Netherworld - May 1 2026

 

Netherworld

May 1 2026

I used to think I didn’t dream.

Why, for a man in his prime

to sleep seamlessly

should have made no sense.

Perhaps exhaustion explains it,

stumbling into bed

and falling into deep narcotic sleep,

no inner life left,

no luxury

of self-indulgent contemplation.

So why, now that I’m old

do I remember them,

sometimes so vividly

I awaken in a fever sweat?

Why, when we have settled lives

and have either realized our dreams

or resigned ourselves to disappointment

does the sleeping mind so busy itself?

Is it shallow sleep

or a restless brain,

bored

by the bland day-to-day?

Why does my mind race

between bathroom breaks,

awakening groggily

in the ghostly light of the clock,

rising, often reluctantly, through that liminal state

where blurry consciousness

and that gonzo world intersect;

a place where anything is possible

and nothing quite real.

Where we’re all abstract artists

flicking brushes and throwing paint

at the spattered canvas in our heads.

If only the holy grail of restorative sleep

would somehow come to me. 

But my subversive brain

has its own agenda.

And anyway, my life asleep

often seems more interesting

than the mindless routines that while away my days.

And after all, I have an entire lifetime

on which to ruminate

in the netherworld of night.

In our 2nd childhoods, do we regress,

become babies again

even if more cynical and jaded ones?

Who don’t sleep like the cliché,

but toss and turn

as their minds race,

trying to make sense of a bewildering world,

resolve the flood of sensation

before it swamps their immature brains,

twitchy

with freshly minted newness.

As of yet, I return to the world with little to share,

no insights of consequence

no great revelation.

Just interrupted sleep

that leaves me jet-lagged and questioning.

Trying to knit together

the fragments of dreams,

find my way back

along an unmarked trail

of flashbacks and random thoughts

I struggle to make sense of.

I have started to better remember my dreams the older I get. But I suspect it’s more a result of practice than some change in my brain or stage of life. Although I can only speak for myself. Perhaps others have experienced something similar. (Or, better said, remember more.) Maybe older brains, in general, do dream more.

And perhaps there’s no point in trying to make sense of dreams: that they’re not intended to be meaningful; that they’re just epiphenomena as the brain does its necessary work of consolidating memory and learning, self-repair, and once a day flushing itself of impurities — the waste products of metabolism.

The psychologist Susan Pinker has described babies as the R & D department of life: they aren’t passive lumps we shove food into; they don’t “sleep like babies”. Rather, their brains — with everything to learn, including the fantastic complexity of language —  are constantly churning:  more active than at any other time. So this is one stage of life that, no matter who you are, does require an intense dream life.

All at Once - April 30 2026

 

All at Once

April 30 2026

Dusk comes slowly

then all at once.

Light lingers

after the sun has set,

spreading through the atmosphere

and around the curve of earth.

As if it could be captured by air

and kept indefinitely

so darkness never comes;

a perennial dusk

of phantasmagoric light.

Incorruptible photons

that have travelled millions of miles 

reflecting off molecules

like light from silvered glass.

As if you stood between two mirrors

and saw your image recede

until infinity swallowed you up.

How small can you get

how long can you last

until vanishing

into its two dimensional labyrinth?

But night does come,

lit by the stars

and softened by the city lights.

So it never gets truly dark

out in the real world.

Except here

in this windowless space 

between four walls.

Where even a glimpse of sky 

is impossible

and there is no dawn or dusk,

no sense

of the passage of time

or when the dark will end.

Where night comes all at once

then stays;

bearing down on you

like a heavy weight

you haven’t the strength to budge.

This poem took itself in an unexpected direction. As if it had a mind of its own. 

Which isn’t surprising, since my process is generally to begin with an image or thought, have no particular expectation or preconceived ending, and then just riff. It can feel like taking dictation: the sound suggests a word, an idea offers itself, I let a tangent deflect me, or a phrase appears. Here, I began with looking up and watching dusk descend through the picture window, after which Hemingway’s famous quote from The Sun Also Rises came to me:  “How did you go bankrupt?” “Two ways. Gradually, then suddenly.” It doesn’t darken at a steady rate. You don’t notice dusk settling in, until you do.

At some point, a theme hardens and the path ahead narrows. Here, I was playing around with darkness and light, with the night sky and the elusiveness of total darkness. So I figured human light pollution (another environmentally themed poem!) would be the direction it took. I can’t explain in any autobiographical way how the poem instead became a metaphor for depression, or at least for despair.

I suspect this came less from personal experience and more from process: the image of vanishing into a mirror, which led to the less literal thought of feeling so small you disappear. Which is as good a metaphor for depression as any.  But that wasn’t intentional; it came from simply wanting an example of molecules reflecting light. After all, isn’t the cardinal rule of poetry to show, not tell?

Not that there aren’t many reasons to despair in this time of dizzying geopolitical change, inequality, runaway climate change, and execrable leadership. (Not to mention the equally execrable followership that permits it to happen.)

Found Beauty - April 28 2026

 

Found Beauty

April 28 2026

The old chain link fence

offends my sense of order.

Adds to the air of neglect

of the bungalow

it presumes to protect.

Which is decrepit enough

with its peeling paint,

uncut grass, overrun with weeds,

and knock-off children’s toys

scattered messily

on the M.C Esher-ish deck.

I prefer plumb-line posts

standing as straight

as soldiers at attention,

galvanized metal

gleaming like a child’s teeth

proudly leaving the dentist’s.

Not the rusting chain link

and dented uprights

that lean like drunken sailors,

the saggy gate

that squeaks stiffly shut

if it closes at all.

Yet despite my first impression

there’s something about this fence

that draws my eye.

Perhaps how it has settled into the land;

conforming to its ups and downs,

gently subsiding

on the poorly drained soil,

and wearing its age

without apology.

Or how it makes the passage of time

seem material,

crystallized

in oxidized metal and dented posts.

Or how, in a neighbourhood

crowded out by gentrification 

this house stands firm,

despite its a cracked foundation

and fun-house tilt;

stubbornly shabby,

poor, but defiant,

refusing to conform.

The fence won’t keep anyone out

  — it’s not so much practical 

as an act of conceptual art.

In which I can't help but see

the found beauty

of imperfection and decay.

Of ageing gracefully

and stoic acceptance. 

And of bending, not breaking,

despite years of bad weather

and the settling of the land.

I walk past it each day,

and instead of looking unsightly 

and out of place,

it’s beginning to look more and more

as if it’s just where it belongs. 

Breaking Glass - April 27 2026

 

Breaking Glass

April 27 2026

A person from my distant past

has unexpectedly re-entered

my well-settled life.

Is this how it feels

to find a message in a bottle 

washed up onshore?

It floats on ocean currents

circling the globe

for untold years,

accreting barnacles

dodging gyres

and slipping past rocky outcrops 

until your paths somehow cross,

ineluctably drawn

to this exact spot

as if by fate or kismet.

As if life was circular.

As if beginnings always reached

a satisfying end

instead of dying of neglect,

or were‘t ill-conceived to begin with.

And as if coincidence

wasn’t just an accident,

no matter how much we skeptics

scorn the credulous 

who believe there’s some kind of plan.

Trouble is

water may have leaked

and turned the paper to pulp,

or the top has welded shut

and the bottle must be broken

  — sealed in a bag,

then shattered

with a hammer

at its fattest part.

Only to find the ink has faded,

and is as inscrutable

as the person you misjudged

when you were young

and far too trusting. 

Not all reunions end well.

Sometimes, it’s better to leave the past

buried in the sand,

no matter how tempted you are

to dig it up. 

The oceans are vast

its currents unpredictable.

  . . . Most bottles go missing.

If only the one you found

was what you went looking for.

And how, disillusioned or not

against all odds

you can’t stop yourself

from looking for more.

I was reading a New Yorker piece about a dedicated beachcomber who is obsessed with finding messages in bottles. There is a worldwide community of such people. Understandable, since even non-enthusiasts can appreciate the romance and mystery, as well as the thrill of the chase. There are so many tempting possibilities to this idea of a message in a bottle, I immediately wanted to write a poem.

(What Happens When Someone Throws a Message in a Bottle Into the Sea?https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2026/05/04/signed-sealed-delivered)

Shortly after, I glanced at my inbox and was reminded of an email from a childhood friend with whom I’ve recently gotten back in touch. Not so easy for me, since I’m not only not on social media, but generally rather hermetic in my “well-settled life”:  in other words, not one to go looking.

In reality, there are no regrets or bad memories associated with this childhood friend. While the poem takes a diametrically different path. Because I think this is something a reader might relate to: dredging up a long ago acquaintance, friend, or lover from the distant past, only to end up wishing you’d left him or her buried. Going back in time, hoping things might change   . . . or simply forgetting   . . . or wanting to make amends.