Children Are Starving in Africa - May 8 2024

 

Children Are Starving in Africa

May 8 2024

I’ve learned to eat slowly.

But growing up

around the table

3 teenage boys

would hoover, gulp, scarf.

While our mother grazed

and our father ate responsibly,

as you’d expect of a well-regulated man

who did nothing to excess.

The dog, of course, lurked between our legs;

more vulture than wolf

she’d go begging for hand-outs

lunging at scraps.

Since then, I’ve grown up.

Learned that no one is hovering

to snatch food from my mouth.

The lesson of temperance

has been well-digested by now;

the mission

to civilize the child

can be declared a success.

So I chew slowly.

Between bites

replace the knife and fork.

And for the sake of politeness

don’t finish everything.

Instead of competing

with 2 hungry teens.

Instead of eating for children

starving overseas.

Instead of cleaning my plate,

because in our family

waste was a sin.

It’s true

that in the fullness of time

all men become their father.

The eating responsibly.

The frugality.

The small mannerisms

and identical laugh.

Even looking in the mirror

the resemblance is obvious.

The well regulated man

who leaves a little on his plate.

And starving children in Africa,

who are still just as hungry

as my mother warned.

It sounds racist today (after all, there are children going hungry everywhere, even here!), and has the patronizing odour of “the white man as saviour” complex, but that’s what mothers said back in the day: clean your plate, because children are starving in Africa. Guilt and shame are always good motivators, even if they don’t make sense.

We do grow up to become our fathers, and I do see him in the mirror as I age. This resemblance allows me to look both back and ahead. Looking back, I have more sympathy with and understanding of him as a whole person and not simply as an authority figure and provider. And looking ahead, I get a glimpse how I will age. Which is not only sobering, but another thing that makes one question the notion of free will: that is, a reminder of the genetic determinism we carry in us from birth. (Not to mention, for the deterministic sticklers, the family culture of example and modelling that also enters into this question of absolute personal agency. Except, of course, that the environment in which one is raised doesn't show up in a mirror!)

Nowhere Fast - May 7 2024

 

Nowhere Fast

May 7 2024

I swim

between the buoy lines

counting laps.

Have settled in

to the rhythmic stroke

regular turns

back and forth.

Muscle memory

and the body as machine,

while my mind is free to wander

and life's adversity

is put on hold.

Which might seem pointless to you,

ending up where I began,

going nowhere fast.

But out in the lake

in open water

there is no keeping track

single lane

reversing course.

No straight lines

or tiled walls.

I am an automaton,

swimming as far as I want

if not as far as I can.

And one day

when the weight of the world becomes unbearable

I will jump in

on a whim

without a plan.

Will head out

just as the sun’s about to rise,

and the lake, a polished mirror

merges with the sky.

Will swim

as far as I can,

leaving in my wake

a trail of broken glass.

At least for the seconds it lasts,

before the surface smooths over

invisibly mending itself.

So in a heartbeat

there will be nothing left to show

I ever passed this way.

Pointless, you might say

to go nowhere fast

and do it blind.

To swim for your life

and leave nothing behind.

Choose your own metaphor.

For a nihilist like me, this poem has something to say about the ultimate meaninglessness of life. I don’t mean nihilism in the sense of anarchy, license, despair. I think it’s more about humility: a useful corrective to the solipsism and self-importance of our age. After all, we may have refuted the geocentric model of the cosmos, putting the sun at the centre of the solar system; but we still put ourselves at the centre of the universe. And even though there is no ultimate meaning — no higher power, no reason we’re here except for the random collision of molecules and an improbable chain of contingency, and only oblivion after we die — we are still free to construct meaning: that is, live like happy idiots because conscious self-aware life is a rare and precious gift, so why not dig in?

The poem celebrates the kinaesthetic pleasure of movement, the thing for its own sake. Although also for the sake of escaping from the pressures of one’s personal life, as well as from a world that seems more and more frightening. Nevertheless, an activity that in an existential sense seems pointless. Should that make a difference? No. At least according to my philosophy, as well as the poem, it shouldn’t.

High School History - May 6 2024

 

High School History

May 6 2024

In high school history

it all made sense.

The dates were set in stone

and we tried to remember them,

because not only were we told

how important they were,

they were on the test.

It was self-evident

that events happened in order

as if according to some cosmic plan,

intended to lead to us

in the here and now;

the end of history

and the beginning of kumbaya.

Although the biggest lesson I learned

was how short-sighted they were,

depleting the resources

they depended on,

fighting stupid wars,

submitting to tyranny.

Now, older and more cynical

I know what history really is for.

How it’s used

to serve the powers that be,

so whoever controls the narrative

controls what we think.

As well as how easily we forget;

of even the history

we ourselves lived through

a few short years ago.

If progress

is two steps forward, one step back

I can live with disappointment.

But it feels we’re not gaining ground

just losing it,

not only regressing

but pleased to go back;

fighting the same old wars,

dying of diseases

we thought needles had solved,

and happy to distract ourselves

while madmen rule.

We study history

so as not to repeat it.

But who’s to say

the textbook isn’t glib

simplistic,

superficial;

a version of a larger truth

we may never know.

I try hard to avoid poetry as political as this. Because prose works so much better for ideas, while poetry is more suited to feelings, moods, impressions. But I’m more head than heart. And sometimes, too annoyed to contain myself. So against my better judgment, I occasionally indulge.

I was reading Anne Applebaum’s recent piece in the Atlantic about the sophisticated and extremely well-resourced propaganda from China, Russia, and other autocratic nations that is not only intended to engender apathy and cynical disengagement among their own citizens, but is busy rewriting history (even while it’s happening!), attempting to discredit the democracies as corrupt and ineffective, and assiduously brainwashing the people of 3rd world countries who are poorly served by their own media. Most ominously, how the propagandists’ domestic enablers (such as Tucker Carlson and Marjorie Taylor Greene) use social media and their own bully pulpits to amplify and legitimate these patent falsehoods.

I was also thinking of Trump. How his relentless barrage of scandal, outright lies, outlandish discourse, and radical departures from the political norms (such as demonizing the media; threatening to weaponize the Dept. of Justice, politicize the military, and prosecute his political opponents; and labelling any dissenter or disloyalist as a hater of America and existential threat) numbs us to the next depravity and makes us forget the last one. How our memories are so short his followers actually believe his utterly disastrous Presidency was a triumph.

Not to mention how history textbooks are superficial, parochially Western in their worldview, and guilty of “presentism”. And how, above all, they present history as neat, fixed, and decided; while history is complicated, messy, open to interpretation, and never fully understood. Because history is an ongoing debate, not a chronological litany of accepted facts.

In 1984, George Orwell said everything there is to say about the weaponization of history:

Who controls the past controls the future. Who controls the present controls the past.

The most effective way to destroy people is to deny and obliterate their own understanding of their history.

https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2024/06/china-russia-republican-party-relations/678271/

Mongrel Seeds - May 5 2024

 

Mongrel Seeds

May 5 2024

You prepare the soil,

plant, weed, grow.

But before that

select a site with sun

but not too much,

erect a fence

to keep the deer from plundering,

pick seeds

that in their hard impervious husks

contain both mystery, and promise.

Mystery, because each is unique;

mongrel seeds

miscegenation.

And promise,

because you may never live

to see the harvest.

But plant, anyway

and tend to your plot

however modest.

This is faith of a different order

than Sunday service,

belief in a higher power,

obeisance to God.

It’s faith that things will grow

with you or without,

given light and water

and the fullness of time.

Even an atheist

plants tomatoes, carrots, kale.

Sometimes prays for rain

despite herself.

Struck - May 4 2024

 

Struck

May 4 2024

You never wake up

thinking this is the day.

Because life happens in the moment.

Because even though it usually doesn’t

change comes in a thunderclap,

no telling when, or where.

Except that either way

you have no say,

while the gods laugh among themselves

and no one else cares.

Thunder

   —  when charges equalize,

lightning arcs,

and superheated air

explosively expands

at 340 metres a second;

a shock wave of sound

that slams you like a body blow.

Who knew

lightning travelled up, not down;

from the ground

and into the clouds.

At least, standing out in the storm

you can hear it coming

from a long way away,

the sound

getting closer to the light

until it happens all at once.

Not so the car

coming head on;

when you turned to your right

to flash her a smile,

wavering over the line

just enough.

Shit happens, the gods laugh. 

Nevertheless, we cleave to the illusion of control. Because without it, life would be unbearable.

Middle Managing - May 2 2024

 

Middle Managing

May 2 2024

The abandoned gravel pit,

where the cool kids

cut class.

Where they'd dragged a ratty sofa and some sleeping bags

and sat strumming guitars.

Where they passed doobies hand-to-hand,

laughing at bad jokes

that seemed hilarious.

And where they drank warm beer,

turned a boom box full blast

(it was back in the day),

and stared vacantly off into space

because where else was there to look?

There was some fumbling sex, for sure,

but buzzed or not

they only went so far

where others could watch.

While kids like me

who were straight-edge

and cared about marks

looked down on them as losers,

not nearly as cool

as they thought themselves.

But secretly, we were envious;

the freedom

we denied ourselves.

Or at least deferred

to the fabulous future

we were earnestly working toward.

Since then, I’ve lost track

and don’t know how they ended up.

As pregnant teens

and absentee dads?

As stoners and drop-outs

who dodged the draft?

Or as gonzo novelists

tech entrepreneurs?

I hope not politics,

even though I bet they’d do well;

because they’re naturally charismatic,

and have already shown they believe

they’re above the rules.

Could it have been

that they were smarter than us

and simply bored by school?

That despite an unpromising start

they went on to great things;

while we married up,

settled down,

got respectable jobs?

Except, that is

when our own the kids turned into teens,

middle managing

lost its appeal,

and the mortgage was up for renewal.

We’d waited all that time

for pot to be legal,

then got ourselves a bong

and started toking as well.

Too late, I’m afraid

to do much good.

Prematurely Grey - May 1 2024

 

Prematurely Grey

May 1 2024

I’ve let the beard grow out.

Prematurely grey, I’m tempted to say;

except it isn’t premature,

it’s just about on time

for a man of my age.

I look at my reflection

and don’t recognize myself.

I see Hemingway.

A ruddy-faced Santa Claus.

A survivalist,

who lives off grid

and can field dress a deer.

So I feel like an imposter

hiding behind this beard,

posing as debonair

adventurous

avuncular,

my weak chin disguised

weathered skin covered.

Wondering

if it will ever stop itching

and how much food it’s caught.

Before too long

I will shave it off.

Will once again

be the fresh-faced young man,

who flirted with a patchy beard

and sinister looking moustache.

Who wished he looked older

settled

more sure of himself.

Not knowing that his older self

would one day look back

with wistful feelings of envy and loss

unconscionable nostalgia.

Which are all unworthy thoughts.

Because all of life is loss

and envy is corrosive.

Because nostalgia

is a false emotion,

conveniently ignoring

the tribulations of youth,

the fears and insecurities

angst and uncertainty.

And unworthy

because the past is always with us, no matter what;

either hiding behind a beard

or whispering into an ear

a word no one wants to hear

  —  imposter.

This poem began with a passing glance in the mirror. You have to understand that I almost never look in the mirror. And also that the beard has never been this full.

As usual, I had no idea where it — the poem, that is (!) — would go. But feel pleased that despite the light-hearted beginning, I was able to say something worthwhile and not just mildly amusing. This change in tone is always difficult. I hope it works here.

Luck Be a Lady With Me - April 30 2024

 

Luck be a Lady With Me

April 30 2024

The examination room was cramped,

a functional space

antiseptically bare

with no room for comfort.

The ceiling light was merciless;

the rapid flicker

rattled my brain,

and the cold fluorescent white

turned everything

a ghostly pale.

There was no turning away;

even closed eyes

offered little escape

no matter how hard you screwed them shut.

After waiting in the waiting room

I sat

waiting some more.

If an unpleasant place to wait

then an improbable place to heal.

Like a casino

there was no clock

no outside light.

The doctor

was elusive as lady luck,

running late

as usual.

And I felt as alone

as you do in a crowd

of money-losing strangers

feeling sorry for themselves.

I’m not a betting man,

but as I sat back

imagined a roll of the dice,

strains of Sinatra

coming through from the lounge,

and the cigarette girl

with a tray strapped to her chest,

hawking Lucky Strikes and Parliaments

to hard-drinking bettors.

Imagined

turning over my hand,

hoping for 21,

a straight flush,

my number coming up.

That the diagnosis I dreaded

wasn’t in the cards.

I rarely have a doctor’s appointment. But I knew there would be waiting. Especially for someone like me, since I’m obsessive about being on-time (which really means at least 5 minutes early!) The examination cubicle — small, over-lit, antiseptically bare — does not put one at ease. This familiar experience seemed ripe for a poem.

Matters of health are a function of lifestyle (which, at least if you have doubts about the existence of free will, is also not a matter of choice), the dumb luck of accidents, and the genetic lottery. Which altogether feels too much like gambling: random chance, where the house always wins and no one gets out alive! So the metaphor of a gambling casino — the belief that this time you’ll win big (or perhaps, the comforting denial of anything bad), and the fervent courting of Lady Luck — seemed apt. I may be of the wrong generation, but I love Sinatra, so what else but this iconic song? So he gets a mention, while the title gets a nod, and — in a fitting anachronism — the cigarette girl gets an ironic little walk-on part!

Temperance - April 28 2024

 

Temperance

April 28 2024

The measured life

is no longer one of temperance

as it was back then.

Today, we quantify ourselves;

heart rate

body weight

antioxidants,

counting steps

and adding reps

in a quest to live forever.

Immortality,

once left only to the gods.

While I am laissez faire.

I will postpone death

as long as I can,

but life is for living

not keeping track.

Not of steps

and not the number of words

I’ve written today

nor how many read.

Just many as I need to say

care to cram in my head.

Because it’s impossible to track

all the sentences and paragraphs

language allows.

A poem that never ends,

stanza after stanza

just because it can.

Or has the last word

here and now.

A friend recently wrote this in an email: I seem to be struggling in the water this week. Garmin says my heart rate is unbalanced. Hopefully I'm not getting sick. For a moment, I was confused: Garmin?? Then it twigged, and I realized I shouldn’t have been surprised that she — an exceptionally self-disciplined and fit woman — would have one of these.

But the quantified life doesn’t appeal to me. Even though there’s no doubt my long-winded poetry would benefit from keeping count: setting a strict line count, and keeping to it! (Here, 30. While I set out hoping for at most 10 🙃!)

A Working Man - April 27 2024

 

A Working Man

April 27 2024

Yes, laugh lines, more deeply inscribed,

the crinkles around my eyes

when I smile

that have now become permanent.

But what most betrays my age

is the fleshiness;

how over the years

and inexplicably

my face has fattened and sagged.

Yet at the same time

muscle atrophies

and hands waste.

How, in old people

you can see the bones

beneath thinly stretched skin.

How the wattled necks and skinny hands

are dead giveaways.

But the farmer’s strong hands

   —   big as mitts,

with sausage fingers

and warm calloused skin   —

are still formidable;

a working man’s hands,

a lifetime

of manual labour.

Did work do this?

Or did he self-select;

how a man’s man

forks hay and builds fences

and manhandles farm animals

instead of writing poetry?

My hand disappears into his;

a damp spindly fish

in a massive jaw.

He clamps down hard

in a crushing grip;

not an assertion of dominance

by an insecure man,

but simply someone

who doesn’t know his own strength.

I avoid shaking hands

and envy men like this.

If only life

went the other way around.

That I had a taut face, liked sculpted marble,

along with thick farmer's hands

that can toss a bail of hay

and never betray their age

or shy away from touch.

Small Things - April 27 2024

 

Small Things

April 27 2024

One of those small things

that mean nothing

but please the eye.

After all, there’s nothing about a wall

that would change your life;

no metaphors here

about breaking out

or artificial divisions.

What struck me most was the moss,

a luminous green

against the grey

in the cracks between the stones;

growing, it seems

where nothing else will.

Especially how, when the clouds thin

and that rain-washed light

breaks through the overcast

and catches it just so

the moss seems lit from within.

A green

so in and of itself

I can only call it mossy green,

because words fail

and colours must be seen

to be truly known.

The wall, too, catches my eye.

How it settles

where the land subsides,

slumping in places

and leaning a bit.

So it looks ancient, as if it’s always been there;

a sense of permanence

that settles me, as well.

Like ivy on a castle tower

it takes time

to attain this louche state of decay

this ease with itself;

stones, expertly placed

in a mortarless wall

that bends instead of breaks,

held by friction and weight

and the faith of its creators.

From now on, this green

will be my reference point;

primary

iconic

archetypal.

Moss

catching the light just so.

From the beginning, I always took the greatest pleasure writing about microcosm and close observation. I think this is turning a weakness into a strength.

The weakness is my prolixity. The inclination toward too much detail and specificity, when poetry requires space, allusion, ambiguity. The best example of this is how I often have to say to myself that “I’m not writing a novel here”. (Unfortunately, I often also fail to take my own advice!)

But I think it becomes a strength when you narrow the focus and zoom in. Because then, the pleasure is in the extravagance: the loving detail; the feeling you have all the time in the world to hover over this one small thing. And the pleasure of bringing the unseen to light: opening eyes to the small things in life that contain so much beauty, yet are so easily ignored.

The happiness experts tell us we “should stop and smell the roses.” Which may be too much of a cliché for good poetry, but is still good advice!