Ephemera - Dec 28 2024

 

Ephemera

Dec 28 2024

My mother’s treasure trove

of old birthday cards,

kindergarten art

made of dried macaroni

and white crafting glue,

and a set of report cards

  —  complete, except for 7th grade

which never made it home.

Not to mention school projects

that were graded, at best

a generous B.

She kept all this

for posterity.

For her future laureate

Olympian

celebrity.

For the biographer

who will confer immortality,

the museum

that will bear my name.

As if she had appointed herself

the custodian

of my storied past.

Or perhaps

it was simple sentimentality,

a proud parent

who knows how ephemeral

memory can be.

Or was she a pack-rat

collector

completist

who couldn’t let anything go?

We found it

in an unmarked box

at the back of a closet

on a high dusty shelf.

After she was gone.

After the will had been read,

the valuables divvied-up,

and the old clothes

that still smelled of her

sent to Goodwill.

So this is posterity, I thought,

a mouldering box

no one wants

not even me.

Yet it’s hard to discard the past.

To disrespect her memory

by tossing it in the dumpster

with the household trash.

To be sure

it won’t someday come in handy;

as if, at this late date

fame was in my future

or anyone would care.

Because posterity

is reserved for the few,

the privileged

accomplished

historical.

While the rest of us muddle through

moment to moment

until our time is up.

And then, we should know enough

to exit with grace,

accepting that memories

last a single generation, at best

before they also die.

No reason

to leave mementos

no one can place.

To burden descendants

with meaningless ephemera

they haven’t any room for,

sentimental odds-and-ends

gathering dust

until enough time has finally passed

  —  however much that is.

Like the white glue

that's gotten brittle with age

yet smells to you like fresh,

that heavy cloying scent

you can almost taste.

Old report cards

that give off vinegar and musk,

like paging through

the decomposing paper

of vintage books.

And birthday cards from kids.

With LOVE

in crayon

in capital letters

printed in red,

and a carefully drawn signature

from when you first learned to write;

so much better

than the illegible scrawl

it’s now become.

In writing this, I discovered there's a name for that: the musky vinegary smell of old acid paper – the unmistakable smell of a store that sells used books – is called “bibliosmia”.

Wondering How They Got There - Dec 27 2024

 

Wondering How They Got There

Dec 27 2024

It’s like when you drive

but can’t remember getting there;

how a part of your brain took over

while your mind

wandered off on its own.

How you start to wonder

what else goes on down there

in the unplumbed murk,

that black box

beneath the thin veneer of consciousness

that presumes it’s all there is.

It felt the same, sitting on the park bench

where I often went

to spend time alone;

my eyes glazing over

with the unfocused gaze

of the hundred foot stare.

So while light must have entered

it never got to my brain,

as I sat

unaware

losing track of time.

Day dreaming.

Collecting my thoughts.

Self-absorbed to a fault.

So I resented the man

who settled in beside me.

At a sensible distance, yes,

but then he made eye contact

smiled warmly

invited me to talk.

Which I unexpectedly did;

stiffly at first,

then easily, fluidly, unguardedly.

How surprising,

that an unplanned conversation

with a stranger on a bench

could leave me feeling good

for the rest of the day.

And now, when I’m feeling brave

I ry to engage as well.

Amazing

what strangers will say,

how anonymity

somehow gives permission,

what stories

random people have to tell.

What secrets they’ll share

if you only let them speak

and listen respectfully.

And what you’ll learn

when you didn’t think anyone else

had similar fears

regrets

self-doubt,

felt guilt, shame, and envy

the same as you,

underwent love and loss

as all people do.

How much more we have in common

than what sets us apart.

Other people

who ended up where they didn’t expect

when they started out in life,

and looking back

would shake their heads

wondering how they got there.

I just discovered a new podcast called Strangers on a Bench, in which just this happens. Unremarkable people you pass every day without noticing, and an anonymous stranger in a big metropolis who is pleasantly non-threatening and invites them to talk.

This brings to mind a study that suggested engaging total strangers in conversation — as hard as it is, and which most subjects felt would be a negative experience of rejection and hostility — not only went very well, but significantly increased both party’s happiness. Other people aren’t as bad as we imagine! And “stranger danger” is highly exaggerated.

I tend to be very closed, staying in my protective shell with my elbows out. Or, if “closed” is too generous a word, I suppose I could also say “unfriendly”, “a little paranoid”, “judgmental”. Certainly not a gregarious outgoing extrovert.

Clearly, I have much to learn from the narrator of this poem!

Strangers on a Bench Podcast – Apple Podcasts

https://images.app.goo.gl/PgfytKGdDQagyp487

Back When Miracles Happened - Dec 16 2024

 

Back When Miracles Happened

Dec 26 2024

She’d never seen the Northern Lights.

Never seen snow.

And an ice-covered lake

struck her as Biblical;

like walking on water

back when miracles happened

thousands of years ago.

Because they don’t anymore.

While the past had seers, prophets, and lesser gods,

water into wine

and otherworldly signs,

we have science

and mere pretenders.

Where have the magic, mystery, and reverence gone?

Is nothing these days

ineffable

and unexplained?

She was startled by the sounds,

the way a frozen lake

creaks, cracks, and groans.

Entranced by the clarity

you sometimes see

if rarely;

a windblown spot

where some alchemy

of temperature, rate, and calm

resulted in airless ice,

a clear window

into the cold black water

resting heavily

a few inches below.

And she found in the stillness

on a windless day like this

a silent meditation;

the lake locked in,

the land and water seamless.

An everyday miracle

I confess I took for granted.

Or if “miraculous” seems a little much

  —  too supernatural

for the non-believers

and skeptics like me   —

then marvellous

wondrous

numinous.

We returned that night

to take in the sky,

curtains of light

that shimmered and danced

before my jaded eyes

like a wake-up call.

I was bewitched by the whimsy,

awed by the indifference

to our little lives

down here on earth.

I know the science

  —  or close enough

to say I kind of know  —

but chose instead to follow her;

looking up

with childlike delight

as the spectacle washed over us.

No questioning, or answering,

no explanation demanded.

Just a feeling

of wonder and thanks.

I could also make the opposite argument: that science illuminates in a way that rather than diminishing our wonder, enhances it. I think of evolution. Which is more marvellous: a wave of the hand of some supernatural entity depositing us holus bolus here on earth; or millions years of trial and error, of reproduction and survival, somehow honing us into the sensing and sentient big-brained creatures we are, conjuring the intricate web of life in all its diversity, interdependence, and mind-boggling abilities? And all this despite the radical climatic and tectonic changes the earth has undergone over geological time.

Ultimately, though, the poem is about being receptive and open rather than analytical and reductive. And also about recapturing the child-like sense of wonder we almost all lose as grown-ups. About noticing, close observation, and trying to see as if for the first time.

The actual seed of the poem was reading about the disappearance of outdoor ice — pond hockey and backyard rinks — due to climate change. Concurrently, I saw a spectacular photograph of the Northern Lights (Fred Lum; the Globe and Mail). Which is all I needed to start riffing: a frozen lake, and the Aurora Borealis. Oddly, photographs capture a greater range of colour than the human eye: the aurora is always more spectacular like this (below) than actually viewing it.

I couldn’t resist the aside or close enough / to say I kind of know because it’s true: I have a vague idea about the solar wind, ionized particles, and earth’s magnetic field, but can’t really put it all together in a rigorous way. This is called “the illusion of explanatory depth”, and applies surprisingly often. For example, do you really know how a toilet works or a pencil is made? Or do you just think you do?

Circles Within Circles - Dec 25 2024

 

Circles Within Circles

Dec 25 2024

An analogue clock

  —  with 3 different hands

fat , thin, and middling

circling at different rates,

a clock-face

with precisely spaced numbers

numerals

symbols  —

quietly ticking

tells time.

What an elegant compression

of information

conveyed at a glance.

And a horologist’s delight

in its intricate mechanics

of spinning gears

and precisely fitting cogs

packed into a compact body

of stainless steel

polished brass

solid gold.

Except when this choreographed clockwork

of circles within circles,

of symbols

arranged in a ring

like some occult zodiac

of arithmetical signs,

looks utterly baffling

when asked the time.

Is this what awaits us?

Cognitive decline,

so even a simple clock

is not only inscrutable

but seems absurd.

A future of digital time,

until even a day

of hours, minutes, seconds

blinking sequentially

makes no sense.

The end of time,

when you will inhabit the moment,

live in the past,

or simply find yourself unmoored

adrift

oblivious.

Odd, when kids today

can’t read a clock,

were never taught

to tell time.

Of course, this isn’t creeping dementia

it’s merely expedient.

But still

something is surely missing

when you can’t hold it in your hand.

Can’t marvel

at its elegance

complexity

containment.

Can’t feel the heft

of time made material

and a craftsman’s expert care.

It was when I first saw someone with dementia look at an analogue clock-face with utter bafflement that I felt the horror of losing your mind while still having insight. The awareness that you once could and still should be able to do this simple thing, but with so much going on and all of it so impenetrable you felt utterly overwhelmed.

That I saw how we take for granted our understanding of things that are actually quite complex: after all, who knew you once had to be initiated into the occult practice of reading a clock; that this was a skill that was not self-evident but actually had to be taught!

And that I truly appreciated the elegance of analogue time and mechanical clocks.

This poem also speaks to a certain nostalgia for the material in a world that is increasingly a digital and virtual black box.

For craftsmanship and mastery in a world of swiping and button pushing.

And for connection of cause and effect in a world where everything is electronically mediated, so that action is increasingly detached from the outcome.

In My Head - Dec 24 2024

 

In My Head

Dec 24 2024

Get out of your head

I’ve told myself

time and time again,

worrying the same damned thing

like rosary beads

turned over and over

in nervous hands.

All this introspection

like too much of anything

won’t end well;

the way an echo chamber

can be deafening,

your own voice

sounds odd, annoying, detached

when you hear it played back,

no matter what you said

or meant to say.

After all, how can the self-examining brain

be two things at once

  —  the inquisitor

in his studded leather hood,

and the prisoner

shackled to a chair

in a cinderblock cell

with a single bare bulb

swinging overhead?

Interrogating my past

starts feeling like I’m trapped

in a hall of mirrors

at some infernal amusement park,

seeing image after image

getting smaller and smaller

and more inexact,

until it’s hard to be sure

who I really am.

Not funhouse mirrors

that make me look grotesque,

just reflection on reflection

in which the errors add up.

Or like looking down a bottomless well

at infinite versions of myself,

then leaning out

for a better look

until I topple in;

no one to rescue me

from its deep dark depths,

and a hard climb back.

So I go outside

into the brisk night air

and walk,

watching the dogs

who are off-leash

and full of life as ever.

Man’s best friend,

who never introspect

retrospect

or resurrect

old grievances

and cherished resentments.

Who are utterly ingenuous,

never suppressing their joy

or being coy

about how they really feel.

Who are content

with simple pleasures.

Who don't wallow in the past

or stress about their future.

And who are always fully present,

living in the now

as if life goes on forever

and they’re just what they were meant to be.

Providence - Dec 23 2024

 

Providence

Dec 23 2024

The Lost and Found

was a large cardboard box

at the far end of the counter.

On a bleak day

in a hard year

I found those 3 simple words

oddly encouraging.

Was it the satisfying symmetry

that fortune evens out,

that what is lost will be found

at least eventually?

That in world that seems unfair

justice will be served?

If not now

then when all is said and done.

That in the end

even the forsaken, rejected, and lost

will find their rightful place?

Just as the wretched slaver

was redeemed by Grace

in the famous gospel song.

Because there must be a reason

we don’t say Found and Lost,

some foundational hope

that loss doesn’t last

and things end well.

That just as the arrow of time

goes in one direction only,

so life

goes from lost to found.

That life, if not better than zero-sum

is at least that.

I rummaged around

and helped myself to something,

a cheerful woollen cap

on a bitter winter day

to replace the one I’d lost.

Because in the grand scheme of things

doesn’t it all even out;

my lost hat

someone else’s brilliant find,

while the hat I helped myself to

is put to use

just as providence intended.

A lost hat

finding its purpose,

and a battered cardboard box

impartially providing.

Perhaps not exactly

what the box was meant for,

but I still felt good

heading out into the cold;

as if a circle had been closed,

the world

once again made whole.

A Simple Walk - Dec 22 2024

 

A Simple Walk

Dec 22 2024

Bad ice

along a narrow twisting trail.

that froze unevenly.

Some slippery bits

are thinly dusted

with freshly fallen snow,

while patches of slick black ice

hide out,

lurking

like hair-trigger traps

for unwary passers-by.

The slip is magnificent,

running in place

cartoonishly flailing

ballistically doing the splits;

while the fall

is quicker than pain

travels from ass to brain

and consciousness.

No time for life to flash;

just the hard immovable ground

and the instantaneous stop

of every pound, ounce, and gram

of your brittle mass

under gravity,

accelerating hard.

The quickness stuns you.

The impact

is shockingly abrupt.

You lie there

dazed, disoriented, disgusted,

assessing the damage

and hoping for the best.

A simple walk

beside the river

on a night like any other.

Yet in a warm winter

that goes from freeze to thaw and back again

you never saw it coming.

When the laws of physics

govern a falling body

through unresisting air.

Immutable laws

  —  no last-ditch appeal,

no clemency.

Of course, as everyone knows

it’s not the fall that does you in;

it’s the sudden stop at the end.

Sweetening the Air - Dec 20 2024

 

Sweetening the Air

Dec 20 2024

The decorative candle

I never intended to be lit

is now disfigured

by ropey drips of wax,

a sharply hooked wick

charred to brittle black.

The candle looks stunted,

like an old man

with a hunched back

and shortened vertebrae.

Nevertheless,

I left the candle

on the mantle

in the white ceramic holder

it so nicely matched.

Beeswax,

that hardly smokes,

burns slowly,

and sweetens the air

with a faintly honeyed scent.

This push/pull

between function and beauty

reminds me of her.

How her self-image

and self-esteem

depended solely on looks,

as if she only existed

in the eyes of men

and the envy of her peers.

How inch-by-inch she vanished

as youth abandoned her,

the mommy-fat persisted,

and the damaged skin

from years of sun

made her age even faster.

How she could no longer hide

the crow’s feet and laugh lines

etched into her face,

and how the long blonde hair

in which she took such pride

had turned a wispy grey.

Of course, inner beauty is hard.

While the outer kind

is a cruel lottery;

the accident of birth,

the prerogative of youth,

and the cultural ideal

that prevails in one’s time.

To age gracefully

is even harder.

Who knows what light

she might have cast

if she’d given herself a chance,

with what heat

she could have warmed the world.

If she’d only found a purpose,

had let the talent flourish

I knew she had.

But instead

she left us prematurely;

an ornamental candle

that burned brightly

and so entranced me with its light.

Only to be snuffed out

before its time.

So all that's left

a honeyed scent

lingering in the air.