Tried making a pencil and ink sketch today while in the dialysis chair…
written in 1974 when I was at the University of Toronto
BESIDE THE SEA AT NIGHT
I’m down by the pier now
steered by a star long lost from sight
Perhaps you’ve seen it
shining so whitely, lightly above.
Here cats carefully peeking,
peek without cat smiles
all night watching for mice,
cats’ fur is washed so clean and so bright.
My last cigarette burns a fingertip.
Frightened little spark
falling into the black, black paint.
They call it the sea.
I hear the brief stinging kiss
and the moon is fairly, squarely, barely the moon.
The moon, the moon, the moon.
Now smelling the salt air.
the damned fishing boats
gleam at their moorings
netting hung out to dry.
Smelling the fish guts,
gulls gobbled and tore them,
fighting for room on the rocks.
Tasting the hot air,
so hot past the evening,
not as hot as the noon was
not half as hot
as tomorrow will be.
taken today with Nikon DSLR d3100 and two lenses: Nikkor 18-55 and Nikkor 55-200
Midland, Ontario on Saturday that just passed. I parked at Harvey’s and heading in for a burger when I stopped and took some shots of this red vision…..camera – my walk-around-fulltime rig – Sony NEX F3 with Sony 18-55 mm lens
I am slowly working on preparing a manuscript of poems old and new. One of the problems with working on this stuff very early in the morning is that I can get inordinately impressed by material which seems to be wonderful but in the light of the full clear day seems quite a bit less shiny. This is an old poem of mine from February 1983. I was 29 years old when I wrote it.
Preliminaries to Winter
Trees reach out into that empty space
the wind takes, when it has a mind to.
They have an extra weight pulling at them.
Sometimes the rainwater, sometimes the ice.
They reach up, and down, and around,
all in a scarred motion. A tricky business.
Showing your empty hand, a little
like a child’s bedtime prayer.
protection from the dark.
Sometime I wonder if all this
is just the exhalation of a familiar sense of loss.
Or the oration of a close exhilaration.
With the sense of blood in the body
and mind resting in the hand,
then the heart swings open.
Fear forgotten, for the lion is old
and much smaller than I remembered, anyway.
People surround us, waking and walking.
I pass among. I watch their eyes for time.
Pass the butter. Don’t spill the milk.
I would like to say that kitchens are honest places.
Trust in food, but no mice please. Yet a lie isn’t much.
Just a suggestion that helps the truth lie down.
A look that gets followed like water down a drain.
Her eyes were just two eyes. I recall
a cigarette dancing nervously in a hand,
the tightness of concern drawn out, a thin line
wedged out of the summer light. He played
a simple tune for a puppet jig, but
when the strings fouled, the lines torn out,
there was only the current disturbed, all
muddied water—two tired heads swimming through,
one field mouse caught in a trap, and the rat gone.
nice looking dawn on Georgian Bay this AM, smallish cloud bank with wide open clear sky above to the east….the bay is very still. It is going to be a good day to take a camera out for some adventures….. I wonder what we will catch today.
BTW I have been immortalized. My neighbour, Murray Van Halem, painted me. I appear to be channeling Hemingway, but the beard is off this month and will perhaps return during the winter…… thanks. Murray.