The Art of Cursive - Jan 30 2023

 

The Art of Cursive

Jan 30 2023

The handwriting was all hers,

a distinctive script

in elegant cursive

of the sort every child

was once expected to master.

The extravagant flourish

at the end of k,

her generous e's.

The green ink,

so idiosyncratic

I can't help but smile.

And the way she would run out of room,

squeezing in the last few lines

before the page ran out.

Just like her,

enthusiastic, resourceful

not the best planner.

Even the paper,

which was thick and creamy

and showed her care.

I rarely wrote back.

Phoned, perhaps,

more likely a text.

My cursive is terrible,

and aside from that

mail's too slow

letters too long.

So she will have nothing

to remember me by.

While I have a shoebox of letters

on acid free paper

carefully folded away.

It's been several years

since they stopped coming.

While the texts return

undelivered,

and the phone just answers

number no longer in service.

A flat disinterested voice

of indeterminate sex;

no beep to leave a message,

no forwarding address.

A recent article in the Atlantic on the decline of cursive elicited a strong reader response. The dialogue in the magazine suggested a poem.

The direction it took is telling. Perhaps a reflection of how my autistic tendencies have always made it difficult for me to sustain relationships.

The poem also contains an implied commentary on our modern fetish for saving time, as well as the decline of social graces. So with that mind, it seems fitting to have included two charming throwbacks: old shoeboxes, and handwritten letters.

I never really became comfortable with cursive, and now when I write by hand — which is surprisingly infrequent — I invariably print. I'm one of those right handers who writes backhand, so maybe the tendency to smear wet ink explains my difficulty.

Head Bent Over the Wheel - Jan 29 2023

 

Head Bent Over the Wheel

Jan 29 2023

The earthy smell.

The wet clay

turning beneath my fingertips,

slippery

yet with a pleasing sensation of grit.

The dull thump

of the steadily circling wheel.

Throwing a pot

is like being a kid again;

the messiness

of hands in the mud

and spattered clay,

play for the sake of play

not as a means

but for its own sake.

They say this is the stuff

from which Man was made,

formed, like my lopsided pots

by the hands of God.

The celestial potter

in his heavenly studio

churning out copies of us,

head bent over the wheel

contentedly at work.

     . . . Or was it dust?

As in the prayer for the dead

ashes to ashes and dust to dust.

Not that I make anything much.

My ceramic art

is at best aspirational,

ending up

in ugly ashtrays

and bad vases .

The clay, uneven

glaze, patchy,

and after the firing

unpleasant shades

that surprise even me

dripping down the sides.

Which is perfectly fine,

because it's all in the making

not the result.

The uplifting sense

of possibility.

The feeling of wet clay

taking shape in my hands.

And the meditative

turning of the wheel,

feet on the treadle

in an easy regular

back and forth.

At least the ashtrays

   —  unattractive as they are

and thoroughly impractical  —

have character.

As if in creation, we were made

one at a time,

then set aside

in the discard pile.

Unique

imperfect

and kind of homely,

but kept, nevertheless

for sentimental reasons.

And, like that junk drawer full of stuff

worth keeping.

Because who knows

may even be of use some day.

I've been watching a short TV series in which one of the characters is a ceramic artist, and makes beautiful pots. This reminded me of my mother's long ago and ill-fated attempts at pottery: it was a running joke in the family that no matter how they started out, everything eventually turned into an ashtray.     . . .And none of us even smoked! The poem began with these two thoughts in mind, and then found its way.

Female Complaints - Jan 28 2023

 

Female Complaints

Jan 28 2023

Whatever happened

to ague, the grippe, the vapours?

Dropsy

barrel fever

breakbone?

There was even Disease of the Learned,

which I can't be sure of

but could be existential angst.

Or perhaps myopia,

from squinting at scholarly manuscripts

by flickering candlelight.

There is power in naming.

A solid name

conveys authority;

concealing ignorance

by sounding masterful.

It's descriptive

but also inscrutable,

the sort of incomprehensible jargon

the anointed

jealously guard for themselves

while excluding the hoi polloi.

Colourful, not technocratic.

Ad hoc, not systematic.

And memorable

in its horrible specificity;

mortification

Black Death

apoplectic,

consumption

and Bloody Sweat.

Pronounce a name,

then treat

with monkey glands

and hair of the dog,

physic

blood-let

naturopathy.

Or even hysterectomy.

Ideal

for hysteria

and other female complaints.

Held down and gagged,

no anaesthetic

antisepsis

washing of hands.

Just laudanum for pain.

Thoughts and prayers.

The mercy of God.

In the Oct 2015 edition of the Atlantic, Alison Gopnik wrote this about the 18th century philosopher David Hume:

As a teenager, he’d thought he had glimpsed a new way of thinking and living, and ever since, he’d been trying to work it out and convey it to others in a great book. The effort was literally driving him mad. His heart raced and his stomach churned. He couldn’t concentrate. Most of all, he just couldn’t get himself to write his book. His doctors diagnosed vapors, weak spirits, and “the Disease of the Learned.” Today, with different terminology but no more insight, we would say he was suffering from anxiety and depression. The doctors told him not to read so much and prescribed antihysteric pills, horseback riding, and claret—the Prozac, yoga, and meditation of their day.

I couldn't resist “vapors, weak spirits, and “Disease of the Learned”!

(https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2015/10/how-david-hume-helped-me-solve-my-midlife-crisis/403195/)

Bad Movie - Jan 27 2023

 

Bad Movie

Jan 27 2023

The plot doesn’t so much thicken

as it plunges over the edge.

Tightropes mountain roads

through switchback turns

and dark damp tunnels.

Pauses on the crest

of a steep-sided slope

to survey the vast panorama below,

before descending

into an unmapped wilderness

of off-ramps and back-tracks

and blind intersections.

Where it ends

in 2 muddy ruts,

an impassable thicket

of densely forested woods.

And if the complicated plot

hadn’t already lost you,

the flat characters and dull setting would.

The thin theme

of simple good-and-evil.

The neat ending

you can see coming,

or a trick one

coming out of the blue.

And the weak dialogue,

too unnatural

and melodramatic

to suspend disbelief.

The book is better, they say.

But isn’t it always?

The movie in your head,

director

film editor

and cinematographer,

cook

and chief bottle-washer.

The author

of your own fictional offering,

falling asleep in bed

the book propped on your chest;

transformed, in your dreams

to something even better.

Then promptly forget

first thing next morning

the moment you open your eyes.

Bad movies (and books) depend too much on convoluted plot, which not only hurts my head to follow, but usually neglects far more interesting thing like character, setting, and dialogue. Not to mention that with a complicated plot come the inevitable inconsistencies, omissions, coincidences, and leaps of illogic. Which I can’t help but notice, and immediately take me out of the movie. The essential suspension of disbelief — the escapist immersion in another world — becomes impossible. After awhile of trying, I can no longer buy it. Fast forward to the end.

I prefer a simple plot and interesting characters. The plot is a convenient vehicle, not an end in itself. I want to feel something. What I don’t want is an exercise in keeping track. Good example, and the last movie I saw: The Power of the Dog. Hits all the right notes!

Future Archeology - Jan 25 2023

 

Future Archeology

Jan 25 2023

In an age of obsolescence

remains are everywhere.

There is no digging down

to find the bypassed bridges

streaked with rust,

defunct malls

where birds nest

and glass litters the floor.

The gutted factories,

where all that's left

are crumbling remnants of structural steel.

What once were bustling hives of industry

now silent and still,

looming over the landscape

like the hulking remains

of extinct giants.

An abandoned village

where animals roam

and nature encroaches;

trees, pushing through concrete,

greenery running riot.

No tedious sifting of layers,

no precious artifacts

unearthed intact.

Just abandoned buildings

and ransacked relics

standing in plain sight.

So where are the people

who lived and built and planned?

Are they huddled underground?

Have they fled,

seeking refuge

in the few grim cities

where life subsists?

Or are they dead,

consumed

by their own hubris and greed?

And what will future archeologists think?

War, pandemic, civil unrest?

Too much, too soon, too fast?

The Roman Coliseum

has lasted thousands of years,

while our works

are already turning to dust.

Nothing left

but a vague remembrance,

handed down

through story and legend.

Nothing left

but these magnificent ruins

they will struggle to understand;

monuments

that have long outlasted 

their deeply flawed creators.

I've just written this, and am sitting saying “wow” to myself. What a dystopic turn! It certainly didn't start out with this in mind. Interesting how I wrote it almost like taking dictation: stream of consciousness; straight through, almost word for word as it is now. So, is this me, a notorious pessimist and misanthrope? Or is it the zeitgeist of the times, and I simply swim in it?

It was actually this photo essay that triggered me. I suspect it was the awful beauty and pathos of abandonment I was hoping to capture. Not a metaphor for hubris and greed!

https://www.theatlantic.com/photo/2018/08/photos-of-abandoned-russia/566984/

I think the article I recently read was also in the back of my mind. The Romans, who so confidently bestrode the ancient world, and built for permanence, not obsolescence.

https://news.mit.edu/2023/roman-concrete-durability-lime-casts-0106

Trajectory - Jan 25 2023

 

Trajectory

Jan 25 2023

It was a routine enough start,

countdown, ignition, launch.

But the trajectory must have been off

by just a fraction;

a misplaced decimal

or faulty conversion,

a number forgotten

keystroke dropped.

So the further on we went

the divergence kept on widening;

not just the wrong destination

but destination unknown.

To lose one's trajectory.

To be stalled

off course

lost,

not sure where you're going

or even sure where you've been.

I've been feeling that way for awhile;

not where I expected to be,

no sense

of anything meaningful ahead.

I think of of the rocket

that blasted off for Mars

but somehow missed,

just a little too far

from its gravitational pull

to slip seamlessly into orbit.

And now it's hurtling through space

and by the outer planets

into the vast unknown.

Where it will travel forever,

the dead men on board

preserved in its cold airless capsule.

I wonder how it felt

gazing out the small quartz-glass windows

as the red planet

sailed past,

their last chance

at solid ground

and certainty of purpose.

How did they sound

on the last message home

before the crackling transmitter failed?

What was said

in the last note

to the people they loved,

left for posterity

but never to be read?

And in the end

when all hope was lost

did they accept their awful fate?

Find peace?

At least resign themselves?

Or did they bargain

improvise

cling to life?

Rant and rave and rail

at its unfairness?

Fight to the death

even when no hope was left,

just a void

of cold black emptiness?

Swimming Naked in the Sun - Jan 24 2023

 

Swimming Naked in the Sun

Jan 24 2023

There are many words for this.

Like 40 words for snow;

when life depends on it

and a single one

is hardly enough.

Mature

silver fox

emeritus.

Old

senior

pensioner.

Geriatric

elderly

frail.

The unlucky

die too soon

but stay forever young.

The rest of us grow old.

And as much

as we're reluctant to use the words

will go on getting older.

At our own pace

in our own good time,

but nevertheless

progressing through the stages

as bodies fail

and minds dull.

And as the old terms get freighted

with unpleasant connotations

like useless

impaired

infirm,

we come up with new ones.

So the old became seniors

and seniors, elders,

which sounds less dismissive

more respectful.

Until, that is, it doesn't

and we invent something else.

Because while words may change

attitudes do not.

Or you can refuse to get old

by staying young at heart.

After all, when old age starts

is up to you,

no matter what word they use;

amazing

how how far middle aged can be stretched!

And even older people

can swim naked in the sun

dance after dark,

organize a protest march

fall hopelessly in love.

And even frail and bed-bound

the mind can stay sharp.

An elder, with wisdom to impart.

How sad

no one's listening.

One of the last acceptable prejudices: ageism. However, unlike the others, it doesn’t discriminate: unless you’re unlucky enough to die young, we all experience old age. So young people beware: your turn is coming!

It's interesting how fresh language works for awhile, but can’t ultimately overcome ingrained attitudes.

I apologize for having no female equivalent to silver fox. “Grey panther” has been used, but not at all widely. “Silver vixen” would work technically, but hasn't caught on. And “cougar” — with its predatory and somewhat judgemental connotation — means something very different. However, I understand that silver fox can cut both ways. If not in practice, them least in theory!

Little Fires Everywhere - Jan 23 2023

 

Little Fires Everywhere

Jan 23 2023

Little fires everywhere.

Until the smoke thickens,

wind picks up,

and the dull glow

you could glimpse in the underbrush

erupts in flame.

That's just life, they said;

there's always something

on the front burner,

you can't help but smell smoke.

And after all, it felt manageable

when it was kids playing with matches.

When it was running between

lightning strikes

dumpster fires

and tinder dry woods.

When it was OK

to wait for the rain

that had always come before.

But this feels different.

Spontaneous combustion.

A conflagration.

The world on fire.

The 3-legged stool

of oxygen, fuel, ignition.

An exothermic reaction

that once it gets started

feeds on itself.

I'm not sure what kills.

When the heat gets too much?

The smoke overwhelms?

There's no oxygen left?

And when all the fuel's consumed

     . . . what next?

Just an evocative expression I've often heard, and felt like riffing on. It's a good metaphor for busy lives. But as the poem goes on, one can't help but think about climate change as well.

Person of Interest - Jan 22 2023

 

Person of Interest

Jan 22 2023

A person of interest

according to the police report.

But interesting?

Worth listening to?

Amusing?   …entertaining?    …original?

I always thought

if I could at least be that;

if not handy

good looking

or athletically gifted,

then at minimum

not boring to listen to.

A welcome guest

good conversationalist.

But, of course, the law has something else in mind.

Interesting

in the way we're perversely attracted

to con men and drug lords

and the cleverly larcenous.

To elaborate heists

and daring crimes,

glamorous outlaws

like Bonnie and Clyde.

To the lifer

on the lam from Alcatraz

who's still at large.

Except here, the object of interest

is a witness

with something to hide,

some petty criminal

too dumb to lie.

A suspect

they want to keep thinking

is not in their sights.

Of interest

but hardly interesting.

The ambiguity and understatement of this expression never fails to amuse me. So I finally decided to play around with it, and this is the result.

Busy Sidewalk - Jan 22 2023

 

Busy Sidewalk

Jan 22 2023

It didn't take long

to stop noticing,

carried along by the crowd.

Who all had somewhere to be,

most

with their heads down

intent on their phones.

A busy sidewalk

where the sea of humans parted

as if by some 6th sense,

stepping around the man

with the gaunt and grizzled face

huddled under sleeping bags

and pressed close to garbage bags

containing all he has.

Not panhandling,

just broken

exhausted

no place to go.

Who had planted himself there

in the middle of the day,

as if indifferent to the world

he had given up on

or that gave up on him.

At first, it felt uncomfortable

ignoring the homeless folk.

That is, until they became just part of the scenery;

as inanimate as light poles

bus stop benches.

As if the hypothetical question

had once been asked of them

   —   which superpower

invisibility, or flight?   —

and they had chosen badly.

Everywhere

ratty blankets

and ramshackle tents,

homeless people dressed

in multiple layers

in the bitter winter cold;

old clothes

from a previous life

that could use a good wash.

Wet feet

bad teeth

bummed smokes.

Unhoused, not homeless

we're supposed to say.

But either way, I've stopped noticing.

Or, as scripture says, the poor will always be with us

so it must be true.

Although it used to be

the odd guy with his hand out,

some halfhearted buskers

playing bad guitar.

Not whole encampments

in public parks.

Not people

on busy sidewalks

like rocks in a stream.

Not deftly stepping around them

and all their earthly possessions

as if they'd always been there,

and probably

deserved to be.

This photo, which accompanied an article in this weekend's Globe, immediately struck me. The poem quickly followed.

I had to include wet feet. Because it really stayed with me when I read that the simplest, most basic, and most easily neglected thing you can do for people living rough is a good pair of dry socks. Cold feet. Wet socks with holes in them that are getting thin, soiled, and stiff. Yuck!! Who wouldn’t immediately identify!