Poetry

Audience

           

Audience

My audience
two obedient teddy bears
a technicolor cow
and an obsidian frog
from the Temple of the Moon
at Teotihuacán

Outside my window
the listening trees
clap their leaves
beating the wind
with their branches

Flowers lend deaf ears
for they are dead
dried and broken
by this deathly drought

In the next room
TV ads blare
in an effort
to silence my voice

Absence and presence
of water
the garden dry
fall foliage
crisp and complaining
useless tears flowing
down my cheeks

Audience

So important, the audience. But is what the poet writes what the audience hears? With an audience like mine, who knows? What does a teddy bear know about tears, drought, or doubt? Does a multi-colored cow suffer, like I do, when he hears the adverts on the television set? What does an obsidian frog, from the Temple of the Moon know about life in Island View? Carved in a desert, surrounded by volcanoes, some dormant, some liable to break into activity, does he understand the morse code words tapped out by the branches of trees?

            How do we understand the pathetic fallacy in terms of the inanimate stuffed animals that sit upon my table?  I talk to my teddy, the one that sleeps beside me in my bed upstairs. I talk to him, but he never replies. Opposite me, at my desk, sits Hairy Fred, my favorite teddy bear. He used to be an overcoat, until his creator bought the coat, cut it into fifty pieces and grew fifty teddies from the wreckage.

I guess he should know more about humans than most teddy bears, having wrapped them and kept them warm in a previous life. Alas, he too is silent. As in reality are the trees, the leaves, and the flowers. Silent, in the human sense, but full of a different sort of life that overflows with another set of languages, that creative people can hear, but seldom speak.

Basket Cases

Basket Cases

Choppy waves at Three Cliffs
on the Gower Peninsula

The sea seethes
boils with bubbles
bursting upwards
breaking the surface

Boys and girls
screech with delight
grab buckets and shrimp nets
abandon the rock pools
rush into the sea
and scoop up
dancing mackerel
so deep the shoal
a boy could easily
walk on their backs

The shoal moves on
as swiftly as it arrived
silence after the storm
peace is restored
broken only by the sigh
of wind and waves

Commentary

            Inspiration can arrive from the most unlikely places. My friend Yolande texted me a photo of the silent stillness, after the summer hustle and bustle, of the almost empty harbor by the wharf in Shediac. Then, without warning, a shoal of fish broke the surface. She put her cell phone into video mode and filmed the tumbling waters, the flashing silver backs, the sudden disturbance. It was a short video. Within seconds, the shoal vanished and the harbor returned to its former peace and stillness.

            So much inspiration comes from our own memories. In my case, a visit to Three Cliffs, on the Gower Peninsula, yielded much the same experience. Yolande’s video prompted me to recall it.

Intertextuality – texts talking to texts. Memory – the search for time past and the restoration of memory. So much can be generated from our creative memories of childhood when we receive inspiration.

A Bridge Too Far

A Bridge Too Far

I cry out for the love of art
that warms my heart and makes me
a part of the universe

how I yearn to earn the name
of poet or painter though my way
of approaching both is quainter
and therefore fainter than
any other poet or painter

some days I feel the world spirit
stepping its cautious way
through my fingers without
ever reaching heart or soul
without which no artist is whole

I long for some creative wind
to blow deep crevasses in my heart
to make it an open wound
with blood that flows like ink or paint
and stains page or painted panel
then lodges in other people’s
minds and hopefully their hearts

Comment

An old friend dropped in today, quite unexpectedly. Six years ago he left. So much has happened since then. I needn’t tell you about everything from Covid onwards. You will be well aware of the state that the world is in. He lives in Alberta now and assured me that Albertans had no desire to separate from Canada. That is good news. But we stayed away from politics.

We talked about the joys of ageing. Heart conditions – stents on the one side, A Fibs on the other, blood thinners for both. The gradual loss of mobility and flexibility. The gradual loss of strength. Our kitchen sounded like the consultation room of a third rate doctor who didn’t understand exactly what was the nature of the patients’ complaints.

We shared green Matcha tea, laced with honey, and he discovered the mystical magic of KTJ’s PNBs. We talked about setting up a supply line, from east to west, to bind Canada with PNB appreciation.

As old friends do, we changed the world, rebuilding it in much less time than the biblical seven days in which it was created. Not only that, we changed the laws of rugby – we are both former players – lamenting the size and weight of the current playing generation. Then we changed the rules of soccer, rued the latest version of the world cup, with its extent, fake gamesmanship, and some blatant corruption.

Then we went into sports injuries, especially the exploitation of the Head Injury Assessment laws in rugby. And then we were back to our own war wounds, like two old soldiers, returning from a campaign.

It was all such fun. Then, alas, it was “Time, gentlemen, please.” The bell rang, the kitchen emptied. I saw him to the garage door, which he kindly shut for me, and peace returned to the house. Now I rejoice in the joys of a friendship restored, and lament the loss of a former team member soon to be absent once more.

Anywhere

Anywhere


I knew you the first day
I saw you. I knew your heart
before you could open it up
and let me in. I knew your soul
before you allowed me
to touch its beauty’s depth.

Did I know you from another
life? I just don’t know. I only
know that I knew who you were
and what you meant to me.

Once I saw you, how could I let
you go? I reached across the bridge
that spans the ages and saw you
as you always were, clad in white,
shining like the Milky Way
across a universe of falling stars
and you the only one I wanted
to put in my pocket, hold,
 and keep safe in my heart.

Comment

I was talking to Moo this morning about how, once in a while, you meet someone, talk to them, and, within minutes, feel such a compatibility with them that it seems you have known them all your life. Or from another life, another planet, another star, another galaxy, perhaps.

Moo said that yes, he had himself undergone such experiences. He couldn’t explain them. But he knew how they felt, those special moments, when two minds click, and are suddenly at one. In fact, he told me, I have just painted my version of such a moment. I call it Blue Magic, as distinct from Black Magic.

What’s the difference,” I asked him

“Blue Magic is peaceful and positive,” he said, “Black Magic can be distorted and used to evil ends. And I want nothing to do with that.”

“Me, neither.”

“You know what amazes me. That you haven’t posted for 22 days, not since August 28. And yet, people are still visiting your page. You had 294 hits on the 16th, 217 on the 18th, and 263 hits yesterday. Yet you haven’t posted a thing. I have been worrying about you. You haven’t asked for any paintings from me. In fact, we’ve hardly talked for three weeks or more.”

“I know. It’s been a funny time. But I have written and published two books of poetry in that time. And I have started a couple of other projects. And I have borrowed some of your earlier paintings for the covers.”

“Without even asking me?”

“Well, you always said I could use your paintings any time. ‘Treat them as if they were your own,’ you told me.”

“Well, that’s true. So pax it is.”

“Pax amorque.”

“And remember, you will have to apologize to all those lonely visitors who kept logging on in hopes of seeing something new.”

“Sorry, guys and gals. Real sorry.”

Narrow Straits

Narrow Straits
A Jackpine Sonnet

Who threw the frog
that blocked the word stream
flowing through my throat?

The full moon whispered her secret
as she drifted past my window.

I tried to repeat her words
but I couldn’t move my lips
and my dry mouth tied
my tongue into little knots.

No sounds rose through
the airways of my lungs,
even though I am able to speak
in several different tongues.

The languages I love
were all backed up
in the narrow straits
of my throbbing throat,
never to be untied
by this sad season’s tide.

Comment:

So many allusions, so many illusions, so many elusions – where should I begin? Possibly with the loss of speech and then of language. How does one lose one’s speech? So many ways. A cough, a cold, laryngitis, a frog in the throat, a cake crumb caught half way down that makes one choke and splutter and rendered speechless. Stage fright can do it too. Standing there, in the spotlight, mouth open, no sound emerging.

Fear can act the same way – the word once said, can never be recalled – and so, one day, suddenly, we are afraid to open our mouths, afraid to share our thoughts aloud, afraid to speak out, afraid to stand out from the crowd. Hush. Keep quiet. Don’t say it aloud. Disobedience and doubt are no longer allowed.

Oh look, there’s Moo, peering over my shoulder. “Sky Blues,” he says. “My paintings speak for themselves. They don’t need words and they know no fear. That’s why I am here. To let color and line (and the proper spelling of colour) disperse your fear. ‘A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’ And one day I will paint you a rose, and you can see that it is a rose and you can call it what you want, but it will still be a rose and smell as sweet.” “You mean you put perfumes in your paints,” I asked him, “so that a painted rose smells like a real rose?” “Do you mean you stick frogs in other people’s throats,” he replied, “and create word dams so that language doesn’t flow?” “I don’t do that,” I replied. “Other people do it to me.”

“Now, now,” said Moo. “Remember Juan Ramón Jiménez – “No la toques más. Así es la rosa.” “Don’t retouch it any more. Roses are just like that.” “And word dams,” I asked him. “You can always remove them with a paint brush, and a little touch of the imagination,” Moo replied. “Well,” I said. “Can you now? Imagine that!”

Detour

Detour
A Jackpine Sonnet

My way or the high way –
but by which route,
the four-leaf clover,
the new roundabout,
or the old flyover?

Who cares when there’s
only one bridge open
to cross the river
and that one with
two lanes closed
and the traffic flow
now reduced to single
file and an endless
nose to tail.

Amazing how often
our modern roads
need repairing
and how seldom
local motorists are open
to sharing and caring.

Comment:

Summer, holiday season, tourists in from all parts – add them together, and what do you get? Road works, of course. Construction. Old roads being newly tarmacked. Detours. And not a clue as to how to get from a – z without following a million arrows, none of which fly straight to your target.

As the crow flies. But no crow I know flies like this. Unless he’s discovered a supply of Newfoundland Super Screech with the power to lift an aircraft off the ground, not to mention to loop-the-loop with all the passengers safely wearing their seat-belts. Australia – here we come. The Antipodes, remember!

Earlier, of course, it was pothole season. And we all remember that. Now it is summer caravan and trailer time. This morning, as I was driving past the RV park, three half-tons pulling caravans pulled out ahead of me and three more tucked in behind. Now I know what it’s like being a thin slice of ham or cheese between six crusty loaves of bread.

Ah well, one-stop shopping. Get out – one stop – pick it all up – and get back home safe. That’s the way to do it, as we have done before!

Earworms

Earworms

A meaningless collection of notes
swarms into my empty head
swimming round and round
like clustering tadpoles.

The ebb and flow of that mysterious
music clumps on and on, tight in
 my mind and will not let me go.

Earwigs, some call them,
those senseless repetitions,
day after day, night after night,
awake and asleep,
old tv adverts, short clips
of classical music or popular songs.

They are wheelbarrow songs,
hedge clippings, dead flowers,
crass grass, broken branches, weeds,
repetitive memes of meaning,
a syndrome of stuck songs destined
for the garbage dump and ritual burning
in the hell of an eternal turntable turning.

Comment:

Word magic from the Mikado – “My object all sublime I shall achieve in time, to make the punishment fit the crime” … And in this case I would tie the criminals who invented these ‘ballads, songs, and snatches’ to the stake, with earphones that endlessly repeated all the nonsense we hear day and night, so much of which sticks in the turntables of our brains turning round and round as we toss and turn in our beds at night. Just a case, I suppose, of hearing music while there’s no one there.

And how many earworms did you pluck out of that first paragraph? I can count six, maybe seven. Then, my mind may be very different from yours. Perhaps your mind isn’t in the outrageous Wilfred that mine is. Don’t get that joke, do you? And why should you? I guess you don’t remember Ray’s a Laugh, Round the Horne, Mr. Dimwitty, or Wilfred Pickles – and why should you.

Passent les jours et passent les semaines / ni temps passés ni les amours reviennent / sous le Pont Mirabeau coule la Seine – click on the link for the English version (my translation) and click on this link for a slightly improved revised version.

Yes, as Apollinaire says time flows on and by – or, after Heraclitus – you can never step in the same river twice. More important, perhaps, for those who worry about their past thoughts, words, and deeds – you can throw the stone into the pond, but you can’t control the ripples.

Light

Light
A Jackpine Sonnet

I love the way the light
rises in the morning,
stands still and stately at noon,
and fades as day slips into night.

Each day I watch the berries
on the mountain ash
changing color as daylight
strides strong across the sky
then slopes away to the west.

A long time ago, in Paris,
I saw Monet’s paintings
of the Cathedral at Rouen –
morning, noon, afternoon.

Seurat, Monet, and Sisley taught me
to appreciate the multiple ways
in which light fragments
and scatters into many colors
the cloak of berries on my tree.

Comment:

Moo thought this would be a lovely painting to accompany today’s poem. “Red berries,” he said, “and faces amongst the glowing foliage to match the low fires of the westering sun.” Sometimes Moo has a trick with words that is even better than his tricks with paint. Not that he would ever claim to be a poet, as I would never claim to be a painter. That said, by chance or fate, we sometimes luck out.

I saw those Monet paintings at Le Jeu de Paume in Paris, 1963 I believe it was. A long time ago. I remember standing in a circular room surrounded by water lilies – and I stood there, amazed, floating like a cloud in a floral paradise. Funny how those moments can linger, stamped on the retina, and recalled in the strangest of ways. I like the works of all three painters, but I must admit that Seurat, the founder of chromo-luminarism, also known as pointillism, can drive you dotty until you work out how all those little berries join together to make a perfect image.

Sisley, to my mind, is more akin to Monet – except for the actual choice of subjects, but that might just be my misinterpretation of their combined talents. No matter – what I see when the light hits the berries on my tree is a combination of creative memories that gift me with an insight into the multiple meanings of the structure of the evening light – the magic hour – as my friend Tony Bear calls it – that brings joy and delight to my garden each sunny evening, as it fades into night.



Not Enough

Not Enough
A Jackpine Sonnet

Is it enough to treat people
as if they were equals,
when some need much more
attention than others?

Think colds, flu, bronchitis,
pneumonia, covid. Equal
treatment no longer works.

We need to see each person
as an individual needing
exclusive care, a unique style.

We must let them know
that they are not lost and alone,
that they will be approached
individually, each and every one.

Treated equally, yes, but each
in his or her particular case
and cultural situation.

A dream? Perhaps.
But the alternative
is a nightmare.

Comment:

An interesting chat over the dinner table – de sobremesa – led us to the meaning of equality and treating people equally. The kernel of the discussion – I said I believed in treating all people equally, Moo’s guest for the evening, his Plus One, said that treating people equally was no longer right. It was necessary to treat each person as an individual, with different needs, and we must therefore go beyond equal treatment to individual treatment. A word to the wise from the wiser.

Treat other people as you would have them treat you. The phrase goes back a long, long way to Socrates, Seneca, and maybe beyond. It ties in with the ideals of Buddhism and also of early Chinese philosophers.

It centers on the meaning of ‘equally’ and is a wonderful topic for discourse analysis. If by ‘equally’ we mean one size fits all, then we merely drop the grid down upon the targeted individual and tick the boxes where the pieces fit. However, if we agree that such ‘equal treatment’ is in fact potentially discriminatory, then we must break ‘equally’ down and give it the extended meaning of ‘with equal care and attention‘ according to their individual needs and cultural, social, medical, educational, or religious beliefs.

So, here am I, sitting over the dinner table, musing with my family and friends on the meaning of meaning and learning that old ideas can be renewed and that yes, even an old dog like me, eighty plus years old and still counting, can learn a new trick or two [or several], from those who are brought up in a different, younger, more diverse world, and whom are consequently more habituated to this world than I am. It’s a good lesson – and I hope, well-learned.

“And that,” said Moo, “is why I painted Who’s Who Zoo. Look carefully before you label who is who and where they stand in the Who’s Who Zoo.”

FIFA

FIFA
A Jackpine Sonnet

elbows on the table
my hands clasped around
this soccer ball
I call my skull

its global reach
the totality of all
I hold and know
and understand

past games
long forgotten
gone the skills
of which I was so proud

my life the circumference
of this paneled circle
wrinkled and peeling

the ancient onion skins
of old corruptions
newly found

Comment:

Moo calls this painting, which he forgot to sign, Crater with Creatures. He thought it would be a good painting for this circular poem that also goes round and around like the creatures in the crater. Wild thoughts, they are, gnawing at each other as they circle. I had to tell Moo what FIFA meant. At first, he thought I had written FIFI, the name of his cat. No, I told him, it’s FIFA, not FIFI, and that’s why I call my skull a soccer ball. “But FIFA isn’t corrupt,” Moo said. Well, that made me laugh. “I wasn’t referring to FIFA as being corrupt,” I explained. “The corruptions are all my own.” “But you aren’t corrupt,” Moo exclaimed. “Think of them not as corruptions, but of little errors, little sins, the little mistakes we all make in life.” “Oh, those,” said Moo. “Nobody cares about those things. They are all little nothings, best forgotten.” “I usually do forget them,” I said, “but once in while I pick at them like I pick at a scab, and then they all start bleeding again, or flaking away like thin layers of onion rings.”

Moo looked at me, long and hard. “You are just like a world cup soccer team manager,” he told me. “First you pick your nose, then you pick yourself, then you pick your best friends and put them on the team. But that’s not corruption. That’s the way of the world. Everybody does it.” “Not everybody,” I said. “That’s because not everybody is a soccer coach,” he replied.

Good old Moo. Such a world wise philosopher. I remember when he had his index finger in plaster. “What wrong with your finger,” I asked him. “It broke,” he replied. “How on earth did that happen?” “Someone punched me in the nose.” “Well that shouldn’t have broken your finger,” I said, amazed and rather doubtful. “It was in my nose at the time,” he sighed. Que lo creas tú.