Yarmouth Bound
14 June, 1992
Aboard MV Bluenose
between Bar Harbour and Yarmouth

The enormous boat quickly swerves hard to port then promptly returns to the rhumb line laid out by an
unseen computer. The continuing track zags as the implacable ocean closes behind the throbbing stern of the sea-going ferry. The humanity of the captain becomes evident as most marker buoys of the slumbering lobster pots return and bounce in the ferry’s wake.

The cold and tired fisherman, arriving later, swears:
Several lines must’ve severed!
He’s never advised of the kindred spirit who tried to save the bright bobbing plugs.

Damn.
The emotion sits quietly with me
shown only in the
clenched muscles
at the corner of my jaw
Deliberate inward breaths
briefly held
quickly exhaled
give my system something to do
and to again
turn tears
inward
as I am learning to do
quietly

Daybreak at Anna’s Cottage
24 June, 1992

To everything
there is a reason

The seagull paddles purposefully, leaving a gentle vee spreading over the early morning flat calm of the bay. As the sun notches higher in the southern blueness, the alder leaves begin to rustle, and the graceful spruce boughs come to life. The middle of the bay darkens with ripples of the fresh breath that descends from the tree tops, leaving a mirrored surface that matches the gentle curve of the pebbled beach.

The seagull returns, lands in the water where he has previously determined that his breakfast resides. A flap of wings and the north-facing scavenger shields the smooth surface with his body from the sun. The head drops, presaging the plummet. The bird is largely underwater. With a ripple-creating shake and twist, he returns to his natural habitat. Years of cormorant-watching have paid a natural dividend.

The gull gulps
and with twitching tail
paddles off

Generational Mathematics

Averages, medians, it’s all mathematics. Numerator, denominator are soon jumbled, their meaning swerving sufficiently. Progeny arrive on time and in proper varieties. Scooped by nature; shaped by environment; normally incomplete. The whole from a fraction. They self-scrutinize their parts and become aware of the reciprocity of their souls, antecedents, and the universe. Each portion a separate part.

The puzzle is prodigious in its complexity. Each must independently solve the Gordian knot, knowing that understanding doesn’t reside with the slashing sword but with an appreciation of basic elements:
The man
The woman
rightfully question the logical axioms that dictate their lives, their futures.

No answers are uniquely correct but many may be wrong. Some subsequent appreciation of destiny may promote revulsion, not for one or even several generations but for many. Each that trod the path may have similarly cursed the terms of their equation, yet must be aware that at some indefinite point they will be the building blocks judged by the future. Ultimately, they too may be forced to say

I did my best
and these footprints in history
planted as imperfectly as they seem
were the best I could do
at the time

An Arithmetical Progression
Returned thoughts memorialized so they never leave again
This caravanserai marks memory’s midday

(X − 6)

14 February, 2007, 1 a.m.
Just as it is difficult to write of spring and blossoms
when it is blank and blowing white at −28°C
So it is assumed to be difficult to tell a love story
after the coals have been banked and only one
participant stands watch over the memory bank

(X − 5)

It Will End In Tears
Often, a regularly playful interchange between brothers and sisters would escalate to a level of fun where everyone was enjoying themselves and it seemed that level of intensity was even better than the preceding one. Just when it all seemed such good fun, our father would intone:

IWEIT
A romp with a great new date, arduous pursuit and ultimate involvement; the tender trap seems delicious and just at the famous instant it seems so foreign to feel that the ecstasy exists momentarily only, and eventually more than one in two conjugal crew wind up on the
rocks as

IWEIT
Ancient red Temagami pines needle the forest floor, blanket a spring mattress soft and growing, nature perfect in itself. The tops of eagled trees soar to majesty; yet at their most profound, if they have noticed their neighbours, they must have found that centuries soon see a right-angled change and must know that

IWEIT
Granite with ten thousand fracturing winters robed in ten thousand lichened summers. Colour, texture, performance. Residence for minerals; ballast for ships. Is the universe expanding contracting? Are orbits changing? What for, and why? In our own little universe, the quick buck the fast copulation the easy route the sweet tooth of humanity consume us. We must try to remember the tickled children, the eagled pine, the glinting granite, the boomerang of planets on their way. They offer lessons that save the tears for another notch of the eternal cog, to sustain the wonder we are particles of; lest even the best of us find out that, after all,

IWEIT

(X − 4)

I had convinced myself that there would be no wedding  for me. Oh, I’d enjoyed youth: parties at people’s  parents’ farms with quarts of scotch. One time I self- selected as the rescue  party and headed back to town to find the cutie sitting on the hotel steps. Happily she hopped into the car and returned to the campsite; later, a  warm empty space in a sleeping bag and eggs left bubbling in too much fat.

The sherry party ought to have been fun but there was  too much poultry clucking. With an under-developed confidence I knew I couldn’t endure the whole thing and  decided to arrive fashionably late at a quarter to eight. I  knew the layout of the flat by heart. Sodden coats lay  piled unceremoniously in the front room. Someone was  in the loo so I went directly to the back living room, the one with the lilac leather sofa, the dove grey broadloom and the hearth. In the middle of the room had collected a circle of married men fawning over who could get the  blonde another drink. It looked like a jungle gathering  with the men showing great restraint while the beg kettle came to a boil.

The metaphor was apt as the candelabra on the sideboard had dripped a collection of wax upon the holly surround and now the whole thing burst into  flames – which was just as well as it wasn’t actually clear who was going to have whom for dinner. I needed my  chance to exert sober heroics so the flaming ensemble  was picked up by its bottom and trundled down the hall  to the kitchen sink. In very short order all the young wives tugged on leashes that brought to their left sides all the nice husbands, leaving the blonde along and quite drunk. So I gallantly offered to drive her home. The  briefest pause at my apartment for the necessary  interchanges and we both decided to get married to each other and were, a week later.

Let me tell you about sitting without a stitch cross  legged on the floor – we had no seating, you see; curtains, a bed, toothbrushes and pots, but no chairs. We stared into each other’s candlelit eyes and she taught  me about Chopin and the place in the classical canon occupied by his Études. I was able to teach some of the  lore of the idea of the North and how vital a place the  concept occupied in the core of Canadian identity.

How things unravelled is another story,
for another day.

(X − 3)

Will I always be the most important thing
in your world?
Serviceable yet insecure
helping nurture to this point
the peace
the passion
the unfolding petals of a too-long-clasped bud
helped to sunlight
and fresh air flowing around
as nature intended
Not New York

but blueberry hunting
still summer days
quiet walks for miles
working three decades of fear and tension
into a manageable mass

The winter holiday we’d earned and spent instead of payment down for a house; the walks down the hill after dusk, the warm jungle so moist and near, the music escaping and cascading, one station only all the way to harbourside for an after-dinner drink

Then, my love somewhere up the hill, me and  Dr Zhivago easing back to the grand old concrete- blocked whitewashed hotel held together by hospitality and the magnificent view

Carriage and incubation weren’t that bad, you said; you  enjoyed the state. Labour was something else: poor staff ears heard no new words so early that morning but the order and authority of your clarion call could be heard through three closed doors and around two corners down the hall

And then it was here and he was a big boy and we were happy and they put the bundle on your breast and the look in your eyes told me I had been right to ask

So now we were calm again
Hoping to resurrect part of your promise
Of my constant primacy
I gently reminded you of your promise
You smiled and said:

I lied

(X − 2)

Mowing lawn from memory
Splitting logs with familiar old axe
Wine cellar
Winter hearth
Smell of air upon reaching destination
The Wing’s brick floor underfoot
Actual northern greenhouse
Anticipated southern greenhouse
Walks to Mercy Martyr’s stake
Long dinner parties
Spring walks first year kids were at Grenville
Family dinners on living room sofas
Hurree Babu’s hunting gifts
Solace of endless library
World at bay
beyond the Boyne

(X − 1)

Women were uneasy
in her company
she was better at their game
of course.

Men were attracted
as they sensed
scintillating concupiscence
of course.

People were dazzled
beholding such candlepower
basking in the brilliance
enchanted
while the show lasted
of course.

Understanding of yin-yang balance
appreciation of the law of averages
were suspended
Yet like ominous weather
it all evened out in the end
of course.

Inevitably
it became time to change the locks
to have the young pro bono performer
produce the documents
emphasizing the end
of the chapter
of course.

It was me that moved out
but she left nonetheless for worlds uncharted
with the cat.
I miss him still
of course.

In time a message arrived
I’ve always loved you and I always will
Sorry I missed the call
of course.

Never love a heart that’s not big enough to rent out room.
Love requires more space than passion, whose heat, scorpion-
like, sears itself with lightning intensity. Passion needs only
air, not reason, for combustion.

Songs that used to mask the pain now seem like cheap makeup
for the mind. And yet what we had, though rare, was real.

Over and done

Life is like music –
the melody is arrived by the intervals
                                                            Silent sevenths

Petite Rivière
16 June, 1992

Over the shoulder of the mound
in whose protection
the little house was built
lies the well-marked channel
to the open sea
Voices of children
loud but indistinct
drift with the sea smell

Why not look out to sea
or across the river
or up the valley
instead of burrowing deep
in the armpit of earth
hiding from the beauty of this warm
blue-skied mid-June loveliness
Maybe a fierce, driving February storm knows

Slight flagstone cap; slender tall chimney one and a half bricks wide. Steep peaked roof tenting a right angle to  the uneven lawn resplendent with dandelions and Queen Anne’s lace. Once moss-green asphalt shingles host pale lichen that has taken half a century to earn the right of residence
and now belongs

Patience has exposed a mellow grey emerging at the  surface of the even cedar rows of lovingly split shakes. The sun glints bright upon the tiny brass knob of the  front door, newly painted cranberry
with pride

The ballast of an ancient ship disgorged in the New World supports the sailor’s house on the granite precision that such heavy blocks demand.

The owner invested years of drudgery
upon the bounding main
Now the motionless land
holds his house
its back to the pounding sea
regarding the green valley
where nature offers
gentle happy sunsets of summer

Exchanges

Yesterday
they came to town
and took me out to lunch at Whole Foods
He had 100 g
of three dishes
including broccoli and shrimp

They have a nice new vehicle
a grey Toyota Highlander
thought “huge” by some
which label seemed to grate on him
so I was told
so I said nowt

It must be quite new
as she showed no great enthusiasm
for driving it
but said she would
later
In the meantime
she got out to aid him
in backing out of the parking space

They might have taken delivery
last weekend
and decided to take it
on a trip
Hence their confusion about lunch on
Tuesday
or Wednesday
deciding in the end that
the more sensible route
would involve Whole Foods
on the way back
rather than first
on the way there
and so we met

At what seemed like the conclusion of the lunch
He opened up the subject
of his health

In retrospect it seems
as though he covered the bases properly
as if he had practised the speech
and disclosed the name
which I knew on hearing it, although
I would not be able to remember it later

It is apparently one of the biggies
and very difficult to treat
but there is a new drug
that might hold some promise

He’s tired
and thinks of the future as a concept
to be dealt with
one day at a time

He mentioned what he wanted
There are four initials
which summarize his current position
They stand, approximately, for
Best that Can be Hoped For
or similar
I said nowt

He felt he owed an explanation
since he had been working in the woods one day
and he stopped
just like that

I returned as fast as I could; I had been tranced far away in the car with my aunt and grandmother. I had just decided to relax when the car turned into the big stone gates. I thought: “This is nice, with the trees and the shade,” but soon we stopped.

The cemetery was normal
doing what their ilk does best
Quietude, green and peaceful
replete with small stone markers
separating the occasional
aggressively artistic marble jumble heap
Still air seemed appropriate
as solemn stately monuments
of nature’s incomparable design
anchored calm shade patches
through which we walked
welcoming their unwarmth

My aunt explained that we were there to visit my grandmother’s parents and little brother. Only now does the duality dawn that the visit also served as a visit to my great-grandparents and a great uncle I never knew.

Now, at night, prompted by the implied adventure of Rachmaninov’s 2^nd, stimulated by Fritz Kreisler, I can see that a half dozen dozens of years ago my  grandmother was then older still than I am today.

I understand my family now
It was not sadness but gladness
I know where those folk are at
and maybe more the why
the locale and
the great journey

Lessons
22/24 June, 1992
Martin’s River, NS

Boats in harbour bob and tug at mooring plugs. Resolutely they face southeast into the damp breath of late afternoon.

The orange inflatable wriggles as the old man settles into comfort at the stern. The boy’s small yellow rain jacket measures itself onto the centre thwart. Long oars reach high then dash down to slightly splash the dark viscous surface. A pause

while the two lean closer
to experience the shared moment of mutual patience. Then again the oars soar and fall: rapidly at first, with the ungainly symmetry of the first moments of flight. The cadence settles, each cycle punctuated by slight pools of splash, and the dinghy moves slowly across the quiet harbour, forming a zippered track that could be the trace of a giant water spider or the spoor of a rich childhood memory

Seasonscapes

Night Shift
30 January, 2015

Ghostly dynamic spumes
scurry at speed
along flat roof
right to the edge
Then slow and curl
into flamboyant intimidating
descending billows like
whole tumbleweed
quickly rising drifts
Unnerving

A Very Cold Very Early Spring Morn
10 March, 2016

The firmament’s fulcrum lightens
Sky raspberries
Black grass gradually greens
Jagged teeth at hill top
become marble stamps
stolidly sitting
on the cemetery hill
Three skeletal leafless anchors catch enough morning
to represent spring’s dynamism
of blossomed beauty
and suggest summer warmth
shade and tranquility

17 June, 1992

Gentle green velvet covers the smoothly rising field
that curves evenly up to the rich bule of
the limitless
June sky
Dreams are the best way to travel

Earth

Early morning toe scrunching
in dew-softened grass
Digits sense the new summer’s day
and commit the sensation to memory
Twenty years on, still
they rejoice and are grateful

Mom’s Birthday 2015
3 May

Blue Scilla
Yellow Daffs
Fresh Yew buds
Cherry trees blush
Magnolias blossom
Tulips surge
Forget-me-nots prosper
The bonheur of Muguet apparent
Maple buds falling to a chartreuse sea
beginning
another cycle

New London, Connecticut
12 June, 1992

Old man trimming hedge
in early morning light
before heat melts mist
Rampant rhododendrons
Loping black lab down lane
running for the joy of it

Small roadside cemetery
set off from open field
by post-and-rail fence
Man staring at headstone
left hand in pocket
hips cocked to the right

A lonely stand that had been maintained for some time before I was able to snatch a share of it through my open window on a mid-June evening as I sped by, bound for the seashore

22 June, 1992

Drizzled tiny drops
expand to separate plashes
Wavelets smooth
Strains of Handel’s Berenice
ghost over the mottled surface
Little stems of water
rush up to meet the droplets
then return as inverted mushrooms
to form the harbour’s new calm

Isthmus of Hope
27 June, 1992
5 a.m.

I press the alarm off. In wonder I absorb the seamless saw blade stretching out before me, the tree peaks and roof outlines precisely reciprocated. Five blue herons fish in the stream. A backlit rock garden slopes to the sea.

Grey Mauve Yellow
Orange Raspberry Blue
silently merged

A silver ripple of morning air divides the perfection
Awakening robins sound the day in;
a lone nightingale answers.

The day begins.

Dundalk
12 July, 1992

Dull grey
No visibility
Summer storm
Young green summer newness
Foliage bends away from approaching storm
Giant trunks strain
Knuckle roots, elbow branches
Sheets of water rip leaves and stems
washed asunder by the onslaught
Intense metal-grey changed from
battleship plate to
sterling’s rain-flashed glint

The cool comes
individual drops
now slowed
Rain-scrubbed air
ozone-fresh
visceral tingle
Stimulated lungs
proudly demand
more space
Storm survival
promotes relief
Muscles relax
breath pattern
eases and lengthens
Rain stops
Crops begin to dry

Here

The brittle scratch
of the observing chipmunk
as it scurries to the warm-needled forest floor
punctuates the wilderness
as its beauty
unremittingly unfolds

Oh God
how well You have done
that I may so enjoy
Your work

Drift Bashing
2^nd Line East of Hurontario Street
Christmas Eve

Sunset snow squall
Yellow and grey
Olive and orange
Cream and blue
Wispy white across the fields
Pathing patterns
Thankful for fencing
from which drifts are strung
The old Gold and I battle
merging with the whiteness

The Girl in the White Dress

Oh Joe,
she breathed
I gotta go
They need me
at the Hollywood Bowl
I wish you’d come
it’s so exciting
you can’t imagine
what 50,000 fans
sound like
Yes,
he smiled

Temagami Reward

Canoe bow raised at end of gradual decline
where babbling water sounds
have agelessly kept company and pace
Looking down through giant red pine pillars
to sanctuary at the bottom
A hunch of shoulder shifts the load
for better footing
Millennial sponge mattress
of accumulated needles
both soft and welcoming
yet treacherous
on the descent
to the shimmering lake

Life Literature

Imagine what poetry I could have written if I had started as a youth. Verses might have revealed my awkwardness;  have squealed with glee upon seeing Temagami the first time; have described the excruciating pain of the weight of a hospital sheet tented off my legs: the vision of the Old Boy’s face as he leaned over the small white metal bed, coming close to tears when he felt the fever on my forehead and said “I’m so very sorry, son”; the white terror resultant from the awareness that some day I too would have to shave and shoulder adult fears

I realized how very much I wanted to write or even pursue photography. Who do you think you are? I don’t now know but I’m game to find out. George Moss was my father for the good and bad of that

So I surrendered. I realized there was only one David Douglas Duncan and my chance of being equal to  or better than the best seemed too poor to bother trying to fulfill hope’s spectre. Instead, I should have asked for  paper in endless supply for Christmas

I am my own poet laureate.
Aren’t we all dictionary delvers, putting vowels and  consonants into clumps and moving them around to best  carry available pleasure? There is an obligation to myself, to those at the table, those who wish they were, and those others who used to be and remain present in this living moment

A Remembrance of Mangoes
27 February, 2010

If you know the tropics
the Caribbean let’s say
colour intensity stays in your mind
rather than winters cold and grey

It’s why every spring
in very early May
the soul rejoices as the heart
remembers in its special way

With fresh greens and new sky blue
we rejoice in summer play
on a lovely boat
in the open Georgian Bay

Grasp your drink on the deck
Bask under vital green pine
Sky so blue it hurts the eye
Please, please don’t go away

Nevis to Me

The solid stone dock dominates the harbour as surely as the cloud-wreathed mountain determines the character of the island.

At Jessup’s there is a right-angled turn at the giant iron sugar-rendering kettle. Most of the way down the hill to the first turn there used to be a small, very simple abode of less than 100 square feet painted bright purple and fresh green. It’s not there now.

A left turn leads down a series of potholes that promise to become a road to the sea. Just before the beach on the left is Randy’s place. His double trademark is that he always sports a large tan leather hat and a genuine smile. His burgers are memorable, second only to the sea view.

The increasingly distant lone figure didn’t move. His  habit was to remain stationary until the boat was well clear of the dock and on its way. Perhaps he considered what I was thinking. Every year I would reflect on his thoughts, confident that he was wondering when would be the last time he would see me off. Little did either of us realize the last time was the last time when it was the last time.

© Richard Clare Moss 2016