Brian's Poetry Journal - June 16 2022

 

Brian's Poetry Journal

June 16 2022

I do not journal.

There is no log of daily events

no compendium of wisdom.

Memory is left

to its own devices.

And memory, we all know, is mischievous,

an insidious shape-shifter.

I remember

the prim little girl

who was a diligent diarist.

She kept a series of tidy red books

with covers that locked

where all her dreams and thoughts went.

As if they were worthy of posterity.

As if that rudimentary key

would keep them secret.

A completist,

she was obsessive

about never missing a day.

Who knows where they've gone,

and how embarrassed she might be

to read them now.

As I often feel

interrogating my memories

and trying to make sense.

Because there is no written log

of my life.

In high school, they lied.

This will go down in your permanent record, they threatened

and we took them at their word.

But there is no such thing.

No one cares;

the future

is indifferent to us.

If only we knew

how easy it would have been

to get away with it.

Although the act of writing itself

is therapeutic.

Or should I say fun.

Even if it's never shared

or even re-read.

Playing with words

when we're all grown-up

and are supposed to have left behind

such childish things.

Serious adults,

when it's seen as unbecoming

to play

just for the fun of it.

I wrote this after reading David Brooks regular weekly piece in the Atlantic (link to follow). This line in particular struck me: Your journal should focus in particular on things in the past for which you are grateful—for example, kindnesses and love from others—so you don’t forget these things.(https://www.theatlantic.com/family/archive/2022/06/how-to-change-past-perception-positive-memories/661240/)

What arrested me was the presumption that naturally, we are all keeping journals; that we're all highly introspective people committed to continuous self-improvement. When really, who keeps a journal? How many ever did? Are diaries even a thing these days?

The odd thing is, this blog is called a “journal”. And, in a way, it amounts to a kind of diary. But even then, posterity ends when Google's servers get fried, or the power fails. So, as the poem says — and at the risk of easy cliche — all this writing really is about the journey and not the destination.

The Beginning of the End -- June 16 2022

 

The Beginning of the End

June 16 2022

Pollen chokes the air,

coating everything

with a dull dusty grime.

The car has lost its shine

the lake's a murky yellow.

Even glossy leaves

are struggling to breath

through badly clogged stomata.

I sneeze, drip, itch.

My ears are plugged,

fog dulls my brain.

There is no escape

from the fall-out,

no bunker

with filtered air and survival rations

to hunker down in.

Human frailty

and the fecundity of nature.

But why such waste, excess

promiscuity?

As if every growing thing

had expended its last dreg of energy

to reproduce.

As if the world

on the verge of ending

had marshalled its resources

in a last desperate attempt

to carry on

despite the dire state of things.

Like humans, in a hedonistic frenzy

as the ship goes down

the bombs creep closer.

Or, instead of sex and self-indulgence,

would we stop, and reflect

on love, regret, purpose?

End our lives

in a quest for meaning,

prepare to take a final breath

with dignity and calm?

In the misery

of pollen season

the mind can't help but turn

to catastrophe.

When really, it's not Hiroshima

or an asteroid,

just ragweed and trees.

The lake looks soupy, the car needs a wash.

And I am inside,

drugging myself

with pharmaceuticals.

But the air outside is rich with life,

on every surface

a wealth of potential.

So it's not the beginning of the end, after all.

It's hope

adaptation

succession.

Easy Living - June 15 2022

 

Easy Living

June 15 2022

A scourge of blackflies

ravenous mosquitoes.

Allergies

miserable as blood meals.

Humid air and thunderstorms

and too much sun for sleep.

A hard winter

a chilly spring,

and still

there is no easy living.

Not here, up north.

Would it be better

if we imagined the globe reversed,

down north

the antipodes?

The southern hemisphere,

where the magnetic field inverts,

blood rushes to our heads,

and water circles the drain

in the opposite direction?

Strange beasts, as in Australia

winter in July?

Either cane toads

and poisonous snakes,

or a scourge of biting insects.

Because there's always something

no matter what.

Like a summer storm

that comes out of nowhere

and stops as quickly as it starts.

It's late afternoon,

but darkness descends

as if a switch had flipped.

There is an air

of anxious expectancy,

and I can feel hair

on the back of my neck

tingle with electrical charge.

The wind quickens

lightning flashes

thunder cracks the sky.

A heavy downpour

raining cats and dogs,

cleansing the air

and breaking the humidity.

We run for cover

retreating inside.

Meanwhile, the weather gods

have issued a reprieve

and the scourge briefly lifts;

the blackflies going to ground

mosquitoes lying low.

Wash My Mouth Out With Soap - Jun 13 2022

 

Wash My Mouth Out With Soap

June 13 2022

The words you can't say on TV.

The bad words they beep

or write like this #$%@!!&.

Natural bodily functions

bashful plumbing

cursing mothers.

4-letter words,

some with more.

But we can read lips.

Enjoy the thrill

of the sacrilegious

transgressive

forbidden.

Used casually

they would lose their special power.

Word inflation

would debase them,

we would have to invent more.

How easy to scoff

at these social conventions

and arbitrary distinctions.

But when the hammer hits your hand

the piano plummets to earth

how handy to let slip

a good Anglo Saxon expletive.

How satisfying

the lapse of etiquette

and explosive release.

Small children delight

in the power of these words,

old men

express their disillusion.

Construction sites are filled

with wisecracks and curses.

My father rarely swore.

But when he did

everything stopped

jaws dropped

heads turned.

No poet

ever commanded language like this.

Who knew

he had it in him?

I swear more.

Not drunken sailor blue streaks

but more than he'd approve of.

No beeps.

No need

to read my lips.

No slip of the tongue

or phony primness.

He would wash out my mouth, if he were here.

Or would have, back then.

Now, I can just imagine

the disappointed look

and sigh of resignation.

As if to say

need for such words

in polite conversation,

grown-up, or not.

Getting It Right - June 12 2022

 

Getting It Right

June 12 2022

The umpires gather,

all in black

heads bowed

in a loose collegial circle,

where they confer like a council of jurors

before delivering their verdict

from which there is no appeal.

A hand punches the air

and the runner is out!,

no ifs-ands-or-buts.

They used to be autocrats,

sticking by their call,

asserting the authority

of the man in charge.

Too insecure to risk

any admission of error

or show of weakness.

But now, they're determined to get it right;

to serve justice

and earn our respect

instead of simply expecting it.

Getting it right

more important than looking fallible.

I find this comforting.

In an unfair world

where the rules don't work

or are written to serve the winners

or routinely ignored,

all is well

between the foul lines

on this verdant field

under a clear night sky.

Where grown men

play at being boys.

Instant replay,

like an omniscient god

looking down from on high.

And the partisan fans

who demand justice

and long remember

bad umps.

Getting it right

when all is said and done.

If only life worked that way.

If only right from wrong

was such a clear line.

If only serious men

in black uniforms

policed an unruly world

and knew the rules by heart,

we could return home

happy each night.

Order has been imposed.

The better team won.

And anyway, there will be another game tomorrow.

Which we will watch

with undiminished hope

and no festering grudges.

Sand - June 12 2022

 

Sand

June 12 2022

Life is alluvial.

There is the line in the sand.

How we confined ourselves,

drawing boundaries

or imagining them,

only to find how easily

even a gentle breeze could erase

all evidence of their existence.

There are the sands of time.

The hourglass

we ignored

relentlessly emptying,

the silky sound

of smoothly flowing sand

we were wilfully deaf to.

Because, back then

the fullness of time

seemed bottomless.

And then the folly

of building on sand.

Our foundational beliefs

that didn't so much harden

as brittle;

so all it took

were a few days of hard rain

to wash the ground from under our feet.

But all I can think of

is lying by your side

skin-to-skin

on the beach that day,

fine brown sand

soft and warm against our backs,

hot sun

on our naked bodies

'til we could no longer stand the heat.

Then into the sea,

feeling the gritty little particles

that had mixed with our sweat

sluice off

in cool clear water.

And in its buoyant salt

feel all the weight we've been bearing

lift.

Still Life - June 11 2022

 

Still Life

June 11 2022

Driving down

this leafy suburban street

I pass trash can after trash can,

lined up

at the end of every driveway.

Like sentinels, they patiently stand,

waiting

to be relieved of duty

on the assigned garbage day.

It's like a still life

of peaceful contentment;

quiet    . . . settled    . . . secluded.

Except for my car, the intruder,  

as well as the phhhht phhhht phhhht

of sprinklers methodically watering.

Battered metal containers.

Green plastic bins, faded from sun.

And brand new ones,

with nifty wheels

and fancy locking tops.

As well as some plastic bags

slumped fatly at the curb.

Which some dogs have been at,

scattering their contents

for any passer-by

to ogle.

And where scavenging birds

are snatching at leftover scraps

and squabbling loudly;

flapping and pecking

and hopping on thin long legs.

Once a week, full bins go out

heavy with waste.

And when we return

from a day at work

it has all disappeared;

as if by magic

silent garbage elves

have whisked the refuse away,

out of sight

and out of mind.

Where it goes, none of us knows

or frankly, really much cares.

And soon after

most of the cans are gone,

back in the garage

that is their home.

Good neighbours,

who have a place for everything

and everything in its place.

But there's an orphaned top

like a green plastic saucer

stranded alone in the road.

And some delinquent bins

are still at the curb

where the garbage elves left them,

upright

or dropped on their sides

rocking back and forth in the wind.

The slackers and laggards

who don't pay attention

or have better things to do.

And their diligent neighbours

   —   who have manicured lawns

pick-up from their dogs

and are always right on time  —

nodding disapprovingly;

toting theirs back

where they rightly belong.

Intersectionality - June 9 2022

 

Intersectionality

June 9 2022

The red light

brooks no dissent;

it's President for life

in the one-party state

of traffic signals.

Roundabouts

are more democratic;

anyone can enter,

although choices

have consequence.

But, as we've come to expect

the politicking never stops,

the same empty promises

circling eternally 'round.

Although by far the most challenging

is the 4-way stop.

This can verge on anarchy

if trust is lost.

Sure, there are rules

     —  first in, first out

  and left defers to right  —

but you must be wary of scofflaws

lead foots

and the paralyzed driver

who dithers and frets.

Above all, it's a test of humanity;

the fine art of negotiation

in a stop/start dance

of nodding heads

and inching ahead

and politely waved hands.

Gentle braking

and the feathering of gas,

eye contact

and wordless signalling.

And sometimes

when there's grid-lock

a naked act of aggression.

Idling cars

and jack rabbit starts

are bad for the environment,

fender-benders

an unacceptable hazard.

But in the 4-way stop

we are compelled to work together

for the common good.

Here, it tends to be a friendly wave

of you go first.

A country town

where mostly old people live,

too small

for more than one traffic light.

So we roll down our windows and chat,

a honking horn

or angry voice

almost never heard.

Putting the Garden In - June 8 2022

 

Putting the Garden In

June 8 2022

Dirt is the gritty brown stuff

you track into the house

or comes with the dog.

Sand, dust, gloppy mud.

Lifeless.

A violation

of the notion of in vs out.

Who knows what it's been up to

or where it's from.

While soil is alive,

rich

with microscopic life,

worms, fungi, viruses.

Bacteria

that might cure cancer

or kill us all with plague.

An intricate skein of roots

and decomposing organics.

Here, outside

the life of the planet.

And between these walls

dark, sterile, dry.

Make a mess

in my mother's inner sanctum

and get the evil eye

find yourself grounded.

Wet black soil

cupped in my hands.

I bring it to my nose

and inhale the loamy scent,

imagine its complexity

and what will grow.

Sun, earth, air.

Plants, as if by magic

feeding on light

in rich fertile soil.

Words have meaning.

Honour them.

Umwelt - June 7 2022

 

Umwelt

June 7 2022

You know the feeling,

you see something

   —  maybe a car

like the one your new girlfriend drives   —

and suddenly they're everywhere.

Or a great new word

you never heard before

catches your ear,

and now it's turning up

over and over again.

It was a black Nissan Pathfinder

and fit her perfectly.

But that was years ago;

I'm sure that now

she's in something new.

And the word today is umwelt.

It must be in the zeitgeist

to have reappeared like this;

also German, of course,

the people who gave us shadenfreude

and weltschmerz.

It means “worldview”.

Perhaps how a bat perceives its surroundings,

a small airborne animal

who can see with reflected sound.

Or a dog

following her nose,

a spider

tuned to vibration.

Perhaps your neighbour,

who holds strange paranoid views

and votes for the wrong people.

Or that old girlfriend

(now, like me

old as well as former)

who saw things differently

and was probably right.

But back then, I had never heard umwelt

and couldn't have imagined

anything but

a singular world,

one objective truth.

That right and wrong

could be anything other

than absolute.

Umwelt brings to mind another foreign word that – although not widely used – has also been conscripted into English: ubuntu. The actual word, in its various forms, appears in many places in Africa, and represents a world view very much at odds with our individualistic, consumerist, and capitalist West: the idea that we as individuals only exist as part of a larger community; a communal, societal, environmental and spiritual world. We are not sovereign individuals. Rather, we would be better off seeing and defining ourselves in terms of relationship. A person is a person through other people. It's telling that no equivalent to ubuntu appears in any Western tongue.

This is one of the great strengths of the English language. While the French are preoccupied with purity and preservation, English is a living thing, omnivorous and not at all fussy: it will appropriate whatever word works, from any and all languages. Neither umwelt or ubuntu are much used. Still, they strike me as very useful words, and are there for the taking.

In this short clip, Nelson Mandela elaborates on the philosophy of ubuntu.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HED4h00xPPA

A Poet Searches for Words - June 7 2022

 

A Poets Searches for Words

June 7 2022

Dark, heavy, menacing?

Not the blue sky cloud

of plush animals, and unicorns

you once confected,

lying in a grassy field

looking up at the sky

on endless afternoons

in the hot July torpor.

The sun blotted out

a leaden sky.

A chilly wind,

and big drops of rain

slanting down hard.

It's all cliche, these clouds;

nothing original to say.

So I imagine a dry sand desert,

and perfect sky

out to the stratosphere.

Hard to believe

how thin this atmosphere is

between us

and the airless vacuum

of outer space.

The cold black cosmos,

inconceivably vast

and expanding as fast as light.

No storms there,

no sun-showers

on summer days.

Just planets and asteroids

and interstellar dust.

Fabulous nebulae

and nascent stars.

The Magellanic Cloud.

No adjective grand enough

for even a poet

to plagiarize.

Wholehearted - June 6 2022

 

Wholehearted

June 6 2022

I used to read New Yorker cartoons

and laugh out loud.

I still enjoy them,

but am more likely to feel my eyes narrow,

cheeks tighten

in a stillborn smile,

and find myself declaring

“now that's funny

witty

clever.”

I have become a connoisseur

of humour,

an analyst

who tries to dissect the joke

without killing the laugh.

You grow older;

wiser, some would say.

But less and less able, it seems

to let go

surrender uncritically.

Not a short appreciative snort

but an uproarious cackle,

spraying spittle

and breaking out a smile

that will leave laugh lines

on my well-preserved corpse.

Like a kid at recess

unselfconsciously at play.

A contestant

scooping up the jackpot.

in winner-take-all.

A dog doing pirouettes

at the sound of kibble

hitting the bowl.

Where did this wisdom go?

An unfiltered joy

I can only envy.

The uncritical surrender

I, too, once expressed

but let go somewhere,

as life grew serious

and I got too much in my head

and neglected my heart.

Thinking more

and feeling less,

suppressing

the full-blooded laugh.

A vivisectionist,

cutting down to bone

and discarding the flesh.