Redwood Tanka
new shoots from old roots
deep in the cedar forest
I’m birthing clichés
surrounded by the slowness
the ancient ticking of time.
Brendan, over at earthweal, asks us to write about “slowness”.
Redwood Tanka
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Tag Archives: Photography
Walt Whitman Finds Inspiration In His Cutlery Drawer
Walt Whitman Finds Inspiration In His Cutlery Drawer
Good tines
bad tines
a tine for every purpose under heaven
no, that’s not it
let the good tines roll
no, that’s not it
a penny for your forks
no that’s not it
a shaft of evening sun light
strikes a tarnished spoon
and flares in Walt’s left eye
he sees a road
he sees a fork
he sees a fork in the road
that’s it, he exclaims,
that’s it……
I should really get rid of that spoon.
Taking part in Open Link over at dverse
Ironic Distancing (with bonus haiku)…redux.
Ironic Distancing
The mind wanders
I think of a word that rhymes with ‘banker’
and marvel at how
in the middle of a global crisis
my brain still tilts
towards the trivial, the juvenile.
I try a sound poem
panic, pandemic, pandemonium
but it’s missing something,
panache, perhaps.
I make up a joke involving Peter Pan
but decide now is not the time to share it.
I detect the late onset of maturity
and feel depressed.
I text some friends,
we try to out-snide each other
but after a while
we are all chewing on the same bone.
I’m besieged by an idiocy of idioms –
the whole nine yards
the whole kit and caboodle
and that’s only the tip of the iceberg.
I re-assess my relationship with surfaces
I can no longer count on
that counter to lean on,
and as someone inclined
to whistle past the graveyard
walk past the writing on the wall
I have to admit
that the object in the mirror
was a lot closer
than it first appeared.
I write a haiku
four in the morning
moon shining on toilet bowl
porcelain pathway.
Eat your heart out! Basho!
Victoria over at dverse asks us to write a soliloquy incorporating one or more poetic devices, this one is heavy on alliteration with a bit of internal rhyme. It was previously published here, mid- pandemic last year.
To All You Haiku Masters (Slimverse – The Journey, Episode 4)
(Episode 3 is here)
To All You Haiku Masters
it’s time to
discuss the
effable
in the room.
Back in the time before the time, the Poets’ Circle would hold a meeting every April to honor TS Eliot, the theme was always the same, “April just got crueler”. No alcohol was served.
The last meeting, before the pandemic, took place at the house of The Accomplished Poet in West Point Grey. His wife, Cheryl served her asparagus quiche, by far the highlight of the evening.
At the invitation of The Accomplished Poet, The Academic Poet read his 40 verse poem about the Canadian Constitution and afterwards spoke for an hour about the making of the poem and his creative process. He wore, as always, a Mountain Equipment Co-Op black fleece vest, a pale blue button down shirt, a pair of Khaki pants with more pockets than any normal human being could use, and a pair of Merrill hiking shoes.
His creative process? He, apparently, decided at the outset on a six line verse with an ABABCC rhyming scheme and added the restriction that he would only use rhymes that had never been used before in an English language poem, a daunting task, as you can imagine. However, being a professor of literature at a local university, he had his resources and with the help of a few grants, he had a group of his students devise a computer program that would check all his rhymes for originality. This involved compiling a data bank of all the rhymes in English Literature, a process that took ten years and an ever changing band of students. In the end meaning and clarity had to take a back seat and the resulting poem turned out to be a real head scratcher, a masterpiece of obfuscation delivered in a dry monotone.
Did I mention that there was no alcohol at the event?
Slim and I got out of there as fast as we could and headed for The Post-Coital Beetle. Being April, both the hockey season and the European soccer competitions were reaching their climax, so the Beetle was crowded and raucous. All the screens were on and everyone was eager to take in the final stretch before the boredom and blandness of summer sports.
Slim and I got a booth in the corner, ordered a plate of nachos and a pitcher of Blue Buck Ale and settled in. It was hot in the room, and Slim’s bald head was shining, he took off his jacket to reveal a white tee shirt with the following message on the front:
U is at?
Is u at?
At issue?
Is it u?
The third and fourth lines of the message were on a different plane because of Slim’s stomach which is about the size of a regulation soccer ball. So the effect was almost cubist, images stealthily approaching the eye.
“Slimverse at its minimalist best”, I say to Slim, “what a relief!”
We both grin smugly and wax snide at The Academic Poet’s expense. The evening stretches before us like a drunk laid out on a pavement. Two pitchers in, our syllable count rises and we compose this haiku about the real estate bubble in Vancouver. The bubble is always either forming or bursting.
white Lexus on lease
new suit, shoes, two day stubble
bubble? What bubble?
Then cut free from the 12 syllable bonds of slimverse we write another:
cherry blossoms bloom
well-dressed ladies from Beijing
pose with hand on hip
The bar erupts, a goal has been scored. Is it hockey? Is it soccer? Slim and I don’t care, we are gorging on syllables. We expectorate another haiku
cherry blossoms bloom
the air is sticky with greed
houses, for sale, sold.
We pause. The nachos are gone, except for a few crumbs. The remains of the guacamole are slowly oxidizing in the bowl. The second pitcher is all but drained. In the hockey game, the goalie has been pulled. We manage a final push and the last haiku comes out screaming.
cherry blossoms bloom
the wrecking ball’s lazy swing
petals, debris, spring.
Then nothing, a guilty silence, the feeling that we had betrayed our mission, that the future of slimverse was threatened, in doubt. We drain our glasses, get up and head out into the spring night. I walk to the bus stop for the 99 express heading west. Slim walks to the bus stop for the 99 express heading east. It will be a number of months before we meet again.
Taking part in Open Link over at dverse
Jericho Beach Park (mid-August)
Jericho Beach Park (mid-August)
Dried out cylinders
of Canada goose shit
dot the blond grass
like discarded cigarillos
sailboats scud across ruffled water
gulls engage in glaucous caucus
(Ok, that was a bit much)
and the sand, the sand is busy
stowing away in pockets,
shoes, swimming trunks, ear drums
boldly going
where no sand has gone before
and still the pandemic lingers
like that unwanted house guest
you thought had left
but no, no, no, there he is
drunk, snoring and flatulent
stretched out on your basement floor.
Taking part in Open Link Weekend over at earthweal
Todd and the Time Machine Part 2 (redux)
Part 1 can be found here.
Todd and the Time Machine Part 2
Todd’s basement materialises
he sees the dark wood veneer panelling,
that tartan colonial sofa his uncle gave him,
the dark patch where his uncle rested his head
still glistening from the oil slick of his uncle’s hair,
in the corner, his wife is playing with an electrical cord.
“Don’t pull the cord, I’m not fully back yet!” Todd screams.
His wife’s voice comes back
a little garbled by the time lag
“I hope you’re going to clean up that damn dust this time”.
Todd returns to the present,
presents himself and sneezes into his sleeve
leaving a black smear on his plaid Mark’s Work Warehouse shirt.
Unknown ramifications
unforeseen outcomes,
that 21st century air
trapped in the time capsule
drops to a lower carbon dioxide concentration
as the capsule travels back in time
the surplus carbon dioxide
reverts to the original carbon
forming a black dust
which coats the inside of the capsule;
thing is, it’s a one way process
no one knows why
“You look like shit”, his wife says
“You look time-wasted, you look timed out,
what happened to your hair?”
Unknown ramifications
unforeseen outcomes
time travel messes with your hair
alters your DNA
deletes your vaccinations
the dangers of rushing a technology to market
too soon.
Todd’s wife grins
“I wasn’t really going to pull the cord”,
she hugs him, grinding slowly
“What did you bring back for me, this time?”
The prompt from Laura over at dverse is:
“conjure an imaginary house of any size, any place, any age
fill it with an imaginary person/people past or present, or ghosts, or leave it empty with its history
make it literal but move into the metaphorical if you wish”
Thought I’d give this poem another outing.
Gibson’s Landing (Summer 2021)
Gibson’s Landing (Summer 2021)
the bark of broken mufflers
pickup trucks idle
at the Starbuck’s drive through
air con running
a gang of bikers
middle-aged and leather clad
roar up the coastal highway
it’s been a long hot summer
fun fun fun
in the pandemic pause
(is this the real life
is this just fantasy?)
and yes, it’s hot
but it’s a guilty heat
and there’s the nagging feeling
that the future has arrived too early
that science fiction has become fact
smoke from forest fires
silts the lungs of the town
Daddy never did take the T Bird away.
(songs quoted and misquoted in the poem: “Bohemian Rhapsody” by Queen and “Fun! Fun! Fun! by the Beach Boys)
Taking part in Open Link Night over at dverse.
Also taking part in Open Link Weekend over at earthweal.
So Long, Halong (Redux))
So Long, Halong
As we ride out of Cat Ba
through a valley circled
by limestone crags,
a compilation of pop ballads
from the seventies and eighties
oozes from the speakers
and the affable English backpackers
at the back of the bus
groan in faux horror
as Aerosmith follows Bryan Adams
follows George Michaels
follows Michael Jackson
but when the Bee Gees launch
“How Deep Is Your Love”
the backpackers quieten down
and the driver stops honking his horn
at the dogs, children, women
in cone hats and cyclists
with finely balanced cargos
who drift carelessly
in front of the bus
as if it was an invisible
visitor from the future,
and we all strain against
the tug of the song’s chorus
far too cool to sing along
except for one backpacker
let’s call him Nigel
or Christian, or Jason, or Justin
who, in a high piping voice
declares his oneness
with the song’s embattled lovers.
This poem was first published in Oddball Magazine, and is a re-post from 2016.
Rugged Individual in a Cowboy Hat
Rugged Individual in a Cowboy Hat
He weighs about 300 lbs
is wearing a cowboy hat
and an XXXL tee-shirt,
made by an underpaid worker
in a communist country.
This paragon of rugged individualism
this zaftig freedom fighter
this ersatz John Wayne
is telling the interviewer
he doesn’t believe in vaccination passports
because, you know, I mean
it’s a threat to our personal freedom
if we go down that road
what’s next
and I’m thinking
yes there are slopes out there
and yes they are slippery
what next indeed…
driver’s licenses
birth certificates
visas to enter countries
security checks in airports
customs
concealed weapons licenses
but most of all I’m thinking
God help the horse
God help the horse.
Taking part in Open Link Weekend over at earthweal
The Unbearable Lightness of Verse 7
Where’s Jimmy Webb when you need him?
sometimes I wake up
in the middle of the night
and wonder
is the Wichita Lineman
still on the line?
Runcible
Runcible
The other day
I came across the word ‘runcible’
as in ‘runcible spoon’.
The word was invented by Edward Lear
as in ‘The Owl and the Pussycat’.
There is something risible about the word ‘runcible’
as in ‘laughter provoking’
which is different than ‘laughable’,
‘laughable’ has connotations of contempt
as in ‘derisible’ meaning ‘worthy of derision’,
‘derisible’ is almost an anagram of ‘desirable’
but back to ‘runcible’,
there is a great bounce, a great versatility to the word:
he walked out the morning after
humming a runcible tune
he had a runcible air about him
an odour that lingered
long after he had left the room.
the sun rose, red and runcible
in a diffident sky
I once spent the best part of six hour plane journey trying to describe the sunrise. There was no inflight entertainment, I could have used the downloadable app but I couldn’t imagine watching out of date Jason Bateman movies for 6 hours on my phone, so I had picked up a Craig Johnson novel, The Cold Dish, to get me through the flight.
This is the first novel in the Walt Longmire series. Walt is a sheriff in modern day Absaroka County, Wyoming. His wife has been dead 4 years and his life is a bit of a mess but there are various people looking out for him including his best friend, Henry Standing Bear. I know what you are thinking – an American law man with a Native American sidekick!! Anyway Craig Johnson navigates this well enough. There are a number of women in Walt’s life, including his daughter Cady, his dispatcher Ruby, a café owner Dorothy, Vic –his deputy, and Vonnie – a romantic interest. Vonnie is rich, beautiful, and troubled. They are all strong women and they don’t take no shit from Walt.
Walt is at Henry’s bar talking to Vonnie when he gets a call from Vic that a body has been found in a gulley up in the mountains. Walt heads to the scene, the body is hard to get at and the crime scene is complicated by the fact that a herd of sheep has surrounded the body, shat upon it and chewed at the clothes. The body turns out to be Cody Pritchard, a local boy who was involved in the rape of a girl from the reservation and got off lightly. It’s early morning by the time the crime scene has been secured and there is this moment after a long night where Walt, the narrator, says : “I gazed back up to the patch of sage and scrub weed and watched the sun free itself from the red hills”.
This is what amazes me about novelists, they have to handle character, plot, dialogue and create a world for characters to inhabit, for events to occur and they still find time to come up with lines like I have just quoted. So that was it for me, I spent the rest of the flight trying to come up with different ways to describe the sunrise.
As for the book, it’s well worth a read. Craig Johnson creates believable characters, characters to care about, to root for and the whole thing meanders along laconically with lots of witty banter and joshing – the kind of joshing you would find in a small town cafe at 10 in the morning, one of those cafes with gingham tables and a robust waitress with chemically damaged hair who won’t take any shit from the bunch of plaid shirted retired guys who turn up every morning to shoot the breeze.
the sun rose, red and runcible
in a diffident sky .
Taking part in Open Link Weekend over at earthweal
Mr. Cahoots
Mr. Cahoots
In the dream
I’m walking in East Vancouver
the setting sun illuminates
the low shoebox buildings
the streets are empty
except for me
and the guy who’s following me
his name is Mr. Cahoots
he’s wearing a pink top hat
a pink frock coat
pink flared pants
and gold boots
mostly he follows
but every now and again
he scuttles past
and walking backwards
he gives me the jazz hands
and laughs in my face
his eyes are manic
his nose is aquiline
and I know what he is saying
although he isn’t saying anything
he’s saying
You! You are not in control!
he’s saying
You! You are not in control!
In response to Brendan’s prompt over at earthweal
Write a dream poem using its language and rhetoric and dark sense. What moony light does it cast on the day? If you care, add to the poem or a note with any associations from waking life that the dream seems to be commenting on. If the dream is your unconscious speaking to you, what is it trying to help your waking writing mind to see?
My sister died recently after a very short illness. She was the eldest, there are six of us. I had the dream described in the above poem around the time she died. A family , particularly a large family is, in some ways, a collection of vantage points and we lost our top vantage point, the one who had seen it all. Now five seems like a very small number.
Vincent on the Threshold of Deconstruction
Vincent on the Threshold of Deconstruction
He was done with Covid
he was so over id
if he had a tether
he would be at the end of id
if he had a fuse
it would be long blown
if he had a hammer
he would sleep
through the morning
have a light lunch
and save the hammering
for the afternoon.
Exhibition
Exhibition
They’re taking photographs down by the water
in front of the cubist whale
float planes take off from the harbor
the mountains slumber in the morning haze.
Inside the convention center
paragraphs of opaque prose
attempt to describe the genius
of Vincent, Vincent van Gogh.
But if painting is the medium
there is no need for go-betweens
it’s all there on the canvas
the painting is what the painting seems.
Taking part in Open Link over at dverse
Photo taken at Imagine Van Gogh: The Immersive Exhibition, the convention centre Vancouver
That Poetic Hum (edit)
That Poetic Hum
That poetic hum
your ear always on the alert
for the cadence in the everyday,
that unconscious internal rhyme
there’s a barber shop on Dunbar Street;
or that line that requires a non sequitur
she was a woman before her time
and you say to everyone’s irritation
in a town lost to time.
Then when you find that seed
that germ of a poem
you are lost to all around –
family, colleagues, friends
your head in the clouds;
and when you poke your head through
the accumulated cumulus
you come face to face
with another poet who says
that last line’s a bugger, eh?
and you say
it most certainly is
it most certainly is.
This is a revision of a previous post.
Toad at the Gates of Doom (Edit)
Toad at the Gates of Doom
Outside the Gates of Hades
sits a cross-eyed toad
beside a burnt-out serpent
a broker and a phone.
Outside the Gates of Heaven
sits an angel in disguise
beside a corpulent bishop
with ecstasy in his eyes
and the sign on the gate says:
Closed for Renovation
no judgement today
if you’re looking for accommodation
clear off, go away.
God is on vacation
taking a well-earned break
there’s only so much suffering
one true God can take
So, get your ass back down there
be good to everyone
drink lots of water
and try to get along.
Brendan’s challenge this week over at Earthweal is to write of a voyage to the Otherworld. As he explains:
I have used the medium of Irish myth, but voyages to the Otherworld are universal. Journey there this week from inside your own story-cycle, and report on the news you find there.
I was born and educated in Ireland and that education did cover Irish (pagan/Christian) myths and legends but the dominant Otherworlds by that point had become Heaven and the everlasting fire of Hell. Irish Catholicism is indeed a rough beast . Somewhere in between these poles, the minor worlds of Purgatory and Limbo floated. So when I read Brendan’s quote I thought of this poem (previously posted)
Note on the title:
This poem title came about because, for a brief period, I was listening to prog metal. Brief because, like all things prog, the talent rarely matches the ambition, the concepts. An exception would be Pink Floyd ( Piper at the Gates of Dawn) who were a progressive band but they were successful because they could write songs and had one of the best lyricists in rock, the concepts were secondary. Prog metal players, from what I can tell , are accomplished musicians – the guitarists can play at incredible speeds and the drummers sound like they are descended from the octopus but the lyrics are banal at best and the melodies vestigial. The album titles, though, are always interesting and that’s where this poem started – I was playing around with making up titles for prog metal concept albums…the poem evolved from there.
The Unbearable Lightness of Verse 6
Father Bragg
he was a humble priest
until his altar ego
took over.
Herd Impunity
what the Republicans lost
when Donald Trump lost.
Aesop gets the call
Aesop!
Get your ass over here!
We need a fable
ASAP!
Jim Hendrix in East Vancouver
Artist: Nelson Garcia and Xochitl
Year: 2007
Location: 1030 East Cordova
I came across this Jimi Hendrix Mural in East Vancouver, close to Container Brewing (that’s why I was in the area). Apparently Jimi Hendrix had a strong connection to Vancouver, his grandmother lived on 827 E. Georgia Street . The area around the mural is quite industrial, so it was a surprise when I stumbled on it!.
Wander List
Slim’s Trip
he was appalling in Nepal
patronising in Patagonia
fractious in Frankfurt
stoned in Estonia
he was paralytic in Paris
he had a toke in Tokyo
he was hammered in Hamburg
stoic in Stockholm
apoplectic on the Appalachian Trail.
A version of this poem was posted in 2018.
Moth Balls, Skunks and Cedar
Moth Balls, Skunks and Cedar
Last night it teemed with rain,
now the garden fence steams in the morning sun.
That fence has been there
oscillating between disrepair and repair
since we moved in.
The posts are the weak points,
when you dig down
the ground teems with wood bugs and weevils
gorging on that succulent cedar.
The garden shed is also cedar.
One summer, a family of skunks
made their home underneath it.
They would regularly strut across the lawn in single file
father, mother and two young skunks
tails cocked, sphincters primed
afraid of nothing or no one.
I wrote a haiku about them
and then when they were no longer
of literary value
I spread moth balls
all around the entrance to their hole,
an internet remedy which did not work.
It’s a tad quixotic or ironic or both, isn’t it,
trying to use smell to get rid of skunks.
All that summer
as we sat drinking on the deck
and the evening sun warmed the cedar shed,
the odour of skunk and moth balls
that naphthalene-mercaptan cocktail
would hit us in gusts, in waves
like halitosis at a party
and inevitably, invariably
I would turn to anyone within boring distance
and say,
as our noses twitched in disgust,
“Isn’t nature marvelous? Isn’t nature marvelous?”
This poem was originally inspired by a prompt from Brendan over at earthweal, see below. The theme today over at dverse, courtesy of Claudia is:
“Write about your own, your neighbour’s or your city’s garden – or one that only exists in your imagination. Write about harvest, growth, decay – where ever the word “garden” takes you.“
So I thought I would give the poem another outing!
The prompt from Brendan over at earthweal was this:
“For this week’s challenge, TEEM. Write a poem that introduces the reader to the environment you live in –a landscape shaped by time with a culturally diverse ecosystem (with human, animal and non-animal elements). Widen the focus, deepen the gaze and green the voice. “
The Grand Scheme of Things
The Grand Scheme of Things
Be they grand or otherwise
there are schemes
and there are things
but in the grand scheme of things
there may not be
a grand scheme of things
what matters
is how we react
to the failure of schemes
be they grand or otherwise.
The challenge from Peter over at dverse is to write a circle poem in which the first line and the last line are the same.
The Unbearable Lightness of Verse 5
Sound Bite
Angela Merkel
Meghan Markle
vowels apart.
Extinction
Thesaurus Rex
never lost for words
gone before his time.
Fallibility
he was just
another cardinal error
afloat on a papal sea.
Unraveling (a found poem)
Unraveling
When apes start coughing
what are sperm telling us?
Must we dance on Rush Limbaugh’s grave?
Seeking distraction, we chose dragons
you’re not too old for picture books.
All the above lines (including the title) were headlines in the New York Times Sunday Review, February 21, 2021
Party Animal (Slimverse* – The Journey, Episode 2)
Party Animal
in he walks
like a bull
checking out
a paddock
the air shifts
nervously
eyes lower
bells jangle
(Episode 1 is here)
The following is a memory and like all memories it’s under constant revision. What’s significant I think is that it was the first time I realized that Slim was taking this whole slimverse thing a bit more seriously than I was. As I remember it……..
I invited Slim and the rest of The Poet’s Circle over for a few drinks to celebrate something, I can’t quite remember what it was and to be honest, it doesn’t matter.
The evening began relatively smoothly with an intense discussion about accessibility (no surprises there) and I made an emotional speech about the end rhymes in Leonard Cohen’s song, “Suzanne”. The conversation moved on to verse forms – cinquains, tankas, sestinas, halibuns, what happens if one turns a haiku upside down -fascinating stuff. Then Slim chimed in and asked where our own invention, the slimverse, fitted in to this pantheon. There was an awkward silence. Eventually, The Accomplished Poet spoke up. I should add that he is indeed accomplished and his compact vivid poems, mostly about his garden, have been widely published. He politely suggested that perhaps a 3 syllable line was too limiting, that making poetic music with such a restriction is quite difficult.
Now there was another kind of silence, the kind that ensues when a lion tamer drops his whip. Slim said quietly “fuck you and your fucking garden” and aimed a punch at The Accomplished Poet’s head, who, perhaps because of all that work in the garden, is quite agile. He ducked Slim’s punch and kicked him adroitly in the crotch. When the applause died down and Slim could speak again, he uncharacteristically apologized and gave The Accomplished Poet a hug, a doubtful pleasure given Slim’s personal hygiene issues. The evening ended on a happy note with a raucous rendition of “Suzanne”, everyone hitting the end rhymes hard.
Later that night Slim and I wrote the above poem which stretched the slimverse form to two verses. History in the making.
(*Slimverse – four 3 syllable lines)
Taking part in Open Link over at dverse
Names ( Slimverse-The Journey, Episode 1)
Names
those that can
stand alone
those that can’t
hyphenate.
Looking back now to 2016 when the above was written, it’s hard to believe that slimverse was once an obscure 12 syllable (3-3-3-3) verse form, standing in the shadow of its older sibling, the seventeen syllable (5-7-5) haiku. Now, it’s 2021, year 2 in the age of Covid and slimverse is, well, still an obscure 12 syllable (3-3-3-3) verse form, standing in the shadow of its older sibling, the seventeen syllable (5-7-5) haiku. The above masterpiece was composed by Slim (Volume) and I in the early hours of the morning following “the Poet’s Circle” Christmas Party which was held at the Accomplished Poet’s house. It was a fun-filled night of poetic over-indulgence and excess. The Accomplished Poet (an avid gardener) read a poem about pruning as a metaphor for the editing process involved in writing a poem, it was tortuous but accomplished. The Upper Case Poet had a minor shoving match with our newest and youngest member, the editor of an edgy E-zine called “Capslock Off” – no prizes for guessing what the argument was about. Slim hung around the buffet all night like a dog that had come across a bag of pork chops while walking in the woods, then later insisted that he had an invented a new word : “tumultaneous” – when tumultuous events occur simultaneously. He was met with benign indifference. But that was all back when Slim and I were in each other’s pockets before our estrangement, our parting of the ways, but more about that later…….
Taking part in Open Link Weekend over at earthweal
Stopdraggingthepanda 