People My Age Are Running the World

March 5 2012

I imagine at some point

I will feel all grown up.

Certainly, I will get old

and look the part,

which is to say

invisible.

A kid

insecure, and immature

in someone else’s body.

Most likely

this was not a question

considered by my parents,

when children followed marriage

and what was expected

of man and wife

easily went unsaid.

Because when money was tight

and the day-to-day a flood,

treading water

took the place of philosophy.

No time for solipsists

indulging 
in existential angst,

paralyzed

by introspection.

Of course, they had a war

to make them tough,

a depression

in which to grow up,

imprinting lessons

of thrift, and loss.

So was it peace and prosperity

that made us soft?

Are we the centre of attention

long after

the admiring gaze has gone?

Like them, we carve a notch

for rites of passage,

the milestones

of house, and spouse

and child.

But feel like impostors,

bad actors

who will eventually be caught

and shamed.

Which would be OK

if it weren’t that people my age

were running the world,

and it’s so clear to see

should have never been 
in charge.

Naked emperors

in their finery,

in mortal fear

of discovery,

just like me.

So I will continue to feel inadequate

while my parents simply got on with it,

and their parents

re-invented the world.

As we 
let our ennui, and greed

tear it down,

exhaust its wealth, and beauty.

Adolescents

never thinking ahead,

'til inertia

carries us over the edge.

When will we feel like grown-ups

who think for ourselves?

Manifestly believe

in our virtue?

Paper Trail

March 3 2012

You wouldn't think shy people

make an impression

leave their mark.

But this is the paradox of the shy,

who keep to themselves

and their intimate circle.

Who firmly shut the door

on an agitated world

and interact by the written word,

settled at a well-used desk

in a pool

of incandescent light.

Sending off

scribbles, missives, epistles,

penning memos, letters

encyclicals.

RSVPs

begging forgiveness,

formal notes

that decline, and defer.

Pushed out under the door,

appearing unannounced.

A paper trail

for historians to navigate,

a treasure map

for future biographers.

Rough drafts of themselves,

anatomically imperfect

but workable.

Like instructions

translated to English from Chinese,

full of amusing errors

and unintended ironies,

one can’t help but forgive.

We introverts are good

at living in our heads,

which are prudently kept

well below the parapets.

We prefer stillness, and quiet,

the beating heart of solitude

all that’s keeping time.

We are hard-wired, we say

born this way.

Popped out into a world

that was too cold and bright,

scrunching up our eyes

wailing unselfconsciously,

barely consoled

by our tears’ salty warmth.

Or wide-eyed

and preternaturally quiet,

already collecting impressions

making poems in our heads.

Which we will someday retrieve

when there’s time enough to think;

and the world

is ready to listen.

I elected to use "shy" instead of "introvert" in the opening stanza. I prefer the sound. I prefer the emotional power of a word that is more visceral over one that seems more analytical and detached. But they actually mean quite different things, and my intent is a lot closer to "introvert" than "shy"

Because shyness is a fear of social judgement. While introversion is what I've talked about in the poem:  a preference for a lower level of sensory stimulation.  This could be an intimate tête-a-tête in place of a cocktail party; or a DVD at home in place of a crowded movie theatre. One can be an introvert, but not at all shy. 

Introverts are not only misunderstood, but easily go unnoticed in a culture that celebrates self-promotion and brash confidence; that is more about personality than character. The poem began with the New Yorker Fiction podcast of a story by Bruno Shulz. He was described as painfully shy; and I appropriated as the central image of the poem the description of him taking refuge in his secluded room, writing compulsively and pushing stories out under the door. Needless to say, I immediately identified with him!

Shovelling Snow

Feb 29 2012

Shovelling snow.

Shedding clothes

layer by layer.

The ruddy glow, the frozen nose

sniffle-dripping.

Giving-in

to my inner obsessive,

fussing over ruled edges

sheer cuts.

I begin straight down the centre,

and finish by sweeping up

the last dusting of snow.

And then, the shovel is neatly stowed

in its appointed place.

This is how we serve our cars

which are otherwise ignored,

left out in the storm

salt-stained, and stoic.

As they convey us faithfully

shuttling to and fro

in dryness and warmth,

peering out

at winter.

I grunt

heaving and lifting,

think

about heart attack victims

who were sure

they were far too young.

About minor victories

that go unsung.

Propped

on my trusty shovel

in contented smugness,

bourgeois duty

done.

And think about sun

that will surely come

in 2 short months,

melt it all

to nothing.

Make my pride ridiculous

my precision embarrassing,

such neatness

hardly necessary.

But in the dead of winter

it’s hard to figure

on spring.

So I clean.

To keep nature in its place

the next ice age

from grinding our homes

to smithereens.

Crushing

human conceit

under mile high mountains

of snow.

Plodding Windward

Feb 27 2012




The woodstove draws well

in a stiff wind.

Smoke, blowing horizontal,

as if the house were a ship

plodding windward

all battened-down.

Cinders fanned, briefly glowing

land on the slope of the roof,

smudge

freshly fallen snow.


I feed the fire

on a freezing night,

its appetite for fuel

insatiable.

As if banished to the lowest deck,

black with coal, soaked in sweat

stoking

some infernal boiler.


But downwind, it smells of home,

warm notes of birch

acrid spruce,

pockets of sap

popping and crackling.

Greedily sampled

like sailors long at sea

at the first whiff of land.

Who knew

soil could smell so sweet.

That each port-of-call

is a fine wine,

with its own subtle nose

redolent of home.


My house is a point of light

that glows in the distance,

a beacon on a blasted shore

blinking out its warning

its reassuring warmth.

A remote outpost of man,

making its stand

against the elements.

Until nature

gives a careless shrug

and we are snuffed out,

a candle in a heedless puff

extinguished.

Impressed

by her effortless indifference.

Awe struck,

at such utter 
magnificence.

A Ladies’ Man

Feb 17 2012

I listen to the young poet

who has grown old.

Who sings

in the same smoky voice,

his repertoire of notes

as frugal as before,

but now, even lower.

Weary, I presume

or just well-used,

but forcing me

to listen closer.

A high-pitched tone

from the head, the throat

has no strength, no heft.

But this rumbling basso profundo

comes from the depths.

He sounded wise, and old

when I heard him first, back then;

kept listening

as he grew

to own it.

He speaks about death

with detached composure,

as if they were old familiar friends.

The state of his soul,

what he will have left

behind.

He was always mindful, of course

as you’d expect a poet,

but gracefully grown older;

more resigned

fatalistic

at peace.

His measured speech, his rueful mirth

as he gently demurs,

when asked to consider

our shared predicament

here on earth.

Did he think he could change the world

one song at a time

listener by listener?

Or is he too humble for that,

and simply wrote of Suzanne

because he missed her?

This ladies’ man,

unhampered by fame

but stung by that depiction.

Who understood the crack  —

or how, as he asked

could the light get in?

I do not hear music

when I write,

the words come unadorned,

my verse

barely spoken.

Another poet

ignored, even scorned.

While he has ascended

the tower of song,

the object of envy, and honour.

And remembered

long after he’s gone.

We’ll say kaddish

for him,

daven, and pray

leave a stone on his grave.

Sing

his Hallelujah chorus.

Perfect for Packing

Feb 21 2012

The snowmen are forlorn, this year.

It’s been warm

snow, scanty.

They stand there crooked, sagging

where sun-warmed sides have sunk.

They have a glazed look,

through countless cycles of freeze and thaw

to a glossy crust.

Eyes dropped-off

noses lost,

hats

toppled, and gone.

Like lumpy old men

they await the end

of this glum season,

make a dull winter

look sadder still.

Grass has appeared

in ragged patches

the colour of straw,

like balding lawns.

The pavement is bare

stained with salt.

Banks of snow

are brown, and pitted,

eaves glistening

drip ...drip ...drip.

The neighbourhood has grown older,

and few kids

make snowmen anymore.

But today’s new snow

has white-washed the world,

made it over, fresh.

Perfect for packing,

and next-door they’ve erected

the fattest snowman yet.

Who seems delighted

by the act of creation,

a snowman’s meagre life.

The street alight

with his cheery smile,

electric red.

Making all of us feel

9, again.

A Single Plant

Feb 14 2012

I am ashamed to say

I have a single plant.

I’m sure I knew its name.

once.

But I recognize it 

from shopping malls, office hallways,

where it survives the benign neglect

of coffee spills, and cigarettes

half-smoked.

A sturdy ornamental

with succulent leaves,

dull green

with dust.

It has survived

because it thrives in extremes

of wetness;

prefers its feet dry,

with a rare intemperate soaking.

Like a tropical downpour

in some exotic locale

where its ancestors would have flourished.

So we suit one another.

An anonymous plant

attention lacking,

and me

its feckless master,

who should not be entrusted

with living things.

Today, it was drooping badly

leaves bleached and dry.

So I was amazed, and gratified

how quickly it filled out

before my eyes,

rising-up turgid, and bright

with a single exuberant dousing.

Who knew

a rooted plant

could actually move

Like watching asparagus shoot skyward

in season.  

I felt redeemed,

as if the governor had called

with a last-minute reprieve.

Moral hazard

attaches

to indestructible plants,

rewarding men like me

for such lax stewardship.

My undeserved companion

cheering up the place,

free of rancour, and blame.

But sadly

still unnamed.

Snow Day

Feb 12 2012

My breath turns to fog

heat off.
I sleep best in cold
well-nested,
held down
by the reassuring heft
of bedclothes,
stacked impossibly high

Trees creak, windows rattle,

as a north wind blasts

and the mercury sags

even lower.

Heavy comforters

tugged-up about my neck,

feet tucked snugly

body muffled.

Cocooned

undercover.

The clock is turned

to face the wall,

curtains drawn.

School closed, work cancelled, roads

impassable.

Or so I hope.

I am lighter than air,

the force of displacement

tugging me up

into wakefulness,

as the weight of lassitude

draws me back.

I grasp at fragments of dreams,

burrow into the heat

of the bed.

On the luxurious cusp

of sleep,

I teeter between

desire

and need.

The urgency of the world recedes,

these sacrosanct walls

impregnable.

A snow day

has been called,

or did I dream it?

Either way,

let sleep reclaim me.

Let busyness wait

Let snow

blanket the world.

Steam Rising

Feb 07 2012

The road ascends

roughly north.

Away from the temperate shore

into thin astringent air.

There is open water

on the big lake

all winter long.

In the calm

steam rises

from its dense black surface.

But here, trees are sparse.

The cold has a sharp

relentless edge.

And heavy silence

amplifies

my footsteps.

It stays light, these days.

But dusk comes quickly,

and night falls

like a heavy door

slammed shut.

They say we tend in one direction

I’m not sure which,

switch-back, and circle

to and fro.

Deep dry snow,

sinking over my boot tops

stumbling uncontrollably.

I burrow in

deep and warm.

Until morning

I hope.

When we pass

our names are written in stone

which we presume will last.

Mine is written in snow

by frozen hands

going fast.

Perhaps, at dawn

you will see my breath

retrace my path.

The Neighbour’s Dog

Feb 2 2012

The neighbour’s dog

died last night,

at home

on a soft blanket

in his usual spot.

Hard breathing

dwindled, then stopped.

He was old, cantankerous

we never got along.

But still, it’s sad

I can feel their loss,

imagine my own beloved dog

abruptly gone.

How we love our pets

and how unworthy this is thought,

compared to all the other loves

that fill up our lives

and try us.

But we understand

the indomitable bond

between animal, and man.

They somehow scraped away

at the frozen earth

crusted snow,

and placed him in a shallow grave

marked by rocks.

A modest plot

in the shade beside the house

where a lifetime of pets
are buried,

letting nature reclaim

what’s left.

We will never know

the cause of death.

No heroic measures

were taken

at the end,

to salvage an extra day

a precious hour.

We are merciful with our dogs,

dispatch them with dignity

terminate their suffering.

Act like the compassionate God

we deny ourselves.

The end of life

is hard.

Even an old dog

who is blind and deaf

and in mute distress

leaves a scar on our souls.

But in  the spring

a puppy will appear,

or so I’m told.

We shrug off

sadness and loss

and carry on.

Not a replacement, of course

but a needed start.

And when he comes

all of us

will feel years younger.

The way an old cantankerous dog

adjusts to a new pup,

whose joy

is contagious.

Up, and running

as if he’d discovered

the antidote

to age.

Other People’s Lives

Jan 31 2012

You can only imagine

other people’s lives.

You think you know your own.

You overhear her on the phone.

One end of a conversation

she will carry on

until too old to care,

and no one cares

to listen.

Electromagnetic waves

propagate out

at the speed of light,

slowly decay

to the end of time.

The banalities, profundities

the news that changes lives,

going out into space

long after she’s died.

You have a rich

inner life.

The critical voice

that’s partially yours.

The endless chatter

that whispers

and roars.

The maddening loop

of constant correction,

like a broken record

again, and again.

The voice of reason

you choose to believe in

to make it make sense.

I speak softly

am rarely paid attention.

The phone rings

and a message is left

implied

unsaid.

Awaiting your call

of triumph, regret.

The crackle of distance

conducted for miles,

the tinny compression of wires.

In a voice

that never lies.

The Raven

Jan 31 2012

According to a reliable source

Charles Dickens kept a raven

as a beloved pet.

I have long regarded the raven

as my totemic animal,

so I am impressed.

That the great man

was also fond of them.

That Poe’s iconic poem

may have been provoked

by this exact bird.

But I would never keep a raven

captive.

Too intelligent an animal

to confine to its perch,

when it should be out

making mischief  —

sliding down rooftops

tormenting dogs,

keeping watch, on walkers

too oblivious to stop,

caustic comments dropping down

on top of them.

In winter

a raven’s spectacular blackness

is even more defiant.

It is an outcast

strutting on high-tension wires, perilous eaves,

ice-crusted branches

skeletal trees.

Inspiring writers

who capture its essence

in free-fall, and flight.

Who understand

that held, even lightly

the beauty will die.