxes,

yet somehow more stuff

in exchange for my vote.

But my learning stalls

partway up.

Get fooled by the candidates

sabotaged by greed,

deceived

by the art of the deal.

Read poetry

and find myself believing

in beauty and truth

everlasting love.

Forgetting

that what goes up

must come down.

A steep curve,

and a long way to fall

before getting to the top.

Just For the Fun of It - May 23 2022

 

Just For the Fun of It

May 23 2022

I was doubtful

when the training wheels came off.

Even then, I knew enough of gravity

to imagine the fall

at speed

on the concrete cul de sac

that contained my small familiar world.

Not the soft grass

that seemed more inviting to me,

but at least

mostly traffic free

according to my dad.

And now, an older man

      —   which I know should be “old”

   but please, allow me my illusions  —   

I wonder if I can still

defy gravity

make speed

feel the wind in my hair,

or at least whatever's left of it.

They say you never forget;

that muscle memory dwells

in some deep recess of the brain.

A single gear bike,

that had coaster brakes

and rusting paint

and was too small for comfort.

But memory worked,

and I remained improbably up

on two thin rubber wheels;

twin gyroscopes

just so long as they spin.

How delightful

to feel the return

of long forgotten childhood.

To feel my heart pick up

and lungs hurt,

see the trees

a blur of green.

Effortless speed

taking me nowhere in particular.

Like that cul de sac

back when the world was young;

circling the curb

until the street lights lit up,

going nowhere fast

just for the fun.

In the May 23 2022 New Yorker, Jill Lepore wrote a fine piece about bicycles, interweaving the history of the pursuit with her personal history. That article set me off on this.

I'm not really a cyclist, and haven't been on a bike in years; so as far as that goes, I'm speaking for myself here. And even though I am chronologically old, I too prefer older. But I have no doubt about my muscle memory. There was no cul de sac (just a normal suburban street), not to mention that I don't even remember learning to ride. And my vanity requires me to clarify that there is more hair left than gone!

I think the point of the poem is captured in these two lines: taking me nowhere in particular, and just for the fun. Because when we become adults, it seems everything has to be productive. We feel vaguely guilty if we aren't. There is not enough time for idleness and unstructured time.

Slow Food - May 22 2022

 

Slow Food

May 22 2022

The speed of light may be fixed,

but life

just gets faster.

Events

the internet

whatever current fad.

Which is why I take my time

and linger over a meal;

both slow food

and food that's real.

Because time is priceless;

there's no amount you can pay

to speed-up fermentation,

no skipping the line

as the rich have always done —

— the yeast will not be rushed.

Bread, left to rise.

Wine, aged in barrels.

Hard cheese

maturing in its own good time

that cannot be disturbed.

The sharp tang

of the 4-year cheddar,

it's crumbly texture

mouldy surface

complex scent.

There is no “cheese flavour”

or chemical legerdemain

that can simulate this,

no compression of time

that will serve our desire

for instant gratification.

I think back

that many years

to a more innocent world

and a different stage of life.

Because 4 years is a long time

when we're hurtling into the future

at such headlong speed.

The many wars.

The planet over-heating.

The cultural transformations.

And all of my own

trials and tribulations.

Whether for better or worse

is up for debate.

But for all 48 months

that squat heavy round

passively sat

on the cheese house shelf,

industrious yeast

in its moist dark interior

performing its alchemy.

There is no compressing

the passage of time

it takes for a fine cheese;

no replacement

except to defer gratification

and patiently wait.

So I eat slowly

and savour its pleasures.

The mouth feel, and flavour.

The rich scent

I can’t help but inhale.

The finely textured crumble.

And the taste

lingering on my tongue

that's more than enough

to satiate my hunger.

How odd

how time seems to slow

with mindful eating.

As if the speed of light had taken a break,

and instead racing

to the edge of the universe

and the end of time,

it had paused to rest, down here on earth;

at this modest table

in my small house

on a simple ceramic plate,

just as it started to fade

to dusk.

Mariupol, 2022 - May 21 2022

 

Mariupol, 2022

May 21 2022

The basement

as place of refuge.

All that weight

overhead

may seem unsafe,

but we find reassurance

in concrete walls

and solid earth.

In a killer heatwave

a cool oasis

as hot as it gets.

In a tornado

sheltering from wind;

an ungodly noise

that even muffled by distance

sounds ominously close.

But storms pass quickly,

and twisters

only intermittently touch down.

Bombs, too, randomly fall;

from second to second

the lottery of death

is won or lost.

But the battle goes on,

and the weight

of unpredictability

wears us down;

some snap

some sulk,

others retreat into themselves.

It's dark, dank, musty

in this small enclosed space.

Mice scuttle

and condensation drips

on the cold concrete floor.

The unhealthy smell

can't be helped,

too many bodies

in an unheated basement

with nowhere to bathe.

Until weeks later

we stagger out

to see the world transformed.

Blinking our eyes

in unaccustomed light,

stumbling

on unsteady legs

after so long confined.

Dead bodies

piles of rubble

burned-out cars.

Ruptured pipes, leaking gas.

Pet animals

we had no choice but abandon

scrapping over food

and cowering with fear.

Unexploded bombs

that could go off

with one wrong step.

The survivors

have no way of knowing

which side won.

And does it really matter?

Because when the spoils of war

are immolated cities

and unmarked graves

it's less than zero sum;

there are never any winners

only loss.

Nevertheless, victory will be claimed,

flags raised

anthems sung

and medals hung

around the necks of damaged men.

And someone, somewhere

is getting even richer,

because business is good

and the money better.

After the storm, nature heals.

But the scars of war are permanent.

The city may be rebuilt;

but the people never leave

that small basement refuge,

never find peace

within themselves.

The Cull - May 20 2022

 

The Cull

May 20 2022

We're all dodging potholes,

braking, swerving

careening down the road,

veering over the centre line

on a slalom course home.

A hard winter;

while a late spring has whip-sawed

from freeze to thaw and back.

So I was distracted,

focused on the road directly out front

when the rabbit darted out;

a fleeting blur

in my peripheral vision,

then short dull thump.

A beautiful creature

still in his soft winter white.

Small black eyes

lustrous as billiard balls.

Over-sized paws

and strong hind legs,

long tapered ears

inquisitively twitching.

Or her.

A mother, with newly born young

left alone in some burrow somewhere.

Who will freeze

starve

or be eaten by foxes

when she fails to return.

Natural selection at work?

The offspring

of an unfit mother

unsentimentally culled?

So is it fate?

Dumb luck?

Evolution's inscrutable purpose?

Or a version of fitness

unheard of before?

Bad drivers

selecting for animals

who are wary of roads.

Just as we are blithely shaping the rest of world

to our flaws and appetites.

One dead rabbit

and a sickening remorse.

The utter randomness

of who lives and who dies

is not only sobering

but strikes close to home;

our own near misses

the illusion of agency.

Although the suddenness of death

is at least merciful;

who doesn't wish

for it to be painless and quick?

She will be missed.

And I, at least, will remember;

blood on the fender,

body parts stuck in the wheel well.

In the mood to write, but with no compelling idea to inspire me, I fell back on the old adage that says ”write what you know.” And right now, that's potholes. So after the first two stanzas, at a loss to know where this thing was going, I was as surprised as the reader probably was by the direction the poem took. But as soon as I wrote back (it was originally between freeze and thaw),the word distraction popped into my head, and it was all suddenly clear. Initially, it was a deer. But I've written too many deer poems, and so needed something fresher. The rabbit incident occurred years ago. But anytime your car kills a beautiful wild animal it's deeply disturbing, and stays with you. The unlikely intersection in time and space. The vibrant life so instantly snuffed out. The suffering. The terrible meaninglessness.

How nice to be able to use a word like careen. For a language pedant like me, to have the chance to exercise — in the interest of clarity and precision — the useful distinction between it and “career” is very satisfying indeed!

Evolution, of course, has no purpose, direction, intelligence. So very much inscrutable! It simply goes where survival takes it. “Fitness” is not some absolute concept. Rather, it is contingent, narrowly specific to the time and place. To depict evolution as a tree, heading ever skyward to some perfectly wrought creature, or inevitably favouring the refinement of advanced intelligence, is wrong. We may have the biggest brains, and they may serve our particular needs pretty well, but we are not its most successful experiment: our place at the end of the highest limb should not be taken as a value judgment. If anything, sponges and jellyfish are: so perfectly suited to their circumstance that they have survived unchanged for 100s of millions of years. Job accomplished. And now that it did such a good one with those two, evolution gets to take a rest.