The Other 4-Letter Word - Nov 25 2022

 

The Other 4-Letter Word

Nov 25 2022

An open box

from my parents' cluttered closet.

The cardboard had softened with age,

the bottom bulged downward

as if about to break,

and remnants of old tape

had darkened and brittled.

Everything she'd squirrelled away

and I'd long since forgotten

from my mediocre past;

the holidays and Halloweens

and family vacations,

some average report cards

a few happy birthdays.

As well as fading photographs

like postcards from the past.

But we were not big on cameras

so there are hardly any of these,

mostly me

with distant relatives

I can't even name.

I had no idea

she'd hung on to this stuff.

I had a happy childhood

but wasn't a happy child.

And I'm not at all the sentimental type.

So I confess, threw most of it away.

Which wasn't easy, even for me.

Because of all the years

this plain cardboard box

which could barely hold its shape

had been so diligently saved.

Because of the betrayal I felt.

and how disloyal this would seem.

And because of what she might think

were she still with us   —

a mother's loving curation

of her youngest son's life

coldly dismissed.

But what use

is an old greeting card?

The earnest mother's day creation

with its glued-on decorations

of dried macaroni

in the shape of bow-ties?

A grade school teacher's

trying hard

and starting to come out of his shell?

I don't need a time capsule

of dust-collecting mementos

to remember how it felt

when I discovered this box   —

a testament to the love

of a difficult mother

who struggled as much as me

to even say that word.

The box (along with a large shopping bag) came to me after my brother and sister-in-law cleaned out my mother's condo when she down-sized to assisted living. I'm grateful for their hard work.

Most of this is said without poetic license.

Although I will say that my academic career was actually well above average. I enjoyed school. Structured environments work for me. Especially structured social environments. But I suspect good grades were the most direct way to gain parental approval, not to mention — as the youngest — a good way not be overshadowed by my two older brothers.

Other than that, I'm definitely not sentimental. Why keep all this stuff around when I'll never look at it, no one else cares, and it will just have to be thrown out by whoever is burdened with that task after I die? I say cut to the chase and do it now! And frankly, it feels like a narcissistically self-important act to imagine that this stuff is truly meaningful.

More important, in the context of this poem, we were/are not touchy-feely or emotionally expressive, and the word “love” was never said between us.

A key line is this poem was stolen. I encountered it recently, but don't remember where, so can't give credit. The moment I heard it, I strongly identified, not to mention admired its brilliant compression.

I had a happy childhood / but wasn't a happy child. The power lies in the apparent contradiction. But dig a little, and it's not at all contradictory.

The first part takes ownership: it exculpates my parents, who did their best with an odd and difficult child — unusually sensitive, and not at all neurotypical. And who in human history wouldn't have wanted to grow up in the 2nd half of the 20th century — that rare interregnum of human flourishing amidst millennia of war, disease, starvation, superstition, and oppression — in a prosperous and peaceful country, in a good neighbourhood, in a middle class family with all the advantages? Nothing to complain about!

The second part announces something hard to say. Because, essentially, a lot of the time I really wasn't happy. Which by all rights I should have been. And which also is the way we all want to idealize childhood: innocent; light-hearted; all immersive play and bright-eyed optimism.

She is, btw, still ”with us”. But not really. At 98, dementia has stolen most of her away.

A Tiny Pink Leg - Nov 24 2022

 

A Tiny Pink Leg

Nov 24 2022

Peanut butter for bait.

Strategically placed.

Checked daily.

But the traps just gather dust.

The mice

have either hunkered down for winter

or already succumbed

to the heat-seeking cold.

Life is hard

so far down the food chain

scrabbling for survival.

So the golden promise

of the sweet nutritious bait

seems especially cruel.

The luck, fate, contingency

that rule us all.

A slow death by cold,

small bodies

hearts stopped

frozen hard.

Or by guillotine;

quick and painless

    . . .  I can only hope.

But how to know?

The time I heard a faint rasping sound;

a trap, dragged across the floor,

a tiny pink leg

firmly snagged.

The high pitched squeaks

froze my heart,

such terrible guilt

to inflict such suffering.

Is this what it's like

to be a god,

conflicted between

the instrument of cruelty

and overrun by mice?

Conflicted

because I am not virtuous enough

to be the mindful Buddhist

who refuses to kill

even a fly.

Nor calculating enough

to go about it instrumentally,

rationalizing

about the greatest good

for the greatest number.

And hardly heartless enough

to trap mice

and feel fully justified,

disposing of them

like so much trash.

Out in The World - Nov 23 2022

 

Out in The World

Nov 23 2022

The solitary diner

sits at a small round table

that looks like an after-thought,

a spot by the swinging door

close enough to catch the breeze

of waiters whisking in and out

balancing trays.

He eats alone.

Ignores the buzz

of overlapping conversation,

couples happily chatting,

and the effervescent laughter

that randomly bubbles up.

The easy-listening jazz

playing in the background

softens the hubbub

and matches his manner well.

And if anyone glances his way

he refrains from looking back.

Today's paper

is unfolded before him.

His phone is put away.

The waiters' comings and goings

seem not at all distracting.

If he's self-conscious

he doesn't show it.

So, is he anti-social,

broken-hearted,

a salesman on the road?

Should we be feeling sorry

for a bored traveller,

a jilted lover,

a man in mourning?

Or concerned?

Because we're made nervous by loners;

surely something's wrong with them.

He eats slowly and methodically

and lingers over the sports,

then leaves a generous tip

and quietly departs.

None of my business, I think,

curious about his story

but reproaching myself

for having watched.

After all, I often dine alone,

standing by the kitchen sink

eating something reheated

or straight from the fridge.

The big difference

between him and me

is I do it unseen.

I should admire his composure

instead of feeling sorry.

A man, sure enough of himself

to risk exposure

before all those prying eyes;

out in the world

dining alone.

Good Works - Nov 22 2022

 

Good Works

Nov 22 2022

The Sunday sermon rambled.

The choir

was short a soprano.

Outside, there was fresh winter air;

but in the pews, it was hot,

smelled of candle wax and mildew

and wet wool socks.

He had only large bills,

so when time came for the offering

and the collection plate was passed

what could be more natural

than making change?

But there were disapproving glances,

a matron's hectoring cough,

and a hard corrective jab

from his wife's sharp elbow.

He was a non-believer

who would have rather slept-in.

But charity

is also good for atheists,

and agnostics

while kind of wishy-washy

still feel blessed to give.

Next time, all 20 dollars in

he promised himself,

shamed into making amends

and counting on Christian forgiveness.

The sermon mercifully ended,

and the lucky few

who'd slept through it

managed to rouse themselves,

miraculously resurrected

for coffee and cake.

He knew all about sin

including the 7 deadly ones.

But couldn't help a twinge of envy

listening to their snores;

the soul restoring sleep

of the faithful born-again.

The Minimalist Poet - Nov 22 2022

 

The Minimalist Poet

Nov 22 2022

is frugal with words.

Each choice

perfect.

One idea, undiverted.

In a hectic world

the silences speak for themselves.

I wanted to write on the theme of minimalism. Where to take it became immediately obvious! This one helps make up for at least some of my past sins of prolixity.

18 Jars of PigFat - Nov 21 2022

 

18 Jars of Pig Fat

Nov 21 2022

When the hard drive froze

my data were corrupted

the internet broke,

I thought about the sum

of all of human knowledge

embedded in code;

how easily

it might be lost.

They say that somewhere

there is hardware

behind the ineffable cloud,

so nothing to worry about

   —  fibre optic lines

power stations

server farms,

as well as corporate custodians

watching over it all   —

but I've seen none of these 

with my own eyes,

can only rely

on what I’ve been told.

How odd, then

when they found the clay tablets

and all the data were intact.

Had lasted

for over 4000 years

buried in the desert sand

through war, pestilence, and famine,

the many dynasties

petty jealousies

and breathless intrigues

200 generations

of human frailty brings.

So much so

that old scores

if they hadn't already been settled

could still be set straight:

an ancient Sumerian ledger

in which 18 jars of pig fat

were dispensed and accounted for.

But more to the point

what is worth saving,

what do we value most?

Poetry

physics

philosophy?

Or gossip, commerce

forgotten gods?

And when civilization collapses

and all the data points

vanish into the ether

the only story will be this;

pig fat and taxes,

bad debts

etched in stone,

the random doodles

of bored scribes.

Not to mention Gilgamesh

and his quest to live forever.

Which, improbably

it seems he's attained,

at least in verse.

Cuneiform in clay.

Old reliable technology

when the world goes dark

and the last battery fails.

A poem for the Luddite in all of us.

Pretty Trees - Nov 20 2022

 

Pretty Trees

Nov 20 2022

The swamp, once the fog lifted

was even more dismal.

Thickets of dense vegetation

that claw at your legs

as you force your way through.

Fine silky spider webs

invisibly brushing your face.

And the broken stumps of scrawny trees

sticking out above the greenery,

their jagged ends

like reminders of mortality.

Soggy ground you sink in

and patches of sulphurous mud,

pools of standing water

stagnant with scum.

And as you draw closer

a deafening chorus of frogs,

birdsong

that sounds truly exotic

because they live only here.

And eventually, where the ground is lowest

the actual swamp,

that could just as well be bottomless

because you'd never set foot.

This is not the nature

you see on postcards;

the conventional aesthetic

we all find so appealing,

the replenishing sense

of purity

beauty

and spiritual renewal.

But the swamp, a jewel within a jewel

is how it really is

behind the palisade

of pretty trees;

not much to look at, at first,

but rich with diversity

resilience

life.

A different kind of beauty

that takes work.

That, like all high art

the avant garde

and hard complicated concepts,

takes time

and thought

and the cultivation of knowledge

to appreciate.

I think of the pretty girl

who instantly stands out.

Who, in a few years

no one will notice anymore.

And the late bloomer,

the beautiful woman

who emerges at a later age

but whose beauty will endure.

You could have seen it early

if you'd taken the time

to really look,

put in the work

of getting to know her well.

Perhaps unconventional in appearance,

but still

easy on the eyes.

And with a mature woman's

sophistication

grace

and depth.

At the risk of being ungentlemanly

I can't help

this comparison coming to mind.

Not the jewel

you thought you’d find,

but were lucky enough

to stumble across.

And not at all dismal;

instead, like the swamp

complicated,

interesting,

and teeming with life.

Lunch Rush - Nov 18 2022

 

Lunch Rush

Nov 18 2022

The guy eating pizza

with a knife and fork

draws sideways glances

and puzzled looks.

Someone pointed,

a few snickers were heard.

A slice,

like sandwiches and fruit

and the usual finger foods.

No mismatched spoons.

No cold hard steel

or sharpened prongs,

no implements

and less to wash.

For me, it has to be french fries

fork-free,

because there is something deeply tactile

about hand-to-mouth;

the feel

the heat

the savouring,

nothing coming in-between.

And then, a delectable ending

of finger-licking pleasure

to complete the meal.

But pizza?!!

A man of the people never would.

He must have been raised by respectable parents

who desperately wanted

to be polite and proper

and accepted by their higher-ups;

a cup of tea

in bone china

pinkie extended,

the correct utensil

for every course.

Immaculate hands

knife and fork.

Eventually, people stopped paying attention.

And he remained oblivious

to the shaken heads

and quizzical stares.

I felt badly

for having looked;

after all

it was none of my business

and each to his own.

In fact, I actually admire

his self-possession.

Parents

who had tried so hard to fit in,

and a grown son

who does what he does

regardless.

Mozart Died at 35 - Nov 16 2022

 

Mozart Died at 35

Nov 16 2022

Mozart died at 35.

Woolf and Plath

by suicide.

And the romantic poets

who drank themselves to death,

tragic, and hollow-eyed

in some cold dark garret.

Beethoven lost his hearing.

Orwell struggled to breath.

And the self-destructing artists

from Van Gogh to Basquiat.

But we remember them;

posterity has the last word.

I think about my own minor maladies,

the whining

and lame excuses.

How I never sacrificed

by going to war,

never fought fascists 

denounced the philistines

attacked the powerful.

How I still can't make music,

beautiful, or otherwise.

I am listening to a recording

of Concerto # 5

for violin and orchestra,

a virtuoso performance

and one of his most admired.

When I was that young

I had no idea,

and looking back

cringe at who I was.

Too old

to die young

and still no great poetry.

If art requires suffering

I'm condemned to mediocrity.

Can only hope

great art can also come

through hard experience

and the passage of time.

That I'll live long enough

to eventually stumble

on just the right words;

leave behind

at least a single line

worthy of posterity.

There is the stereotype of the artist as tormented and suffering. There is the tragic romance of dying young that makes an artist so much more memorable: the precocity; the lost potential. Is the admiration deserved? Is it the work itself, or more the story? And why do so many great artists have their lives cut short?

If I were to flatter myself my calling myself an artist, I can't claim any of that: no great suffering; still alive (at an age I'd rather not mention!) Any work worth remembering? That's for the reader to decide.

This poem started with the title. I read that Mozart suffered from smallpox, pneumonia, rheumatism, and typhoid fever; and died at the ridiculously young age of 35. How did he produce so much great music in so short a time? Does creativity require struggle and overcoming? And alternatively, can a quiet bourgeois life like mine produce anything worthwhile?

Shipping Season - Nov 15 2022

 

Shipping Season

Nov 15 2022

Early winter,

and I see a solitary freighter

anchored in the harbour

out past the breakwater.

It rides high

bobbing lightly on the swell,

yet to be loaded

for its final trip

with the last of the harvest this year.

The end of shipping season

and the lake is a cold black obelisk,

grey clouds

hover low.

While the hull

is a beacon of colour,

a luscious red, streaked with rust.

A flurry of snow fills the air,

wet sloppy flakes

that accumulate on land

but dissolve in the water as fast as they fall;

the vast forbidding lake

shrugging off winter

with indifferent ease.

In the deepening dark

the small windows are brightly lit,

so the workhorse ship

look almost festive against the gloom.

And with the smoke rising from its stack

I imagine a cozy fireplace

warmly ablaze

in a snug shipshape interior.

I can see it even now,

a still life

that could be a snow-globe

with its intricately rendered miniature.

But then I think of the sailors

voyaging out on the lake

into winter storms and towering waves;

the deadly cold and fickle weather,

the Edmund Fitzgerald

split down the middle

and lost at sea.

Soon, the inner harbour will turn to ice.

But Superior never freezes;

the vast forbidding lake

too powerful

for even winter to defeat.

Seeing is Believing - Nov 14 2022

 

Seeing is Believing

Nov 14 2022

There is the perennial question

of whether my red

is the same as yours.

In other words, the nature of reality.

Thing is, the world is not the colour we see.

Instead, it's a series of data points,

reflected light

of various frequencies

entering through the eyes

and into the brain.

Which means the earth is not a jewel

of blues and greens

and sunset reds,

it's a paint-by-number schematic

that the brain cleverly colours.

So we get beauty

and coloured light

instead of wavelengths flashing up;

numbers, super-imposed

on line drawings

on a blank canvas,

the way a cyborg would see.

Clever

because an image

is quicker to understand

and more easily remembered.

So reality

is more slippery than you'd think;

no longer fixed

and existing outside of us,

but a rendering

inside our heads.

After all, if we saw it

in ultra-violet and infrared

it would be altogether different.

Which brings me back to red.

And to when it's said

seeing is believing

and when I see it with my own eyes;

because there is no such thing

— everything is subjective,

who knows what's really out there.

Not when vision

is merely data entry.

Not when no one knows

what's really going on

in that inscrutable black box

inside your head.

The brain, playing games.

And the world

shifting shape

right before your eyes.

A Voice in Your Head - Nov 13 2022

 

A Voice in Your Head

Nov 13 2022

Hard to know

where the writing comes from.

You sit in your comfortable chair,

adjust the light,

select a favourite pen;

black ink

easy-gliding nub

good heft.

You need quiet

and write best at night.

The paper's unlined;

because you hate feeling confined,

and all the cross-outs and corrections

will leave a mess of palimpsest,

long snaky arrows

connecting the dots.

Then, it's like taking dictation;

a voice in your head

from who knows where.

Past lives?

The muse

only you can hear?

Your subconscious self

whispering in one ear?

Something you read.

Stuff someone told you

happened to them.

What you may have observed

or overheard,

at least imagine you did.

Stream of consciousness.

Whimsy, enchantment

and flights of fancy.

Clever twists of plot

you follow more than plan.

One word at a time

faithfully inscribed

in your own peculiar shorthand.

But always doubting and insecure,

unsure

if it's going anywhere,

will be any good,

reveal something

you'd rather keep to yourself.

So, is it your voice

or are you simply recording?

Is all you really are

just a good stenographer,

who listens well

and tries not to get the way?