Theories About Summer...
Copyright 2007,2008,2009 David L Potter
Let's celebrate the moments that find
us reaching for a pen, or closing
our eyes to etch on an eyelid
something we've seen.
| fun what letter would you dlp |
Sunday
gathering your dress
at the waist
juggling shoulder seams,
clothes-pins
- considering
how wide to hang
the other shoulder.
feeling voodoo
cramped
all morning,
your muscles ache
and phone home at noon
- asking me
to re-hang the wash
hoping then
you can get something done......
the garden tour
too few people seem to deeply appreciate
how much of science (and the part
of civilization that can be associated with love)
is advanced by our ability
to divide time into smaller and smaller pieces.
childhood - one rotation of an electron around a nucleus.
a million lifetimes remark the slow passage
of soft tongue on lovers lips.
springtime fills that moment,
as the eyes of two strangers
meet, with recognition that both
were admiring someone else’s lilacs.
Painting the Front Door
This morning - early I thought -
I saw her stretch - up
on tip toes in the sunlight.
Her arm - executing
the perfect arc of
a classical dancer.
Her hand - cupped
fingertips coaxing, teasing
stripping the masking tape
the way you might remove
a bandaid - feeling
the sharp tug
of every single hair.
Last night she slipped
under the covers -
for the first time with him,
unaware anyone could
kiss - would ever kiss her
like that.
Another Blindness
The Waggoneer HRR Color Vision Test
"..Pseudoisochromatic plates
for detecting, classifying,
and estimating the degree
of defective colour vision.
Ideal for the military, train engineers,
and other professions that need
to test for all the color vision deficiencies...."
The quiet oddness -
is that this test is not considered essential
for poets, politicians, lovers...
and further - that I reverse this test,
superimposing various filters
between myself and the obvious,
seeking another truth. Choosing a palette
offering slightly more or less — hue of passion,
polarizing essence of accounting based logic.
This is not peeling — the onion of truth
is returning to a seed. This is unbaking,
unmaking, unstirring, unfolding.
Twenty years I co-owned a kitchen -
and bed. Now, sharing a kitchen
with someone I hadn't met two months ago,
of some surprising new courtesy,
I clean the kitchen counter
after every meal.
The Edge of Winter
Ghost
of a glacier. Thin
memory of an ice age.
Creeping through September,
Fairbanks, Iqaluit.
Tracing mountain valleys
southward. Mocking
a tired failing sun,
claiming the land.
First frost
is not the edge of winter
neither is the first snowfall.
Winter is ice that will carry
a man’s weight without
hesitation.
Grimly resisting the axe
as livestock stand in the morning
waiting for water.
The edge
of winter is not a weekend
in Vail or Whistler. Winter
is kneeling in the snow trying
to light a fire, wet to the bone,
in urgent need of shelter. Winter
sits silent in a frozen room,
waiting for a cheque,
saving the oil for someone else.
Hunger
“And your hunger is not for experience
but for understanding, ....” Louise Gluck
I fear for you in this,
that why will eat you from the inside
out to the thin layer of touch. Itself
a proof of sorts, that we
do not occupy the same space,
are not concentric.
The whys are different,
why we stay, and why we go
comfort only ourselves,
and simply prove
(to those of some other hunger)
that we were both crazy
blind in one way or another.
Their hunger protects them.
They collect these cracked fearsome why's?
Write them on the gatepost,
under new wallpaper. Wrap
all the rest in scraps of linen,
bury them in jars in the garden
warding off this madness.
three girls
(remembering when no was not enough...)
women now, years later in a room
miles away from that sorry misplaced need.
one laughed one cried one
bitter silence felt.
leaving me sitting in my own
shocked silence.
suddenly considering how my touch
might awaken sleeping demons.
making do
on the eve of his wedding he phoned to say that he wished it
was you walking down the isle.
twenty-five years later (for you and your friends) this still
seems a sin of dishonesty against his bride now wife.
I admit that twenty-five years of watching his moody turns
lends more credibility to this - than a contrarian
notion of mine that he was acknowledging
a peculiar mix of rational sadness.
the comfort of days marked by modest affection
which characterizes
(holds the hope of)
a good marriage.
This fear of Mermaids...
any other time I would likely have looked away
(as a child might close their eyes each time the beam
from the lighthouse comes around)
so not to allow this woman to look in through my eyes.
(this is why mariners fear mermaids,
for mermaids see...)
silly me!
first light
a man reaches
for a woman, and makes love
to her mother, and then
her mother's mother...
following first the river,
and then the stream - back
to the spring from where
that light in her eyes
first flowed.
The Concert
dancing guitar, vibrant percussion, cello.
The percussion seizes me.
Fingers cymbals drums,
the heel of palm.
The cello swallows a sudden smile,
leeeeans into her bow.
She risks another peek.
His hand arcs through the space between
She is a drum, his fingers,
hard between her shoulder blades
soft in the small of her back.
She answers with her vibrato.
Cymbal chime and deep base note, the guitars dance.
She looks up again. His head tipped back
his gaze descends, lingers, on shoulders
dancing in the second row.
His eyes flame, his hand arcs through the space between.
That woman is old enough to be his mother!
Shameless, shoulders rock to his rhythm...
this room is his tonight.
Cello forgotten, embarrassed betrayed.
Why did she wear this top?
The piece turns on cello’s bow, the guitars
pause to catch their breath.
She draws him back, musical comfort foods, a little wine,
sounds she’s never made before.
He looks up, their eyes dance
his hand arcs through the space between
Este Mundo - oct./99
the Tile Layers
each day the batch colour changes slightly.
a little more, a little less - blue
or yellow, or red.
looking back,over the tile layers work
it is possible to see what care
they took, to blend the small
variations. and where
this day or that a specific colour captivated them
so much so they conspired
to lay them all together.
mysteré
a grove of maples - sway in slow, rare unison.
purring cats on the edge of sleep - lovers in tight formation.
a woodshed organized by species. maple, ash, birch;
pine for kindling, apple for your birthday.
sledding by moonlight on hard crust snow, through the orchard
to the barbed wire strand that marks the lip of the gravel quarry.
one kiss...
how can there be danger here?
the mystery broadens to include shepherds lying awake
watching the heavens revolve, puzzling out the stars.
a mandolin climbs the stairs. it’s going to snow today.
follow me, follow me.
3rd degree sen sen
leaving your mother to watch the youngest.
telling her you're off (smiling) to make another.
roadside crows provide event security -
rose hip's belly dance - measure every passing meal.
proper English servants - blessed forensic believers
gathering on the head of a pin to wash and dry.
old heaterless winter beater - minivan, minivan
each containing a novelty spoon of amusement
- more
than enough essence to refresh an angel.
here in the north, feeders stay out ‘til Christmas;
one last hope for hummingbirds.
lovemaking
I.
slides by - seamless
excepting those points
where we tack - head to wind
looking each other in the eye
trimming the sheets
II.
the best kisses begin, and end
in unison
perfect kisses -soundly
punctuated
III.
the task of a lover
is the life of a magician
directing the other’s attention away
convincing your body to slowly disappear
dissolving in a wash of kisses
and then drawing it back
through the keyhole of surprise
discussion points
standing bare field, listening
to the earth thaw on the southern rise.
earthworms pleasurely humming.
the distinct point of the gradient
that each cotyledon contributes
to the hint of green.
CotD
I’ve just finished eating a Scottish Haddock. Not
the New York jazz club diner dish. Mine
was breaded from the tail, north to the
first orifice.
My companion gets up.
"I’ll be right back." Not. "Excuse me."
As she turns away I catch her sleeve. "Bring
me back a sniff."
I spend the next few moments idly
sipping dark ale, considering
which smell, and thinking
that you’ll never know for sure.
Tables
table1
installed in Mussee d'Orsay,
speaks to me of how much less we
now value the time it takes
to teach our hands how to do something very well.
accompanied by a single chair
and tulip lamp, it
conjures up a small parade of images
of those who came to sit
beside the rose garden window
offering and demanding various types of payment.
table2
the writing table in the bank
of my childhood
(which always closed for lunch)
is gone
unlike the French, we have not honoured it
or acknowledged to ourselves the enormity
those mortgages held for our grandparents.
table3
the farm kitchen table always seem to enjoy
more intimate conversations
(especially during lambing)
than those which spend their nights
reflecting the mind your own blind eye of a street light.
while urban tables and their owners
flit from apartment to flat
and then on to the suburbs, farm tables
stand for generations grinning, groaning,
giving thanks
season by season
in the moonlight.
on the farm there’s more likely to be a Bible,
seed catalogue, Reader’s Digest nearby,
cloth napkins, molasses pitcher, lemonade.
much less likely that a warm TV will squawk,
squirm and whine about the food.
Sheets 1-4
three days out, three back... (poly-cotton blend)
bored with watching Danny Devito and Richard Dreyfuss
fuck with each others’ heads
another salesman eyes an empty bottle of whiskey
one hand under motel sheets measuring his life
convinced that his boss plans the schedule
to keep him out of town Friday night
oh no karma no!
not all sheets revel in glorious caress.
today, draped wantonly over the arm
of a chair, i found one that had dream fallen,
not awakened in time;
and was now lying in the last stages of a blue mis-tint.
unfortunately, terry southern was mistaken
unfortunate, because he went on to write outrageously
misleading stories which tainted a generation
without realizing that those animal sounds
were made by his sheets.
damn poets
I’m still trying to get over a stigma I feel
about "the rough male kiss of blankets."
making it worse in poet land
in poet land he worked
for the utility co..
cheerily reading meters,
flirting with poet spouses indiscriminately,
and putting little yellow and red
tags on the meters of bad poets.
each day he would forward
a list of recipients of yellow and red tags
to the poetry police – who each night
would go around and make the tiniest adjustment
in the inspiration valve at the bad poets houses.
a quarter turn here and a quarter turn there
was usually enough to change the balance
like an out-of-sorts spouse substituting
your normal tea or coffee,
convinced it doesn’t matter anyway.
making it worse here in poet land (reprise)
having decided to feel un/under-loved for awhile
the poet sharpened a few choice words
and threatened everyone who, he thought,
might possibly pay attention.
really now... have we got this right?
it’s a hostage taking situation
and the guy’s holding a few choice words?
Chaucer, Tuesday
I
With still a few minutes on my hands
I stop at the Salvation Army Thrift Store
on Strawberry Hill - my thoughts hovering around
an appointment at 2:45 - my hand drawn
unguided
to a book - which in that hand - turned into
a Chaucer reader I thumbed for a few seconds,
and then returned to the grotesque bins that
always depress me.
My appointment is with my physician, who
I disappointed by declining the cholesterol
medication he was taking himself, but who still
sees me, although he never knows why
until I arrive.
Against my ‘better judgment’ I take the "best yet"
Tom Wolfe - even better than the Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test
(if you can imagine that), and a literary collection from
Newfoundland that ends with outrage and controversy.
(You can write me for the details.)
Today, the annual blood work, and prostrate exam
(who would I be today if that was part
of a teen boys' work-up?)
three months late
(like trying every year to get an extra month
on the car inspection...)
...and the lump I can't see.
I'm not sure why I went back for Chaucer
although I think now that it was his voice,
the kind of voice that makes you turn
unconsciously - and that you never come
to regret.
the lump is on my lower back, where I can't see it
and the other day in the shower I dug
a piece of it off - fundamentalist surgical healing
under a tent in a tropical forest.
By leaving late for the appointment I spend
more time trying to stay alive and don't
think about it as much - if that makes sense.
Chaucer is listening to me, curiosity reincarnate.
I don’t remember the first time I carried on
both sides of a conversation but it was a hard conversation
that first started each of us talking to ourselves.
Today I’m three levels down, deep in a hard conversation with someone who (I believe) doesn't understand what I"m saying, where this started, how the sides could have become so hard, hardened, hardest.
I'd like to say that I don't remember anything
from then until the doctors voice, but that isn't true
I remember a lot. A man a little older going in the office
returning to fetch his wife and then the two of them leaving
without my looking up. I'm reluctant to make eye contact today,
afraid I read more into faces than books.
Chaucer is amazed by everything
the chairs and the window glass,
and even the green carpet that he kneels
down to rub his hand over and over,
repetition, repetition, rhythm and rhyme.
The doctors voice is a wheel in motion, a combine at night on the prairie
he has a real interest,
a passion for each number on my blood work, and “We're almost there...
almost to three's and fives.”
he's pleasantly unconcerned . . ... (while)
Chaucer and I sit trying to puzzle out the language.
I break the spell with the real reason I'm here, the lump,
the piece I tore off and threw yawa - his face changes.
This is language Chaucer understands! as I turn around
their faces disappear ...and then they're both talking
Chaucer recommends a poultice, the doctor concurs
and we're off again... “
Ah yes... the prostrate exam.”
The look on Chaucer's face is priceless.
Thank you, thank you, thanks again
and out the door.
Chaucer is really amazed.
II
Chaucer wants to stop
and talk to three Newfoundlanders
fishermen
sitting on the rail of a beached skiff
waiting for dinner
teasing a red haired girl called Donna
Donna
with the laughing eyes.
I don't want to stop today...
there's a car behind us.
an old beater with two women
who are engaged in loud and joyful
discourse
loud enough, and joyful enough
that Chaucer agrees.
personal security abc
effective security can be as simple
as being just a little harder to crack
than the computer next door
having an alarm system
and parking beside a Chrysler,
being just a little more patient
(and loving)
than the man before.
Other Seekers
Nothing among the ads
in "Men Seeking Women"
seemed to do justice to the
woman she believes her mother is.
But the ad in "Other Seekers"
produced a smile
along with one of those 'too crazy by half' motions
- something between "get outa here" and that almost contained urge
to rub your ear on a shoulder.
"Poet with a distant connection to LC seeks
mother and her oldest twin daughter to complete
a circle before winter. localboy4@nomail.com"
The first, brief email was from a numbered
hotmail account. "Trophy hunter?"
He replied,
"A man reaches
for a woman, and makes love
to her mother, and then
her mother's mother...
following first the river,
and then the stream - back
to the spring from where
that light in her eyes
first flowed."
Heavy Weather Love
Huddled against a boulder, lips pursed
to block the grit of sand the southwesterly
snatches from a ribbon of beach
and throws at us, daring us to stay
and face this storm.
first of autumn
the reception hummed
along. the first time many
of them had been together since spring.
light chatter and greetings enticed
her to accept a glass of wine
which immediately produced regret,
a tinge of heat that crept, then
built toward some new, personal
failure.
she had forgotten that he
would probably be there,
and was completely surprised by the hand
on her hip and the kiss
he stole at the back of her neck.
suddenly drowning
in a hot liquid pool of joy she
realized that with this kiss –
he had completely and forever
(for her)
trumped menopause.
reading a different book
she never liked making love in the morning
and he came to see her outright refusal
as the beginning of an end.
he could not remember that last time.
years later when he sensed
she was ready to refuse all lovemaking
he worked hard - at remembering - the little details of each.
as if, in case it were the last.
he started reading articles about grief,
and grieving. determined
this time he would.
with heart and soul.
sure, that as long as he grieved
he would not become a man:
reflected in a picture,
sitting on a bed,
facing the other wall
Separation
(A reflection on courage,
the Iranian twins….)
you were always stronger
slept sounder, awoke more rested.
relished spicy foods, realized sooner
how different we are;
how daily tasks undid us -
undergarments, stockings, shoes,
waiting for the other to have her
morning bowel movement.
your voice was always stronger.
be brave sister,
taste this spot where the fruit
is bruised, sweet and crying for justice.
remember my scent, my touch,
the life we share so bravely
now
braver still - embrace
your life (without me).
I am with you in this, here
beneath the knife of Abraham
I trust and pray we both arise
to allow
one small forgiveness.
so soft I am not sure
if it be whisper or dream,
your defect or mine - harbouring
the last shadow of doubt.
last night in the dark
struggling with another unknown
...the things that go missing
if gradually losing
my sense of taste
I prayed
the special meld of
chocolate and candied ginger
would be the last to go
awoken by laughter
awoken by laughter
(my own)
for Paul and Tracy, expecting their third child
i am a child again.
sitting on a hardwood floor.
listening, on a Sunday morning
to fresh laughter behind the bedroom door.
we two
we two ( Mid 70's )
are so many...
we could print our own stamps,
or outbid Montreal for the
second coming.
Everyone has a theory about summer...
...the relationship between fiddlehead greens
rhubarb, and strawberries
fresh corn.
By the time I've had my second feed of corn
I'm not so frantic. I have the time
to stand looking up into the night sky
watching the embers - estimating escape velocity.
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