White Noise - Aug 9 2022

 

White Noise

Aug 9 2022

The fan

barely stirs the air

in this oppressive heat.

But the white noise is comforting,

and I can only hope for relief

if it cools over night.

The paradox

is that above body temperature

a fan makes you hotter.

So as the world swelters,

and even the fan struggles to move

against this soupy thickness,

there will soon be no way out.

So I sit,

motionless

conserving energy

generating as little heat as possible.

Wet cloths

and almost nothing on.

Even the birds are grounded,

with not enough purchase

for wings to grasp

this super-heated air.

Like sitting ducks;

except their predators, the clever foxes

are also inert,

lying on their sides

taking quick shallow breaths,

lolling tongues

suffused with blood,

saliva

rimming their mouths

with a thick white froth.

This is the world

as it now exists;

a still life,

that can't adapt fast enough.

All we can do is acclimate

until the heat becomes too much;

and then

just as the fan betrays us

there will be no escape

from our short-sighted foolishness.

There have been record-setting highs all over the world. For now, though, we seem to occupy some sort of climate refuge: here, it's been temperate days and cool nights, with a nice sprinkling of rain. Who knows how long such good fortune will last.

I'm sitting in my favourite chair in a pleasantly cool room, reading. There is a small fan beside me. It blows gently across my face, and the sound is soothing. So I decided to write about a fan's white noise. Given the state of the world and my own preoccupations and priorities, I guess it's no mystery why that innocuous premise soon (the 2nd line!) turned into another rant about climate change.

Revision - Aug 8 2022

 

Revision

Aug 8 2022

The fact that I rewrote and revised,

tweaked, polished and agonized over

   —  countless rim-shots and misses and perfect swishes

of balled-up pages tossed

toward the bin across the room  —

my suicide note

says all you need to know.

That I'm obsessive.

A perfectionist.

Take my writing seriously.

That last words,

desperate pleas for understanding,

and abject apologies

  —   no matter how numb and fumble-mouthed you feel  —

to friends and loved ones

and ultimate judgement

are never to be rushed.

I know you're wondering

why you're reading this

if I did myself in.

I could make fun

and say because I couldn't get it right;

the words wouldn't come

the ending stunk.

But the real reason

is what I think most writers would give;

that I still

have too much to say

and need to work at saying it better.

That everything is material.

That no matter what

we care what others think.

That a good writer

never wastes words.

No waste, period.

This is not autobiographical. But when something I read stops me cold, and I immediately feel the gears turning and possibilities churning out, I can't resist noodling around and seeing where it takes me.

In the first paragraph of a personal essay about depression in the Atlantic (https://www.theatlantic.com/ideas/archive/2022/08/depression-treatment-suicide/661319/), Jeff Ruoff wrote this:

At my desk, I had written and torn up numerous letters to my wife, Glennis, and our daughter, the essence that they remained my be-all and end-all, above and beyond any actions I might take. I realized that no suicide note could alleviate their grief, but—always a perfectionist—I kept polishing drafts.

I so identified with this. Because I hate putting anything down on the page under my name that I think lacks elegance and clarity, and wouldn't give pleasure to read; or at least keep the reader wanting to get to the next line, sentence, page. So even though it elicited a chuckle, the thought that a well-written suicide note was more valuable than life itself didn't seem so outlandish to me. He didn't care enough to live, but he did care what he left behind. For a true writer, a note scrawled in pencil on a torn envelope just wouldn't do, act of desperation or not!

Ripe Red Tomato - Aug 7 2022

 

Ripe Red Tomato

Aug 7 2022

The tomatoes are small, green, hard.

They look too heavy for the slender stem,

suspended like dense billiard balls

beneath tight leafy crowns.

Already early August, and I can't wait for them to ripen,

have my doubts

enough time remains.

But we are impatient creatures

striding briskly through the world;

men of agency and action

animals of flight.

While plants appear passive,

rooted, unmoving

changing too slowly to see.

Like part of the scenery,

permanent as rock.

Ignoring, of course, that they reach out toward light

find their way to water

regenerate lost limbs;

continue to grow

throughout their lives.

Even defend themselves

with chemical warfare

clever pheromones.

I'm simply living too quickly to see

the molecular machinery

busily at work,

converting light into matter

drawing water from soil

turning leaves toward the sun.

And if it could see

I would be a blur

of madcap motion

racing nowhere fast.

So we may live side-by-side,

but we each inhabit

a separate magisterium

of space and time.

Might as well be

on different planets.

A ripe red tomato,

sun-warmed

redolent

plump.

It has a taut smooth skin

on which drops of water glisten.

Its pulp is soft, but firm,

as I let my teeth

sink greedily in.

Its juice is sweet, but also savoury,

and too complex and subtle

to describe as anything but

tomato-y;

a rich translucent yellow

sticking to my fingers

dribbling down my chin.

So after a long anxious wait

and for a brief delectable moment

our two worlds intersect.

Summer, coming to its end,

and a taste

well worth the wait.

Melancholy - Aug 5 2022

 

Melancholy

Aug 5 2022

Melancholy.

A feeling of thoughtful sadness

with no apparent cause.

If you dissect the word

you get black bile,

so time has clearly softened

the caustic resentment

it once implied.

A word

for when you’re at a loose end

in quiet contemplation

on a dull rainy day.

One of those all-day rains

that's steady, not hard;

soaking into ground

instead of overflowing,

and, like mellow jazz

plays gently on the roof

instead of hammering down.

The way a jazz drummer

is far more comfortable

lightly brushing a snare

than rocking out.

Hard to tell

if this feels good or bad.

To people like me

who tend to be pensive

and introspective

it can be pleasant enough.

When am I not melancholy?

But a man of action, I suspect

would fidget restlessly,

searching desperately

for any distraction

any way out.

End up in the rain

just to get away from himself;

hair plastered down,

feet squishing

in swamped shoes

sopping socks.

And someone prone to depression

would descend even deeper into despair,

ruminating

raising doubts

second guessing.

Rain

runs down the glass

in erratic rivulets.

And while the light has steadily dimmed,

creeping in

like a black cat

on padded feet,

I've been unaware;

until I find myself in the dark

in my usual chair

but not my usual rush,

thinking through a poem

about nothing much

and stuck on how to end.

But such a lovely feeling

I don't really care.

So set adrift

in this melancholic trance

I am loathe to interrupt,

I give up the struggle

and stop.

A word I like, but have trouble pronouncing. Is the emphasis on the 2nd or 3rd syllable?!!

Molten Core - Aug 5 2022

 

Molten Core

Aug 5 2022

Just beneath my surface

barely skin deep

scalding magma seethes.

But then, I have always been seismic

tectonic

volcanic,

my eruptions

sudden and fierce.

Toxic ash

fireballs

red hot lava.

Or just a caustic glance

shattered glass

something hammered.

The accumulated pressure

is slow to build

then all at once.

But is also quickly exhausted.

And then I'm left

cooling, depleted, remorseful.

So my apologies

to all those who may have found themselves

within my blast radius,

and were badly singed

or wear the scars.

I fear I will be left an ember,

consuming myself

in hellish fire.

So what will it take

to release the pressure

douse my flame

calm the rumbling after-shocks?

Faith?

Contemplation?

Love?

A higher power?

Something to quiet my roiling mind?

The caring embrace

of her cooling arms?

Or is my bad temper

too essential to who I am?

Would I, like the earth without its molten core

become a dead planet,

at its centre

a stone cold heart?

My temper has actually cooled dramatically with age and introspection. But not today!

Earth's rotating liquid core of molten nickel and iron is what creates its magnetic field, which in turn deflects the sun's ionizing radiation. Without it, there could never have been life on this planet.

Sunny Ways - Aug 3 2022

 

Sunny Ways

Aug 3 2022

He called himself a born optimist.

If there even is such a thing,

  —  hard-wired

into your DNA  —

then what does it say about me?

Because I've always questioned my misanthropy,

tendency to catastrophize,

tunnel vision

that everything's destined to go

from bad to worse.

So am I off the hook?

That despite my best efforts

there never was a chance

I could have boot-strapped myself

into sunny ways.

A congenital pessimist

who was born this way.

By nature

I'm a trip-wire, on high alert,

prepared

for the snake in the grass,

the leopard stalking

with patient padded stealth.

From a long line of survivors

who also feared the worst.

Whose positive friends

  —  who smiled brightly

and had faith in beneficent gods  —

were devoured by lions

or left foaming and writhing

as the venom entered their hearts.

So there is much to be said

for pessimists.

Nevertheless, I envy my optimist friends,

who somehow get through life

thinking positive thoughts

and expecting much the best.

While it falls to me

to protect them from themselves.

It's called “defensive pessimism”. And this reasoning probably explains why it is hard-wired, and why it persists . . . even though it doesn't make us happy. (On the other hand, rarely disappointed; often vindicated; and when we're wrong, far more delighted than if we'd routinely expected such an outcome!) Because pessimists survive. Because pessimist live long enough to reproduce. Because those born with this dark temperament have offspring who are likely born the same. Every tribe depended on their pessimists. They helped everyone stay alive.

Does anyone else write poems about evolutionary biology?!! Hard to be both poetic and get the facts right!

Waiting for the Sound - Aug 2 2022

 

Waiting for the Sound

Aug 2 2022

I paused, waiting for the sound

until I lost track of the seconds.

A dull flash

against the underside of cloud

that covered the sky

like a low grey blanket,

but no thunder followed.

In the fine mist

that felt cool and replenishing

against my sunburned skin

I wondered how far it was,

the pyrotechnics, and drenching rain,

pelting hail and gusting wind

that zero in on the weakest link,

shifting

with the fickle indifference

of uncontested power.

The heart of the storm,

moving quickly

and unpredictably

but I hoped not here.

Light is fast

and energetic,

while sound is slow

and quickly decays.

But penetrates,

passing through, around, and by,

while any solid object

blocks light.

So it seems it's either sensation and glamour

or slow but reliable,

take your pick.

I'm thunder, for sure.

Mostly noise and bluster

and idle threat.

While with lightning you're dead,

even before

you hear a thing

or see it coming.

As they say,

died instantly

didn't know what hit him,

left us

doing what he loved.

But I find no consolation in this.

The man

who was lightning himself

and intensely alive,

living fast and courting risk

and catching every eye.

Who was very much

heard and seen.

No playing it safe, like me.

Sound-Proof Room - Aug 1 2022

 

Sound-Proof Room

Aug 1 2022

Of all the things money can buy.

Quiet, for one.

In this leafy enclave,

gated

secluded

exclusive.

Where everyone looks like you,

and passing, nods politely.

Laws strictly enforced.

In this rocky cove

fog rolling in;

sea spray, that tastes of salt

and waves lapping the shore,

screeching gulls

you don't notice anymore.

In this glass-walled penthouse

far above

the chaos and the noise.

And out of sight, as well,

on those rootless days

when looking down

all you see is cloud.

In this hermetic room.

Where the sound of silence

is the rush of blood in your ears,

the musty air

filling your lungs

but never quite emptying.

The echoing steps

as you pace back and forth

with restless indecision,

as if searching

for something vaguely remembered.

Paddling Solo - July 31 2022

 

Paddling Solo

July 31 2022

The wind calmed

and a humid heaviness settled in.

Energy

shifting from kinetic, to pent-up;

a storm in the air,

waiting

gathering strength

taking its own good time.

But rather than the swagger

of undisputed power

an arrogant man would show,

my impression of the weather gods

was imperial indifference;

where power is absolute

and utterly at will.

No hurry

no showing-off,

no theatrical displays

of male dominance.

The gurgling sound

as the canoe's tapered bow

cutting through the water,

the wooden paddle

almost silent

as it slipped alongside;

a smoothly measured stroke,

short, precise, effortless.

The setting sun slanted in,

glancing off the flat grey lake

and through the haze,

like a badly glazed mirror

with clouded glass.

Normally, this time of day

the low sun would have blinded me,

barrelling in

reflecting up.

The dazzling blues and greens and golds

of the small land-locked lake

would have saturated my senses.

But now

the light was even, monotone

easy on the eyes.

It felt like drifting

through infinite time,

where space had collapsed

to this single canoe

and the water it was passing through.

A sense of urgency

suffused with peace;

the coming storm

the state of calm.

Still Standing - July 29 2022

 

Still Standing

July 29 2022

The barn board was a nice touch.

Wide planks of weathered wood

with a warm patina

of brownish grey.

Each piece was unique,

hand-planed boards

that had warped and shrunk over time;

character

no clever laminate

or faux plastic slab

could reproduce.

Stressed wood

hewn from old growth trees

that grew here for millennia

once.

Rare hardwood

from virgin forest

before the clear-cuts stripped them bare,

densely grained

impressively tough.

While today's trees are bred for speed

and a quick buck;

they grow fast, but spindly,

and cannot be counted on

for the long haul.

This is how to age gracefully, I thought,

outlasting the hardship

of a long eventful life.

To somehow survive

fire and pests

exposure and neglect

the cruel elements.

To stand

companions by your side.

To simply not fall down.

Yet still be beautiful,

but with the gravitas of years.

They don't make them like that anymore.

And seeing the survivors

of the 20th century's only good war

I thought the same.

The bent and crippled backs.

Weathered faces

like the worn leather

of well-worked baseball mitts,

uniform jackets

hanging limply

on shrunken frames.

Shaky canes, in gnarled hands

tightly gripped ,

their bulbous knuckles

unnaturally big

under thin shiny skin.

But still standing

with a fierce light in their eyes.

And beautiful

in their dignified way.

Looking good

against the smooth fresh faces

of the restless school kids

there to pay their respects.

Setting out, I figured this might turn out to be a poem about surviving the vicissitudes of age, as well as our culture's lack of respect for the old.

Or at least a poem about character, uniqueness, and the pricelessness of time's passage.

So the turn it took surprised me as well. And since it strikes me as cheating to whipsaw the reader without any foreshadowing at all — cheating because it has a strong impact, but is a little too easy — my original choice of title perhaps over-compensated and gave too much away: The Greatest Generation. Still Standing, on the other hand, is indeterminate enough to invite a reader in, and also helps tie together the two parts of the poem: the old growth trees, and the tough grizzled veterans.

Big Feelings - Jul 28 2022

 

Big Feelings

July 28 2022

You wouldn’t think

a simple act of kindness

could be so deeply touching.

I feel it physically,

even when merely witnessing good.

My chest seems to fill,

a kind of warmth suffuses my body,

and I somehow open up;

my defences fall

and I feel overtaken

by a powerful sense of oneness.

Verklempt, the Yiddish would say,

and English, that most voracious tongue

has eagerly taken it up.

The religious would see this

as God's spirit in us;

that we are essentially moral creatures

divinely inspired

and possessed of a soul.

A sociologist

as lessons learned.

And me, a fundamentalist in biology

would see evolution at work.

Reciprocal altruism

building bonds

the need to belong.

Hence the surge of fellow feeling

when we see self-sacrifice,

an endorphin reward

for pro-social acts.

Because we are social animals,

and those who give to the greater good, survive,

while those who keep for themselves

are ostracized

and die alone.

To call this morality

implies an act of will.

But there is no choice;

we are hard-wired

for kindness,

it's in our nature

to do good.

So to judge

either up or down

is like saying the jaguar shouldn't hunt

the monkey be promiscuous.

We may not be better animals

   —   more moral, more discerning  —   

but we are good.

Not created in the image of God

and not gods ourselves,

but well-suited

to do for each other,

to feel big feelings

and be deeply touched.

As is usual with these more philosophical poems that involve more complicated ideas, they are not easy to write without sliding into prose. And what sensible poet writes about evolutionary biology, of all things?!!

I think I wanted to try because that feeling we call verklempt is indeed so powerful. It can be inspired by even the most minimal act, and is such an affecting rush.

In our origins as small and closely related nomadic tribes of around 150 individuals, anti-social behaviour was quickly weeded out. But in modern civilization — densely populated, specialized, atomized — it's easy for the free-riders, scofflaws, narcissists and psychopaths to hide out. Why, they can even become President!