Poetry – Page 2 – Craig Spence

Mystic Beach – January 2022

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Mystic Beach – January 2022

Until now Mystic Beach has been a name on a map that conjured images: glittering vistas, sea breezes, the white manes of a thunderous surf.

The young woman we met at the trail head told us the hike was not too difficult. Some ups and downs, exposed roots, puddles and mud, nothing worth a fret. She and her frisking, mini Labradoodle have not yet conceived the true meaning of fate.

We wondered how it must have been for First Peoples to traverse this place, before the scrape of human infrastructure made it easy for our invasive species to cross its gullies, breach clinging underbrush, reach sacred strands?

Down, down, down we went. Our deepening descent staked by snaking steps and ramps, which would have to be retraced in an uphill climb… when we’d be left behind by younger sprites, sprinting by in the fast lane, leaving us to complain about weary muscles, creaking bones.

Down, down, down into our vision we homed, seeking that place that astounded, where senses are confounded, and the promise of wonder becomes a something known.

And, Oh! What a sight it was. Not the Vatican, or Taj Mahal, or an interminable, stone-faced wall marking boundaries between us and them, but a thrashing, crashing place where ocean, land and sky converge, making sense of an inner urge.

As always, wherever human feet have trod, there’s monuments to past descents, marking the supposed extent of human mind. Mystic Beach? There’s a thousand of its kind, a thousand more inspired vistas to be seen. But none that I have dreamed.

CSW

Influences

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 This morning’s sun dawned on me,
 a bleed of light in the ambient air,
 impressing with its metaphor of glory.
 
 And I asked: Is this the shining way…
 the path?

 And I asked: How many dawns
 have bathed me in their
 blare of blinding light?

 And I say: Dawning’s beyond conception.

 I don’t remember my mother’s face,
 from that first day she held me
 swaddled in her arms.
 My earliest memories
 are assembled pastiches
 retrieved from jumbled collections,
 fading images in forgotten albums...
 Brothers, sister and me
 in defining moments picked
 from the scrabble of growing up...
 Growing old.

 And I ask: Is this the past I wanted?
 My only possible inception?
 
 And I say: Their love was good enough
 to endure a lifetime.
 
 And what of my own sons,
 misunderstanding, misunderstood,
 good as me at finding fault?
 Is their's a future untold,
 stories in the making,
 or a history already
 that I’m to blame for?

 In the midst of this day’s dawning
 a flight of geese honked and gabbled
 up our street;
 our suspiring phalanx 
 of cedars, arbutus, and Douglas fir
 stood firm, and jagged against the sky;
 a frog croaked in the yard,
 awakening my admiration
 for ants, and beetles…
 and lowly worms.

 My morning mantra harkened,
 urged me to complete
 The Circle…
 
 ‘We are defined
 by what we are-not
 As much as by
 Who we think we-are,’

 The moment I sense my self
 I disappear,
 become part of the very nature
 that shapes my solitude...
 my joy, my fear.

Backspin – Flibber T. and the Water Wheel

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You've heard about the water wheel,
has Chemainus in such a flap?
Well, now the truth has been revealed...
what turns its forward back.

The culprit's name is Flibber T,
that's Flibber T Gibbet for long.
He's the one you're gonna see
if you listen to this, my song.

Oh Flibber T, Oh Flibber T
You're such a curious fellow,
your cap's as red as red can be
and your shoes are bright, bright yellow

Flibber T is a naughty elf,
as naughty as naughty can be. 
Never thinks of anyone else,
out on his troubling sprees.

Turning clockwise the other way
for unbelieving eyes
is just the sort of trick he'll play
to shock, and tease, and surprise.

But when it comes to elfish kind
you've gotta believe to see
you have to alter your state of mind
with the likes of Flibber T.

Oh Flibber T, Oh Flibber T
You're such a curious fellow,
your cap's as red as red can be
and your shoes are bright, bright yellow

Miracle Beach – rites of passage

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Clips from our walk along Miracle Beach to Black Creek

We didn’t realize it until we were returning from our Miracle Beach foray that dogs are not allowed down to the water’s edge. Some signs are meant to be obeyed, some you just gotta wonder about, and do what you think is right.

My impressions coalesced into a poem…

Miracle Beach - rites of passage

 We broke a few rules, trudging the arced shore
 beyond the subtle sign, deleting dogs of any sort.
 Sophie’s nose came with us, snuffling things out,
 we might otherwise have missed, being merely human.

 Death, of course, is ever present,
 a sickly sweet scent on salted air,
 a peeling back, layer by fibrous layer, of muscle and bone,
 the tendons and ribs that hold us in,
 bind us to joys, hopes and sorrows 
 like the taught stings of a harp.

 Impressions criss-crossed our wondering ways,
 sometimes the past tenses of others, or our own,
 at all times intriguing, the comings and goings, heres and theres
 of life in the making, out on the substrate sand.

 Where it dawns on us, that all’s touch after all,
 the tingle of light in our eyes, the rush of the sea,
 its thrashing echoed in inner ears,
 the tongue’s excitement at what once was…
 it's all touch, vibrant on the boundaries of who and what we’ve become.

 A convergence, really…
 at the point of being…
 if there is one?

 I look to where my sky touches the ocean,
 land curves beyond my horizon,
 sound reveals its silence…
 and discover it’s all part of me, particles of who I am
 in this exact, eternal instant.

 As for meaning? We’re ever on the lookout,
 gathering what we can from the clatter and clutter
 of worlds that engulf our common senses,
 defy purpose… and leave me asking:
 What remains of all this, once I am gone?

 To which I must answer: Everything but me.


 CraigSpenceWriter.ca

What Sense Reveals

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I’m not a poet, but in this instance, a novelist composing a sonnet, taken from the mind of the protagonist in my current work-in-progress, The Mural Gazer. Buddy Hope has decided to take the final, life defining step of ending his life. But he’s not approaching this ‘task’ from the usual anguished trajectory. Instead, he sees it as a logical conclusion, a job that needs doing, almost as if it were a household chore.

I’ve been trying to figure out how he came to this conclusion. Many of us have contemplated the act of suicide, not as something we would actually do, but as a way of getting underneath, or behind, or into the meaning of life. That’s not where Buddy’s head is at. He’s simply tired, and doesn’t look forward to another thirty or so years dragging himself through a world that has no purpose, no sustainable joy.

To paraphrase someone very close to me, who chose Medical Assistance In Dying (MAID), Buddy isn’t living anymore, he’s just existing. He’s depressed at the prospect of carrying on, when every moment takes him farther from that time in life when he believed in his purpose as a father, a reporter, an armchair philosopher.

The question hanging in the air at this point in the novel is: Will Buddy’s recollections and contemplation heading toward his final act change his mind. He’s composed his parting letter, and left it on the dining nook table of the camper he’s been living in as his home-away-from-estranged-home. He’s saying his veiled goodbyes to family and friends, and is about to drive out of cell range to his chosen spot. Nothing he’s considered so far has dissuaded him from deploying EEK, his Emergency Exit Kit.

What Sense Reveals isn’t written to a particular person; it’s written to all the people he has known and loved.

Our Changing World

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Rosemary Ratcliff reading her COVID-19 poem Our Changing World

Poetry, of course, stands on its own. In fact, one of the joys of all literature is the creative response it evokes in the minds of readers. Sharing our responsive impressions is now possible, and this is mine to Rosemary Ratcliff’s poem Our Changing World.

This video was produced for the Chemainus Valley Cultural Arts Society, where I volunteer as a communications guy. Collaborations like this help bring the arts in general, and literature in particular, to a larger audience.

If you want to simply hear her poem, and let its language activate your own interpretations and visions, hit the play arrow, and close your eyes! Then share what it evokes for you in a comment!

Circumference

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A circle has no ending,
no periods or dates.
No beginnings either
no pre-determined fate.

Some think it has a boundary
scribed in rock or sand
a sharp, defined circumference
that we can comprehend.

But geometry's no pattern
for what our minds embrace,
our circle's not a border,
fixed in time or place.

We're gathered here as writers
looking in, and up, and out
and all our conversations
admit a note of doubt.

The only thing that's certain,
at the centre of our sphere,
is sharing, comparing, preparing
are the reasons that we're here.

The intimacy of breathing

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Picked up the cat this morning
to give his mourning hug
listened to the breath
of going in and coming out
squeezed like an accordion
his fur pressed to my ear
listened to the resonance
of going in and coming out
listened to the purr
of in and out

CSW