Sarcopenia

Feb 2 2019

In the faces of these two elderly men

I could see glimmers

of their younger selves.

But the shambling Irishman

with the meaty hands

and head like lumpy pound-cake

had slimmed down nicely;

his surprisingly clear skin

and the delicacy of his newly honed face

bringing to mind words like “distinguished”, and “silver fox”.

How age can compliment a man

as much as it's hard on a woman

in the eyes of the world.

While the smooth young man-about-town

who had squired celebrities

and worn his long wavy hair

with fashionable neglect

had turned gaunt and deeply creased,

his blemished skin

betraying time's ravages.

My own round face

is getting fatter with age,

prosperously bland

in its plump contentment.

And with the same ruddy plethora

that still too easily flushes,

whether with excitement

or embarrassment

or unbuckled gluttony.

This is my father's gift,

whom I've come to more and more resemble,

his visage full

until he neared the end.

Yet how limply clothes hang

on the shrunken bodies

of the very old;

their paper skin and wasted muscle

thin collapsing bone.

The perversity of age;

from the neck up, well-fed,

while the rest

is more Dickensian waif.

No need to elaborate on hair,

except to wonder

how it can disappear on top

while showing up alarmingly

in such odd and bewildering spots.

At some point

I will start tacking on years

to my chronological age.

No longer clinging to youth

but proud to have merely survived,

as if to brag

how well-preserved I am.

The refreshing lies

of the white-haired raconteur,

who has tired of envying the young

and revels in longevity.

So I have this to look forward to:

a fat-faced old man

who claims to be older.

Struggling

like my father before me

as time grows short,

going faster and faster

while I inexorably slow.

I recently watched a terrific HBO documentary on two legendary New York columnists, Peter Hamill and Jimmy Breslin. (https://www.hbo.com/content/hboweb/en/documentaries/breslin-and-hamill-deadline-artists/about.html)

It began with archival film, and then at one point cut to the two men in present time, chatting amiably together. Their older versions were at first so unrecognizable that I found myself confused as to just what these two elderly men were doing on camera. (I suppose I had presumed the film was encomium, and had imagined them dead. Although at the time of this writing and since the film was made, Breslin actually has passed away.) Scrutinizing more carefully, the persisting glimmer of their younger versions came clear. But what a reversal: the lumpy Breslin looking positively handsome, while the debonair Hamill was a wizened remnant of the formerly dashing young man.

It struck me how we all age in one of two ways: either fat-faced, or cadaverous. In the former, faces softening and remaining full even as muscle wasting (the “sarcopenia” of the title) robs the body of mass. I couldn't help but think of my own round ruddy face, wondering how I will look in 20 years. Will I turn out into a Breslin, or a Hamill? Will my fat face get fatter, or will I end up with that lean and hungry look?

This poem was the result.

But the Sleeping Dogs Slept

Jan 18 2019

Confused by the light

he sprinted ahead of us,

alarmed, but under control;

as if he could run all night

hardly tiring.

Before he clambered up

the high banks

and vanished into darkness,

leaving a few clumps of snow

runnelling down

the smoothly scoured surface.

Heading north

on a country road

on a frigid winter night.

When the frozen seat had softened

but frost still rimmed the glass.

The warm cocoon, the hum of tires

the heater's steady purr.

A Brahms concerto

coming over the air

from somewhere vaguely south,

before it lost to static

a little further on.

When an impression of motion

in the shifting greys

broke my trance-like calm,

a disturbance

in the cone of light

that cut the icy dark.

A deer? 
                 ...a fox?

                                  ...a large lost dog?

Until my perspective sharpened

and I was certain it was wolf.

Thinking of all the howls

in the lonely hours

when we wondered just how far.

And of its sure powerful stride;

urgent, but not panicked.

Because foxes dart, deer frantically stumble.

And dogs bark

like the overgrown puppies they are.

While the wolf's majestic bearing

left little doubt

who belonged to this land

and who commanded deference.

But the sleeping dogs slept,

their animal warmth

and steady humid breath.

Oblivious

to the feral scent of predators

and ever-present threats.

So up we drove

the winding road

between towering banks of snow.

Like a slender life-line

carved out of winter

by the massive yellow plow,

its acrid smoke, diesel racket

rattling steel blade.

While the lone wolf

bounded freely through the woods.

His keen vision

illuminating the dark,

his enormous paws

padding softly

as he vanished into night.

I was sad to read today of Mary Oliver's death. But as I read the various remembrances, I was reminded how much this beloved and admired poet's style is very similar to mine: often missing the presence of people; revelling in the natural world; descriptive, lyrical, epiphanic; somewhat deprecating of man's place in nature; and written in a direct and accessible style. And I found great encouragement in this, since I often think that my poetry is boring, repetitive, and not coloured enough by deep human emotion and circumstance. What, one more “nature poem”? Another overly descriptive piece, when all I can resort to for inspiration in my uneventful existence (ahh, the romantic life of the poet!) is looking out the window ...again?

So I felt it worthwhile to have a go at this one. After all. Risking “more of the same.” If for nothing more than the pleasure of writing. Not of having written, but of the writing itself. I think as prolific a poet as Mary Oliver would be with me on this, as well.

Germanic

Dec 8 2018

A sturdy ferry, in nautical white.

With a bright red stack, jauntily angled

and wind-whipped flags, crisply snapping

on a brisk blue sea

flecked with froth.

A coal-black plume

chuffs from its funnel

streaming toward the bow.

How disconcerting,

to see it vent its exhaust

in the direction of travel.

Unlike ships, as they're always depicted

bravely steaming ahead

trailing smoke.

But in the artist's eye

we see a working vessel

on a sweet-water sea,

an infernal smudge

on pastel sky.

A tail wind,

yet the sulphurous plume

evokes the resistance of water.

Of glowing boilers

steam erupting,

massive pistons

repeatedly thrusting.

The rusted screw

straining, churning,

an unglamorous vessel

hard at work.

It occupies most of the canvas

but still seems small,

eclipsed

by the indifferent power

of wind and wave,

by a merciless sea

so vastly present

yet hardly seen.

I can hear the clanging of pipes

sense a low-pitched throb.

Feel her steel shudder

at battering waves

and the weight of water.

A workhorse ferry

forging on.

This is the second consecutive time this picture appeared in the weekend paper. A small ad for an art gallery, one among many that also contained full colour reproductions. Yet both times, it was the only one that absolutely compelled my eye: caught and held it, then drew me back. Even though it occupied a small rectangle in the lower half of an otherwise unremarkable inside page.

I know what I found immediately appealing: the bright primary colours; the sure but unschooled style; the ship itself – jaunty, almost festive, but still a humble working vessel. Words like “sturdy” and “dogged” come to mind. But what compelled was that column of smoke, going in the direction of travel. Which is, of course, perfectly normal, and as common as any direction. Yet is also striking because it seems few artists ever depict a ship this way. Yes, a tail wind, but it still makes the ship seems slow: steady, determined, and unaccountably charismatic; reminiscent, somehow, of “the engine that could.”

The artist is Angus Trudeau (1908 to 1984), and the title of the piece is Germanic. Here is a thumbnail biography, which I've lifted from the website of Gallery Gevik, who apparently represent his work:

Angus Trudeau spent his working life as a sailor and cook aboard the Lake Huron commercial ships. He devoted his spare time, and his retirement years to painting and model building. Trudeau's language was Ojibwe and he spent virtually his whole life on or around Manitoulin Island, and in later life, on the Wikwemikong Reserve, where he was much admired by the younger generation of the Woodland School of painters.

Trudeau's inspiration is drawn from the world of Manitoulin, although his vision is imbued with deeply personal insight. His subjects (the lake freighters and ferry boats, the bygone community buildings and events), are often portrayed through the diapason of memory or through reference materials he collected.

The artist's self-taught style is well suited to the purity and freshness of his vision. The approach perfectly conveys the lively delight with which Trudeau viewed the world around him and its ghosts from the past. His paintings incorporate a variety of media, including some elements of collage. Often bending the "laws" of perspective, they are startlingly vivid and richly evocative.

A Sound of Thunder

Jan 13 2019

I tightrope the narrow path

where others have packed the snow,

the heavy treads

of their comings and goings

frozen fast in time.

Following its meandering course;

where the first pathfinder stumbled, perhaps,

or in a moment of inattention

zigzagged left and right.

It is night,

and my headlamp's focused beam

is white on ghostly white;

distilled light

glinting off the virgin drifts

and picking up the sloping limbs

of freshly frosted trees.

Just a small misstep, and I'm up to my knees

in the soft deep snow

that shoulders-in on the path.

As in most things,

following in the footsteps

of those who came before;

grateful

that others have broken trail,

for the solid footing

that grounds me here.

I am reminded of that Ray Bradbury tale

of travellers to the distant past,

who must stick

to the strictly prescribed path

or put the future at risk;

a single blade of grass

inadvertently crushed,

a butterfly's wing

trapped underfoot.

Consequence

that ripples out over time;

the errant step

that disproportionately magnifies.

Yet how tempted I am

to strike out on my own,

depart the well-trodden path

for the dark solitude

and majestic indifference

of uninhabited winter.

But the snow is impassable

excluding us all.

So I negotiate the narrow path

through the preternatural stillness

of the over-towering trees.

Walking by myself

yet depending upon the help

of all who came before.

And adding what I can

for those who come after.

The title is lifted from that Ray Bradbury short story. Thunder doesn't really fit with winter, but I think an homage was in order. And anyway, I've always rather like misdirection in a title.

Winter

Nov 25 2018

On the frozen ground

in the dead of night

when the wind has exhausted itself,

the winter stillness

feels absolute.

Where even light has slowed

in the glacial cold,

arriving

with the diamond-cut clarity

you only see this time of year.

And where sound seems to last

for that extra beat,

hovering

on the densely cooled air

like perishables

preserved on ice.

Time is relative.

So while the heat of summer

makes the heartbeat quicken

and speeds our thinning blood,

we stay young, in winter;

ruddy-cheeked, and flushed

coming in from the cold.

Where the living is easy,

and the weather report

is always sunny and warm,

I suspect people age

as much from the boredom

as being simmered, slowly.

While here, we're kept on our toes.

Because with seasons to come

there's always something to look forward to.

And because where hypothermia beckons

just a few feet past our doors

the proximity of death

gives life its edge.

Separated only

by a key dropped in the snow

in the freezing dark,

a fall, all alone

in the fastness of ice.

As I sit inside

in a pool of yellow light

putting words on paper,

hunched

over this cluttered table

oblivious to time.

In the still of winter

in the fortress of night.

The Naming of Trees

Nov 17 2018

He knew the names of trees.

All of them, with authority.

Striding through the shade

of the softly rustling canopy

he spoke with great affection,

as if dropping in on old friends

who were thick-skinned

and taciturn

and in no rush.

Good listeners,

who were content to remain

where life had taken them.

While to me, tagging along

all I could see were generic trees,

groaning in the wind

towering over us.

The conceit of naming,

as if they serve at our pleasure

and we could truly know them.

Our neat taxonomies,

reassuring us

with the illusion of order.

Because there are no names

in the language of trees,

broadcast in pheromones

through freshly charged air,

and whispered through the web of roots

that signal, touch, and share.

Hiding in plain sight,

as deep beneath the soil

as weathered trunks reach up.

If knowledge is power

then ignorance is bliss,

strolling here

among these gentle giants

as they ponderously sway in the wind.

In the earthiness, the scent

the cool green wetness

of this old growth copse,

where I know nothing

and feel uncommonly humbled.

Our busy lives, flickering past

while they quietly stand.

Trees

who speak in alien tongues,

but welcome loud strangers

indulge our brash presumption.

And in their steady measured way,

breathing in as I breathe out

sharing every breath.

Blood Red

Nov 9 2018

Blood red

on freshly fallen snow.

Dense round drops,

so brilliant

in their essential redness.

That flatten and spread

as snow, like blotting paper

softens their edges.

Before they freeze in place, just as bright;

still alive

perhaps immortal.

In the thin dry air

no fading, browning, rust.

No pinching scab, no deepening bruise

the purple-blue of plum.

No dregs of wine

hardened to the glass.

I pinch my nose

and tip it sharply up,

eyes narrowed

at winter sun

struggling through the clouds.

Inured to the seasonal palette

of greys and beige and browns,

the tired greens

of dormant trees

bending to their load.

But against the immaculate whiteness

of this sweep of virgin snow

such a primal red

arrests the eye.

Like a freshly opened wound, so vital and bright,

it could signal distant planets

that earth is alive.

That we suffer and bleed

and bear our scars.

That the next fitful gust

will bury us under

its wind-whipped shroud.

That we find beauty, somehow

despite ourselves.

I was reading an article about optical illusions (http://nautil.us/blog/12-mind_bending-perceptual-illusions). My easy chairs looks out a picture window, and I glanced up to see an early winter snow, falling at dusk. Having been primed to think about perception, my mind turned to the absence of colour this time of year.

I was tempted to think about perception philosophically; about its slipperiness, and the illusion of reality.

I was tempted to think about perception politically; in that we all see the same facts somehow differently, read selectively, and live in a time where the phrase “alternative facts” is taken seriously by some people.

But poetry is a poor vehicle as much for philosophy as it is for politics. So what took over, instead, was vision itself, distilled down to basic sensation, unmediated and unprocessed: unambiguous colour, uninfluenced by the inscrutable workings of either the visual cortex, or the subconscious mind. (Although if you check out the link, “unmediated and unprocessed” is actually not possible, since our perception of colour is influenced by the background colour and the company it keeps. So colour is not absolute; it changes with context.)

And for some reason I immediately imagined a field of virgin snow, with drops of bright red blood, freshly bled, dripping down on its smooth white surface – the brilliance, the purity, the focus. There was something vital, primary, and quintessential about that red: both in its colour and its life, preserved in the freezing cold.

So I sat down at my desk, and let this poem write itself.