O, my little green friend,
Your half-shell so hard, your belly so full;
You are a work of art, as your namesake did create;
As you yourself practice, in the martial mode.
A black belt, a cleft foot, a pizza in hand…
Truly, my scaly friend, despite your small size
And plastic disposition,
The way you hang from my bag
In your mask of blue
Makes you a hero.
I love you.
The universe is expanding. Each year,
Astronomers say, the space from star to star
Is left a little lonelier. We’re here
Because we are no longer there. We’re far
From where we used to be. This is a truth
Glimpsed even in small things: worn notes, photos,
The odd Facebook post; records drawn from youth
That show the things we thought we knew. In prose
We see Past. That’s all a star’s existence is.
For mementos make us mariners: old, grey
Shepherds of vast and milky distances,
Measuring life behind us. It must stay
A light preserved by sight; grown apart, like rings.
But as Astronomers say, since the big bang—
—so has everything.
Ham-mer (ham’er) n. 1 A hand tool with a head at right angles to the handle, used for driving nails, pounding, etc. v.t. 1 To strike with or as with a hammer. 2 To form or force as if with hammer blows.
A blunt instrument, a heavy weight
waiting to fall,
existing to come down.
The change inherent
in its moulded metal
speaks of something
inevitable.
I flinch
when it strikes
–always, in a pattern–
even now, steeling myself to its steel,
or holding, as a child, wood in place for my grandfather
who drives nails into a cabinet that is becoming itself
with each piece added,
each nail driven
another hole,
another day
–hammering
–flinching
It hurts to grow.
[This poem is also the subject of my Writing Centre article entitled "The Poetics of Originality."]
Why is creativity so elusive? We see artists and poets and marvel agape at their powers of creation, but in truth creativity is a learned thing – a practice of insight and introspection. You too have the potential to produce art almost as good as the greats, if only you look in the right places. It doesn’t matter that no one’s listening. It doesn’t matter that originality is a lie. Broadcast your softest parts into the void and wait patiently for tender affirmations of love, money, and abiding validation.
1.
Smack your head against
paper, keyboard, canvas,
whatever dead thing
you’ve dragged
on your desk.
Remind yourself that
all great art comes from pain.
2.
Wander into your kitchen,
tear through drawers,
stare with cavernous eyes at the condiments
as though they hold something worth taking away.
You are a carnivore raving, jaundiced, frothing,
and the thing you crave most is next to
the mustard.
Open the fridge again.
Open the fridge again.
3.
Flip through books of poetry
and bask in your inadequacy. You will absorb through osmosis
the inspiration of strangers. You will not remember the words,
but surely, you think, they will sink
into some soft recess
at the base of your skull, substance rising to the surface
when summoned.
This is helping, you say to your eighth-favourite poet. This is work.
Burn through the pages for another hour and then
go eat lunch.
Crunchy paper and a white pillow;
finally, your mother knows you.
Stethoscope hung on a rack;
your body betrays its secrets.
Bandages and cotton balls;
she turns from you in your nakedness.
Hygiene wipes and hand sanitizer;
you swallow the heart in your throat.
Hypodermic needles, monojects;
you can’t ask to be alone.
Reflex hammers and tongue depressors;
you let her touch your wrists.
Body scales and biohazard bins;
empty out your raw parts for display.
Bloodied scrubs and disposable gloves;
your mother is scared.
Eye charts and wound rulers;
she wonders what she did wrong.
Scalpels fresh from the autoclave;
but these concerns seem clinical, about her – not you.
