The places men go to die are never crowded:
I heard the patter of the feet above,
Through the melange of brambles and thorns
I could see the heels pivot,
Kicking up dirt towards my hovel.
I came here to be taken,
To disappear, to defeat panic,
The incessant rumbles of terror,
And the cycle of recidivism
That led to these terminal thoughts.
I came here to forget (to be forgotten):
The world has songs, innumerable,
Full of sad men navigating, muted,
Through empty city streets
Looking for a spot to drop,
To cease the weariness
And the footsteps echo through
Everything and recede into the night.
I came here to vanish, committed absolutely,
Short of lighting the pyre,
And subjected to segregation,
Felt ever closer to the decision
While the thundering of the footfalls above
Seemed to spread out in all directions:
Away.
I came here, tired of the quarrel,
To quell the material realm:
All that empirical devastation.
As the brambles began to close,
Tightly coiling astride my neck,
Pinching the carotid artery,
I saw her toes,
Curled in over the edge of my pit,
Lined together, split by a black latch,
Facing me, slicing through the thorns.
Luminous, radiant and brilliant
Her vibrancy lit the cell,
Shattering the darkness,
Revealing the graphic and ghastly form.
Ignorant no longer, I rose,
Stretched towards the surface,
Clutching what I could,
Pulling myself up from the depths
Of the barbed, piercing patch.
In my ascent, the thorns took skin,
Blood, hair, ripping and tearing as I climbed,
Leaving scars that would never heal.
I felt each injury with an exaggerated sensitivity,
Yet continued slashing through the vile garden.
I stood, faced the sky, battered, bruised and torn,
And there it was: my world, my life
And, below in the reflection of a gutter side puddle,
I saw my eyes and witnessed the return of my wonder.
Reborn and empty, I strode down the promenade,
To begin again, the collection of knowledge,
Love, and the thirst for all there is,
All there will be.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
A Monologue on the Muse
“Each dawn, along the promenade,
Heading west with a new sun chasing me
And a dim morning moon tracing my trail,
I walked towards the end of our street,
Past the bungalows and side-splits,
Through the narrow, overgrown path
Leading to Front Street.
“There hidden amongst the long grass,
The foliage and debris—remnants of forts,
Late nights and forgotten adolescent dreams—
A small patch of growth, closed off
With a chain link fence (rusted over by time and wind),
Hid alone and invisible to the passing crowds,
Until I happened upon it that summer morning.
“Pulling back the thicket and fencing,
I revealed an unfettered bed of heather,
Which stood matted, thick, domineering;
A dictator among the reeds and stalks,
But there within the clutter
I spotted a lone yellow tulip,
Jutting out majestically towards the sun.
“Swimming handful by handful through the heather,
Deliberate and slow (hesitant, careful),
I exposed the thick stem as a cloud released
Its grip upon the sun.
Under the fresh light, the beauty, the perfection,
Of that lone tulip unveiled itself
And I stood, captured by the moment.
“I fingered the keys in my pockets,
Wanting to cut the stem at the bottom,
Wanting to have the flower for myself,
But stopped, looking into the petals, the cup,
And understanding immediately
This was the fruit of the earth
And I was forbidden to possess it.
“Ingesting its pure vapours in delight,
I turned to leave, looking back,
The heather flattened around the tulip,
As if kneeling before its mastery,
And the solitary yellow blossom
Sat upon its throne, showered in artistry,
I carried away its fragrance to keep forever.
“I walked through the fescue, returning to the path,
Advancing towards the lake to walk along the edge,
Kicking the tide as it rode in,
I found a stick and dug into the silt,
I wrote a name in the sand, dotting the “i”
Just as the moon swept the shores of the world
And now, my boy, I can’t recall her name.”
Heading west with a new sun chasing me
And a dim morning moon tracing my trail,
I walked towards the end of our street,
Past the bungalows and side-splits,
Through the narrow, overgrown path
Leading to Front Street.
“There hidden amongst the long grass,
The foliage and debris—remnants of forts,
Late nights and forgotten adolescent dreams—
A small patch of growth, closed off
With a chain link fence (rusted over by time and wind),
Hid alone and invisible to the passing crowds,
Until I happened upon it that summer morning.
“Pulling back the thicket and fencing,
I revealed an unfettered bed of heather,
Which stood matted, thick, domineering;
A dictator among the reeds and stalks,
But there within the clutter
I spotted a lone yellow tulip,
Jutting out majestically towards the sun.
“Swimming handful by handful through the heather,
Deliberate and slow (hesitant, careful),
I exposed the thick stem as a cloud released
Its grip upon the sun.
Under the fresh light, the beauty, the perfection,
Of that lone tulip unveiled itself
And I stood, captured by the moment.
“I fingered the keys in my pockets,
Wanting to cut the stem at the bottom,
Wanting to have the flower for myself,
But stopped, looking into the petals, the cup,
And understanding immediately
This was the fruit of the earth
And I was forbidden to possess it.
“Ingesting its pure vapours in delight,
I turned to leave, looking back,
The heather flattened around the tulip,
As if kneeling before its mastery,
And the solitary yellow blossom
Sat upon its throne, showered in artistry,
I carried away its fragrance to keep forever.
“I walked through the fescue, returning to the path,
Advancing towards the lake to walk along the edge,
Kicking the tide as it rode in,
I found a stick and dug into the silt,
I wrote a name in the sand, dotting the “i”
Just as the moon swept the shores of the world
And now, my boy, I can’t recall her name.”
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Coming Soon...
I'm putting together a list of my top 10 favourite cities that I have visited. I will dedicate a page or two to each city and my experiences of each. Once i get some time I will get right to work on them. Sneak peak: #10. Tallinn, Estonia. Stay tuned.
Friday, September 17, 2010
A Crisis of Faith
Letter to God
At sixteen, beneath the pallor of a wet autumn day,
In an atrium draped in silence (in calm),
More than a century after the first report,
I read of your death.
We had not spoken in some time.
Now, upon reflection, our conversations
Feel as distant as the youth
I spent meandering down river banks,
With an invisible Huck Finn,
Collecting colourful stones
That would lose their vibrancy
After drying by the woodstove.
I once, in blind adolescence,
While cataloguing chaos
Into a red (then water-stained orange) notebook,
Heaved all blame upon your shoulders,
Ignorantly placing liability
On the conscience of a ghost.
Now, I still see others reach for you
And they incite more to do the same.
Their efforts, albeit aggressive,
Breed only futilities:
In fact, this letter itself
Seems an empty exercise
In dramatic narrative;
Though, still, I write:
Fearful of the incessant notion
That my beauty, my art
Have always been linked
To the persistence of your venom
And now, in the end, there is no word,
Only Poets ravaging the rotted bark
Of a felled redwood.
At sixteen, beneath the pallor of a wet autumn day,
In an atrium draped in silence (in calm),
More than a century after the first report,
I read of your death.
We had not spoken in some time.
Now, upon reflection, our conversations
Feel as distant as the youth
I spent meandering down river banks,
With an invisible Huck Finn,
Collecting colourful stones
That would lose their vibrancy
After drying by the woodstove.
I once, in blind adolescence,
While cataloguing chaos
Into a red (then water-stained orange) notebook,
Heaved all blame upon your shoulders,
Ignorantly placing liability
On the conscience of a ghost.
Now, I still see others reach for you
And they incite more to do the same.
Their efforts, albeit aggressive,
Breed only futilities:
In fact, this letter itself
Seems an empty exercise
In dramatic narrative;
Though, still, I write:
Fearful of the incessant notion
That my beauty, my art
Have always been linked
To the persistence of your venom
And now, in the end, there is no word,
Only Poets ravaging the rotted bark
Of a felled redwood.
To the Art Gallery
Ode to a Portrait of an Auburn Hair Girl
She’s on the fourth floor,
Between the Romantics and the Realists,
In a circular room she inhabits alone.
An entrance to the west and to the east,
A stone bench in the centre,
Where my daily vigil takes me
To watch her float upon the wall.
The people come and go,
Glancing and passing—
Some walk through without seeing her—
As her eyes illuminate the room,
But I always remain.
Beneath her bosom, dug in the stucco wall,
A label identifies her:
“Portrait of an Auburn Hair Girl,
Unknown Artist, circa 1824.”
She will not age, she will not change,
But I will return forever different.
Her beauty will outlast me and when I’m gone
Another will replace my admiration.
For now, with my remaining time, I stare:
Her hair falling majestically on porcelain shoulders;
Her eyes, two distant stars coaxing me into orbit;
Her skin, I imagine, warm to the touch,
As the hairs on my arms stand and reach towards her; and,
Her mouth, born from a stroke of mastery,
Curves on the canvas, slightly open,
And my mind recycles that same daily thought:
“Oh, if I could will those lips flesh,
Press mine to hers, we could vanish,
And become our desire.”
She’s on the fourth floor,
Between the Romantics and the Realists,
In a circular room she inhabits alone.
An entrance to the west and to the east,
A stone bench in the centre,
Where my daily vigil takes me
To watch her float upon the wall.
The people come and go,
Glancing and passing—
Some walk through without seeing her—
As her eyes illuminate the room,
But I always remain.
Beneath her bosom, dug in the stucco wall,
A label identifies her:
“Portrait of an Auburn Hair Girl,
Unknown Artist, circa 1824.”
She will not age, she will not change,
But I will return forever different.
Her beauty will outlast me and when I’m gone
Another will replace my admiration.
For now, with my remaining time, I stare:
Her hair falling majestically on porcelain shoulders;
Her eyes, two distant stars coaxing me into orbit;
Her skin, I imagine, warm to the touch,
As the hairs on my arms stand and reach towards her; and,
Her mouth, born from a stroke of mastery,
Curves on the canvas, slightly open,
And my mind recycles that same daily thought:
“Oh, if I could will those lips flesh,
Press mine to hers, we could vanish,
And become our desire.”
Alone on a Stool
Macabre Whiskey Dreams
Here the nights bring them all out:
The kings and queens,
The fools and fiends,
And they all stumble through the streets
Conscious only of every other step.
There’s a rumble there in the darkness,
The roar and exultations
Shoot through the alleys,
Illuminating the dark with violence.
Along the walls of this bar,
Like fallen angels, solitary,
Lingering and despondent in purgatory,
All the sad girls fix their hair,
Raise their dresses and scan the room
Looking for someone, anyone to see their light.
With bared teeth, they smile at no one,
Everyone and take the drinks that come,
Laughing and sighing at empty witticisms,
And hope to catch that one
Pair of eyes to fill the desolation.
I can do nothing but sit on the stool.
My back turned to the glow,
The city pulses and breathes through
The dusty window of the pub.
I could be anywhere in the world right now,
I think to myself, sipping my whiskey,
The two cubes melted and spinning
Together falling into an invisible gyre.
I see my reflection in the taps,
Stretched out and warped,
The conversationalists standing behind me,
Look further away than seems reasonable,
And appear to talk through me
As my distorted visage divides them.
I pause my meditative silence, briefly,
Rarely, nodding in agreement to another,
While I espy the wild gesticulations,
The voluminous retorts and rebuttals
Of the inebriated circle around the bar.
When I’ve had my fill I rise to leave,
Catch the eyes of a young woman
And convince myself to ignore her.
Walking home, the tips of my shoes
Flash into my vision as I stumbled along
Past barred storefronts, the embracing and the sick.
I hear voices in the distance and approaching,
I hear the laughter slowly fade out as it passes,
And ringing in my head, returning effervescently,
I hear the soft mutterings of a young girl’s tears.
Shambling down the bank, slowly, assuredly,
I feel the water brush the soles of my feet
And I collapse against the riverside,
Haunted again by those low whimpers
And I wonder where she sleeps tonight,
Where she rests her head and what she dreams.
Here the nights bring them all out:
The kings and queens,
The fools and fiends,
And they all stumble through the streets
Conscious only of every other step.
There’s a rumble there in the darkness,
The roar and exultations
Shoot through the alleys,
Illuminating the dark with violence.
Along the walls of this bar,
Like fallen angels, solitary,
Lingering and despondent in purgatory,
All the sad girls fix their hair,
Raise their dresses and scan the room
Looking for someone, anyone to see their light.
With bared teeth, they smile at no one,
Everyone and take the drinks that come,
Laughing and sighing at empty witticisms,
And hope to catch that one
Pair of eyes to fill the desolation.
I can do nothing but sit on the stool.
My back turned to the glow,
The city pulses and breathes through
The dusty window of the pub.
I could be anywhere in the world right now,
I think to myself, sipping my whiskey,
The two cubes melted and spinning
Together falling into an invisible gyre.
I see my reflection in the taps,
Stretched out and warped,
The conversationalists standing behind me,
Look further away than seems reasonable,
And appear to talk through me
As my distorted visage divides them.
I pause my meditative silence, briefly,
Rarely, nodding in agreement to another,
While I espy the wild gesticulations,
The voluminous retorts and rebuttals
Of the inebriated circle around the bar.
When I’ve had my fill I rise to leave,
Catch the eyes of a young woman
And convince myself to ignore her.
Walking home, the tips of my shoes
Flash into my vision as I stumbled along
Past barred storefronts, the embracing and the sick.
I hear voices in the distance and approaching,
I hear the laughter slowly fade out as it passes,
And ringing in my head, returning effervescently,
I hear the soft mutterings of a young girl’s tears.
Shambling down the bank, slowly, assuredly,
I feel the water brush the soles of my feet
And I collapse against the riverside,
Haunted again by those low whimpers
And I wonder where she sleeps tonight,
Where she rests her head and what she dreams.
More Heartache
I dreamt of her last night:
We lay in the sand, our legs entwined,
Searching the night’s sky for Saturn.
“See the Big Dipper? Follow the handle…
Yes, towards that bright one, Arcturus…
Now look to the right, that faint glowing orb…
That’s it, that’s Saturn.”
When I realized we had the world to ourselves,
I knew a dream had taken command of my senses.
Fearing the threat of waking, I pulled her close.
Our eyes met, I felt her lips touch mine
As the morning took her from me.
I lay there, still tasting her, pressing my eyes shut
Fighting to find her again in the darkness.
I relented and watched the sun slowly paint my room.
Lying still, I wondered if it ever comes again,
Will it find me for a second time?
Will this phantom of my dreams manifest herself?
Understanding sleep an impossibility, I rose.
Sitting on my balcony a brief wind swept across the building.
The breeze took spores from my neighbours Tulip bed,
Hanging from their railing, and brought her scent through the air.
I stood and looked over the city, ruby eyed and tired:
A man haunted by a ghostly maiden.
We lay in the sand, our legs entwined,
Searching the night’s sky for Saturn.
“See the Big Dipper? Follow the handle…
Yes, towards that bright one, Arcturus…
Now look to the right, that faint glowing orb…
That’s it, that’s Saturn.”
When I realized we had the world to ourselves,
I knew a dream had taken command of my senses.
Fearing the threat of waking, I pulled her close.
Our eyes met, I felt her lips touch mine
As the morning took her from me.
I lay there, still tasting her, pressing my eyes shut
Fighting to find her again in the darkness.
I relented and watched the sun slowly paint my room.
Lying still, I wondered if it ever comes again,
Will it find me for a second time?
Will this phantom of my dreams manifest herself?
Understanding sleep an impossibility, I rose.
Sitting on my balcony a brief wind swept across the building.
The breeze took spores from my neighbours Tulip bed,
Hanging from their railing, and brought her scent through the air.
I stood and looked over the city, ruby eyed and tired:
A man haunted by a ghostly maiden.
Here's to Sudbury
A Love Song for Sudbury Friday Night
Our gaze flashes, catches and holds,
Waiting for the clicking meter
To die and take our vision with it.
A black dress and haunting hazel
Sway beyond my Guinness.
I stare: no crude instincts
Or thoughts, just admiration.
Eyes locked we continue
With our strides and pints,
Until I rise, compelled by her look.
Her arm grasped by a friend, they depart:
An eternal farewell within a glance.
In the tent, the moon breeds shadows
Scattering images I shape into her eyes:
In the morning I attempt to write them.
I fail. I cannot recreate her
For my pen is dumb to translate
That born of silent divinity.
Then on the road,
“Now Leaving Sudbury,”
I wonder where she wakes
Imagining I were there also, only
Remembering the world when she blinked.
Our gaze flashes, catches and holds,
Waiting for the clicking meter
To die and take our vision with it.
A black dress and haunting hazel
Sway beyond my Guinness.
I stare: no crude instincts
Or thoughts, just admiration.
Eyes locked we continue
With our strides and pints,
Until I rise, compelled by her look.
Her arm grasped by a friend, they depart:
An eternal farewell within a glance.
In the tent, the moon breeds shadows
Scattering images I shape into her eyes:
In the morning I attempt to write them.
I fail. I cannot recreate her
For my pen is dumb to translate
That born of silent divinity.
Then on the road,
“Now Leaving Sudbury,”
I wonder where she wakes
Imagining I were there also, only
Remembering the world when she blinked.
Another Romance
…and so the orchard burned.
Those same hallowed groves, which then sated my lust,
Now churned up in swift, deft curls of
Dull, gray ash spouting from the dying embers.
The pungent memory of the citrus clung to the air.
The burning glow of the exposed roots, ablaze,
Crackling and coiling, replaced the subtle, blank
Horizon which had failed to penetrate my vision.
I wallowed among the furrows,
As the wind slowly took them from me,
Flattening the land once more.
I salted the earth. Nothing would grow again.
Walking across the expanse, kicking up dust from my heels,
A brief, green stem and a lone infant leaf caught my eye,
Jutting from the dehydrated land.
I attempted to tear the invading weed from its roots.
I could not summon the strength to dispatch my foe.
Each day, as I returned to this struggle,
My enemy had advanced further towards the sky,
While digging its talons deeper into the soil.
I brought tools, used flames and employed machinery,
But could not quell the growth of the intruder.
The mast of the great beast doubled its diameter daily,
As my will to resist diminished at the same rate.
As the tree grew up and out it lifted the earth like a sheet,
Creating a steep incline.
I stood at the base when the first fruit fell.
At first I collected the fallen spawn,
Initially into barrels and then, ultimately, into the silo,
But, soon, could not continue under the strain of the accumulation.
Eventually, I relented, slowly tasting the nectar of the sweet fruits.
Hit violently with the strange fructose and flavour,
I instantly recognized the renewal of my lust.
I ran to the silo, retrieving the stored disciples,
Immediately sprinkling the field with the seeds of my passion.
Now I peer upwards, standing below a great acreage of mangroves,
Savouring each taste of my fruit, each sample of my lust.
Those same hallowed groves, which then sated my lust,
Now churned up in swift, deft curls of
Dull, gray ash spouting from the dying embers.
The pungent memory of the citrus clung to the air.
The burning glow of the exposed roots, ablaze,
Crackling and coiling, replaced the subtle, blank
Horizon which had failed to penetrate my vision.
I wallowed among the furrows,
As the wind slowly took them from me,
Flattening the land once more.
I salted the earth. Nothing would grow again.
Walking across the expanse, kicking up dust from my heels,
A brief, green stem and a lone infant leaf caught my eye,
Jutting from the dehydrated land.
I attempted to tear the invading weed from its roots.
I could not summon the strength to dispatch my foe.
Each day, as I returned to this struggle,
My enemy had advanced further towards the sky,
While digging its talons deeper into the soil.
I brought tools, used flames and employed machinery,
But could not quell the growth of the intruder.
The mast of the great beast doubled its diameter daily,
As my will to resist diminished at the same rate.
As the tree grew up and out it lifted the earth like a sheet,
Creating a steep incline.
I stood at the base when the first fruit fell.
At first I collected the fallen spawn,
Initially into barrels and then, ultimately, into the silo,
But, soon, could not continue under the strain of the accumulation.
Eventually, I relented, slowly tasting the nectar of the sweet fruits.
Hit violently with the strange fructose and flavour,
I instantly recognized the renewal of my lust.
I ran to the silo, retrieving the stored disciples,
Immediately sprinkling the field with the seeds of my passion.
Now I peer upwards, standing below a great acreage of mangroves,
Savouring each taste of my fruit, each sample of my lust.
A Diagnosis
I want you to understand:
I offer no phrasal hieroglyphs
But, only a transfer of experience,
Delivered in pressurized words,
Warped further by your joys and terrors.
Success comes in the resonance of syllables
Like a portrait, painted on the skull’s liner,
Still there after the gaze.
My pages will burn beyond the dissectors.
I bend the fleeting lust of my decrepit mind
To form the vacuum of images,
Trapping words and holding time
In a catalogue of echoes.
I offer no phrasal hieroglyphs
But, only a transfer of experience,
Delivered in pressurized words,
Warped further by your joys and terrors.
Success comes in the resonance of syllables
Like a portrait, painted on the skull’s liner,
Still there after the gaze.
My pages will burn beyond the dissectors.
I bend the fleeting lust of my decrepit mind
To form the vacuum of images,
Trapping words and holding time
In a catalogue of echoes.
Photograph of Daniel Stearne
The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.
-Ezra Pound “In a Station of the Metro”
I saw her silhouette in the kitchen through the gaps in the lattice of the deck. The sun gave her figure the shadowy outline and the wind shook a nearby maple distorting the image like an old, dusty film. As I snapped twigs between my fingers, I strained, squinting my eyes, hoping to defeat the solar glare, but could not. She made quick, sure movements, disappearing and then reappearing in the window’s frame. Suddenly, she stopped. Advancing on the glass, her profile seemed to notice me and I felt the hidden eyes upon mine. An audible gust of wind pushed the branches of the maple against the light—briefly-- and our gazes met. In that flash, I caught a glimpse of her tired eyes before she quickly glanced away from my penetrating stare. As quick as it had come, the wind died. My only thought: “How could something that began so riotous, die so complacently in a whimper?” As my eyes adjusted to the returning sunshine showering the glass, I snapped a large branch and saw the blank canvas where her silhouette once absorbed the light. I could not shake the notion that I would feel the residue and sap from the bark upon my hands and see the image of the empty window until my bones returned to the dust.
Petals on a wet, black bough.
-Ezra Pound “In a Station of the Metro”
I saw her silhouette in the kitchen through the gaps in the lattice of the deck. The sun gave her figure the shadowy outline and the wind shook a nearby maple distorting the image like an old, dusty film. As I snapped twigs between my fingers, I strained, squinting my eyes, hoping to defeat the solar glare, but could not. She made quick, sure movements, disappearing and then reappearing in the window’s frame. Suddenly, she stopped. Advancing on the glass, her profile seemed to notice me and I felt the hidden eyes upon mine. An audible gust of wind pushed the branches of the maple against the light—briefly-- and our gazes met. In that flash, I caught a glimpse of her tired eyes before she quickly glanced away from my penetrating stare. As quick as it had come, the wind died. My only thought: “How could something that began so riotous, die so complacently in a whimper?” As my eyes adjusted to the returning sunshine showering the glass, I snapped a large branch and saw the blank canvas where her silhouette once absorbed the light. I could not shake the notion that I would feel the residue and sap from the bark upon my hands and see the image of the empty window until my bones returned to the dust.
New Zealand Story
The Te Anau Cathedral
I heard him wake with a groan. I feigned sleep and ignored his raspy lamentations. We had arrived the prior evening in Te Anau and after finding ours beds immediately found a local pub and procured a dangerous amount of alcohol. Passing around bourbon as if we sat on a Tennessee porch, the night quickly got away from us. Around midnight we met a few British chaps and the four of us exchanged shots until the lights came on in the pub. We returned to the hostel where a bottle of rum made a sudden appearance, only to rapidly evaporate in the heat of the celebrations. I met a girl from Brooklyn and discussed Russian Literature, a topic in which the depth of my knowledge failed miserably to impress. She left shortly after introducing herself. I returned to the rum and the revelry. We all rejoiced until the bottle could spill no more. At some point we returned to our beds and relented to the alcohol and the night. Now, I lay atop my bunk this morning, completely nude, with no blankets or sheets, in our twelve bed dorm room.
“Fuck, what time is it?” he asked, revealing that my clever ruse of simulating sleep did not convince him.
“4…4:50…I think,” I replied, peering at my watch through crusty eyes, while covering my glory with my left hand.
“Wow, we slept through the whole day. What time does our boat leave?”
“6, I think. We better get our asses in gear…Where are my sheets?”
He peered over and saw my current state of barrenness. He did not look pleased. “I have one king hell of a hang over, mind putting your cock away. Much appreciated.”
I stood and dug around the bed looking for my jeans. I found them and jostled them up over my hips, being mindful not to fall from the edge of my upper bunk. Rummaging through the pockets, I found my wallet and passport ensuring that these were. in fact, my pants. I jumped down from the bed and immediately noticed the weakness in my knees.
“My legs feel like paperweights,” I said. “Does bourbon erode calcium deposits in bones? Cause I don’t think my knees can support my frame right now.” I anchored myself on the bedpost and performed slow, steady squats in an attempt to strengthen my feeble legs.
“You look like an asshole,” he replied, laughing. Then suddenly averting his eyes from me: “Your fly is down. Do you like the dewy air down there or something? Tuck it away, buddy.”
I adjusted myself and zipped up. I looked down then and noticed that I had one sock on, something I did not notice earlier. Diving into my bag, I found another sock and attempted to put it on my left foot. As I did, I lost my balance and fell onto a chair situated in the corner. He laughed from his bunk. I pulled myself up from my seat, my legs creaking under the weight and solemnly looked up at him: “We’re in shambles.”
“Yes. Yes, we are,” he stoically replied.
“Well, let’s try to stomach something before we get on the boat.”
“I don’t even want to go now. This hang over has talons.”
“Suck it up, let’s go.” He rolled his eyes and jumped down.
* * *
We got on the boat just as the sun descended behind the lake, which had the desirous effect of limiting the light entering our swollen skulls. About fifteen other patrons were taking the boat to the caves. We usually hated tours, but the glow worm caves had been restricted solely to the one tour group, so we could not have travelled there by ourselves. At least with so few passengers we could maintain a relatively quit atmosphere, I thought to myself as, little to my knowledge, about fifty Asian tourists made their way down the docks to the ferry.
They lumbered onto the ship in a steady, single file line that did not seem to end. They all sat in the middle of the ferry, chatting quietly and smiling, really looking ready for an adventure; the polar opposite of our demeanours. A young girl, one of the tour guides, approached the large group and asked if they would like a Chinese program for the tour. A middle aged Asian man waved to her to come closer. She leaned in. He shook his head and waved for her to come closer still. She leaned ever closer. Again, he refused to speak and summoned her until her ear almost pressed against his lips. She slouched over him apprehensively as he slowly turned his head and at the top of his lungs yelled directly into her ear: “TAIWANESE...” followed by a whispered “…not Chinese.” The large group all shared a hearty laugh and we joined in with them. The yelling man noticed our glee and gave us a pair of quaint thumbs up in our direction. We returned the gesture and soon the entire boat joined in a menagerie of erected thumbs.
The boat took forty minutes to arrive on the island which housed the caves. I caught myself napping briefly on a few occasions. I did not look forward to spelunking through the caves. I wanted to stay on the boat until this infernal hang over had exhausted itself and fled my system. Thoughts of my bed back at the hostel began to fill my head. I just had to get through this three hour tour and then I could sleep for two days, after finding my sheets of course. Ignoring any possibility of adventure, I set my head back against my seat, closed my eyes, and waited for the boat to dock.
* * *
By the time we reached the mouth of the cave, night had overtaken the day. I could hear the water as it roared through the interior of the cave. Our tour guide explained that photographs would not be allowed as exposure to light instantly killed the delicate glow worms. For the next half hour we meandered through the cave, unable to hear anything due to the raging underground river flying past us. The cave had been laid out with steel platforms, which facilitated our journey. We stopped briefly a few times, so our guide could explain some of the geological anomalies found in the caves. Interestingly enough, until 1948 when they were rediscovered, these caves had been restricted to Maori legends. Since their revival, the caves had become a location for extensive study due to their extremely rare nature.
As we ascended a metal staircase and walked down a narrow alley of stone, the sound of rushing water began to dissipate into the distance. An eerie quiet began to take hold of our environment. We reached the end of the steel platforms and our tour guide turned around, revealing a small boat, which held ten people, sitting in the still water of the narrow passage.
“We will now be entering the part of the caves that holds the glow worms themselves,” she explained. “There will be absolutely no light in this area so keep your hands inside the boat at all times. I also must ask that you remain completely silent because sounds can travel and echo rapidly in the caverns, which can harm the worms. If there isn’t any questions…Ok, everyone climb in and enjoy the worms.”
I allowed everyone to settle into their seats and then took the last remaining spot at the front of the boat. The guide pulled on a rope that would steer us through the caverns. The light started to disappear and as darkness took over, little spots of neon green began to appear to the left and right of the boat. Judging by the luminosity of the spots, we could not have been more than two feet away from the cave walls on both sides. My hung over still dug into my psyche. The bright, neon green worms intrigued me, but I sat fixed, dreaming about my bed back in Te Anau. Suddenly, the green dots vanished and total darkness returned. I could feel the boat turning slowly. The man next to me let out a brief, but audible gasp. I determined that he had been looking straight up because the sound came from above me. Glancing up I saw the source of his astonishment. As the boat turned, thousands of neon green points began revealing themselves, scattering around the caverns. I marvelled for the next ten minutes at the majesty of this room. I felt like being on some bizarre planet where the night sky above glimmered in this eerie green glow.
The boat completed its turn and now I found myself seated at the back. We slowly began to exit the cavern. I looked back and the expanse of the cave revealed itself. The ceiling looked like it could be anywhere from five hundred to a thousand feet high with millions of tiny, specks of green light emanating from its rugged surface. I could only compare it to a great cavernous cathedral, but all the more magnificent because it had nothing to do with God. I ignored my whiskey sickness and lost myself in the moment of that beauty. I immediately recognized that this portrait of natural perfection in front of me would be one of those rare images that never leave you. We returned to the narrow passageway near the boat launch. Being at the end of the boat, I had the pleasure to watch the glow worms slowly blink out of view until I heard the distant sound of running water.
On the ride back to Te Anau, we ascended to the top of the ferry where we could see the stars. I had never seen the night sky in the southern hemisphere and immediately noticed the Southern Cross. Covered in absolute darkness, Lake Te Anau acted as a perfect star gazing location. We could see thousands of glowing orbs, making out the basic shape of the Milky Way. As I looked at the white, twinkling light of those distant suns I could not help but wish they possessed a more vibrant hue to their glow.
I heard him wake with a groan. I feigned sleep and ignored his raspy lamentations. We had arrived the prior evening in Te Anau and after finding ours beds immediately found a local pub and procured a dangerous amount of alcohol. Passing around bourbon as if we sat on a Tennessee porch, the night quickly got away from us. Around midnight we met a few British chaps and the four of us exchanged shots until the lights came on in the pub. We returned to the hostel where a bottle of rum made a sudden appearance, only to rapidly evaporate in the heat of the celebrations. I met a girl from Brooklyn and discussed Russian Literature, a topic in which the depth of my knowledge failed miserably to impress. She left shortly after introducing herself. I returned to the rum and the revelry. We all rejoiced until the bottle could spill no more. At some point we returned to our beds and relented to the alcohol and the night. Now, I lay atop my bunk this morning, completely nude, with no blankets or sheets, in our twelve bed dorm room.
“Fuck, what time is it?” he asked, revealing that my clever ruse of simulating sleep did not convince him.
“4…4:50…I think,” I replied, peering at my watch through crusty eyes, while covering my glory with my left hand.
“Wow, we slept through the whole day. What time does our boat leave?”
“6, I think. We better get our asses in gear…Where are my sheets?”
He peered over and saw my current state of barrenness. He did not look pleased. “I have one king hell of a hang over, mind putting your cock away. Much appreciated.”
I stood and dug around the bed looking for my jeans. I found them and jostled them up over my hips, being mindful not to fall from the edge of my upper bunk. Rummaging through the pockets, I found my wallet and passport ensuring that these were. in fact, my pants. I jumped down from the bed and immediately noticed the weakness in my knees.
“My legs feel like paperweights,” I said. “Does bourbon erode calcium deposits in bones? Cause I don’t think my knees can support my frame right now.” I anchored myself on the bedpost and performed slow, steady squats in an attempt to strengthen my feeble legs.
“You look like an asshole,” he replied, laughing. Then suddenly averting his eyes from me: “Your fly is down. Do you like the dewy air down there or something? Tuck it away, buddy.”
I adjusted myself and zipped up. I looked down then and noticed that I had one sock on, something I did not notice earlier. Diving into my bag, I found another sock and attempted to put it on my left foot. As I did, I lost my balance and fell onto a chair situated in the corner. He laughed from his bunk. I pulled myself up from my seat, my legs creaking under the weight and solemnly looked up at him: “We’re in shambles.”
“Yes. Yes, we are,” he stoically replied.
“Well, let’s try to stomach something before we get on the boat.”
“I don’t even want to go now. This hang over has talons.”
“Suck it up, let’s go.” He rolled his eyes and jumped down.
* * *
We got on the boat just as the sun descended behind the lake, which had the desirous effect of limiting the light entering our swollen skulls. About fifteen other patrons were taking the boat to the caves. We usually hated tours, but the glow worm caves had been restricted solely to the one tour group, so we could not have travelled there by ourselves. At least with so few passengers we could maintain a relatively quit atmosphere, I thought to myself as, little to my knowledge, about fifty Asian tourists made their way down the docks to the ferry.
They lumbered onto the ship in a steady, single file line that did not seem to end. They all sat in the middle of the ferry, chatting quietly and smiling, really looking ready for an adventure; the polar opposite of our demeanours. A young girl, one of the tour guides, approached the large group and asked if they would like a Chinese program for the tour. A middle aged Asian man waved to her to come closer. She leaned in. He shook his head and waved for her to come closer still. She leaned ever closer. Again, he refused to speak and summoned her until her ear almost pressed against his lips. She slouched over him apprehensively as he slowly turned his head and at the top of his lungs yelled directly into her ear: “TAIWANESE...” followed by a whispered “…not Chinese.” The large group all shared a hearty laugh and we joined in with them. The yelling man noticed our glee and gave us a pair of quaint thumbs up in our direction. We returned the gesture and soon the entire boat joined in a menagerie of erected thumbs.
The boat took forty minutes to arrive on the island which housed the caves. I caught myself napping briefly on a few occasions. I did not look forward to spelunking through the caves. I wanted to stay on the boat until this infernal hang over had exhausted itself and fled my system. Thoughts of my bed back at the hostel began to fill my head. I just had to get through this three hour tour and then I could sleep for two days, after finding my sheets of course. Ignoring any possibility of adventure, I set my head back against my seat, closed my eyes, and waited for the boat to dock.
* * *
By the time we reached the mouth of the cave, night had overtaken the day. I could hear the water as it roared through the interior of the cave. Our tour guide explained that photographs would not be allowed as exposure to light instantly killed the delicate glow worms. For the next half hour we meandered through the cave, unable to hear anything due to the raging underground river flying past us. The cave had been laid out with steel platforms, which facilitated our journey. We stopped briefly a few times, so our guide could explain some of the geological anomalies found in the caves. Interestingly enough, until 1948 when they were rediscovered, these caves had been restricted to Maori legends. Since their revival, the caves had become a location for extensive study due to their extremely rare nature.
As we ascended a metal staircase and walked down a narrow alley of stone, the sound of rushing water began to dissipate into the distance. An eerie quiet began to take hold of our environment. We reached the end of the steel platforms and our tour guide turned around, revealing a small boat, which held ten people, sitting in the still water of the narrow passage.
“We will now be entering the part of the caves that holds the glow worms themselves,” she explained. “There will be absolutely no light in this area so keep your hands inside the boat at all times. I also must ask that you remain completely silent because sounds can travel and echo rapidly in the caverns, which can harm the worms. If there isn’t any questions…Ok, everyone climb in and enjoy the worms.”
I allowed everyone to settle into their seats and then took the last remaining spot at the front of the boat. The guide pulled on a rope that would steer us through the caverns. The light started to disappear and as darkness took over, little spots of neon green began to appear to the left and right of the boat. Judging by the luminosity of the spots, we could not have been more than two feet away from the cave walls on both sides. My hung over still dug into my psyche. The bright, neon green worms intrigued me, but I sat fixed, dreaming about my bed back in Te Anau. Suddenly, the green dots vanished and total darkness returned. I could feel the boat turning slowly. The man next to me let out a brief, but audible gasp. I determined that he had been looking straight up because the sound came from above me. Glancing up I saw the source of his astonishment. As the boat turned, thousands of neon green points began revealing themselves, scattering around the caverns. I marvelled for the next ten minutes at the majesty of this room. I felt like being on some bizarre planet where the night sky above glimmered in this eerie green glow.
The boat completed its turn and now I found myself seated at the back. We slowly began to exit the cavern. I looked back and the expanse of the cave revealed itself. The ceiling looked like it could be anywhere from five hundred to a thousand feet high with millions of tiny, specks of green light emanating from its rugged surface. I could only compare it to a great cavernous cathedral, but all the more magnificent because it had nothing to do with God. I ignored my whiskey sickness and lost myself in the moment of that beauty. I immediately recognized that this portrait of natural perfection in front of me would be one of those rare images that never leave you. We returned to the narrow passageway near the boat launch. Being at the end of the boat, I had the pleasure to watch the glow worms slowly blink out of view until I heard the distant sound of running water.
On the ride back to Te Anau, we ascended to the top of the ferry where we could see the stars. I had never seen the night sky in the southern hemisphere and immediately noticed the Southern Cross. Covered in absolute darkness, Lake Te Anau acted as a perfect star gazing location. We could see thousands of glowing orbs, making out the basic shape of the Milky Way. As I looked at the white, twinkling light of those distant suns I could not help but wish they possessed a more vibrant hue to their glow.
Poem to Inspire
Protest Poem Meant to Inspire Humanity
Of the some 200 billion stars in the Milky Way Galaxy,
An estimated 6 billion are thought to have solar systems;
Perhaps, one for every human being on earth?
That’s 6 billion suns with planets, moons, comets, asteroids,
Gases, dust and debris spinning around them.
Of these countless worlds
Only one is known to harbour life.
Of the some 200 billion stars in the Milky Way Galaxy,
An estimated 6 billion are thought to have solar systems;
Perhaps, one for every human being on earth?
That’s 6 billion suns with planets, moons, comets, asteroids,
Gases, dust and debris spinning around them.
Of these countless worlds
Only one is known to harbour life.
Helsinki
I stumbled through the snow, down Mannerheimintie,
Past the Rautatieasema rail station, hobbling through the snow,
On two badly injured knees, reaching the line up
For the Picasso exhibit at the Ateneumin Taidemuseo.
I had just arrived in Helsinki that morning:
A ten hour journey on little sleep and an extensive hangover.
I waited in line, accepting the cold and ignoring the pain in my legs.
Once inside, I paid the admission and meandered through the rooms.
Picasso once said: ”Give me a museum, and I’ll fill it.”
He didn’t lie. The gallery had his paintings, sculputres and even some sketches.
I spent an hour canvassing the rooms and taking in the mastery.
I understood little about the art, but enjoyed myself nonetheless.
I branched off and found the Finnish wing of the gallery:
The real reason I had come.
A lot of landscapes, but also many bleak portraits.
There’s a sadness here, but a beauty too.
I entered a room in the north end of the building.
A large canvas, perhaps six feet by six feet, engulfed a wall:
Berndt Lindholm’s ”The Forest.”
I stood for twenty minutes, perhaps, totally overcome with its majesty.
The painting depicted a regular forest scene: rotted logs, titanic roots,
Scattered mosses, and general debris strewn throughout.
The attention to detail overwhelmed me.
The art slowly pulled me from the gallery as I stood transfixed, lost:
A satori in Helsinki.
A small tour group entered the room and my trance evaporated
As suddenly as it had come.
I carried on through the gallery thinking only of Lindholm’s work.
His art proved to me that man could play God in this curious world.
I walked onward, lost in the splendours that only beauty invokes.
Then, in the last room, the whole charade fell apart and the world returned.
I saw it in the corner, a small frame, feigning innocence:
Eero Järnefelt’s “The Wage Slaves.”
It portrayed a slash and burn agricultural approach used by the Forest Finns,
A clan of people who wandered from Finland to Sweden and Norway
Taking the forest down with them as they went.
A young girl stands in the middle of the image,
Her face, black with soot, attracts the viewers gaze
As the devastation behind her is translated by her eyes.
I grabbed my jacket and toque from the coat check
And left the gallery, thinking only of
The ways in which man can be God in this curious world.
Past the Rautatieasema rail station, hobbling through the snow,
On two badly injured knees, reaching the line up
For the Picasso exhibit at the Ateneumin Taidemuseo.
I had just arrived in Helsinki that morning:
A ten hour journey on little sleep and an extensive hangover.
I waited in line, accepting the cold and ignoring the pain in my legs.
Once inside, I paid the admission and meandered through the rooms.
Picasso once said: ”Give me a museum, and I’ll fill it.”
He didn’t lie. The gallery had his paintings, sculputres and even some sketches.
I spent an hour canvassing the rooms and taking in the mastery.
I understood little about the art, but enjoyed myself nonetheless.
I branched off and found the Finnish wing of the gallery:
The real reason I had come.
A lot of landscapes, but also many bleak portraits.
There’s a sadness here, but a beauty too.
I entered a room in the north end of the building.
A large canvas, perhaps six feet by six feet, engulfed a wall:
Berndt Lindholm’s ”The Forest.”
I stood for twenty minutes, perhaps, totally overcome with its majesty.
The painting depicted a regular forest scene: rotted logs, titanic roots,
Scattered mosses, and general debris strewn throughout.
The attention to detail overwhelmed me.
The art slowly pulled me from the gallery as I stood transfixed, lost:
A satori in Helsinki.
A small tour group entered the room and my trance evaporated
As suddenly as it had come.
I carried on through the gallery thinking only of Lindholm’s work.
His art proved to me that man could play God in this curious world.
I walked onward, lost in the splendours that only beauty invokes.
Then, in the last room, the whole charade fell apart and the world returned.
I saw it in the corner, a small frame, feigning innocence:
Eero Järnefelt’s “The Wage Slaves.”
It portrayed a slash and burn agricultural approach used by the Forest Finns,
A clan of people who wandered from Finland to Sweden and Norway
Taking the forest down with them as they went.
A young girl stands in the middle of the image,
Her face, black with soot, attracts the viewers gaze
As the devastation behind her is translated by her eyes.
I grabbed my jacket and toque from the coat check
And left the gallery, thinking only of
The ways in which man can be God in this curious world.
On Writing
A Death in the Birth of an Artist
Back in summer, with that illusion of promise,
We sat under the elm watching the bark die.
You flicked spiders from your dress,
I laughed at the fear as you hit my arm.
The world had not been invented yet
And we were alone.
Now: Thrust upon the terra, in shoes too small,
I sit and watch the city pulse from the balcony.
An Italian woman and a pint of red beer.
The whisky glows beneath the strobes.
She spoke of guilt and penance,
Still, she must sigh when he enters.
When February spoke I fled to Manhattan.
Her scent lingered, built a hunger:
I almost starved on 45th and 7th.
Drank away the nights in Irish Pubs,
Dancing with Portuguese waitresses,
Learning the trick from an Italian,
Digesting the loss as best I could.
I came home to nothing waiting.
The charity of my work had ceased.
I had reached Sam’s obligation much too early.
My inheritance now consists of four bare walls,
A table, a notebook, a pen, and a lifetime.
Every page has another and every notebook a friend.
“Once, if memory serves me well, my life was a banquet where
Every heart revealed itself, where every wine flowed,”
But now I see all the images and experiences
Ripe for my translating and dissection.
For now I understand solitude and sight.
My life belongs to the forsaken images and
Forgotten reverie of the dried out pens of history:
To those withering ideas born from that old obligation.
Back in summer, with that illusion of promise,
We sat under the elm watching the bark die.
You flicked spiders from your dress,
I laughed at the fear as you hit my arm.
The world had not been invented yet
And we were alone.
Now: Thrust upon the terra, in shoes too small,
I sit and watch the city pulse from the balcony.
An Italian woman and a pint of red beer.
The whisky glows beneath the strobes.
She spoke of guilt and penance,
Still, she must sigh when he enters.
When February spoke I fled to Manhattan.
Her scent lingered, built a hunger:
I almost starved on 45th and 7th.
Drank away the nights in Irish Pubs,
Dancing with Portuguese waitresses,
Learning the trick from an Italian,
Digesting the loss as best I could.
I came home to nothing waiting.
The charity of my work had ceased.
I had reached Sam’s obligation much too early.
My inheritance now consists of four bare walls,
A table, a notebook, a pen, and a lifetime.
Every page has another and every notebook a friend.
“Once, if memory serves me well, my life was a banquet where
Every heart revealed itself, where every wine flowed,”
But now I see all the images and experiences
Ripe for my translating and dissection.
For now I understand solitude and sight.
My life belongs to the forsaken images and
Forgotten reverie of the dried out pens of history:
To those withering ideas born from that old obligation.
To the Muse
On the Birth of a Muse
I call her a flower;
I convert her to brush strokes;
I compare her influence to the immensity of the cosmos;
I crave her flesh and crumble at the sight of her eyes;
I cultivate thoughts of walking her through a forgotten Montreal;
I collect moments we have shared in my mind and relive them;
I craft her iridescent features into words the best I can;
I chose, initially, to ignore her, but ultimately failed;
I conceded to that which I could not defeat; and now,
I conceal her from the world: No one sees her as I do.
All of this, all of the metaphors, all of the similes,
Employed for one simple reason:
I cannot write her.
She has become the inexpressible,
The unnameable, the indefinable,
And if I swam through a lifetime of words
I could only fail to clone her to the page.
But she remains, channeling my pen from across the globe:
Poets are destined to chase their muses ad infinitum.
I call her a flower;
I convert her to brush strokes;
I compare her influence to the immensity of the cosmos;
I crave her flesh and crumble at the sight of her eyes;
I cultivate thoughts of walking her through a forgotten Montreal;
I collect moments we have shared in my mind and relive them;
I craft her iridescent features into words the best I can;
I chose, initially, to ignore her, but ultimately failed;
I conceded to that which I could not defeat; and now,
I conceal her from the world: No one sees her as I do.
All of this, all of the metaphors, all of the similes,
Employed for one simple reason:
I cannot write her.
She has become the inexpressible,
The unnameable, the indefinable,
And if I swam through a lifetime of words
I could only fail to clone her to the page.
But she remains, channeling my pen from across the globe:
Poets are destined to chase their muses ad infinitum.
Dedication to William Butler Yeats
Letter to W.B. Yeats
I once had an autumn vision:
Woke to your pen,
The bearer of this damnable desire,
Whilst sailing towards
The artifice of eternal Byzantium;
Lost my Maud, or Leda, or Helen, or Deirdre,
(Wherever history has placed her)
To the Rhône where she jogs at dawn
While I stumble beneath the glow of streetlamps;
Have not your rolling hills,
But fabricate their mist
From the rhythm of your verse
And transcend time to greet them;
Dreamt of Coole Park,
The timid, retreating turloughs,
The engravings on the garden wall,
And the flight of its wingéd marvels;
Fled from hallowed time
To watch my skin stretch,
As once your age echoed
Off the stone of Thoor Ballylee;
Born to no revolution,
Only the decay that yellows pages,
And now am heir to the woe,
The solitude that accompanies
This pinch of Irish blood.
I once had an autumn vision:
Woke to your pen,
The bearer of this damnable desire,
Whilst sailing towards
The artifice of eternal Byzantium;
Lost my Maud, or Leda, or Helen, or Deirdre,
(Wherever history has placed her)
To the Rhône where she jogs at dawn
While I stumble beneath the glow of streetlamps;
Have not your rolling hills,
But fabricate their mist
From the rhythm of your verse
And transcend time to greet them;
Dreamt of Coole Park,
The timid, retreating turloughs,
The engravings on the garden wall,
And the flight of its wingéd marvels;
Fled from hallowed time
To watch my skin stretch,
As once your age echoed
Off the stone of Thoor Ballylee;
Born to no revolution,
Only the decay that yellows pages,
And now am heir to the woe,
The solitude that accompanies
This pinch of Irish blood.
Poem Based on Beckett's Malone Dies
Malone Still in the Bed
Malone,
I am far too young for the tedium.
Awake the night through,
Always at play,
Forever at play,
Losing my playmates
To the dawn and the new sight.
Their stories never finish.
They incessantly vanish.
Like you Malone.
Your words drip from the final page,
Dying with indifference.
Each night, Malone, I vanish into play,
Build these companions,
Make them dance,
And lose them to the chimes.
Malone, I must escape the tedium,
Forget, return to dreams only,
Watch and act among the rested
And ignore the plague that haunts us both.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)