The Burgess Shale

When Walcott found the Burgess Shale

in 1909, high above the town of Field,

he could not account for how the

humble trilobyte had swum so high,

probing antennae pushed into the

face of God. Only to appear 500 million

years later, like passengers

beneath the hooves of Walcott’s horse,

baking under summer sun, a mile

above the primordial sea. Nothing

prepared Walcott for tectonic

plates that vaulted like dolphins

from the earth’s molten crust

up to the realm of snowy hawks.

So he told himself that a biblical

flood had swallowed the teeming

earth and left trilobytes washed

upon the lonely mountain scree.

And Walcott died a happy man.

I’m perched like Walcott tonight,

35,000 feet above the Rockies,

bouncing rudely off a nimbus cloud

like a man astride a pack horse.

When the turbulence sends us dancing

you grab my hand fiercely, I whisper

“It’s okay”. But honestly, I haven’t

a clue when we will touch down or

when trilobytes will surface next.

Georgian Bay

She is Queen of Georgian Bay

standing in the swell of the lake,

bones white against the churn--

she has the sympathy of the sun.

I wade in to join her, and the waves

crash down and nearly tear the strap 

from her fine shoulder. Where can

I hide my hunger on the public

beach? For you I will be a swimmer

stroking your hands in the waves.

For you I will be the wet sand

clinging inside your bathing suit.

For you I will be the final wave,

the biggest one that makes you 

shout, “Oh God, here it comes.”

Till the riptide pulls me slowly

away to the lee of Georgian Bay.

Le Nouvelle Vage

Le Nouvelle Vage

I’m at my day job, pouring wine,

when a man sidles up beside me

and, with a smile, says my name.

As often happens these days I’m

at a loss to recall him or his name.

His features look familiar to me,

but the rest— it is like trying to

recall that French movie I saw one

Friday afternoon at Cinema Lumière.

The film I recommended to everyone 

i knew for its verisimilitude. I think.

Was it Truffault? Jean Renoir? Rohmer?

Was it comedy? Absurdist? Surreal?

Beats me now. So I pour some beer

for the guy and we chat about football.

When I get home he has tweeted our

meeting, says we need to chat more.

I look at his, name, his bio, his avatar.

Was it Truffault? Jean Renoir? Rohmer?

Was it comedy? Absurd? Surreal?

Tile

Before I go down for good there is work

to do. Applying sanded grout to joints,

spreading grey adhesive like putty

upon clay tiles baked by Italy’s sun.

Fitting them like jigsaw puzzle pieces

Smooth the cool surface with my hand.

Yes, that is fine, worth putting feet upon.

Now I am ready to burrow like a worm.

Let others worry when order will return.

Dalits Rising

Dalits Rising

A friend said, take a bag of marbles,

pull one out for every year you’ve spent--

then look at what’s left, mocking

you from the bottom of the bag.

That’s how long you have left, pal.

So I count black marbles from the

jewel box I brought home for Blythe

from my journey to the Taj Mahal.

Shining lime-white in Agra’s evening sky

its pale marble skin cooled the night.

Below, ghats sparked trails into the sky

souls rising to heaven like fireflies.

Dusted by paradise, the sigh of jasmine,

the squawking song of the parakeets.

The fevered brow of the tea-wallahs.

The sand cranes cried for evermore

gone to close-up like Shammi Kapoor.

The sunset was so tender

The sky burned deepest blue

The dogs howled in anger

But the meaning all was you.

Another marble lifted from the box.

Hector

Looking upon us, my arm around your

tanned shoulder in the summer night,

I thought of Hector, pausing from the

doomed defence of Troy to visit

Andromache and Astyanax, high upon

the walls of the besieged city.

Before he would slay Patroclus then

be cut down in turn by Achilles.

Hector shimmered in bronze before

his wife and baby boy, knowing their

life together was over. Sensing

what lay ahead-- Hector’s death, sweet

Astyanax cast from the walls of Troy,

her own enslavement in Hyperia--

Andromache allowed herself a tear.

But Hector would not surrender.

“Andromache, why so much grief for me?

No man will hurl me down against my

fate... And fate? No man has ever escaped

it, neither brave man nor coward, I tell you--

it’s born with us the day we are born.”

Keep this poem-- when something

happens to me. Remember that I was brave

in the face of a destiny I could not avoid.

And content to place my arm about your

bare shoulder this night and look

without fear at the approaching Greeks.

Take Me Out To The Ball Game

The woman in the row behind me says

that her arthritis feels like her hands are

in hot tallow. Her husband says he hasn’t

smelled a thing since the wedding in Victoria.

A nerve is pressing on his sinus cavity.

“They could operate but who needs it?”

The small lady next to him, the one whose

back pack smacked me in the head as

she entered, says she can’t taste anything

because of her allergies. Or is it her

sensitivity to lactose? No matter. It’s so

bad that whatever tastes do penetrate

the mists are simply too intense to

bear. I know the feeling. On the field

the shortstop takes a strike. “Another

ball,” says I Can’t Taste. “This pitcher

is wild.” The batter turns the next

pitch around, lining out into the glove of

the centre fielder for the second out.

“Another hit,” chirps up Arthritis.

“They’ll have to take him out now.”

Two pitches later, the runner on second

lights out for third, beating the catcher’s

peg by a good half second. “He never

had a chance,” clucks Taste Lady. “Do

you want to go? I’ve seen enough.”

And so the three of them decamp in

the middle of the sixth with the score

tied and the go-ahead run on third. They

seem very happy as they disappear into

a late-summer night, searching for their cars.

Without smell. Without taste. With arthritis.

Augustus Pugin

Augustus Welby Pugin helped design the

Houses of Parliament at Westminster.

Fathered eight kids by three women. 

Served a spell in gaol for debts. Then

converted to Roman Catholicism. The

greatest English architect of his century,

whose sandstone triumph screams Britain

had a French father. Touché. It’s said that

Pugin didn’t make much money from his

mastery of the Gothic. Most of his best

work torn down, abandoned or changed

while he lived. The bastards wanted to

put plaster where Pugin wanted God.

Except in the church in bloody Ramsgate.

That one he had to pay for himself.

They say his genius was in drawings.

Too much the artist, too little the business

man. Then, as the world opened to him,

he went mad at age 40 and died from

exhaustion, just like that other Gothic

prince, Bram Stoker. Today we think

that quite young. But then we never

laid the cornerstone for the British Empire.

The Race Track

In my twenty-first summer I sold 

mutuels at Greenwood racetrack. 

What I knew about the ponies

wasn’t worth knowing. Still, sad-eyed

men in snap hats, programs folded 

like accordions, shirts stained 

yellow with old sweat, came to me

looking deeply into my eyes for

the meaning of the fifth race on

a Tuesday night under grey skies. 

High on the action, I slipped them

tips-- seen the splits on Ramblin’

Willie?-- that died by a head in 

a photo. They never held it against 

me, and I ended that summer 

owing money, too. Had to 

take a less tempting job. But 

all of us--the decrepit touts, 

eager boys like me-- would 

give all our Tuesdays for

the sacrament of another race, 

tickets scattered at our feet,

my horse gently coasting to

an eighth-place finish in the 

lengthening shadow of evening.

Kafka's Last Wish

Kafka

Upon his death, Kafka requested 

that all his manuscripts be 

destroyed. The Trial. The Castle. 

Amerika-- ashes. But when poor

Franz died of TB at age 41, 

little known outside gloomy

Prague, his good friend Max Brod

considered his last request. And 

promptly ignored it. So Franz Kafka

became a world-famous author

against his express wishes. 

Think of that next time you take 

thirty seconds to order coffee.

Me Ma'

Me Ma' is slipping from my life

the past rushing behind those eyes

watery blue in the failing light.

And my Irish has gone with her.

The lace curtains, the novena candle

Her brothers singing the Ave in

choir loft, the Lachine spinster aunts.

Who will I tease about the troop 

shows? Or ask aboutthe wartime

telegram saying Burke was gone?

She was raised by French nuns, 

she hated them for beating her.

Now she greets the Filipino nurse

with a look of mad mischief.

On good days she knows my name

when I show her wedding photos.

On others we watch the birds

that fly past her window garden.

She shows me the women she hates.

And the men that she likes. But

the trappings have now failed her.

The sad music of The Chieftains, 

the brandy snifter in her purse

in case of dire emergencies. 

The weathered photo of her father 

reading the Montreal Herald in 1937.

So I close the door quietly behind

while she watches golf on the TV.

The past, I see, is now a distant shore

where I can visit, alas, no more.

Sheltering Wall

I walk in the office. His back is

to me, concentrated on the

new computer he has just

mastered. Checking the

market, no doubt, or cursing

another idiot politician. Absorbed

in some stock or mutual fund, 

he does not look like the

sheltering wall of old. The stony 

break, a simple rustic, he

stood ready till we were could 

stand and see the fields on our 

own, stretched before us. Stood

ready to take us back if a

rough wind blew in or a storm

rolled through. Sheltering wall,

he turns to see me enter his

office. He lowers the paper, 

takes me in as if we have 

never met. Then a smile emerges.

Without saying hello, he tells 

me, “Go get Peter, and we’ll 

grab something for lunch.” 

Jack Pine

Jack Pine

Standing on the crevasse,

jack pine against the odds,

last honest man leaning on 

the wind, a lesson in survival. 

Like a young man, tilting hard

against timberlines. Battling

elements. Blown by the sky. 

The choice in life lies between

putting out roots in thin soil

or wandering the scree line.

The jack pine on his crevasse 

or the whistling wind. 

Knowing you, knowing me 

Put me down for the latter.

Filling my arms with night.

The Tenor

Each night I made my way to the wings, 

to hear the tenor sing The Flower Aria

at the Royal Alexandara Theatre. So 

close in the wings I could smell 

the onion sandwich on his breath 

as his voice soared for “un seul desire... 

un seul espoir... O ma Carmen...” Close

enough to see where Eva let out 

The stitches on his doublet so he 

could make the high C each night. 

I was young and a bullfighter then. 

Soaring on Bizet’s splendid staircase, 

in love with the mezzo on the far side

of the stage. She loved the baritone. 

Or was it the conductor? No matter, 

she sang Boheme in my shower. 

Idedicate this poem, not to her, 

she married the conductor, but 

to Don Jose, downstage right,

braid flashing, beading sweat, his 

heart in every note of “La fleur que te 

ma jette...” clutching tight the prop 

rose that carried all my hopes.

Maintenance

While switching hands

on her cell phone

she asks me, “Am

I high maintenance? What

does that really mean?”

I tell her that I think

she’s medium-high, like

a setting on a stove.

“But what does that mean?”

she asks again. 

I sigh, look out the window.

A Chinese woman walks by

with her Pekinese 

on a rhinestone leash, 

shoulders hunched before

the wind. She has on the

most elaborate hat.

So I say, “With a woman

who’s high maintenance,

you must remember to 

tell her that everything 

she wears is perfect.

With a low-maintenance

woman, clothes are immaterial.

“And medium high?” 

With a medium-high, I say,

you need only tell her

only when she looks fabulous. 

The rest she already knows

better than you.

Samarpan

On the train between Jaipur and Benares,

(in the days before I knew you...)

speeding through the Indian night--

the air heavy with bidhi smoke.

Travelling alone because I could.

And what was left to hold me?

Seated in a charpoy, second class,

my eye was captured by the sindoor 

on a memsahib; it burned vermillion 

beneath her chaddar. A life proscribed,

fine. Sure of her port of entry.

And me? Drowning in nickel valium,

Protected by the Rajdhani Express. 

I dreamt of wandering the Champs Elysee,

not knowing who you’d be when I 

found you waiting beside L’Etoile.

Now that we know, would you

have it some other way? Would you

still board the train for Mumbai

with me and say, yes... this is splendid 

as we settle into sleeper class for

a journey into the heart of night?

Orford Lake

When I was a boy, wasting slack

summer, I’d sprawl on my belly beside 

the CNR railway tracks, listening

for the dayliner on its clickety-clak 

from Sherbrooke into Montreal. Most 

days the train flew by. But on special 

July days kissed with mystery the

ratty flag would rise from the back

of the two-car train, and a bundle 

of mail would tumble into the weeds. 

Or a passenger descend, blinking 

against the sunshine at me behind

the tiger lillies and feverfew. Like a 

ferret in the undergrowth. Today, 

the engineer smiles as he passes, 

consults his silver watch without stopping, 

at precisely3:23. His mail bag 

empty of surprise. The train does 

not stop beside the tickweed anymore.

Mr. Parrott does not stumble off

the train after half a dozen pilseners.

nor would I wish it so if he could. 

Nympheas

Standing beside you, looking at the Water Lillies

at the Art Institute. Monet obsessed with his

pond at Giverny. The shuffle of light. Pads

emerald on the shore. Rough brush strokes. 

The hues of midday sun and endless sunset,

precise in Monet’s vigilance, reflect the love 

Monet had for Alice Hoschedé, his second wife. 

The widow of his patron, who took him in 

and raised his boys after his first wife died.

Were his ordered rays and reflected desire  

kept secret or did he confess to her 

over absinthe at dinner one summer night 

in Normandy? I hope he took it to the grave.

The best things are those kept close to the 

heart. Like this moment in Chicago. The 

secret life of a wanted man. Where no one 

can find us behind the nympheas. 

Cuffs And Coins

Passing through my father’s room

on the way to find shoe trees, I see

he still hangs his best pants, cuffs first,

from the sock drawer. Still keeps small

change in a jar with coded colours

for the dimes and nickels and quarters.

His cuff links burnished in a small bowl.

It has always been this way, an order

inviolate, like Ozymandias in the sand.  

When my children were born I too 

became a pant hanger and coin collector. 

Tradition received is tradition honoured.

Now I wonder if my kids will long remember 

Cuffs tucked clinically in the drawer. 

Coins in jars on the bureau top.

Or simply the idea of a man facing 

evening with his bureau ordered just so. 

Fulham Road

We prepared to cross Fulham Road--

me and a girl who’d picked me up

on the Russian freighter. It was the

fall of 1977, and we were in London

on our way to-- well, it doesn’t matter

now. It ended badly. She stepped from

the curb, looking the wrong way. I

saw the snot-brown Vauxhall headed

straight for her blind side.

Instinctively, I threw out my arm to

restrain her. Just in time. The buffeting

announced that we were still alive.

She said, “Don’t patronize me.

I know where I’m going. Never do that

again. And another thing. Stop telling

people who pick us up that you’re a

writer. That’s not for you to say.

That’s for others to decide.”

I looked her in the eye. She was

serious. And I wondered if I’d made

a mistake in saving her from the

Vauxhall. But then, this was 1977.

And everything was different then.