Taken

You took my breath away when you walked in,
But I set that aside. I was so good
(Not clever, not untempted yet by sin,
Just somehow good), because I understood
Our borders, the one demand made by a friend
Who introduces you to some great beauty
That he’s been saving for himself: to bend
And stand back nobly. That’s your duty,
But times can change, and when he stepped away
I waited only three days — no, three years —
What was I thinking? Sorry, I can’t say,
Though I was certain it would end in tears.
Sometimes a man can’t figure out he cares;
I knew — still I was taken unawares.

Boxing Day Today!

It’s Boxing Day today! Let’s celebrate
The sweet science, and bash somebody’s head
Who’s uninhibitedly gross, ill-bred,
Diseased, his mind in a chaotic state,
Uncertain of his duty, filled with hate
For all good things, too blithely charmed by dread,
Inclined to spend his afternoons in bed
Pursued by nightmares. Bashing is his fate!

Cats love to play in cartons. Then there’s tin,
Or maybe those malt-forward German beers —
Say something extra-wonderful, like “Cheers!”
Barbarians are at the gates; they’ll win
If you insist on leading with your chin.
Get at it quickly, or I’ll box your ears!

The Handsome Man

I’ve really tried to spread myself around
Generously, as widely as I could
And, mostly, women have not understood.
I say, I never wanted to be crowned.
They know the crowd well, by the humming sound
Their rivals make, pursuing me — no good
Can come of wandering the neighbourhood
In search of love, but on they come, unbound.

I certainly appreciate their candour,
But all they ever get is what you see:
I love them, and they come expectantly —
One at a time, please. I won’t grin and pander,
And claiming that I will is simple slander.
If women like my looks, they may join me.

Saturday Morning

At ten o’clock I got up from my bed
And made myself another cup of tea.
My leg, wrapped up loosely, still hurting me,
Still healing slowly, still ugly and red,
Reminds me that I’m better off not dead.
I worry that the month (or two, or three)
That this will take (it runs on endlessly)
Will leave me stuck here, no further ahead.

It’s two weeks since the doctors let me out
And sent me home. They called the operation
A big success, a medical sensation,
But I have shpilkes, soreness, itch, and gout.
I’m drinking hard and trying not to pout
(This very nice Gewürz here is Alsatian).

What Symbol Is That?

What is that symbol? What can all this mean?
Is life an appetite, or is it stark
And meaningless, with neither form nor spark?
Will we encounter spirits on the green,
Or will the unmoored sprites remain unseen?
I am myself unmoored, like an old shark
Who cannot rest. Could I cure ash-tree bark
And make a journal? I was once sixteen.

When I was fifteen, eighteen, twenty-one,
My heart was full of wonder, but no more.
Life was a meal — I was right on that score —
But meaningless as flowers in a gun.
I had love; riches, too; all done. All done.
What symbol is that? Who cares? Close the door.

With an Axe

Sometimes I almost break, and break the backs
Of all the idiots who talk to me,
Dispose of everyone so messily
That no one figures out how the attacks
Began, or why. I’ll boil them all in wax
And send them, burning brightly, out to sea.
I’ll drag them from their homes, unskin each knee
Both front and back, and shear them with an axe.

The violence is underneath, unseen
Until the moment comes. Though overset
By terrorizing outbursts, which have met
With silence, icy laughter, grim and keen,
And thoughts about a wild threshing machine,
I haven’t murdered anybody yet.

Leech-Gathering

Correcting him about the tree, I said
The leaves were for the healing of the nations.
The rest, I pointed out, was intimations
Of immortality; but things were dead
That had been living yesterday. Ahead
Lay only dreams, heat, poison, degradations
Connected to our unexplored sensations,
And visions of that tree. Heal us instead,

Bring peace, succour from trauma, true delight
That comes from truth alone, not hope, not visions,
But in this world, based on our own decisions,
Our own plain-speaking bodies. Give us sight
So we emerge from never-ending night,
Avoiding injuries, mythic collisions.

Frightening the Horses

There’s going to be a lull now, while I wait
Through what they’re planning for my gammy leg.
Maybe I should have stayed in Winnipeg
Where nothing much went wrong — except the spate
Of shootings, my appendix, and no date
Until (no matter how hard I would beg)
I’d started university. (The egg
Matured, I left town, and embraced my fate.)

And as it turns out, Fate has brought me here,
Eventually, to rooms well staffed by nurses
And calm support staff who smile at my curses.
They tell me not to clamour my daft fear
And scare the horses, so I hold them dear
While working on a few more plaintive verses.

On Halloween

It’s Halloween today, but I’m not scared;
I have no costume, and there are no kids
Arriving at my door, the trash can lids
Aren’t under threat (only raccoons have dared),
In fact someone suggested no one cared,
But I’m expecting goblins, katydids,
And teenaged troublemakers with their bids
To change my mind now. One is raven-haired,

Reminding me of all I’ve lost: my heart,
My time, my candy, and my self-respect.
I’m trying, but it’s been hard to detect
A human being inside me, the part
That matters: fire and harmony and art.
I’m thoroughly all right now, and I’m wrecked.

When I’m Gone

Not now — don’t tell me that it’s closing time;
I just got here, and music is still playing,
The barflies haven’t finished what they’re saying —
Something about strained mercy and feigned crime —
That lady over there has gummed the lime
In her Tequila Sunrise, started praying,
Laid down the room key for the place she’s staying,
And some guy grabbed it who looks like a mime.

When will I understand what’s going on?
Will I get in a fight? Could I get kissed?
I have more questions (yes, I have a list):
Will we see stars? Or will we see the dawn?
Will anybody miss me when I’m gone?
The barkeep answers with an iron fist.

We Watch the Ocean

We watch the ocean, hoping that the tide
Brings treasure, but we know it never will.
Hope is belief, a kind of useless skill
Explaining why we’re never satisfied
But keep on waiting. It’s a desperate ride
To nowhere, leaving us here, feeling ill.
The ocean’s promise, that it won’t fulfil,
Makes us wait here, until the waves subside.

They do, and then there’s nothing more to say
Until tomorrow, when we’ll watch once more
As long as hearts, lined up along the shore,
Remember what it felt like yesterday,
When all the universe was still at play,
And we had dreams. It’s dreams that we adore.

What I See

I see your picture hanging on the wall,
The very definition of disgraced.
It’s easy to exhibit my distaste
Without an effort, or a quick phone call
To reassure your enemies, to stall
While checking out the challenges we faced
When you attacked. We’re ready now, well braced
Against you and your tendency to brawl.

You say you represent our destiny,
But that’s just garbage; you’re as well aware
As we are that you set fire to your hair
And claimed it was spontaneous. I see
The crap that you’ve been doing recently.
Stop all this nonsense. Just stop right there.

Alouette

An idle thought, a sad reminder, marks
This afternoon, a long and boring one
While I wait for the setting of the sun
(A sunset empty of delight, or sparks),
And try to stop believing that the larks,
With their plucked beaks and tendency to run,
Are after me. I’ve been under the gun,
But only small things bother me, like quarks.

I may be in the dark; I’ve lived too long
Not to appreciate the blissful state
My ignorance has left me in, both late
And soon, getting and spending, right and wrong,
Dispensing with women and wine — not song.
No, I’m still singing at a startling rate.

I Blame the Weather

Rents and disruptions in the atmosphere
Are nothing much compared to my own loss;
Some of the rolling stones have gathered moss
And silent thunder, fog so bright and clear
We shield our eyes, our sorrows sweet and sheer.
Fear warms our hopeful hearts with a cool gloss.
I grimace smartly as I hand across
My calling card, approaching much too near.

I blame the weather, but won’t back away:
We’ll be together some time, I insist,
This tether binding up our fates has kissed
(Light as a feather) our two souls today.
I put on leather and enter the fray:
Whether or not you want to, manage the twist.

Aim for the Neck

Aim for the neck. Once silenced, he won’t speak
And try to ruin everything you planned.
If you miss altogether, he might stand —
Not quite in opposition, but oblique —
Confusing them with Latin, modern Greek,
And mighty Tagalog. Just wound his hand,
No more, and, bellowing to beat the band,
He will oppress you, leave you faint and weak.

But aiming for the neck resolves the matter
(If you don’t count the sanguinary flood),
So do it right, now. This could be a dud;
A fine success; a win; a sour mess flatter
Than a pancake, so ignore the splatter,
Aim for the neck, and then mop up the blood.