Thursday, 27 March 2014

Butter


There are moments that can make us whole. Like, when the afternoon light is just so or Dexter Gordon’s long, cool fingers work his saxophone. Each note a remedy for some mistake, failing or regret. Or that hypnotic scene in Jean Vigo’s Zero du Conduit, where a group of schoolboys decide to have a pillow fight, in black and white silence. A homage to abandonment of the spirit.

We will carry some of these scenes with us, always, others will be forgotten. Left along with days we did not wish for. I’m not sure why we remember some moments and loose others. I suppose we keep what we need and we string together all these strange little spectacles like lanterns. Lanterns, we use to map our journey and leave as proof that we really were here.

I write poems so as not to forget these moments. And, when I go back and read what I have written, sometimes, the sound and taste of my words frightens or uplifts me. Other times, all I can think of is butter...

…as in this piece.

Hurricane

-a true story

On a languid August day
I pedaled my bicycle down Runnymede Road
and saw Hurricane Carter
getting out of a black Mercedes Benz

I thought of stopping
but what would I say

hey Hurricane, you’re much shorter than I thought
what’s with the cowboy hat?
is it true?
didn’t anyone teach you to look before you cross?

what clever things could I possibly
pull out of the pencil shavings in my brain
to offer Hurricane Carter

the light was already changing
from open windows drifted
the buttery rhythms of Dexter Gordon
shadows were slower and longer
summer would soon be
only a remarkable wave of nostalgia
something we talked about
on long northern nights

I saw Hurricane Carter on Runnymede Road
and without a sound or wave
pedaled on
into the foreseeable shenanigans of autumn.



 Something to add to your lanterns…


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