Sparking Joy - Decv 26 2022

 

Sparking Joy

Dec 26 2022

The cluttered home

seems welcoming

and unpretentious.

It's cozy and warm

and has a lived-in look.

Like that well-adjusted person

who is comfortable in her own skin;

who knows what's important in life.

and has no fear of judgment.

Dust balls and puppy toys,

princess dolls

and plastic trucks.

Orphaned Legos

scattered like landmines

for unsuspecting feet.

And tattered magazines

on mismatched chairs,

library books

too overdue to care.

Not to mention dinner dishes

crusted with food

that have yet to be cleared,

yesterday's paper

splayed out on an ottoman

spilling onto the floor.

I, on the other hand, live alone.

Where the decor is spare

and everything has its place;

perhaps not sparking joy, exactly,

but what I've grown accustomed to.

And when I put something down

at least I don’t find it moved.

I suppose

it might appear a little cold.

A stranger

would walk gingerly here,

taking care

not to misstep;

perch on the edge of a chair

with his hands demurely folded.

Is there an opposite of hygge?

A Danish word

denoting home, comfort, conviviality.

Plush cushions

and over-stuffed chairs,

scuffed tables

and junk on the floor.

And my house

spare, fussy, airy.

Modern furniture

made of buffed blonde wood,

that looks good

but is hard on the back

and isn't for relaxing in.

A coffee table

with a few chosen objects

arranged just so.

And hardwood floors,

gleaming

in the thoughtfully placed light.

A Succession of Moments - Dec 25 2022

 

A Succession of Moments

Dec 25 2022

Some vaguely familiar scenes.

A smattering of dialogue

that made me wonder.

The plot

coming together

a little too predictably.

I was halfway through the movie

before I realized

I'd already watched.

And the article

that opened my eyes

to all these exciting ideas;

I'd felt I was wasting my time, rereading,

except that all of it

might as well have been new.

So, is anything worthwhile

if my memory

is a bottomless black-hole?

Am I incapable of learning?

Is my enjoyment even valid

the second time around?

I answer

by giving myself permission

to live in the moment  —

what went before doesn't matter,

and if I don't remember

so what?

Because life

is just a succession of moments

just like these.

Whether it goes anywhere

after that

is a matter of philosophy

not experience.

And as a nihilist

I'm inclined not to care.

Because in the end

nothing is futile

and everything is.

Anyway, the movie is better

the more discerning I get,

the more nuanced

my film IQ.

And the article

read critically

sticks;

who cares if it takes two tries

to glean at least a bit.

The favourite meal

I never tire of.

The song

that transports me back

to my first love,

no matter how often it comes on.

And really, one poem

pretty much like the rest;

variations on a theme

as if I'm plagiarizing myself.

But still, I write.

The pleasure

of words on the page

in and of itself.

It's been happening a lot lately: the movie I watched last night, right to the end; a raft of articles I know I’ve already read.

But I no longer beat myself up for wasting time, or make myself stop. I resist the feeling of futility: thinking that if things can totally disappear like that, what's the point.

Instead, I lean in, and find I enjoy just as much; usually more. Not everything need to be quantified, the cost and benefit measured out. Finding that it gives me pleasure is enough: the entertainment; the intellectual stimulation; the second go at deeper understanding.

We are told that the apotheosis of enlightenment is learning to live in the moment. So why scorn these immersive and enjoyable moments, simply because we've been there before?

An Interregnum of Calm - Dec 25 2022

 

An Interregnum of Calm

Dec 25 2022

The storm finally relented.

The clouds broke,

and we blinked, looking up

at an unfamiliar sun.

Then shovelled out,

making slow headway

going at it in layers

through the monster drifts.

It was as if overnight

the world had been remade,

it looked so different

under so much snow.

But untouched;

cold and crisp

and glittering with sun.

Wind-whipped

into smoothly sculpted shapes

that could have been modern art,

flowing and swirling and dipping down

into cleanly scoured gullies.

And working methodically

we carved out of it

a small space for ourselves;

geometric walls

straight lines

right angle turns.

In the aftermath

of such ferocity

the stillness felt monumental.

Imperious nature

granting an interregnum of calm;

like an all-powerful potentate

dispensing clemency

to her underlings,

while she busied herself

with important affairs of state.

A raging blizzard

in the days before Christmas.

And on the day itself

an island of peace.

As well as purification

by hard physical labour

in the welcome light

of a low winter sun.

The Morning After - Dec 25 2022

 

The Morning After

Dec 25 2022

It always ends this way.

Pumpkins rotting at the curb.

Spindly Christmas trees

shedding their needles

tossed in the snow.

The hangover from hell

New Year's day.

I am a pessimist.

I can't help but see

the ghost of the morning after

lurking in the shadows,

its grey sunken face

gazing hollow-eyed

at the breathless festivities

and giddy excess.

Because everything is zero sum;

in the end, someone pays.

But the tree was beautiful

the pumpkin elegantly carved.

And it was Champagne, no less,

who could refuse a glass?

After all, everything is temporary;

sooner or later

it all becomes waste

and we move on.

    . . . As, in the fullness of time

we too will be gone.

This is the secret of pleasure

   —  to lose yourself in the moment,

surrender

to your inner hedonist

and enjoy.

So I must learn to banish

my inner demons

and hovering ghosts.

Give in

to the festive season,

get drunk on life.

I tend to be pretty buttoned-down, find it hard to let go. As if too much indulgence would be tempting fate. As if I was saving myself for something. Which is as fallacious as saving time: imagining, I guess, that you'll get it back at the end!

Although I do have a legitimate beef with excess and waste. And there is virtue in restraint, after all.

A Long Enough Lever - Dec 24 2022

 

A Long Enough Lever

Dec 24 2022

I have no public persona.

I do not cultivate an image

curate my offerings

presume to influence.

A private person like me,

who leads a quiet life

keeps to himself

and tries not to bother anyone else,

will not change the world.

I've given up on that;

it's too far gone, already,

and I'm hardly suited to the job.

Not that I don't feel strongly

about our shared dilemma;

it's just that I feel powerless

and demoralized.

So I'm no agent of change.

There will be no statues

erected in my name.

I will not be celebrated

commemorated

or even much remembered.

My work

will not be archived and treasured,

likely never even read.

But there is much to be said

for the small life.

It keeps me very much aware

of my own unimportance.

I don't depend on attention,

approval or consent,

conventional ways of being.

And in a culture

that's always striving for more

   —  status, stuff, celebrity,

an ever bigger GNP   —

a little more modesty

would certainly help.

But I do regret my failure

to live up to my potential.

What if I'd done better?

Like Archimedes long enough lever

used my abilities

to nudge the world

and alter its trajectory?

Because a public life

seems a more worthwhile legacy

than words on a page.

Despite all the scrutiny it entails.

Despite how unnatural a fit

for a man like me.

Despite the immutable law

of unintended consequence

   —  the many pitfalls

of the self-certain crusader

in even the most noble cause.

Return of the LIght - Dec 24 2022

 

Return of the Light

Dec 24 2022

To find myself here

in this hot dry land

of choking dust and desert sand

where covered women and bearded men

crowd a bustling bazaar

is like a fever dream

on Christmas Eve.

No jolly elf.

No busy malls.

No red and green colour schemes

and sentimental music.

No snow,

no dark winter nights

of festive lights and chimney smoke.

Entire worlds

circling like alien planets

oblivious to each other.

Canny buyers haggling

and the call to prayer,

while families back home

prepare for the big event.

We look inward.

We rarely imagine different worlds

so diametrically opposed.

Although it's not so much opposition

as simple ignorance;

the narrow solipsism

of ways of life.

And when I return

I too will be invisible;

a non-believer

raised in a different tradition

who ghosts through Christmas

unconcerned and unobserved;

like an anthropologist

detached from the object of study,

both fascinated

and mystified.

But perfectly content

to stand apart

from the hustle and bustle

and pressure to buy.

From the strained family relations

and disappointed expectations

after all the hype and hurry;

the hypocrisy

of the season of giving

and return of the light.

After a conversation with my neighbour, a poem about my relationship to Christmas — that overwhelming and all-consuming cultural phenomenon — was on my mind.

The title, as well as the final line, call back to the pagan origin of the holiday season — so opportunistically appropriated by the early Church — and is itself a kind of hypocrisy: the bacchanalian decadence condemned by traditional Christianity now incorporated into its most celebrated occasion. This is similar to the hypocrisy inherent in the season of giving and reflection having become more about consumption and social pressure.

Out of Sorts - Dec 23 2022

 

Out of Sorts

Dec 23 2022

Under the weather.

Out of sorts.

Indisposed.

I say such things

to excuse my absence

explain why the house is a mess.

Even though, in plain English

I'm sick;

nothing to do with disposition

or the weather.

It's as if sickness was stigmatized;

some kind of weakness

bad attitude

flawed character.

And then there's contagion, of course;

people keeping their distance

averting their heads.

The leper

exiled to his colony

behind its locked gates.

Actually, it's a hero's tale   —

an evil virus

battling my immunity,

a story of perseverance

and contending with misery.

When I was young and immortal

I was amused when old people consoled themselves

at least I’ve got my health.

But afflicted with fever, headache, congestion

and too exhausted to leave my bed

I have learned humility.

Health is everything.

And in sickness, we are all the same;

miserable, whiny, dependent.

Under the weather

and hardly myself.

Hopes and Prayers - Dec 22 2022

 

Hopes and Prayers

Dec 22 2022

It's not your life flashing before your eyes,

not an autobiographical recounting.

It's more the texture of your life

so far.

Thoughts of those left behind

with no final good-bye.

The triumphs and regrets

and hopes unmet.

The love you gave, and were given,

or weren't ready to accept.

So as I sat

seat uptight, table-tray secured

white-knuckling the landing,

pulse racing

and ramrod straight,

  —   the plane

shaking and rattling,

dropping sharply,

and speeding blind

through pea soup fog  —

I found a distracting illusion of calm

in my powerlessness.

Surrendering

to forces greater than me.

And after the reassuring sight

too close to touching down

of lights through the mist.

After hitting hard and bouncing,

reverse thrusters powering,

and the usual leisurely taxi

until we bumped to a stop,

the banality was striking.

All the prayers

resolutions

and promises

in seconds, forgotten,

heartbeats normalized

hands unclenched.

Our relief, fleeting

the routine, surreal

as the adrenaline emptied out.

The whining engines cut.

Impatient passengers lining up

and rummaging through the overhead.

The bored attendant

dutifully manning the exit,

flashing her smile

as if she meant it

in the blessedly cool air.

We move on,

the anxious flyers

the hardened regulars.

Jostling at the carousel

as the luggage tumbles down

one piece at a time,

only hoping and praying

that ours hadn't been lost.

Unsure of Yourself - Dec 21 2022

 

Unsure of Yourself

Dec 21 2022

From low earth orbit

you can see the curve of the planet

against the black void of space.

The edge of the atmosphere,

eggshell thin

this distance

from mother earth.

Look down on clouds

so far below

that seem to hug the surface

far too close.

Witness from above

lightning noiselessly arc,

like synapses sparking

and axons firing

in a living human brain;

always somewhere

in the turbulent churning of air.

Except you wonder how life is possible

in such a hostile alien place.

Look the other way

and see how small you are.

How fragile

is the green and blue planet

your only home.

Where we are all astronauts

travelling through space

on life support.

Where the sky blocks the view,

and only far out at sea

on clear moonless nights

does a window on the cosmos open

for a brief privileged moment

and you feel the same as the astronaut,

an insignificant speck

suspended between

two vast and hostile oceans,

two bottomless voids.

Where the ship

that looked so impressive moored to the wharf

shrinks to a fragile speck of flotsam

tossed by the sea.

And where,

rocking roughly

as the ship pitches under your feet

you feel even smaller;

as unsure of your place in the universe

as your place on deck.

I think the common denominator of all experiences of awe – notably in the context of witnessing great spectacles of nature – is a feeling of smallness. We mostly go through life focused on ourselves, being self-referential, placing ourselves at the centre. When you are suddenly reduced to insignificance, it makes you doubt this solipsistic world view. It's a humbling experience that renders your previous certainties – your sense of yourself and your place in the world – far less sure. Here, the poem ends with a literal manifestation of that uncertainty. But, of course, it's also intended metaphorically.

Consumed by Fire - Dec 20 2022

 

Consumed by Fire 🔥

Dec 20 2022

It must be prehistoric

the hold fire has on us,

an ancestral memory

we carry from birth.

I gaze into its dancing flames,

eyes rapt

heat soaking in.

The effect is hypnotic

and I'm an automaton,

feeding it fuel

stoking it higher.

How fascinated we are,

how tempted

by its power.

Animals use tools,

even have opposable thumbs.

They plan and remember,

mourn the dead,

feel love.

But only we captured fire,

aspired to the sun

and made off with its prize.

Which, like all great riches

both empowers and consumes.

My wood-stove

glowing invitingly,

its soft flickering light

warming the room.

And the forest

reduced to ash.

The burning cross

of the Ku Klux Klan.

The fire-bombed city

still smouldering,

a wasteland

of smoking ruins

and badly charred remains.

An agonized grimace

seared in

to the faces of the dead,

their final seconds spent

desperately gasping for air.

Where scattered bodies

blackened and stiffened

are either curled-up in fetal position

or fused tightly together;

clinging to each other

in an undying gesture

of love.

This started off as a paean to the joys of a good fire on a cold winter night. But even then, there is always lurking in the back of my mind an awareness of chimney fires: the two-edged sword of playing with fire. Perhaps, though, it was having just finished reading about Russia's scorched earth war on Ukraine that really led me down the dark misanthropic path this poem ended up taking.

I think of Tokyo, Dresden, Grozny. Language and the abstract thought it permits is what distinguishes the human animal from the rest. Fire, as well. And this is what we do with our great gifts?

Thr Sum of What We Recall - Dec 19 2022

 

The Sum of What We Recall

Dec 19 2022

I distrust

my earliest memory.

A fleeting impression

of a toddler playing alone

behind a wooden fence

looking out at the street.

But what I see is myself, not the view.

As if I already had acquired

the skill of distance,

imagining how I was seen

my place in the world.

A detachment

that's with me still;

the dispassionate watcher,

disembodied

at will.

But how much do we truly remember?

And how much

re-invent or forget,

confabulate

appropriate

synthesize?

When all we are is the sum

of what we recall,

how can we truly know ourselves

when memory

is so unreliable?

At least this uncertainty is humbling.

Because when nothing is known for sure

we must temper our convictions

and listen to different retellings.

And if we can't even be sure of ourselves

then anyone

becomes possible.

Bad Roads - Dec 19 2022

 

Bad Roads

Dec 19 2022

Nothing changed

when we crossed the state line.

The prairie sky

and distant mountains,

dry scrub-land

blowing dust.

Store-fronts, boarded up,

cluttered junkyards

where abandoned cars

go to rust.

There was a welcome sign, of course,

and the pavement abruptly changed.

Because on this side

they believe on self-reliance;

small government

low taxes

bad roads.

Someone had used the sign

for target practice.

Nice welcome, I thought

to the Old West

the New Frontier.

But we are coastal.

As far as you can go,

and just as mythological

in its own way.

Where all the misfits, contrarians

and creators end up;

like rolling stones

that only an ocean can stop,

piling up against the coast

and shaking things up.

We kept the windows shut

A/C on high.

The scenery scrolled by

at highway speed,

but we rarely looked out.

Not with our eyes

cast down on our devices,

the virtual world

with its many distractions

we never left behind.

That travels with us

no matter what.

And after we crossed the great divide

it was an easy downhill,

coasting all the way

to the end of the road.

A parable for the 2 solitudes of red and blue America. Divided on lines of race, young and old, urban and rural, educated or not. Those fearful of change, and those embracing it. At best, not listening. At worst, demonizing the other.