Detached - Feb 21 2023

 

Detached

Feb 21 2023

My tenuous link

to the outside world

reminds me of faith.

A belief

in the unseeable.

A reliance

on a thin tether

of electromagnetic waves

delivered from some distant place;

like Moses

with his 10 commandments

descending from the mountaintop.

The disembodied voice.

The flashy showmanship.

The indulgences

and hypocrites

and list of strict do nots.

And so long as I cleave to this theology

I can live detached,

a pseudo-reality

of image and sound,

a simulacrum of life.

Here, in my hermitage;

a refuge

of solitude and reclusion,

but with all the comforts of home.

Where, like a voyeur

I eavesdrop on the world,

hearing

but never heard.

A vow of silence

in which I had no choice.

If only I could raise my voice

in the vernacular.

Pin my thesis to the door.

Overturn the tables

where the money changers

serve Mammon

and his lesser gods.

Submission - Feb 21 2023

 

Submission

Feb 21 2023

What do I make

of all the rejection slips?

The boilerplate

with a few polite sentences

that leave me questioning

if I was ever really read.

And now, on-line;

as if not even worth

the price of a stamp.

I know I'm too easily

demoralized and depressed.

But in this

feel aggrieved as well.

Find myself indulging

in the warm pee of victimhood

self-pity

injustice,

unbecoming as they are.

Along with vaguely paranoid thoughts,

persecuted

by the incestuous “they”;

the all-knowing arbiters,

guardians

of the academic gates.

So what to make?

Paper airplanes?

Wallpaper?    ... placemats?    ... origami cranes?

Tinder

kindling

feeding the flames?

Or from now on

refuse to submit.

The purity

of the poet

who writes for its own sake.

The inner nihilist

I've tried to suppress.

Who knows

that nothing matters anyway.

That there is no posterity

even for the greats.

And that in the end

nothing lasts

and there's no escaping death.

Stephen Marche's The Fine Art of Failure was published in today's Atlantic (https://www.theatlantic.com/culture/archive/2023/02/writing-creative-careers-success-failure-rejection-persistence/673122/). It's reassuring to read about famous writers who were repeatedly rejected. It seems that persistence is as crucial as talent.

I don't make a living at this, and I can't be bothered to submit. (Although I did a few times very early on. Even had a smidgen of success.) Especially since my poetry probably doesn't pass either the academic or avant garde sniff test. Can I claim some kind of artistic purity in this? Probably not. It's much more laziness and a thin skin. Nevertheless, even if I'm never read, the writing is still a compulsion. And even if I'm never read, I still write for a hypothetical reader, not just myself: like everyone but the diarist, I write to be heard.

My inner nihilist isn't so inner. And as I've written before, there is much to be said for nihilism. Its essential humility. Its acknowledgement of one's insignificance. Its antidote to self-importance. Its gift of an amused detachment from the presumed seriousness of life.

Freudian Slip - Feb 20 2023

 

Freudian Slip

Feb 20 2023

There are no accidents

Freud said,

spoken like a scientist

who believes 

everything can be explained.

Even the alchemy

of the subconscious mind.

So when the collision happened

I resisted that loaded word

and searched for a cause.

My inattention?

The other driver's fault?

The bad weather

poor lighting

worse road?

It would help

if the collision itself

   —  the moment of impact, the aftermath  —

has not been wiped clean;

no memory,

or at least no conscious one.

And if there really are no accidents

would life not be perfect,

good intentions

be good enough?

As if we could always be

in control.

As if there was no such thing

as coincidence,

serendipity,

bad luck.

As if there was no black ice,

no blind intersections

in space and time.

2 tons

of steel and glass

at 80 k times 2.

A frictionless slip,

and the simple physics

of force and mass.

The hard problem

of the subconscious mind

is not so easily quantified.

The trauma

you can spend a lifetime talking out.

It's been suggested that car “accident” is a misnomer: these are strictly collisions; and in what way are they accidental if there is always something that could have been done better? Driver training. Road design. Lighting. Signage.

The Freud quote immediately came to mind, a quote that has been popularly reduced to the expression “Freudian slip”: as if nothing is ever inadvertently said. A cigar is never just a cigar; the phallic implications unavoidable! Since the poem began after reading a piece about someone's struggles with a brain injury received in a collision, I thought Freud had something to say about both subjects: the pedantic concern for language, as well as the psychological ramifications of trauma. So what else but losing control on black ice: a literal Freudian slip!

I'm not fan of Freud's theories or the rigour of his methods, although I do respect his role in pioneering our understanding of the complexity of the human mind. He was trained as a neurologist, so very much a scientist. Even though I would say that his work — as the poem avers — veers closer to alchemy than science.

Long Tail - Feb 19 2023

 

Long Tail

Feb 19 2023

The first time

a teacher introduced the curve

and told us we'd be graded by comparison

it sounded fair;

wrong answers wouldn't really count

if few among us got them.

How convenient

that the curve can be shifted;

either smartened-up

or dumbed down.

The wisdom of crowds.

The tyranny

of the majority.

Bit it also means

there is nothing absolute

about knowledge;

truth

is what the plurality

say it is.

Still, the symmetry 

of the normal distribution curve

is almost metaphysical,

so many things

in nature and life

conform.

Except that  nowadays

normal is problematic;

we are all special

everyone passes,

and just because you aren't average

doesn't mean you're “abnormal”

or to be judged.

Which is good,

because no one's truly average

in everything,

and normal

is a suffocating box

that demeans difference

and belittles originality.

And the long tail

that can go on and on;

ever fewer of us

crouching underneath,

crowded together

in a shrinking space

as the curve inexorably descends.

Statistical anomalies,

so far from the norm

we breathe different air,

pass through the the world

as if transparent.

And then, at its very end

find we're by ourselves.

A constituency of one,

unique

and idiosyncratic.

Which we all really were

from the start.

Cold Warning - Feb 19 2023

 

Cold Warning

Feb 19 2023

The cold warning

about wind chill and frozen skin

exposed for mere seconds,

a broken-down car

as a life-threatening event,

must have been missed

by the young men

striding boisterously out of the gym,

bareheaded

in short pants and light jackets,

athletic shoes

half unlaced.

They are laughing at bad jokes,

comparing the weights

they bench-pressed today,

razzing their buddies

about girlfriends who dumped them.

The mean banter

of men who are fond of each other,

mercilessly sussing out

the soft underbelly

to stick their pointed wit.

When you're young, apparently

bare skin doesn’t freeze

and legs are immune to cold,

just as knees are indestructible

and you can eat all the junk you desire.

While mortality

is a hypothetical notion

of interest only to the old;

who, they assume, were always that age.

Like wild horses

galloping with sure indifference

through winter canyons deep in snow

they are oblivious,

too vital

to even feel it

    —  big bodied creatures,

manes streaming and nostrils steaming,

body heat

radiating off their powerful flanks.

I watch

from the warmth of the driver's seat,

questioning how reckless

but envious of their ease.

The heater

is jacked-up to max

as I tick off my checklist  —

arctic boots,

mitts-scarf-and-hat,

parka zipped tight.

Then exit the car.

Treacherous ice,

and a blast of cold

that takes my breath away.

My Awkward Phase - Feb 17 2023

 

My Awkward Phase

Feb 17 2023

I'm still in my awkward phase.

You'd have thought I'd grown out of it, by now;

but here I am an adult

and I still feel an imposter,

not grown-up at all.

I'm surprised

they haven't seen through my facade.

An adolescent

fearfully peering out

from a grown man's body,

the child

inside us all.

Somehow, everyone else figured it out.

Grew into themselves.

Became their parents,

even if it was

the last thing they intended.

Others regressed

as age caught up with them.

And some, like me, are arrested;

the missed steps

and squandered opportunities

forever lost.

Is there something to be said

for this in-between state,

some good that can come?

Or is it too late?

I always imagined

the fullness of time would settle me;

but I'm still too far behind,

and now, whatever time is left

is so much less

than what's been lost.

Pronounced - Feb 17 2023

 

Pronounced

Feb 17 2023

The time of death pronounced.

The alarm muted

leads removed

O2 disconnected.

Although for now

the breathing tube remained.

The crash cart was wheeled away

and the responders filtered out,

chatting amiably

as they returned to their regular duties

from another Code Blue.

A cleaner came.

Two nurses stayed,

to prepare the body

complete the paperwork.

What I found so touching

was the care they took.

How gently they turned her.

How respectful they were;

washing the body,

fixing her hair,

straightening her hands

    —  which were clenched, and already stiffening.

The effort they made

to restore her privacy,

replacing the gown

remaking the bed

snugging the sheets

up under her chin.

So when her husband came

after they called him with the news

his last view of her

would remind him how she lived.

So he would be protected

from the violence of her death.

The messy hospital room,

dried blood

staining the bed,

broken ribs and swollen neck.

From the indignity

of resuscitation

    —   the rare successes,

the failed attempts.

All the nurses knew him.

He visited every day;

brought flowers

sat for hours

never complained.

He is sitting there now,

at her bedside

and speaking to his wife;

conversing

as if she answered him,

stroking her hair

with a tentative hand.

And even though needy patients

were waiting for rooms,

no one could bear

to interrupt his grieving

and coax him from her side.

Even when

after awhile

one of the nurses returned,

clearing her throat

so as not to surprise him.

She bent close

placed a hand on his shoulder

and whispered some words in his ear.

Then straightened and left,

gently closing the door behind her.

I'm a little self-conscious about finding myself on the subject of death once again. But so it goes. A morbid personality!

I think this was inspired by an excellent movie I recently saw (Netflix has it) called The Good Nurse. More that than from real life!

Coupling - Feb 16 2023

 

Coupling

Feb 16 2023

I have yet to write a love poem.

Yes, poems of desire.

Of longing and lust.

Cynical takes

on love lost

betrayed

regretted.

And the other kinds of love

that don't involve

either falling or luck.

But if I do

you will not read it here.

Rather, I will hold her hand,

reciting it by heart

when the lights are out,

at night

in bed

lying side-by-side.

A poem

just between us

in that liminal state

between wakefulness and sleep.

Words

that instead of taking up space

like gifts of candy and Hallmark cards

extinguish it,

drawing us closer

until we are one.

A sonnet, or romantic ode.

Blank verse, perhaps

or even rhyming couplets.

Then who cares

if the poem turns to prose

then speaking in tongues;

unbridled lust

when love is done with words.

A self-proclaimed poet who never writes about romantic love can't be much of a poet. (As to my ability, you're free to decide. As to the why not, you're free to speculate.)

So with Valentine's Day still in the air, it seemed a good time to try. Especially after reading this piece in today's Atlantic.

https://www.theatlantic.com/family/archive/2023/02/valentines-day-read-poetry-out-loud/673042/

After all, it seems to me that a love poem that's kept between two lovers — never published, made public, given to anyone else to use as their own — is the most most sincere and intimate form: for your one-and-only, and not generalizable. Like art for it's own sake, there is a purity of intention to this.

Hand to Mouth - Feb 16 2023

 

Hand to Mouth

Feb 16 2023

The cutlery remained

as it was placed,

neatly flanking the plate

and set perfectly straight,

like well-behaved children

sitting erect.

I've done it myself,

backed-up a step

and eyed the knife and fork critically,

then nudged them just enough

to get it right;

like a picture frame

that doesn't quite line up.

As if the symmetry

of a well-set table

was an end in itself.

So why do I love

eating with my hands?

Instead of cold hard metal

and the clash of steel on teeth,

it's sticky fingers and warm hands,

the intimate act

of skin on tongue

and probing lips.

French fries, especially;

brought to my mouth

one-at-a-time

and savoured with all my senses.

Even meat

has more flavour

eaten this way.

Sopping up gravy,

and chocolate cake,

long strips of bacon

hot and crisp.

Although I admit,

ice cream and peas

not so much,

while jello's tough

soup impossible.

I was a well-behaved child.

But when no one was looking

I'd cut out the middle man

and furtively regress.

And now, living on my own

I dispense with the niceties,

living happily

hand to mouth.

And couldn't help but notice

how all the customers stared

at the man eating pizza

with a knife and fork.

Winter Sleep - Feb 15 2023

 

Winter Sleep

Feb 15 2023

The season of stillness.

The frozen ground.

A blanket of snow

absorbing sound.

Animals,

either torpid, or hunkered down;

starvation and cold

having taken their toll.

And all the thin-blooded birds

that fled south,

following the sun

when the days grew short.

It's the quiet I notice most.

As well as the sense of time slowing

in the grip of cold.

The dormant plants;

animals

in their winter sleep

living off fat;

and even the fish,

sluggish

in the ice-bound water

starved of oxygen.

So I walk

on a February night

through cold dry snow,

the glacial silence

only broken

by the squeaky-clean crunch of my boots.

The sound is surprisingly loud

in the still arctic air,

and seems intrusive, unwelcome;

as if my clumsy presence

is a violation

of some reverential space.

Like profane language in church,

or shouting another woman's name

while making love.

But on I trudge,

measured steps

one after the other

disturbing the calm.

Each step

broadcasting my presence

to all the reclusive creatures

in this wilderness world

where silence rules.

To the curious and wary

who watch unobserved.

To the cooly indifferent,

too self-assured

to notice.

And to every hungry predator

concealed in the snow;

ears twitching,

eyes on high alert.

New Normal - Feb 14 2023

 

New Normal

Feb 14 2023

Mid-February

and there's a cold rain.

The shrunken piles of snow

are a dull grey,

the sky low

and overcast.

Trees slump,

eaves drip,

the chill penetrates.

Sure,

rain

in winter

on the west coast.

And Australia, of course,

where it's summer

and the rain is warm.

Words come to mind.

Dreary, bleak, benighted.

Worse

the drizzle will turn snow, overnight,

a thin layer of ice

by morning.

February

was once high blue sky

and invigorating cold.

The way old people like me

remember it.

The young don't notice.

Their memories are short.

And they spend their time

inside,

gazing into screens

with the blinds closed.

Spotlight - Feb 14 2023

 

Spotlight

Feb 14 2023

What would they think?

The thought that's always there

hovering.

The looming peril of shame;

the spotlight

that follows your every move;

the disembodied eyes

peering from out of the darkness.

Except they wouldn't, don’t, will not.

They are too immersed

in themselves

to bother.

Too distracted

by the eyes drilling into them.

Too exposed

in their own glass house

to risk casting stones.

Still, without shame, where would we be?

Along with its constant companion

the worm of guilt

gnawing away from within.

Your inner demons, restrained,

reptilian brain

socialized.

And only when

in the unlikely event

you are pure

and without sin yourself,

will your icy glare

turn on those who fail.

Psychopaths and con-men know how easy it is to hide in plain sight: no one is paying attention, everyone's too self-absorbed. But the spotlight is a useful delusion. Because for social animals, who must get along not only to survive but to thrive, shame is the most powerful instrument of social control. Shame from without; guilt from within. So for ”normal” people — that is, those who have a conscience, as well as compunction — even knowing you can probably get away with it, you don’t.

Flight - Feb 12 2023

 

Flight

Feb 12 2023

High overhead

the big improbable birds

are circling lazily

on a rising thermal

of sun-warmed air.

Arms outstretched

it looks effortless;

like coasting

on the fixed wings

of a heavier-than-air machine.

Except for the small precise adjustments

we earthbound creatures

are too far down to see —

flight feathers trimmed,

a flick of the wrist,

a finely-tuned dip

of a wing's leading edge.

Is this freedom?

Free of gravity,

and the cost-free

power of sunlight?

Or is it hard work

that only looks easy?

The big breast muscles

holding its body aloft;

hungry lungs

gulping cold thin air;

the small heart quivering,

pumping

too quick to count.

Scavengers,

surveying the land

for the dying and the dead.

Competitors,

who will squabble and peck

over some decomposing prize.

But still, I wish I could fly.

At home in the sky.

Master of all I survey.

At play

in 3 magnificent dimensions.

An airborne life.

And if I had my way

never touching down.

I started out writing a philosophical poem about “freedom from” and “freedom to”. I was toying with an image of coasting birds — which wasn't working at all in that context — but struck me as a much more promising poem! So I went with that. Here's how it turned out.

Thinking back on this, I now realize it does speak to the original idea. Freedom from gravity. Freedom from the ground. Freedom from the fear of falling. As well as freedom to play, and the freedom to go anywhere in a straight unobstructed line.