Just a Tell-Tale Sign - Jan 26 2025

 

Just A Tell-Tale Sign

Jan 26 2025

They want to go to Mars,

the Red Planet

the god of war.

On to Mars

because it’s there.

On to Mars

because they want to be first

to set foot on the Martian regolith

and unfurl their flag.

Like the first footprint of man

on the moon’s pulverized soil.

Like Old Glory

planted there triumphantly

all those years ago.

But which by now hangs limply

and has lost its stars and stripes,

battered by sunlight

the solar wind

the passage of time.

The moon,

where we soon lost interest

once victory was ours.

And on to Mars

because there’s a chance that life once flourished there.

So we can reassure ourselves

we’re not alone in the universe.

That life

was not an accident

here on planet Earth

  —  so fantastically unlikely

it could happen only once  —

but arose elsewhere in the cosmos,

perhaps

is commonplace.

Might even be inevitable,

given the alchemy of stars

and what we know

of physical law.

Yet what an irony

that in our search for life

  — or even just a tell-tale sign

that on our sister planet

it may have once existed  —

when we treat life so contemptibly

down here on Earth.

Even starry-eyed dreams

of colonizing Mars.

But who would want to huddle underground

in that lifeless place

when we live in paradise already?

(Or at least, a paradise for now.)

If not the Garden of Eden

or Eden after the fall,

then this fragile blue and green planet

circling alone

in the blackness of space.

Or grimmer dreams

of Mars as escape pod;

fleeing earth

and setting out for the stars

when our one and only home

becomes unlivable.

When we will have left behind

  —  should any explorer

from who-knows-where come after  —

just a tell-tale sign

that life once flourished here.

This podcast — featuring the astrophysicist Neil deGrasse Tyson — kick-started this poem.

https://podcasts.apple.com/ca/podcast/92ny-talks/id905112228?i=1000685366793

He, too, is not fan of manned space exploration. Not just that his main area of interest isn’t planetary astronomy, or that the cost doesn’t justify the benefit, or that robots would be better, but also because the return to the moon and the race to Mars are more about geopolitical competition than science.

Instead of dreams of Mars, wouldn’t it be better to invest all the resources, wealth, and brain power of such an adventure into living better down here on earth? I’d much rather see us get things in order here than turn our eyes to the stars. Plenty of time for that. But later. Because right now, time is quickly running out.

Keeping Up Appearances - Jan 23 2025

 

Keeping Up Appearances

Jan 23 2025

Overnight

spider webs appear.

In the sheltering dark

precious silk

is spun into cobwebs

strung into kites,

lifelines

to rappel down and clamber up.

Dew drops

clinging to the strands

shimmer in the dawn,

transform the thin morning light

into precious little rainbows

contained neatly inside.

They’re tiny perfect spheres

and perfectly clear

but perfection doesn’t last,

and in the heat of the sun

are quickly gone;

from pearl necklace

to naked strand.

The spider waits,

poised on long delicate legs

exquisitely tuned

to any hint of quiver;

like a prodigy

fine-tuning her instrument

with an ear to the string.

Will stand stock still

for however long;

an ambush predator

lurking patiently

beside the watering hole.

Multiple eyes, the blackest black, look on, 

unblinkingly fixed.

Their cold indifference is unnerving,

bizarre geometry

disconcertingly alien.

A gossamer trap

to entangle her prey

in its sticky silver threads,

her victim's thrashing

just making it worse;

an unfortunate fly,

entombed

in a silken sarcophagus .

Where it will eventually succumb;

a brittle husk

sucked dry.

But I know none of this

microcosmic drama

game of life and death.

I simply tear down the webs

whenever they appear

because what will people think?

That I'm neglectful

unclean

ungodly?

All that clever chemistry

and engineering artistry

annihilated

in a single swipe;

a hand

brusquely brushing it away,

a broom

stretching up on tiptoe

just high enough to snag.

One impatient man;

keeping up appearances,

keeping nature in her place.

There is probably probably too much going on in this poem. But this sort of microcosm and close observation really appeals to me. I guess the reader has to be willing to surrender to that sensibility: to just be patient, take her time, go along for the ride. T0 take pleasure in the detail. To just sit with it.

After all, reading poetry should not be like surfing the internet or scrolling a text. Life is already rushed enough!

Egg-Shaped - Jan 22 2025

 

Egg-Shaped

Jan 22 2025

How to describe an egg

except to say egg-shaped?

If I was mathematically gifted

I suppose I’d devise an equation

of 3-dimensional space

to model it.

Was an artist,

then a clever trompe l’oeil

you could tell at a glance.

While a better wordsmith

might very well conjure an egg

in simile or metaphor

a pithy paragraph.

But I can do nothing more

than roll it in my hand,

feel its heft,

watch it spin lop-sidedly.

Or crack an egg

with a short sharp sound

and empty it.

Fragments of shell

tenaciously attached

to its jagged edge.

The gauzy membrane lining it,

thin as gossamer

and strong as spider silk.

The gelatinous white

which isn’t white at all,

sending sticky fingers out

until they stop.

And the cyclopean eye

of its boldly yellow yolk,

staring up at me

unblinkingly.

What shape is this, you wonder.

An egg, like any other

yet all its own.

If I have a criticism of the all-knowing Google, it’s just that: sometimes not having the answer is better. Because scientific words are not generally very poetical. And because questions can be far more interesting than answers: open-ended, as well as a spark to creativity.

Apparently, though, there are accepted terms: ovoid or ellipsoid. I also encountered oblate and prolate spheroid, although these two (rotated spheres that are respectively flattened or elongated) are too symmetrical for an egg.

The familiar shape of a chicken egg demonstrates the cleverness of natural selection: it doesn’t just confer strength (while using the least material, which minimizes the cost to the hen), but also helps stop the egg from rolling out of the nest.

Or so I thought. Apparently, I was wrong. After reading this article (below) I’ve reopened this post and added this paragraph and link. 

https://www.theatlantic.com/science/archive/2017/06/why-are-bird-eggs-egg-shaped/531261/

Dr. Strangelove (or Our Nuclear Family Watches Mushroom Clouds Erupt) - Jan 20 2025

 

Dr. Strangelove

(or Our Nuclear Family Watches Mushroom Clouds Erupt)

Jan 20 2025

Hugs were rare

  —  on special occasions,

or awkwardly

as social norms dictate.

There was no call to share

your day.

And it even felt daring

to say the word “love”;

not just out loud

but to myself.

Clearly, we were not a touchy-feely bunch.

Either repressed, or simply preoccupied

with making a living

getting through each day.

So when I saw my mother cry

  —  really, the only time ever  —

I was 10 years old,

and our nuclear family of 5

were seated in a row

before the silver screen

seeing mushroom clouds erupt

and hearing Vera Lynn’s voice.

It was 20 years after the war,

yet its bittersweet anthem, We’ll Meet Again

must have brought my mother back.

When early on

Hitler seemed unstoppable,

and most of the time

it was impossible to know

if it would end well.

5 terrible years

when hope was scarce

life hard

and friends were killed.

What overcame her

in that unexpected moment?

With all the bombs falling

not so long after Hiroshima,

was it the prospect of war

but this time apocalypse?

Or something from her life

before I came into it?

A time before

that I, a solipsistic child, knew little of

or didn’t asked about,

perhaps

never thought even existed.

But then, aren’t all children little solipsists?

That was the moment

I first saw her as a person

in her own right

  —  ineffable

with hidden depths

and separate from motherhood  —

and not as simply there, as she’d always been,

an eternal presence

taking care.

But what struck me most,

and now, half a century later

I still remember

was seeing such emotion

so openly displayed.

And so, as the bombs fell

and that iconic voice held us all in thrall

I sank into the plush theatre seat

and fixed my eyes on the screen,

unsure what to do

or how to feel.

Just one more lesson

in denial

deflection

detachment.

When the path of least resistance

was to bite my tongue

and pretend I hadn’t noticed.

When, as I’ve now grown to see

words of comfort

or an empathetic touch

would have been far more appropriate.

But wouldn’t she have turned away and waved me off?

To embarrassed by her tears,

too protective

of a private moment

she hadn’t the wherewithal to share?

Because in a family like ours

to cry was unbecoming.

While I was too self-conscious

to show myself,

too inept at emotion

to begin to know how.

When it’s best

to keep your hands to yourself

and eyes straight ahead.

To watch the credits roll

until the very end.

To wait

until the theatre has emptied

the lights have come up

and the curtain has closed.

To when all the tears have been dried

and it’s OK to go.

The waiting until the very end (and I mean “very”!) was actually my father’s thing. He used to be in the movie business, so perhaps he was honouring the hard workers who toiled behind the scenes to make them possible. But I always ungraciously suspected it was his frugality: getting our money’s worth by watching the whole thing. Not a second wasted!

Dr. Strangelove is in my top 3 all-time favourite movies. I love black comedy. It’s a brilliant film, and has beautifully stood the test of time. Peter Sellers’ performance is remarkable, while George C. Scott chews up the scenery. And who can forget the line “our precious bodily fluids”, repeatedly uttered by the cigar chomping general (Sterling Hayden)? I think the black and white not only suits the theme — the either/or of a familiar before and a fateful after; of the contrast in personalities; and of the binary moral choice — but adds to the allure. It gives the film a gritty almost documentary feel that seems both less distracting and less confected than colour. It also firmly grounds the movie in its era. After all, colour film was standard then (no?), so the medium of black and white was clearly an artistic choice.

But I also wonder how much my regard for Dr. Strangelove has to do with this memory?

In my first rough draft, 10 yeas old seemed about right. Later, I checked: I was born in ‘55, and the movie was released in ‘64. Which really seems too old. Not for the discomfort, but the awareness. Kids are not only smarter and grow up faster these days, but I think I was especially clueless: smart academically; but too self-conscious, as well as too inept when it came to managing emotions and dealing with vulnerability.

Interregnum - Jan 18 2025

 

Interregnum

Jan 18 2025

Cold and clear.

But it’s a dry cold

and the wind has finally died.

Weather that suits people like me

who find change difficult.

Because there is a reassuring stillness

when dense arctic air

weighs down the earth.

As if we’re on a frozen planet

locked in ice.

Or live in a snow globe

under a dome,

our tranquil diorama

protected by glass.

In the vicissitude of life

an interregnum of time

I can count on.

When I have permission to drift.

When the big decisions

can be safely deferred.

Like in Siberia

where prehistoric animals have been preserved.

Where woolly mammoths

are emerging from the glaciers

as ancient ice retreats,

intact

even as millennia have passed.

And then there’s the man

frozen in the Alps

for over 5000 years;

Otzi

who met a violent death

before his body was interred

in ice.

So will I also face extinction

if I too remain still?

Like a shark

who can’t stop swimming

if it’s to breathe,

a grazing animal

who must forage non-stop

or starve?

Still, some animals

can only survive the cold

in a state of torpor

much like my own;

slowing the heart,

nesting in a sheltered spot,

feeding on fat.

Plenty of time in spring

to resume the pace,

to eat or be eaten

compete for a mate.

But now, it’s a chance to sleep

dream

restore;

to step outside

and take in a vantablack sky

bursting with stars.

“Vantablack” is as black as it gets. Or at last we can get it. Some animals from the lightless ocean depths are actually blacker!

I suspect that may not be true about sharks. But if I look it up, it’ll wreck the poem. Never let a fact get in the way of a good simile!

Marginalia - Jan 18 2025

 

Marginalia

Jan 18 2025



I wonder just how old

those Britannicas were

in the school library’s hushed confines

of carpeted floors and burnished wood.

Back in the day

before I too got old.

An alphabetical row

of magisterial books

bound in royal blue.

A palace guard of books

set on the shelf

with weighty solemnity,

stiff spines touching

in a neatly ordered line.

Everything about this

was authoritative;

the last word,

no subject too small.

As if to proclaim

that there was no excuse

for epistemological uncertainty.

How reassuring

that the world was both knowable

and unchanging;

that within these pages

all knowledge resided.

But we were deferential, back then,

trusted the experts

deferred to authority.

And these tomes

were like the stone tablets

Moses delivered to Israel;

handed-down from on-high

and weighty as monoliths.

Which is why the sarcastic comments

and lewd drawings

scrawled in the margins

seemed so subversive to me,

so thrillingly contemptuous

of the powers that be.

That some nascent revolutionary

with adolescent facial hair

and bad fashion sense

who didn’t bother with deodorant

had the gall to question

the received wisdom

those omniscient tomes dispensed.

Back when we could reassure ourselves

that the world was fixed,

even though we ourselves

were unformed teens

straddling constantly shifting tectonic plates.

While today, in a world of bone-rattling change

and daunting uncertainty,

our outlook has ossified

into strict ideologies

self-righteous beliefs.

If only I could shout

rage

thumb my nose

like that anonymous kid

who defiled the sacred books.

But there is no Britannica anymore,

at least not in print.

No blank space

in which to write,

nothing with the permanence of a page

in a hallowed book

where I might be heard.

Nor is there the stern librarian

standing guard

on the collected works of Man

before the barbarians;

mouthing insistent shhhhh’s

and keeping a watchful eye

on a room full of miscreants.

No more Britannicas

weighing down the shelf

with unquestioned authority.

No hard-cover book

from the island rump

of a once great empire,

telling us

in the plummy English of its class

all is well with the world.

I apologize to all the kindly and motherly librarians (and now, I guess, to all the male librarians!), because the only school librarian I remember (in this case, junior high) was Mrs. Armstrong, whom we derisively called “Grizz”. In retrospect, of course, I think she meant well and was a committed educator. But we were cruel and immature, and I suppose denigrating her was an act of teenage conformity, our need to belong.

Have we gone from too little change to too much too fast; relative silence to cacophony? Are there now too many voices, opinions, competing authorities? Sometimes, one good encyclopedia seems preferable to the Babel of the internet. Especially in an age where opinion takes the place of fact, and everyone’s “truth” is taken as equally legitimate.

Departure Lounge - Jan 17 2025

 

Departure Lounge

Jan 17 2025

Between flights

I sit in a low-backed chair

with my knees almost touching

and nowhere to rest my head.

I squirm uncomfortably,

carry-on

clutched on my legs.

Somewhere in the middle

of a long row of chairs

made of faux black leather

and bright chrome tubing

welded together and bolted in place.

Where the armrests

have been cleverly placed

so there’s no stretching out,

no stealing a little sleep,

no hogging

the scarce seating for oneself.

The smell is fast food

cut with cleaning product.

A faint scent of jet exhaust

leaks in,

while the heavy perfume

on the lady across from me

sets off a coughing fit,

drenched

in its cloying floral odour.

Innocuous music plays

between announcements

in accented English and immaculate French

in a woman’s sonorous voice;

a language

in which even arrivals and departures

sound seductive.

There’s a hum of conversation,

the whine of planes

throttling up and down the taxiway

and roaring overhead.

I sit, alone with my thoughts.

No unattended bags.

No snappish complaining.

No chance

time will pass

fast and pleasantly

amidst the rolling delays

and irate fellow passengers.

So just how much of life is waiting?

Between planes.

For luck to change.

To finally find

where life has taken you,

which is rarely where you imagined.

I often think of this

— of life’s contingency,

the unintended consequence,

the folly

of best laid plans —

when, as we prepare to land

the flight attendant

announces we’re approaching

our final destination.

Final, I think

and imagine another kind of terminal.

One with no disagreeable smell

cramped seating

or planes to catch.

No more waiting

for time to pass.

And certainly no departing from.

An ominous thing to hear

in a heavier-than-air machine

20,000 feet

above the ground.

Again, what set me off on this was something I happened read that left me with a single still image: the start of a riff, with no idea where it would take me. So how telling that once again I end up at death. Perhaps not an unusual preoccupation as one gets older. But still, it would be nice not to be quite so morbid (or at least not to appear so, even if I irredeemably am!)

Although this may also have been influenced by a podcast I just heard about the 1977 Tenerife airport collision (on Tim Harford’s Cautionary Tales): the worst loss of life ever in such a disaster. How from one second to the next life blindsides you, rudely interrupting every expectation, every presumption of normalcy. Always, of course, when you least expect it.

Uncounted years ago — 15?, 20? — I wrote a poem that also played with the ambiguity of this same rote expression: final destination. It would be interesting to see if I can dig it up from where it’s interred deep in the archives and compare: have I learned something in all that time; am I a better writer now? I definitely think so. But you never know!

Of course, I’ve often revisited the same theme/idea/image. Nothing wrong with having another stab at it and finally getting it right! (Or at least better!)