Light Fog - Oct 26 2020

 

Light Fog

Oct 26 2020

Here, in a landscape that's foreign to me

the trees, wreathed in mist

seem almost otherworldly.

With their deeply corrugated bark

fantastic limbs

abruptly tapered trunks.

With the moss, draping them

like the wild hair and long grey beards

of wise old men,

who live lives of quiet contemplation

sitting in repose

legs crossed.

In this warm wet latitude

the forest is dark beneath the canopy,

its trees

diverse, fecund, extreme.

As if easy living

has given permission to experiment

with alien leaves

and strange exotic forms,

a mythological landscape

for someone like me

an intruder from the north.

We have sent probes into space

and men will surely follow,

searching for evidence

we are not alone;

yet are shockingly unfamiliar

with this planet we call home.

Have been poor stewards

of this singular world

in all its breath-taking complexity,

thoughtlessly squandering our birthright

not even knowing what we've lost.

I crane my neck

trying to see all the way to the top,

magnificent trees

with the well-weathered look

of ancient artifacts,

the gravitas

that comes with age.

The permanence

of something grounded

and certain of its place.

Silent sentinels

that have been standing there forever;

serenely observing

the passage of time,

growing slowly older

content among their kind.

The 11^th Epson International Pano Awards honour the best work of panoramic photographers from around the world. The Atlantic published a photo essay of the 2020 winners. They were all breath-taking, but this one in particular struck me. No doubt my soft spot for trees. The only information I have is that it was taken in Texas, is titled Light Fog, and is attributed to the copyright holder Eren Atis.

https://www.theatlantic.com/photo/2020/10/winners-2020-epson-international-pano-awards/616868/

Big-Handed Men - Oct 26 2020

 

Big-Handed Men

Oct 26 2020

You can tell by the hands.

Hands with thick callused skin

tanned almost to leather.

Hands with their history written

in the ridge-like scars

that could be some arcane hieroglyph.

Farmers always have red meaty hands

accustomed to work.

Do they self-select,

big-handed men

attracted to manual labour?

Or are hands like this the result?

I'm self-conscious about mine,

which spend their time at a keyboard

or gripping a pen

and are thin and mottled and soft.

Shaking hands with men like these

I find myself lost

in their strong manly grip,

a cold fish

in the warm mouth of a grizzly.

I especially notice them on brisk winter days

working out in the elements

oblivious to cold.

Boisterous men

joking and swearing

and wearing quilt-lined coveralls

that are so well-worn

they could stand on their own.

Whose steel-toed boots, size 13 or 14

so deeply imprint the snow

it looks like a tribe of Sasquatch

had been trampling the yard.

And only they could wear a knit stocking cap

with the casual panache

of eye-blacked commandos.

When the farmer talks

standing in a field

or shooting the breeze in the local feed store

he seems not to know what to do with them,

hanging awkwardly at his side

or stiffly wedged

into big pants pockets.

The hands of a doer

that are only at ease

when there's work to be done.

And resting on the table

in the predawn dark

waiting for home fries and eggs

and oatmeal porridge

they look like a bear cub's oversized paws

as he fidgets with his piddling fork.

Passing On - Oct 25 2020

 

Passing On

Oct 25 2020

My mother couldn't resist a sale.

You can't afford the savings, I'd say,

but to her

the deal was all that mattered;

free stuff,

the smug delight

of something for nothing

whatever it was.

A child of the Depression

she was weaned on frugality.

Nothing wasted, no indulgences.

They say trauma is passed on

to the next generation,

how we are raised in it

how our genes are changed.

Children of austerity

and children of war.

Of the Holocaust

alcohol, poverty, divorce.

Even children of wealth,

who can't help but bear

either guilt

or entitlement.

And the sins of the fathers

passed on in mother's milk.

I much prefer frugal to cheap,

the one sounding virtuous

the other mean.

Yet the older I get

I understand this as philosophy.

All the possessions I used to care about

I've become indifferent to;

the material goods

that no longer matter

however fantastic the steal.

The great leveller

of the end of life

is my perspective now.

When all I'll want

will be less than I can carry;

the usual stuff

of sentimental value,

some objects of beauty

I can't live without.

And in the unlikely event of an afterlife

whatever poem I may have in mind

to accompany me

on my final journey,

a simple something

to lighten my burden

instead of the baggage that weighs me down.

A frugal poem

of a few well chosen words

I can safely pass on

to any future self.

Just imagine,

coming to life as a blank slate

instead of freighted down by the past.

I was reading a poem by Natasha Trethewey that centred on her relationship with her father. I think I had in mind this idea of parental influence when I began this poem, and the narrative emerged as this theme intersected with something I had thought about just before sitting down at the laptop: how, at this stage of life and preoccupied by other more urgent priorities involving health and diminished ability, I felt myself utterly indifferent to the importance of material possessions.

Oddly, before setting down the first line, I had thrown out a completely different poem that was going to begin with this first line: I am loath to write about death. Which is exactly where this poem ended up!

Or perhaps I could have written a simple “You can't take it with you” ...and left it at that!

My Father as Cartographer

Natasha Trethewey

In dim light now, his eyes

straining to survey

the territory: here is the country

of Loss, its colony Grief;

the great continent Desire

and its borderland Regret;

vast, unfathomable water

an archipelago—the tiny islands

of Joy, untethered, set adrift.

At the bottom of the map

his legend and cartouche,

the measures of distance, key

to the symbols marking each

known land. What’s missing

is the traveller’s warning

at the margins: a dragon—

its serpentine signature—monstrous

as a two-faced daughter.

Fall - Oct 23 2020

 

Fall

Oct 23 2020

It was a disappointing fall.

When it seemed every day was dull,

with that wet cold

that lodges in your bones

no matter what.

When the leaves all turned

the same drab brown,

and in just a single night

a heavy wind had taken them down.

When it was rain, mostly,

gumboots and slickers

and mud tracking in

with happily wagging dogs,

who are always that way

weather or not.

“Autumn” would have sounded bittersweet

all golden leaves and wood-smoke.

But “Fall” is Biblical,

the devil evicted from heaven

Adam expelled from Eden

Jericho's walls.

Yet either way

our fall from grace stops here,

landing on our feet

in winter's freshly fallen snow

and energizing cold.

Its short days

with darkness as a refuge,

decorative lights

and summer to look forward to.

Storm-stayed

by an arctic blizzard,

when the world is remade

and all its sins concealed.

When you emerge to find

an unearthly stillness,

a virgin layer

of wind-sculpted snow

that seems to have been smoothed by some celestial hand.

Where the low winter sun

casts long sharp shadows

on the blinding white,

and it seems almost sinful

to venture across.

Keepsake - Oct 13 2020

Keepsake

Oct 13 2020

Keepsakes, kept

by the sentimental

or those who can't let go.

By peddlers in posterity,

who believe in their heart

memory lives on.

In my parents' basement

old report cards are squirrelled away.

Some busted trophies

from minor triumphs

reside on a dusty shelf.

And tossed in a box

are some black-and-white photos without captions or dates,

once thought worth saving

but now gone to waste.

And the old bedroom

that's still just as I left it,

a museum of my childhood

I'm more or less embarrassed by.

Mementos kept

for the sake of what?

Enigmatic reminders

of a time that's lost?

Offerings

to the god of self-importance?

Or our aging folks

at the stage of life

when they're doggedly searching for meaning,

have invested their dreams

in us?

But there is no posterity.

Because we are soon forgotten,

as were all of those

who came before.

Because our descendants

will be just as self-absorbed.

And because our dreary mementos

will fade

tarnish

gather dust,

then be lost in the fire

or left at the curb.

So live in the moment, I say;

it's all we really possess.

And choose which

of the infinite futures

you will seize for yourself.

The past is unreliable, not only composed of half-remembered confabulations, but slightly remade each time it's recalled.

And the future — despite the definite article — is not singular, it's infinite: it hasn't happened yet; it's all hypothetical. So there is no such thing as “the future”.

So the present is really all there is. My dogs, who are masters of Zen, know this innately. They inhabit the present, fully and unthinkingly. One of the many things I admire about them.

I'm not at all sentimental. I try to keep my writing, but am attached to nothing else. So I persist in archiving and backing-up, even though I know what an illusion the notion of posterity is. I find a becoming humility in accepting this. It acknowledges not only one's lack of importance, but one's utter insignificance: again, to invoke philosophy, the dissolution of the boundaries of ego.

This poem began with a personal essay (a feature they call “First Person”) in today's Globe and Mail (Oct 13 2020). It's not at all the best written piece I've read there. But I include it for anyone interested in the mysterious alchemy of inspiration.

Elaine McShane hopes her son-in-law’s old trophies will be loved by someone new

• The Globe and Mail (Ontario Edition)

• 13 Oct 2020

• Elaine McShane lives in Brampton, Ont.

ILLUSTRATI

ON BY DREW SHANNON

Sometimes parents are so attached to the memories of past victories they store the old trophies in their basement; it can be more meaningful to them than to their children, Elaine McShane writes

They sat on the curb, spilling higgledy-piggledy out of a slumping box, dirty and dusty from years spent in the garage, neglected and abandoned by their owner. Matthew’s boyhood trophies, glories from his years of playing badminton and soccer, were the last remaining trace of moving day. I was cruising past my daughter and son-in-law’s home hoping to catch one last glimpse, say one final goodbye before they left. But the moving truck had gone. The street was silent, the driveway empty. Feeling bereft and sad, I could not help myself. I wrestled the heavy box and its contents into the trunk of my car and brought them home.

For my son-in-law, it was hard to discard nearly 50 soccer and badminton trophies, to set them out for the garbage. These were reminders of games in which he excelled. Now they became keepsakes no longer kept for the sake of keeping. Out they went. He saved his medals, easier to store, but moving house meant it was time to downsize, to make some difficult decisions.

Matthew’s first trophy was awarded when he was six and his last - at 18 - was when he stood runner-up National Badminton Champion in a Quebec City tournament. The progression of his successes was recorded on all the metal trophy plates. These records of time, energy and competition represented years of his parents’ dedication to his interest in sports.

Parents invest much time and energy in their kids’ games. Their social life can revolve around their children’s sport, and tournaments in distant cities are occasions to travel. Sometimes parents are so attached to the memories of past victories they store the old trophies in their basement; it can be more meaningful to them than to their children.

Matthew’s dad was a soccer coach for many years, then Matthew followed suit and coached teams for his own children, as have my two other sons-in-law in sports that engaged them in their youth. What will happen to their trophies?

Over the next few days I cleaned and shined. I catalogued the information on the metal plates in order of year, and set the trophies on the dining room table, itself polished to a high shine, the better to display them. The soccer awards were most distinctive and action-packed. Topping a high base, often being a cup, a figure kicked high, arms outstretched, with the soccer ball attached to the toe. Several needed slight repairs, which I undertook before photographing them. Two of the wooden badminton awards, I noticed, were created in the shop program of a Timmins high school, no less rewarding for their simplicity and distinctive for their heft. Who wouldn’t covet a trophy like these on their shelf, whether earned or not? I chose five distinctive ones for myself and displayed them on my book case.

In anticipation of Val and Matthew’s visit the following week, the container pots out front sported two tall matching trophies as centrepieces. Their striking emerald-green bases rose eye-catchingly above the colourful flowers. Matthew noticed right away. Liking my design, he took them home.

I sometimes wonder if there is a resting place for trophies that belonged to children who have become adults? Like the elephant’s graveyard, it is a mythical location that does not exist. Shelves, basements, thrift shops, the curbside, fulfill such purpose. Sometimes sports clubs will purchase old trophies, remove the nameplates and reuse them. I could not find a trophy shop that would repurpose Matthew’s haul. And a thrift shop did not seem like a respectful place for these honours.

And yet, while thrifting last summer, I remember a young lad asking the shopkeeper if there were any trophies on sale. He had purchased several a few weeks before and wanted more to display on his shelf. The allure of trophies, for him, could be a substitute for winning, perhaps representing aspirations of triumph and success. Or was he jealous of friends who had their own hardware? Maybe these masterpieces of design were desirable for their appearance. And what luck if the inscribed name happened to be a famous athlete from the past.

In the end, I couldn’t keep Matthew’s old treasures. Instead, I found small boxes that would each hold five or six trophies. One by one, the boxes sat on the curb, on the route many children used on their way to and from school. Passersby could see these gleaming statues, as could I from my kitchen window. When one box disappeared, another took its place.

I watched a young boy wobble up the street on his bicycle, trying to balance with several trophies under his arms. I saw a mother carried trophies as she walked her boy to school. Two youngsters came to the door, asking me to set a box aside for them to collect on the way home. My hope is that Matthew’s trophies are a risen-from-the-grave story, that they will be recycled, reused, restored to their former glory and pride, and sit on display for a time.

By the end of the day, the trophies were gone. The last empty box lay on the side of the road, overturned by the wind.

The progression of his successes was recorded on all the metal trophy plates. These records of time, energy and competition represented years of his parents’ dedication to his interest in sports.

Scarcity - Sept 16 2020

 

Scarcity

Sept 16 2020

A brief efflorescence of colour

in this northern outpost of fall.

Nothing flamboyant,

mostly modest yellows and brittle browns.

But there are arresting bursts of fire red

against the tepid canvas,

so that even the most preoccupied

can't help but stop and stare;

a useful reminder

of how scarcity makes something precious

and transience has no price.

Like forbidden fruit, we desire the unattainable

covet what's beyond our grasp.

And how rarity makes something beautiful

whether it's ours to have, or not.

When all it takes is a strong wind

to strip the trees,

thin tapered limbs

that seem to shiver through the winter cold.

And a sodden layer of leaves

matted on the ground,

a dull wet brown

as the colour leeches out.

But for now, our week of fall.

The leaves have changed

the nights are long

the air redolent of smoke.

A rare beauty

given freely to all

who take a moment to stop.

Beauty often resides in scarcity and transience. So even though we don't have tourists gawking at our autumn trees as they do the brilliant fall foliage of New England, there is pleasure to be found in our small pockets of beauty. And knowing how soon they'll be gone enhances this beauty even more.

Rebreathing My Own Air - Sept 15 2020

Rebreathing My Own Air

Sept 15 2020

In this small contained space

we keep our distance.

Behind walls of silence

averted eyes,

intrusive thoughts

we're determined to keep private.

Too far

to feel each other's heat,

but close enough

to hear the sound of breathing.

Which I always found too loud

and how could you not notice,

but squelched my annoyance

scowling curtly inside.

Yet no matter how much we try to separate ourselves

and however much space,

the invisible air

we're obliged to share

is the ultimate intimacy.

Because while with each warm breath

molecules of you

are diffusing freely out

to every nook and niche,

I am taking them in;

to the depths of my lungs

then directly to blood

and right to my heart,

until they're just as much

a part of me.

Or I could build real walls

of mortar, brick, and steel,

rebreathing my own air

in my pure hermetic space

in blissful solitude.

Until I have exhausted

the last atom of oxygen

and am hammering on the walls,

the silence finally broken

our aloneness exposed.

The Covid pandemic has illuminated how interdependent we are: our interdependence as a society; and the interdependence between us and the natural world in which we're inescapably embedded.

Responses to crises like this are often populist. But populism is grounded in a false notion of purity that is much like the poem's illusion of uncontaminated air. Populism, whether of the left or right, divides the world into a homogeneous us vs a mongrel them – the alien outsiders and interlopers. It sets corrupt elites against the nobility of “the people”. And it proffers up simplistic solutions to complicated problems – “pure” solutions uncontaminated by nuance and empathy.

It doesn't take a planetary disaster to realize that the notion of the “self-made” man is a conceit, and the idea of compete self-reliance almost impossible. We are social animals, and even if we prefer solitude we can't avoid the need for intimacy and connection. And no matter how hermetic a life we think we have constructed, there is no such thing: we breath the same air, share the same planet; there is no getting away from the other.

In a similar sense, we have no choice to be a part of nature, not apart from it. Man does not stand astride the natural world, exempt from its exigencies, observing from behind the glass and from over the parapet. A high price will be exacted for our unsustainable lifestyle, greed, and short-term thinking. And if we don't pay that price, our descendants will. ...Except I think it has become increasingly clear that bill is now coming due, and that we can no longer afford our wilfully blinkered denial.

Fire - Sept 13 2020

Fire

Sept 13 2020

We close around the fire.

Bask

in its warm inviting glow.

It holds our eyes,

flickering flames

reflect in glistening whites,

faces flush

with infernal light.

We huddle, shuffle, bunch

as a breeze picks up

and the circle turns ragged;

a funnel of smoke

is stubbornly hugging the ground,

red-hot cinders

and superheated ash

shift this way and that

with maddening inconstancy.

We face away

from the cold black night.

It feels like a weight

against our backs;

a stalking cat

crouching in darkness

intently biding its time.

We stare, as if hypnotized,

piling on fuel

feeding the pyre.

Something unnatural

bred in the bone, and ancient in blood

has us enthralled,

servants of flame

disciples of fire.

I was looking back over some of my recent pieces, and Water inspired me to elaborate on the elements; or at least the elements as understood in the ancient worldview of creation. I also thought back to the Canadian filmmaker Deepa Mehta's acclaimed trilogy -- Fire, Water, Earth.

It's also the time of year for warm cozy fires and gathering around: when the leaves are turning, a crisp chill is in the air, and night – like a pincer movement of hostile forces – is steadily creeping in on daylight from both ends.

I was also listening to a repeat episode of the BBC radio's Crowd Science, in which the topic was fire: why we cook our food, and what advantage we get from this; as well as how and when man learned not only to use fire but to control it. The importance of fire to our biological and cultural evolution is remarkable, and how this may go back as much as 2 million years to our proto-human ancestors suggests why this unnatural thing seems so natural to us. (https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/w3csz1sv)

There are also vast uncontrolled wildfires raging in the Western US – California, Oregon, and Washington. (Yes, as I've feared for years, one of the incipient positive-feedback tipping point of runaway climate change. This is only the start!)

So fire is essential destructive, and enthralling. We control it, and we don't. We feed it ...and it consumes us, as well.

The final stanza initially began with ...piling on fuel / feeding the fire. But I was reluctant to repeat fire. (I suspect I'm overly sensitive to repetition that readers never notice.) “Blaze” works; but it lacks both the alliteration and the rhyme (with hypnotized), and so interrupts the flow. Pyre conveniently restores some of this. And because of its funereal connotation also seems a little unexpected, and so arrests the reader for a moment. Which, I think, may be helpful: sandwiched-in between the predatory cat and the compulsive zeal of servants and disciples, it reinforces the vaguely sinister tone; a tone that began with infernal, and continued with the smoke and cinders.