Category: Poetry

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