Saturday, April 12, 2025

Invisible Men - April 2 2025

 

Invisible Men

April 2 2025



A long row

of white porcelain fixtures

gleaming in fluorescent light.

Yet with all of them unoccupied

we somehow ended up

side-by-side,

studying the wall

inches from our noses

in forensic detail.


Who wouldn’t squirm, stuck so close?

And self conscious as I am

the last thing I wanted

was for us to talk.

Because real men, taciturn by nature

don’t gossip, gab, or prattle on,

let alone

have honest conversations.

Not when our throats go dry

when asked how we feel,

not when we don’t even share with our wives.


But he did say something

and I grunted some response,

standing close enough to gag

on the cloying scent

of adolescent cologne.


I shrunk back,

angling myself

while shifting the inch that I could,

never turning to look

and flinching at the fleetest touch.

Not skin, God forbid, but still

body heat’s more than enough;

a trousered hip

or long-sleeved arm

whisked briskly away.


Yet perversely, urinals are installed

closely spaced

against a wall

in a brightly lit room.

So we stand

as if caught red-handed,

hip-to-hip

stiff-upper-lipped

zippers down.

As if an eye witness

behind one-way glass

had us in his sights;

a police lineup

where even the most innocent man

fears wrongful conviction.


We flushed,

then relieved

nodded briefly

while quickly washing our hands.

Hurried out

after having performed together

this most intimate act;

yes, intimate

fully dressed or not.

Eyes front and hands still wet,

invisible men

who also have the superpower

to blind themselves.


Cleansed - March 31 2025

 

Cleansed

March 31 2025


But how would I know?


That they turned me.

That something was wiped

a memory erased

a view sanitized.


I imagine it literally.

A good wetting down,

then working up a lather,

and ending in a cleansing rinse;

fresh water

bathing my gyri, sulci, and cortical folds,

scouring out my swampy ventricles,

and like a fire hose

sluicing open the space

between dura and brain

and giving it a thorough wash.

So like radiator coolant

my cerebrospinal fluid

has been drained and replaced,

flushed clean

of sludge and debris.

No more over-heating, thank God,

no impure thoughts.


Brain-washed.

My scruples scrubbed

politics corrected.

So I’ll feel like a new man,

striding bullishly out

after a clean shave

and invigorating shower,

my glowing face subtly scented

with sandalwood

and manly leather.


My brain so squeaky clean, it sparkles.

While my mind is clear,

ready to be filled

with whatever truth they tell me.


Open Door - March 30 2025

 

Open Door

March 30 2025


The hinges squeak

like an injured chick

that’s fallen from its nest.

Beautiful hinges

in vintage brass

I haven’t the heart to replace.


When left partly closed

the door swings open

the moment I turn my back;

could the floor be tilted

the wall askew?


But when it does fully shut

it’s hard to budge.

Is the frame warped

the door uneven?

Or is it simple bloody mindedness?

Like a child who loves to tease,

and either mischievous or bored

doesn’t know when to stop.


Anyway, I prefer it open.

Especially when there’s wind,

rocking back and forth

and letting fresh air in;

or at least until the seesaw screech

of metal on metal

gets to me.


There is no fixing an old house

bit by bit.

Either tear it down to studs

or learn to live with it,

the imperfections

that give it character,

the charming touches

no one thinks of nowadays.


But it all matches, doesn’t it?

The house, and its inhabitant

who is also old, imperfect, and slightly warped.


Whose moving parts

are rapidly rusting.

Who could use a little freshening up.

And who needs help

getting him unstuck

from his curmudgeonly ways;

someone to lean in

with a sturdy shoulder

against his tightly closed door.


Leave Them Wanting More - March 29 205

 

Leave Them Wanting More

March 29 2025


The end of the beginning

and then what?


As if it was all was a 3 act play

that sets the stage,

introduces complications,

then ends

in a final resolution

as the curtain drops.

Because satisfying or not

it’s coming down.


As if no one goes off script

the others improvise.

As if scenery never falls,

the lighting guy

miss a cue.

As if the man in the 9th row

never turns pale,

gasps loudly,

then slumps in his seat

holding his chest.


As for me, I’m far from the beginning

closer to the end.

In the trackless middle, I guess

looking back more than ahead.

Which will last

until the climax

every 3 act play demands;

a turning point

I don’t see coming,

and perhaps an end so sudden

I’ll never get to take my bow

or hear them shouting encore.


Never get the second chance

I’ve been so much hoping for;

to get the girl,

prove them wrong,

leave them wanting more.


Which was when the house lights went up

elbows were nudged

and the audience buzzed,

unsure

what or why.

Loud whispers

that turned to dead silence

as the ambulance arrived

and they watched the gurney

bumping down the stairs;

quiet, that is

except for the wife calling his name

and crying real tears.


Tears that are saltier

and have more sting

than stagecraft and make-believe.

As if I know.

As if I still can tell

what’s genuine

and what’s art.


Which leaves me wondering,

am I just a walk-on part

in my own life?

A secondary character

with a few precious lines

in the middle act?

A stagehand?

The lighting guy?


Or the man in the 9th row

not quite feeling myself?


My Compulsion to Kill - March 28 2025

 

My Compulsion to Kill

March 28 2025


The fly does not

mostly,

instead, preferring to walk

across the inside of the glass

after its long winter torpor

in some crevice or crack.


I'm not sure what compels me

to swat at it.

As if I can’t tolerate

its out-of-placeness

here, in my domain.

As if its presence offends

my sense of order

notion of cleanliness.

Or perhaps that I fear

the threat of fly begetting fly,

so eventually

the air is buzzing exponentially

with heedless intruders.


Nor do I easily acknowledge

the satisfaction I feel

swatting it.

Feeling the hard crunch

when I catch it standing still.

Of watching it flail on its back,

buzzing in circles

as it skitters across

the kitchen countertop.

And the final firm thwap,

dispatching it for good.


Or bad, depending on your reverence for life.

Like the Theravada Buddhist

who won’t walk on grass

lest some living thing be stepped on.

Who would observe the fly.

Consider its plight.

Cup it gently

and carry it outside

to set his fellow creature free.


Who wouldn’t kill a fly

let alone

let it die of heat

on a sun-drenched window ledge

in a promising spring.


Certainty - March 23 2025

 

Certainty

March 23 2025


I love old maps.


Their dragons

mermaids

compound Latin names.


Back when the world was unknown

and could be freely imagined

by any man who dared.

Beautiful maps

in which whole continents were missing,

inland seas

depicted as oceans,

coastlines

a guess at best.

Like a precocious child

drawing in crayon

and colouring in.


So anything was possible

out to the edge of the world,

and dead reckoning

could very well end

in sailing over it.


A myth, I know;

even the ancient Greeks knew perfectly well

that the world was round.

But we enjoy patronizing the past

and feeling smug,

as if we’re somehow more advanced

than stone age man

because we’ve cut our hair and put on clothes.


Now, we no longer imagine.

We fly over

map ocean floors

and see earth from space,

measuring

to the nth degree.

So where our forbears’s burden was ignorance,

today

it’s our certainty;

deluding ourselves

that borders are fixed,

the earth immutable,

our place is sure.


Even though

there are wars and invasions.


Earthquakes and tidal waves,

melting ice and changing seas.


Fugue states

in which the searching or confused

wander trance-like

and end up someplace

no map can tell.


Inspired by this opinion piece published in the Globe and Mail of March 22 2025:

https://globe2go.pressreader.com/article/282578793834107 


Lapin - March 20 2025

 

Lapin

March 20 2025


I watched the long vertical incision.


The hand reaching in

and scooping out the guts

still warm with animal heat,

glistening

and dripping blood.


And then, held up by its feet

watching the skin cleanly stripped

in one smooth pull

all the way down;

fur in, flesh out,

as if peeling a banana

husking corn.

As if nature

had conveniently fashioned her prey

for human hands.


The rabbit,

reduced to meat

veined with white streaks of fat

wrapped in a thin translucent membrane

sheer as spider silk.

Dangling limply

and stripped of its fur

the thing seemed small;

hardly enough to satisfy

a working man.

Not worth the trouble

I thought to myself;

the pain and suffering,

the blood and sacrifice.


How matter of fact she was

handling a dead animal;

still warm,

still looking back

with two piercing eyes.

Which wasn’t a rabbit

anymore;

now, it was just a meal

for the two of us to share,

sautéed with mushrooms

and caramelized onions

on a bed of wild rice.

Accompanied by cheap red wine

in kitchen tumblers

poured from a box.


But before the meal

and before the limp carcass

there was the rabbit

I’d watched a few hours prior,

aiming its ears

with twitchy precision,

bounding over the field

with the dogs in its dust,

and cutting right, then left

with featherweight dexterity.


I am not a hunter.

I couldn’t dress a kill.

But I admired her skill

accepted her hospitality.

And with the guilt

of a soft-handed city boy

thanked the animal,

self-serving as that felt.


The dogs, who sat by the table drooling

lapped up the scraps

as if inhaling them.

No thanks or qualms,

no second thoughts.


This poem was inspired by the movie Dark River. This is a harrowing but brilliant story about the taciturn farmers of Yorkshire, their mean hard-working lives, and the dark side of family life in remote places. Even the arresting landscape becomes a character. The people live close to the land and close to their animals. Who are cared for, but treated unsentimentally: either as working animals, or simply as inputs and outputs.

One thing that stays with me is the depiction of manual labour. Literally, the work of hands, in lingering and intimate detail: shearing sheep, man-handling them by the horns, examining an injured one, gutting a rabbit. The last example from start to finish in close-up shots that spare nothing. The actor is the always outstanding Ruth Wilson, and she clearly is doing the work herself. She inhabits this character completely. With almost no dialogue, she brilliantly expresses her silent suffering and suppressed rage. In particular, her workman-like commitment to this scene makes it not only absolutely riveting, but also that much more believable.

(It’s good there’s little dialogue, because it’s almost unintelligible. The Yorkshire brogue is so thick you could cut it with a knife. Even the closed captions can be cryptic, full of the local idiom and specialized terms. But film is a visual medium, and in this movie the camera does most of the work.)

Non-hunters like me, who eat meat, prefer euphemism. Better not to think how the meat got here and where its from. So instead of cow, deer, and rabbit, we use words like beef, venison, and lapin (or, if instead of French it’s Italian cuisine, coniglio). Hence the title.


Going On - March 19 2025

 

Going On

March 19 2025


Above the fireplace

there’s a mantel

cut from one thick slab

of rough hewn wood.

On it

among the tchotchkes, and sentimental objects

sits a plain ceramic urn.

And in the urn are ashes,

a loved one’s remains

waiting to be spread.


If I said she was a dog

would your eyebrows be raised?

Would you think of this love

as somehow lesser?

Or would you get it;

that the attachment

between man and dog

is as powerful as any?


She was a good dog

who led a dog’s life

and was long lived.

I’m sad

it was so hard at the end;

the inexorable decline

the last several months.

And sadder still

that when I picture her

she’s old and arthritic;

that my memory

of the full-of-fun pup

and the dog in her prime

has over time faded.


They say all dogs go to heaven,

and even though I don’t believe in an afterlife

the thought consoles me;

because if Pascal wagered right

perhaps she’s there.


Now, to that final resting place.

The lake, I think

where she was most at home.

I’m not sentimental.

I know this is simply material,

raked from the oven

when the fire had cooled.

But ritual serves;

not closure

but an end of sorts.


Canoeing to the middle of the lake

and tipping out the urn

as the boat slowly drifts.

The other dogs will swim behind,

a reminder

that as life surely ends

life also goes on.


There is no urn. I was offered the option of ashes, but declined. Perhaps, in retrospect, I should have accepted.

I imagine it would have gone something like this.

I know I’ve already written at least 2 poems about Skookum’s end, which is enough. But reading this (see below) brought me back.



Losing a pet cuts deep

BUT FRIENDS CAN HELP THROUGH LONG GRIEVING PROCESS

  • National Post

  • 18 Mar 2025

  • John Leicester

MICHEL EULER / THE ASSOCIATED PR

Even months later, the pain of losing a pet can still hit without warning.

The trigger might be noticing — again, for the umpteenth time — how empty the house feels since your cat died, without the pitter-patter of padded paws. Or stumbling across the leash of the dog you lost and remembering how it used to set off tail-wagging glee.

Grieving owners can feel doubly lonesome if the humans in their lives don’t quite know how to help, perhaps because they’ve not had pets themselves or feel awkward around grief.

How can owners and their friends cope better with pet bereavement? Experts in pet loss offer these ideas:


RECOGNIZE THAT FEELING AWFUL IS NORMAL

For some grieving owners, pet loss can feel worse than a human death. That doesn’t make them monsters. Instead, it reflects the potential depths of human-animal bonds.

For some people, a pet is their most important relationship, “the being that they see every single day, that maybe sleeps on their bed, that they cuddle with on the couch,” says E.B. Bartels, author of Good Grief: On Loving Pets, Here and Hereafter.

There are people who feel more comfortable with animals than with people,” she adds. “So losing those relationships can be really, really difficult.”


OFFER SYMPATHETIC EAR

People who haven’t experienced pet love may struggle to understand what it’s like to lose it. They may think they are being helpful by saying, “It was just an animal,” or “They were lucky to have such a loving owner.” But pat phrases, no matter how well-meaning, can make grieving owners clam up and feel alone.

You feel like you can’t talk about it because people aren’t really empathizing,” says Annalisa de Carteret, who manages a telephone helpline and other pet-loss support services for Blue Cross, a U.K. animal welfare charity.

Just allow that person to talk about how they’re feeling, and you don’t need to comment,” she says.

Avoid clichés like, “‘Oh, you can get another pet’ or ‘He had a good life, he was a good age,’” she says. For the owner, “that doesn’t make you feel any better, because you knew all of those things. You just feel sad and just want someone to listen and to understand.”


BONDS CAN RUN DEEP WITH ANY KIND OF ANIMAL

Don’t assume that an owner’s grief is commensurate with the size or type of animal they lost, or the length of time they had them. The death of a pet lizard, for example, can be as painful for some people as losing the cutest of fur balls for others.

My friend’s dad has a koi pond and he loves these koi. And he was so upset when a raccoon got in and killed all his koi one summer,” Bartels says. “Some people would be like, ‘Oh, they’re just fish.’ But he loved these fish, you know?”

She suggests that friends can offer practical help: A grieving owner who no longer has a four-legged reason to leave the house might appreciate the offer of a walk with a two-legged companion.

People can really feel they lose their community,” Bartels says. “In the morning you get up, you bring your dog to the dog park and you get to know the group of people who are there every morning really well. And that’s your social community. And so then if you lose your reason for going ... you’ve lost a lot more than just a dog.”


GUILT OFTEN COMPOUNDS PET LOSS

Up to 30,000 people contact Blue Cross each year for pet-loss support. Many aren’t simply sad but also are fearful that they may somehow have been responsible for their animal’s death or disappearance, de Carteret says.

Guilt is a really big part of pet loss,” she says.

They maybe think, ‘Oh, if I’d done something differently, maybe they’d have stayed alive a little bit longer,’ or if they were stolen: ‘If I didn’t put them in the garden.’ Or, ‘What could I have done differently to change the inevitable?’”

For bereaved owners who feel more upset about the loss of a pet than about a family member, that can trigger more guilt, de Carteret adds.

It’s really normal,” she says. But “it feels wrong to say, doesn’t it? And people don’t want to share that.”


CAN A NEW PET HELP?

Possibly. But it’s not a magic bullet. Each animal has its own personality and a new one won’t necessarily fill the void left by another.

And if your previous pet was full-grown, you may no longer have the patience for kittens’ litters or puppy-training again.

Bottom line: Grieving can’t be truncated. The sadness and memories can be lasting.

Bartels lost her dog, Seymour, last June. “I’m sure I’ll have a hard time again in June when it’s the year anniversary of when we put him down,” she says.

De Carteret keeps her dog’s ashes by her fireplace, which was his favourite place to sit.

Some people will think that’s weird,” she says. “But, you know, that’s how I deal with it ... You have to find the right way for you.