Letter Carrier

Dec 26 2019

The temporary letter carrier

filling in for the holidays

has been leaving the neighbour's mail 
in my box.

So every day, I trudge next door

and unobtrusively deposit it

in its rightful spot,

dropping the lid quietly

and anxiously eyeing the door

to be sure no one's home.

Yes, we've been known to exchange polite hellos

coming and going

mowing the lawn.

He's even retrieved my empty trash cans

when they were left too long at the curb,

while I've accepted packages

when he was at work.

But there are limits to neighbourliness

in the private lives

of busy grown-ups.

There is only so much small talk

we have to give,

so many strained smiles

nods of acknowledgement.

A New Year's handshake, perhaps,

an enthusiastic Nice!

over his brand new car.

Mostly bills, some Christmas cards.

But for me, no mail all week.

So either I'm off Santa's list

(which wouldn't be a surprise)

or there are neighbours worse than me

on this proper suburban street

of drawn blinds

and well-manicured lawns.

Where, in the thin light of winter

near the end of a year

that could have used a little more good cheer

we exchange pleasantries

co-exist peacefully

and continue to live together

apart.

“Living together apart” (which is also know by the acronym LAT) is a new variation on marriage: couples who have long term committed relationships, but live in separate houses. I've borrowed it for this poem.

I originally had the final word as “alone”, not “apart”; and indeed, the experts tell us there is an epidemic of loneliness in society today. But I thought that was too strong a word, and it would serve the poem better if I left the reader free to make that inference herself.

Of course, there is absolutely nothing original in writing about suburban alienation. But cliche or not, that doesn't make it any less true or salient. (Actually, more true when it comes to an introvert and homebody like me. After all, I would probably be no less insular if the neighbourhood was instead full of outgoing street-partying and hail-fellow-well-met bon vivants!) I think if the poem works – even if it's not saying anything that hasn't been said before – it's because it doesn't moralize or hector. Rather, it works because it's tone is self-reflective and self-critical, not holier-than-thou; and because it takes as its subject something small and everyday, not big and pretentious. ...Although perhaps suburban “alienation” over-states it. Maybe this is more of a nostalgic lament for a kind of Norman Rockwell-ish neighbourliness that may have never in fact existed. When I was a kid, for example, we weren't any more friendly or involved with our real-life next door neighbours – who actually were the Joneses (talk about cliches!) – than I am now with the people next door.

(In case anyone is fact-checking this poem, my house is actually in the city, not the suburbs. But it's a small spread-out sort of city with a low-rise “downtown”, the kind in which the residential areas might as well be suburban – a low density car-centric place, and hardly cosmopolitan in the way that “city” implies.)

Violation

Dec 25 2019

Nothing artificial.

No tinselled plastic, gassing-off.

No, we must violate

the boundaries of inside and out,

bring a pagan tree

into the house,

redolent of balsam, pine, spruce.

Sacrificed

to rebirth, the return of the light

in the fastness of winter

the darkness of night.

How a living tree

succulent and green

soothes our inner animal,

the way being out in nature

restores the soul.

Even the unbelievers

are seduced by its beauty.

A slowly dying tree

brought inside the home,

its wildness, juxtaposed

with domesticity.

How well we are served,

the self-appointed stewards

given dominion over the earth

but who presume we are gods,

watching its branches droop

needles drop

verdant colour blanch.

Sharp scent, so quickly lost

to the stale indoor air.

I was out for a walk, ruminating on the last poem – Dead Tree, the one I had just finished writing – and trying to recapitulate where the idea originated. And recalled that I'd wanted to come up with something about the incongruity of a Christmas tree inside the house, the violation of boundaries between in and out it represents. And so, as I walked, the bones of this poem revealed themselves.

Perhaps it tries to do too much. There is this idea of violation, as well as the tree's pagan origins. There is the restorative power of being in nature. And there is the irony of celebrating life and rebirth by sacrificing a tree; which is in a way still alive, but also in the process of dying. And, to end the poem, a theme I can never seem to resist: an environmental message about man's hubris, presumption, and our defilement of the natural world. It also contains a dig at religion. Because I am the unbeliever. And the concept of man's dominion over earth, as conferred by scripture, has been conveniently interpreted to mean mastery, when it should more properly be understood as stewardship.

Dead Tree

Dec 24 2019

The dead tree

that had dropped its leaves

before summer had barely begun

now looks like all the others,

naked limbs

that branch and thin

and stand fully exposed,

as if stoically shivering

in this bitter prairie cold.

How sensible, to be dormant

in such an unforgiving winter,

to make yourself small

against the lethal power of wind

the unbearable weight of snow.

Look close, though, and you can see their buds are set

prepared for spring's revival;

skeleton trees

that merely impersonate death.

Except for this one

which I should have cut down last summer.

In the democracy of winter

in the season of drift

a lover of trees

flirting with hope

and lulled by wilful blindness.

The dogs and I often walk through a neighbourhood schoolyard where, in some excess of environmental zeal several years ago, they planted a number of trees. All the same, in the same location; yet one poor runty tree barely produced any leaves, and now looks definitively dead. But they left it standing; and now in winter, when all the trees are leafless and looking forlorn, you could imagine it like all the others, simply dormant.

I love trees, have planted a lot of them, and can hardly bear to even cut a branch, let alone cut one down. And who knows if a tree that appears dead might surprise us in spring: that its surviving roots, deep underground where frost doesn't penetrate, may in fact be gaining strength, and ready for one final heroic efflorescence. I have one maple that that seems to be on the verge of dying; but instead of removing it, I've radically pruned, and each spring it somehow keeps struggling back. Late in the season, but clearly alive. So it's now more a bonsai bush than a tree; but its leaves are healthy enough, and it's gorgeous in fall.

This is the southern extremity of the boreal forest, not prairie. And I could as easily have written some variation of “arctic” cold, or “miserable” cold, or “persistently bitter” cold. In the end, I chose prairie cold not only because the other choices didn't sound as well, but because I love the way it reinforces that image of exposure: the flat bald prairie, where a rare tree bears the full brunt of weather. The irony here is that the definition of “prairie” is a grassland plain, relatively treeless: it's not the flatness that makes it prairie (because the prairies aren't, in fact, flat), it's the paucity of trees.

It has also been very much the opposite of an unforgiving winter: unusually mild. Too mild, for my taste. And, I very much fear, a harbinger of climate change: wetter, warmer, messier winters; with lots of nasty freeze and thaw. Which is unpleasant for me, although hardly what should really concern us about global heating. Still, there are and will be cold snaps; so if accuracy matters, I can still claim it.

I've written before that if I let myself, every poem would be about death. I'm not sure – even though I use dead in both the first line and the title, then skeleton trees and death later on – this is that morbid a poem. Instead, it could easily be argued that it's about life: the renewal of spring; the possibility that this apparently dead tree may just end up rewarding the writer's hope.

Under

Dec 22 2019

The sound of snow falling.

With such a soft muffled touch

you might have just imagined it,

snow landing on snow

feathering gently down.

Because all you hear is absence

when snow blankets the world

deep and undisturbed;

dead air, between the crystals

balanced on their points,

absorbing sound

like thick cotton wool.

But you're sure you heard it once,

in that remote mountain pass

when the wind had died

and you stood perfectly still

taking slow shallow breaths.

Late at night

when the air was heavy

and sound carries best.

So far

from the machinery of human life

you felt like the last of your kind.

Fat wet flakes, near freezing

that seem to fill the sky,

pouring down

and piling up as you watch.

That you fear might bury you

in a solitude of winter

that lasts year after year.

How silent, under the snow.

I wonder if it's like hovering

in the ocean's dark depths,

your neutral body weightless

the sun blotted out.

Where you can only tell down from up

by watching your bubbles rise,

precious air

a life-line to the surface.

A small opening

in front of your face

from warm exhaled breath.

The thump-thump of your heart

the rush of blood in your head.

In a piece in this weekend's Opinion section, there was an email exchange between two people about endangered winter; endangered, that is, by climate change. 2 men (Giles Whittell and Bund Brunner) who love winter.

At one point, Brunner says this: I remember times when I heard snow falling high in the Bavarian Alps when I was cross-country skiing there and there was no wind, no cars or other sound to distract attention. A very gentle sound, like crystals landing. Heavy snowflakes, just around the freezing point. I know physicists are skeptical. They think the pitch is too high to be perceived by a human ear – unlike by the ear of a bat or fish. Maybe I have extrasensory abilities? In any case, I like the idea.

“The sound of falling snow” got stuck in my head, and I thought it might make a good start to a poem. This is the result.

It's uncanny, though, how poems write themselves. Here's a short email I sent, along with an earlier version of this poem, to one of my first readers. It briefly explains my own surprise at what I'd written:

Yes, the rewrite is very different. Amazing what weaknesses are revealed by bringing fresh ears to a piece. On rereading, I notice things I never had in mind. This was really intended to be just a descriptive poem, a mood piece. But it's interesting to note all the morbid undertones:  the dead air, the wind dying, the burying alive, the sun blotted out; all the references to air and breath and vital organs. And, of course, the last of your kind. Combine that with the ambience of peace, solitude, and quiet the poem conveys, and it really starts to read like a rehearsal of death!

Flock

Dec 21 2019

The sky was dark with birds.

Sleek black darts

that wheeled and turned,

flashing through the air

with breath-taking speed

magnificent grace.

As if each were a cell

in a single animal

whose sum exceeds its parts.

Until a bird of prey

scatters them

and they frantically sling-shot apart.

No longer weightless

I can see their hard-working wings

the thinness of air,

a flicker

of indecision

fleet as it is.

How unforgiving

a single bird.

More than the stillness

of the clear blue sky,

it's the quiet

that leaves me unnerved.

This picture accompanied a piece in today's New Yorker website. It's not the ideal picture to demonstrate the flocking of birds. But as soon as I saw it, this poem started to write itself. So I'm including it here not to illustrate or reinforce the poem, but simply to give some insight into my creative process.

Monthly

Dec 20 2019

Once again, the full moon

has caught me by surprise,

appearing, fully formed

in what had been a dark and empty void.

After a week of overcast.

After losing track of time,

which seems to pass faster and faster

as the years go by.

And after my usual habit

of walking head down,

lost in thought

walling-off the world.

No mystery to its occurrence, though;

monthly, like clockwork.

Its silver-blue glow

is even brighter on snow

shadows more sharply etched.

An unearthly light

that seems to flatten distance

and bleed out the reds,

as if we were extraterrestrials

under some alien star.

And if the circle is the ideal shape

as imagined by philosophers

then this moon is immaculate,

a celestial object

as worthy of worship

as Venus and Mars.

Looming large on the horizon, I watch it rise,

steadily ascending

with a slow majestic grace

that so simply conveys

the geometry of the cosmos,

the gravity

trajectory

and mass

that are its instruments.

And then, imagining the moon

as if it were fixed in place

I can feel the earth

slip into gear,

the sphere beneath my feet

wheeling through space.

But how odd

its extremes of size;

from a small coin, suspended high overhead

to this colossal orb

sitting just above the horizon,

Smaller and smaller, the higher it goes.

An optical illusion, we are told.

But if we cannot trust even our eyes

what can we trust?

Night has been transformed

turning to dusk.

And in another month

I will be surprised, once more.

Out here, we have a good night sky for viewing, and I can usually keep tabs on the moon's waxing and waning. But the full moon caught me by surprise the other day, walking well after dark as the clouds broke.

Especially with fresh snow on the ground, the intensity of its light always surprises me. And delights, me, of course. I initially wrote something like “silvery light”; you know, the usual cliche. But then actually looked it up, and Google informs me that the light is in fact heavily shifted toward blue: much more blue than silver. Which probably explains that cool, bloodless, unearthly quality it has.

We've all been fooled by the the optical illusion of the moon's size. Which is easily explained: you only notice how large it actually is when it's close enough to the ground that you can directly compare it to known objects; while higher up, the same-sized moon seems lost in the vastness of an empty sky.

Water Bowl

Dec 18 2019

The water bowl is empty again.

The dogs let me know

by the sound of their tongues

drilling hard through the bottom,

as if water's down there

dry or not.

Or as if they were prophets, back in Bible days,

and that with enough fervency, and faith

a spring would gush from the desert.

So strong and determined

they've left a permanent dent.

And by the sound of scraping

now that the rubber-rimmed bottom

has long rotted off;

metal

scuffling across the rough porcelain floor

calling attention to my neglect,

like a cacophonous hymn

from a tone-deaf choir.

Fresh water

essential for life.

If only the dogs could figure out faucets

and serve themselves.

But then, if they had thumbs

they'd probably be out the door

maybe out on the highway

flagging down cars,

looking for a better human

more faithful servant

good provider.

I'm kidding, of course

this is their forever home.

No wandering in the wilderness

parting of seas.

And after all, the water here is fine

the commandments optional.

And who owns whom, exactly?

Am I the owner and master,

or is it the dogs

whose gentleness and innocence

will save us in the end?

Who know all they are called upon to do

is keep their thoughts pure

and make a joyful noise

and the bowl will fill itself.

Othering

Dec 17 2019

The dogs

burrow-in under the covers,

their compact bodies

tucked into mine.

The animal heat.

The feral dreams

of strangled yelps and quivering limbs.

The gamy air,

ripe with rebreathing

in that closed dark space.

In the wild

packs of dogs sleep jumbled together

in dug-out lairs;

the bonds of blood and belonging

that make out of many

one.

I remember how the pups once slept

when they were blind and deaf

and fat from suckling;

in a soft plush pile

of fidgety bodies and random legs,

like plump brown dumplings

but with butt-holes and heads.

One of my girls

has the alluring scent

of buttered popcorn, slightly burnt.

While the other smells vaguely of earth,

summer rain

on freshly turned soil.

I'm sure I smell strongly of something,

and whatever it is

they've known it since birth;

their alpha

their mother

their source of love.

Every night, I sleep with my dogs

in our warm dark cave,

cuddling-up snugly

feeling settled and safe.

How much we have in common, man and dogs;

the unbreakable bond between us,

our wants, and needs, and desires.

The sameness of mammals,

who are, in their way

all seeking touch

belonging

love.

And our own fractious world,

where we let the smallest difference

wall us off from them.

Where we set each other apart,

sleeping in separate beds

separate rooms

separate tribes.

The othering

of our fellow man.

And then, the acceptance of dogs

who never question or doubt.

Ever since I heard the expression, I've always attributed “the narcissism of small differences” to H.L. Mencken. Apparently, it was actually Freud. But whatever the source, this tendency to xenophobia and tribalism seems inherent in man. Yet oddly, when we live in close contact with other animals – creatures who have traditionally been considered not only insentient, but unworthy – you can't help but be impressed not by the differences, but by the striking similarities; what I've distilled in the poem down to wants, and needs, and desires. So if you focus on difference, that's what you'll notice; even in your own species. And if you focus on similarity, then even across species you will be struck by what we share, how we're fundamentally made of the same stuff.

This began as a simple dog poem ...and then took a turn. I had just written the following email to a friend, and clearly the theme of “othering” had lodged itself somewhere in my subconscious. I won't include the whole correspondence, but will explain that in commenting in general on intolerance and religious difference, he had more specifically referred to Hindus in India who tend to harbour a strong revulsion to Muslim meat sellers. So he finished his email with this:

No doubt the Hindus dislike Muslims

our Hindu Guide railed on about how disgusting Muslim markets were,

as they sold meat in basically a medieval style market.

And I responded as follows:

I know we both sneer at religion:  because of its irrationality and superstition. But to sneer at it for its tendency to exacerbate difference and promote xenophobia is missing the point. This has nothing to do with religion -- that is, belief, dogma, theology -- it has to do with human nature:  our essential tribalism and need to belong. The difference you point out is an excellent example of how it is CULTURAL difference that really divides people. Here, it has to do with food (meat), which is particularly potent:  there are the smells, taboos, tradition attached to food; and there is especially the intimacy of placing something between your lips. 

You know, when the black/white divide in North America comes up, it has so much more to do with language and lifestyle than with skin colour. Even bigots stop seeing blackness when the person sounds like us and has a similar lifestyle. So as rationalists, you and I wonder how anyone could imagine that skin colour has any meaning (just as we wonder how people could go to war over different versions of a god who says murdering is a sin). But it really wasn't about skin colour at all; it was about someone who sounds and behaves differently. If you have an open personality, this difference might be exhilarating. If, like most of us, you're closed and conservative, it instead becomes threatening. From there, it isn't much of a reach to dehumanize and "other" them.

I've always found it impossible to sleep any way but alone. I need my own bed. I also need the temperature to be near freezing – literally – which is pretty much a non-starter for co-sleeping anyway. Not to mention that I retire when many people are already getting up! But despite all these idiosyncrasies, I love sleeping with my dogs. And they, being the eminently adaptable and mellow creatures they are, have no problem with my quirks. And despite the reference to strangled yelps and quivering limbs, they're actually very demur sleepers: quiet, still, accommodating.

Also, contrary to stereotype, my dogs smell great. Especially Rufus, who truly does smell of burnt popcorn. I take great pleasure burrowing my nose into her fur and inhaling deeply. Even their breath is pretty sweet. ...At least for dogs it is!

The line plump brown dumplings/ with butt-holes and heads came very easily. Because that was my nickname for Rufus when she was a baby: “my little dumpling butt-hole.” She was a fat little thing and carries her tail erect; so walking behind her you can't help but notice that cute little butt-hole staring right back at you!

There may be some eyebrows raised at my choice to end the 2nd last stanza The othering / of our fellow man, which some will regard as sexist. Originally, it was our fellow women and men, but this just didn't work as well. So I went back to the more traditional (and yes, I acknowledge, patriarchal) formulation. Those who prefer the more politically correct form are invited to read it whichever way they like. 

Moment

Dec 15 2019

The posse

of middle school girls

swept into the cross-town bus

in a swirl of giggles

and winter air.

They took possession of the big back seat

as if it was theirs all along;

its unfenced space,

commanding view

straddling the aisle.

Some perched, some sprawled,

elbowing and jostling

as they sorted-out alliances,

snickering and whispering

while scrolling their phones.

Set loose from class

they were pent-up ponies,

prancing free

in a hay-sweet field,

strong and glowing

on gangly legs.

Poised

at that moment of adolescence

when friends are forever

and you'll never forget.

And when all you can hope

is that things will get better

which surely they must.

The moment

that 30 years hence

they will quietly envy.

Regretting how short it was.

How youth is wasted

on the immortal young.

There was an interesting interview on this weekend's The Sunday Edition about how we behave on public transit: the sociology of the bus; the protocols and conventions that determine our comportment in this familiar public space. At one point, the interviewee Amy Hanser said people were very predictable in how they sort themselves: who sits near the driver, who gravitates to the single seats, and who occupies that wide row beneath the back window that straddles the aisle. I immediately knew the answer to that last one, and that planted the seed of this poem. Which is an odd one because it has nothing to do with any recent personal experience: it has literally been decades since I last rode a city bus!

Here's the link: https://www.cbc.ca/radio/thesundayedition/where-we-sit-on-a-bus-and-how-we-behave-says-a-lot-about-us-1.5393092