A Cool Rain - Aug 16 2020

A Cool Rain

Aug 16 2020

A cool rain

came fast and hard and brief.

Leaves were torn from trees

grass beaten flat,

small pools formed

gutters overflowed.

Flying insects went to ground

sleeping dogs took shelter

and singing birds stopped cold.

While squirrels hunkered down

peering from their nests;

chirping disapprovingly

at weather

each other

who knows?

The summer people fled,

ducking their heads

and abandoning their fancy drinks;

weak cocktails

frugal scotch,

flat beer

and watered-down red wine.

While small children

turned their faces to heaven

and revelled in the rain,

wet clothes

clinging close

to their slight shivering frames,

hair plastered flat.

When just as quick

a scouring wind

brought bright blue skies

and white scudding clouds,

shafts of sunlight slanting down

on green succulent grass.

The humidity broke

and parched soil drank.

Water dripped

insects filled the air,

standing pools drained

and diluted drinks were drunk.

While the dogs went back to sleep

as dogs have always done.

And the kids

who hadn't come in from the rain

towelled off their frizzy heads

before returning to their games,

as if every day it stormed

as if they'd never gotten wet.

School's Out - Aug 13 2020

 

School's Out

Aug 13 2020

The endless summers of childhood,

when it was always hot and sunny

and time was as sluggish

as the heat made us feel.

When school was hypothetical

but furtively loomed;

like a high stone wall

out beyond the horizon.

Except we remember what we recall;

the ball games and picnics and sleeping in tents

with flashlights and bears 

we thought we'd heard.

As well as the long trips by car

with the hump underfoot,

stuck in the middle

between two big brothers

who got their own windows, of course.

And conveniently forget

the long dusty days 

when all the neighbourhood kids

sprawled on a hot concrete curb,

waiting for time to pass

or waiting for lunch.

Blinking in merciless sun

as we idly tossed stones

and scuffed our feet through the dirt.

When our lives are full

and we're busy, absorbed, immersed

time goes fast;

so how odd, looking back

how slow it seems time went.

While when it drags

in the dog days of summer

how it flies,

wondering where August went

when there we are

shopping for school supplies.

But fast or slow, nostalgia decides

and the past is always golden.

Yet while we long

for a fondly remembered childhood

we forget how powerless and bored

we often felt.

That dusty curb, re-telling stale jokes.

The middle seat,

jousting for legroom

and needing to take a pee

but told you have to hold it,

because you knew better than not to go

when we stopped for gas.

I have now gotten old

the brothers older.

The family car

has mostly turned to rust

in some lost auto graveyard.

And the school has been closed for years,

because there aren't enough kids anymore

in this sleepy outer suburb.

Is time speeding up

as the years go on?

Has summer gotten shorter

the novelty worn-off?

And will memory

always be this long?

Physicists may be able to measure time down to a single atomic vibration. Philosophers may opine that the reason for time is so that everything doesn't happen at once. And French authors may lament times lost and remembrance of things past. But this poem is about perceptions of time, and how subjective it is. Because when we're so busy that time seems to fly by, all the experience and novelty and memories make it seem slow, looking back: a full life, with lots to think about. And when we're bored and time drags, there is nothing to remember; so in retrospect, time seems to have flown by. Time invariably goes faster, the older we get. Because for a 5 year old, not only is life full of new and challenging experiences, not to mention constant learning, one additional year represents a 5^th of his life. A year at age 75 is probably a lot less eventful, and certainly a smaller slice of a much longer life.

And it's a rumination on memory, as well. Its fallibility. Its confabulation. Because memory is unreliable: repeatedly reconstructed each time a memory is recalled; informed by recent experience, mood, salience. Nostalgia, especially, plays tricks with us: selectively remembering only the good stuff.

I prefer being older, prefer this time of life. But still, there is something missing: that magical quality that childhood summers had, when time was endless and everything seemed possible.

...And something for my younger readers. In the old days, when almost every American car (and there were only American cars!) was rear wheel drive, there was always a hump for the drive shaft. My old Jeep had one, as I recall. But you only noticed it if you were stuck in the middle in the back seat, which I invariably was!

Playground - Aug 11 2020

 

Playground

Aug 11 2020

There are ruts under the swings

where the grass is down to dirt.

From year after year

of little legs 

with scraped knees and off-brand sneakers

reaching for solid ground,

bums teetering on edge

toes feeling for earth.

The steel frame is rusted

its feet insecure,

lifting a couple of inches

with each rise and return.

In time with the creak of the chains

and the breathless grunts of the child,

who has fully extended himself

in a determined quest for height.

But today, a swing twists in the wind

its wet frame drips,

chains hang heavily

and the ruts are up to the brim.

When even on a good day

the kids are all inside,

supervised

and suitably guided.

When the equipment sits abandoned

because kids no longer play,

and over-cautious mothers

have all agreed that they're unsafe.

An old school swing set, wobbly and poorly maintained,

built on hard rough ground

and suspiciously covered in rust,

the chunky steel chains

that could easily strangle a child.

So instead I've taken my place

on the narrow slab seat,

rocking idly back and forth

soaked through with rain.

Braving the elements

on a cool wet afternoon,

trying to recall how it felt

to lose touch with the ground,

the terrifying thrill

of unfettered free-fall

and unprotected height.

To recapture my inner child

who long ago fell to time.

Back when small boisterous children

pushed and shoved and whined

impatiently waiting in line,

when these swings were bright and shiny

and a lost child thrived.

Cumulus - Aug 10 2020

 

Cumulus

Aug 10 2020

That day, the clouds looked like clouds.

Thick and fluffy cotton puffs

dotting the sky

resembling nothing at all.

No flower-pots, dragons, angry gods.

No shape shifters drifting past,

no dark sinister thunderheads

or grey blanket of stratus.

Our short-cut brains

can't help making sense

seeing patterns everywhere.

Creating stories

out of thin air

and condensed water vapour,

in the same way we connect the dots

to explain who we are.

But this is summer, and our minds are at rest

lying on our backs

on the grass looking up.

Almost unblinking, in a near hypnotic trance

of heat and sky

and timelessness

in silence, side by side.

Not the awkward silence

you feel pressure to fill,

but just comfortably present;

sure of each other 

ourselves

and the perfect summer weather

on an idle afternoon.

An ant

is crawling up my leg

zigzagging frantically,

seeking out the chemical scent

that will return it to earth.

Instead of bushing it away, I let it be,

examining the sensation

of its tiny bustling legs 

with scientific detachment,

a curious observer

taking careful note.

As if the ground had welcomed me in

while wholly subsumed by sky.

As if disembodied,

exempt from time.

Today was one of those rare cloudless days. That dry hot high pressure weather that comes with a strong west wind. The kind of day the air feels pure and utterly transparent.

For some reason, it brought to mind cotton puff cumulus clouds, and that combined with my lazy mood to create this trifle of a poem.

It tries to capture the feel of utter contentment on a summer afternoon with nothing to do; that hypnotic sense of timelessness and expansiveness that feels both depersonalizing and empowering, as if the boundaries of ego had dissolved and you were one with the universe. I think the detached observation of the ant is very Zen-like, almost a version of meditation. But here, the writer is a scientist: observing from behind glass, objective and non-interfering.

But there are also ideas, not just mood. Because seeing patterns in clouds says everything about us: our pattern-seeking brains and our busy monkey minds, as well as our natural imperative for story-telling: that we create narrative and seek out cause and effect, even when there is none.

I also like the word “present”, because “presence” captures that feeling of quiet companionship: the sense of acceptance; the freedom to be yourself; the unconditionality. It also makes me think of the quality of attachment you see in a forever marriage in which they have moved beyond self-consciousness and infatuation and exhaustion to that enviable state of comfortable coupledom.

I've always been attracted to close observation and microcosm. In this poem, the aperture moves out as well as in, and gets as big and small as one could imagine (short of the subatomic!): from the vastness of the cloudless sky to a tiny solitary ant. I think this tight focus and dwelling on detail reinforces the feeling of timelessness and leisure: that there is no pressure of what comes next in a busy schedule; no particular destination or outcome; and no need to justify oneself by being productive or efficient or even of use.

What the Seasons Afford - Aug 9 2020

 

What the Seasons Afford

August 9 2020

A small white pine,

richly greened

and whip-strong straight

has taken root by the shore.

Where it stands tall

amidst all the spindly spruce and weedy scrub

that, according to nature

will colonize any opening

in this overgrown forest;

like relentless invaders

who worship the sun

and furiously compete for space.

Its mature counterparts

march up the slope behind it,

lofty and elegant

as white pine are;

casting shadow

and holding the soil

and dropping their seed,

of which almost all

will die, if they aren't eaten

or subsumed by earth.

With gratitude, I think of the man

who might have stood in my place

a hundred years before,

when this country was wild and remote

this lake barely known.

Eyeing another upstart pine

and recognizing his transience.

That he would never live

to see it in its prime

as I am thankful to.

That time favours the patient,

who stand their ground

and take what the seasons afford.

What will the world have become

when my pine is fully grown?

Will the prevailing wind

have forged a graceful bend?

Will an abundance of water

have made it tall?

And will there be someone, in turn

to stand in my place,

admiring its height

and strength

and glorious crown?

I am humbled by my trees,

as if I am an intruder here

and they its tolerant sentinels.

Because while they remain

we come and go.

So I will leave it to my descendants

to mark the progress

of this nascent tree;

content to admire its progenitors,

and hoping it will manage to thrive

so exposed and alone

on this rocky shore.

Still Life - Aug 5 2020

Still Life

Aug 5 2020

In the still life

the fruit catches the light just so,

where contrast and shadow

create a fine illusion of depth.

Turgid purple grapes

overflow the big porcelain bowl,

thick-walled

and creamy white.

There are pear-shaped pears,

and heavy peaches

covered in peach-coloured fuzz.

Apples gleam green and red,

while blue-black plums

are as inscrutable

as is always true of plums;

juicy sweet

or tartly dry?

But not as still

as the painter's conceit would have it.

Because only the surface is motionless.

Inside

each piece is rotting, fermenting

ripening relentlessly,

seething with life, and death

and inexorable transformation.

Because in life, there is only motion.

And you would have known this

had you waited a moment

until a hand reached down

and plucked a perfect plum.

Had watched straight white teeth

indent its smooth tight skin,

giving just a little

until breaking in.

Sink into soft purple pulp

until sweet succulent juice

drips down a child's sticky chin

to the unforgiving pit,

which she would toy with her tongue

before rudely spitting-out.

One day, some yeast will land,

and a boozy bird

will sing a garbled song

and dance on wobbly legs

and stagger off somewhere.

One day, the bowl will slip

and shatter into shards

on the hard porcelain tile.

One day, an apple seed

will find its way to soil

and a fine tree will grow.

Will year after year

give gifts of fruit

and drop its leaves in fall.

When the anonymous painter

will have long since departed.

The still life

still adorn its wall.

Paterson - Aug 3 2020

Paterson

Aug 3 2020

The steep walls of the gorge

reflect the sound of falling water

and the rapids below,

hard black rock

glistening with spray.

An iron-work bridge

spans the falls,

braced at either end

against the sheer granite walls.

Looking up from the bottom

at its graceful arc

it seems to weigh nothing at all,

floating on high

as if some gossamer thread

had spun itself across.

And so precise

in its fine mesh of girders,

their perfect symmetry

against rough irregular rock.

But how deceptive distance can be.

Because up close

you can see great streaks of rust

corroded steel,

giant bolts

that must have seized long ago.

Some abandoned nests

still wedged into crevices

and some with baby birds.

Along with greyish guano everywhere

that seems permanently baked on.

Not to mention vulgar words

some brave and angry soul

once proclaimed to the world

in blood red paint.

As well as declarations of love

by some aspiring Romeo;

and I can only hope

his passion has lasted as long.

So I stay where I am, looking up.

The beauty

of function and form,

the strength

of a simple arc.

Like a found poem

unintentional art.

 

This poem was inspired by a lovely small movie called Paterson. (In homage, I gave the poem that name. Which I know will confuse most readers. Although a discerning one will recognize it as the title and home-town setting of an epic poem by William Carlos Williams.) The image that stuck with me was of a beautiful bridge spanning a deep waterfall gorge. It was a recurrent image in the film – always seen from a distance, looking up -- and it never seemed anything but magical. (The best picture I was able to find on-line does not really do it justice.)

Adam Driver stars as a bus driver in the small industrial (and now, more likely post-industrial!) New Jersey town of Paterson. He lives a modest regimented life, observantly quiet and calm. He goes by the same name as the town, so seems even more subsumed in his surroundings: almost invisible. (In fact, I don't think he even had a first name!) The contrast with his artistic wife is startling: her fondness for the extremes of black and white; her constant and rather fickle creative fervour; her guileless and somewhat girlish enthusiasms; her exotic ethnicity; her desire for recognition, fame, success. He is not so much repressed as living in his head. Even his love poems are studied and detached. But they also reveal a hidden inner passion, a vividly beating heart. He is an unlikely poet, but really quite talented. He has no ambition, no desire to be published or read, and so represents a kind of pure artistic temperament: creativity for its own sake.

His poetry is diurnal and observational, so the idea of “found poetry” is very present in this movie.

Watching it, I felt a powerful impulse to write. The excitement of the blank page, the sense of infinite possibility it presents, was really quite exhilarating. I have to admit, I actually identified very much with Paterson.

And in the end, despite a great disappointment and true body blow of misfortune, he cannot help but open a new notebook and start putting down words. This spoke to me about how thrilling the process of writing is: that for a poet, it is much more about the journey than the destination, the immersion in the creative act over the actual result.  

Not that any of this appears in my poem. I've learned that a narrow focus works much better in this work. The bridge is what caught my eye, and so where I stayed: the parabolic arc; the contrast of a highly engineered form with the rough irregular rock.

Left Behind

August 2 2020

The city was left behind,

its hot pavement

and grid-locked streets

and sadly stunted trees

in dry compacted soil.

Where I am invisible

to the multitudes,

who are too busy to notice

or enraptured by their phones,

and always in a hurry

going somewhere else.

Through holiday traffic

bottle-necked ramps

impassable construction zones,
highways where they keep adding lanes

in a race with cars

that arrive even faster.

Build it, and they will come, Ray Kinsella once wrote

about a field of dreams

amidst the Iowa corn,

never suspecting that road-builders

who dream of blacktop and hot-smelling tar

could read just as well.

Go north, young man

they once exhorted;

yet even old as I am

find I'm still entranced

by escape and reinvention.

Motoring alone

through rocks and trees and a cool breeze

as day recedes and night descends,

a gazillion stars brighten

and a full moon rises.
Impossibly large
on the distant horizon,
its fine-grained surface 
through clear still air.

Where I can stretch

and breathe

and feel the weight of time lift.

Where a ribbon of pavement unscrolls

through the virgin hills before me,

fantastic fireflies dance

their baffling semaphore.

I'm just back from an urgent and unanticipated trip to Toronto, the “big smoke” far to the south of us. My dog was badly injured, and needed emergency veterinary care not available here. 18 straight hours of hard driving each way, stopping only for gas. The city was hot, crowded, and claustrophobic, a perpetual construction zone. I got lost more than once.

Fortunately, the dog was not as badly off as had been feared. So we returned home as soon as possible, and I think this poem captures the relief of the trip. (The multi-lane highway with its stop/go traffic was the 400 between Toronto and Barrie. The beautiful part was 11/17, as it parallels the shore of Lake Superior past Sault Ste Marie.)

There were no fireflies, but I took some poetic licence. Since the cardinal rule of poetry is “show it, don't say it”, what better way to express the lightness of soul and sense of release I felt? The moon was maybe a couple of days from full, which is close enough. And I think the expression was actually “go west” ...but never mind. However, I did motor alone for a good amount of time, despite it being a holiday weekend. Especially in the remotest stretch in the depths of night.

I've avoided talking about the misery (perhaps I will in another poem): the unbearable noise of my little old car; the sore bum and numb foot and bad back; the physical and mental exhaustion; the allergic eyes; the blinding LED lights of oncoming cars; the mountainous ascents; the utter endlessness. But also the beauty. Especially of the north shore of Lake Superior past the town of Marathon, wreathed in fog and a cool liquid light as we emerged just after dawn.

A Death of Cold

July 28 2020

The welcome reprieve

of a cool day

in a blistering hot summer.

Suffocating weather

has turned temperate overnight.

So the greens are bright, the air crisp,

a stiff breeze

is blowing in

from some northern latitude.

But how soft we have gotten

in this sultry heat.

As if our blood had thinned

the spine gone out of us.

As if muscles had weakened

and heart chambers stretched,

leaky pumps

barely mustering pressure.

A bone-deep chill

penetrates down to the marrow.

My summer skin

with its healthy tan and high colour

seems suddenly blotchy

blanched

less substantial.

I head outside

in a wool cap and long pants,

fleecy jacket

zipped-up tight.

Cold hands

feel their way into pockets,

shoulders hunker down.

I might just as well

be from Alabama,

with a Panama hat

and a southern drawl

and all the time in the world.

Where no one's in a hurry

and things move slow.

Who can't imagine winter,

having never shovelled snow

and hardly even seen it.

Who nearly froze

at a touch of frost

that unforgettably white Christmas.

Can almost hear myself say

a death of cold

I do declare

on this fresh summer day

with barely a nip in the air.