A POEMOPHOBE'S POEMS

Birth

The exact,

perfect moment—

Electric!

Then come the bells

and he’ll be shouting

at the dogs again:

“Lie down! Lie down!”

Still, history will record

that at a certain time and place,

a comet appeared in the sky.

Travelers newly arrived,

took up residence

in a nearby hotel.

The following morning,

a calf was born

with a single, perfect head.

Dew lay bejeweled

on the grass outside.

And time became a chorus

for birds in a churchyard.

Thus, nightingales sang,

bronze bells rang, dogs barked

and a man sat by his window—

all while a calf suckled

for its milk.

Pathway

Something in the air

coughed

as you took my hand

and led me, breathless,

to the top of the world.

(1974)

Ode to Underwear

Under clothes and the things we wear,

under suits like armour, under there—

beneath the shirts, the pants and skirts,

beneath the pleasures, beneath the hurts

lay skins of gold like cloth so fine,

skins like cups of summer’s wine,

wine that’s drunk along such shores

where boats are ushered by with oars;

that dipping ‘neath that sparkling plain

to cool dark then to sun again,

come drops of water, like beads of sweat.

All caught within the golden net.

Land, too, wakes inside the hour.

Blossoms open up in bower.

Below here lay the wakened scent

of love’s unending payment.

For light reaches under there.

And warmth does touch us under where

we’re skins of earth and water, fine.

A feast for all who choose to dine.

Perseverance

The wild thing laughed

when I stroked its neck

with my other hand.

In the Beginnin’

When Adam saw Eve

he said, “Holy Smoke!”

as his member grew stiff

and hard as an oak.

“Blessin’ be as blessin’ might,

I ain’t never ‘fore seen

such a wondrous sight!”

And when his fig leaf blew off

in the Great Cleansin’ Win’,

I believe that’s when

they named it

Original Sin.

The Porn Stars

Breathless with commission

after each emission,

with orgasmic precision,

our Dolly held the stage.

And Buck Wright, her first mate,

a.k.a. “Dick-the-Great”,

politely would await

her great finish.

But Dolly took to heart

a work ethic, from the start,

that finished (just in part),

on camera.

Days after she would shiver.

Down to her toes she’d quiver,

and moaning, whenever

Buck came in the room.

It got to the point

he couldn’t leave the joint,

nor even to appoint

a pitch hitter.

She practiced her craft

morning, noon and aft.

“More,” she once laughed,

on Sundays.

To better her skills

her privates she’d chill

with ice after drills.

(To keep them from overheating.)

She was a capitalist at core.

I remember she swore

that at forty and four

she’d retire.

And Buck, he agreed.

(Of late he’d felt the need

to keep his great steed

more in paddock.)

Yet, they were treadmilled,

tantalized and still,

caught between thrills

and just living.

Oh, it burned like a fire,

that unquenchable desire,

that need to aspire

for more:

More friction more waste,

more slippage more haste,

more freedom and space

for whatever.

So, be it money or sex,

like porn stars we’re next!

Will we read the fine text

only after?

Mystery at the

End of the Road

The human race

ran out of space,

all in the twinkling of an eye.

While across the face,

from that other place,

is the smile that you could die for.

Chestnut 2.0

Under the spreading selfish-tree,

I took from you; you took from me.

We made our stand, did I and thee,

under the spreading selfish-tree.

Sweet John/Spencer’s Hill

Sweet John, Sweet John,

how long you’ve been away!

Oh, I’ve been gone so long

that I might never stay.

Sweet John, Sweet John,

why did you go away?

I left for my sweetheart

to marry her someday.

Sweet John, Sweet John,

Oh, tell me who is she?

Why, she’s the sweetest gal

that you would ever see!

Is she a farming girl,

or from a city lane?

She lives not far from here,

but I’ll not say her name.

Sweet John, Sweet John,

where did your trav’ling go?

I went up to the mines

of north Ontario.

Sweet John, Sweet John,

why did you go up there?

To make me some money

to give to one so fair.

Sweet John, Sweet John,

was your searching in vain?

Up there I dug more gold

than a cloud does give rain.

Sweet John, Sweet John,

I‘m so happy for you!

Say with all your money

what is it you will do?

I’ll buy that house so high,

the one ‘top Spencer’s Hill.

Then I’ll buy his foundry

and Samuel Johnson’s mill.

I’ll make a grand old house;

she’ll want for not a thing—

with silks and fine linens, 

and golden wedding rings!

Sweet John, Sweet John,

I, too, will wed this fall!

Tell me, now, of your love,

of where you met, and all?

On Spencer’s Hill, one spring;

when I, a callow youth.

We’d love there ‘til the dawn.

She is my life, in truth.

Sweet John, Sweet John,

Now what do you speak of?

Not those times long ago

when we were fools in love?

Not foolish was our love!

Nor was our love in vain.

We were in love. And are.

That is a fact that’s plain.

Sweet John, Sweet John,

yes once we were as one.

But like night ends the day;

our love has had its run.

Sweet John, Sweet John,

I’m ‘trothed to Adam Dane.

Him I love. Only him.

And soon I’ll take his name.

 “Sweet John, Sweet John,”

in love you once called me.

Well, we’ll dance, one last time

beneath our courting tree.

Offering

The snow angel

lay beside

her counterpart,

her friction,

a cooling sacrifice

to blood and time.

So, poems are a bit like viruses—they need to attach themselves to something that has a heart and pumps blood. They need to be nourished by something other than themselves or they can’t survive. And yes, they do infect healthy cells of living, breathing bodies (and I wonder, here, if I should say that they also, more often than not, whither and drop away when they attach themselves to unhealthy ones.) In most cases, they cause a slight fever, some aches and pains, maybe a runny nose or watery eyes—nothing that’s too traumatic such that it would be remembered after a few days. Others, though, have more dramatic symptoms: nausea, stomach cramps, night sweats, and other physical ailments, including fairly high fevers (though these are usually not fatal). The ailments can last quite a while. And if the poem has gone deep enough, it will last through several of a person’s life stages.

Interestingly, most people know when they‘ve been infected by a poem. Usually they can recall where and when and under what circumstances they acquired it. Perhaps they were out walking in the street or in a bar or along the lakeshore, or at the gym (though not so often there, where there is already too much heavy breathing and sighing), or when simply sitting in their room, looking out the window at banks of purpling clouds in the distance. Surprisingly, a lot of people can be very precise about of how and when and where they were infected, but not usually why. And, of course it should be said that such details are helpful if there needs to be any sort of diagnosis or explanation or excuse made (but those formulations are seldom helpful.)

A Poetic Fish: "Breathless! I am hooked with baited breath!"

In most people, poems enter and leave their system all the time with no appreciable effects. Often they will not even be aware of their presence, other than perhaps for the vaguest of cravings. There have been studies on why some people develop immunity to poems while others are smacked and tossed around, flabbergasted and splayed open by them. Many in the field think it is a factor of time and distance, as well as memory, though this remains a hotly-debated topic.

The much smaller group of “Infectees”—those most prone to the slightest of poetic rhymes (AA, BB etc.), often suffer, we’re told, from tinnitus (or “ringing in the ear”), a word coincidentally poetic when spoken aloud in a strong, low-registered voice. (To my mind the word conjures up images of vague body parts being tickled or gently pinched. But that’s for another time.)

The reason that I bring this important topic to your attention is because of the growing stigma around Infectees, especially through today’s ‘social’ media (which is the equivalent of shouting across the bog-ditch at your neighbour instead of taking the time to walk around and shout at them in person.) infectees are rarely contagious after the initial period of greatest enthusiasm when they are most infused by a poem, and so person-to-person transmission is statistically low, given the several millennia poems have been written and read.

"Arr! Billy! There be poem treasure buried here!"

Now, I’ll end here by expressing to the reader my apologies if any of you become infected while reading any of the above poems. Poem-contagions are most virilant and potent  for those who have little or no immunity. I once read that even the dreaded Bubonic Plague (I’m reading Defoe’s Journal of the Plague Year; go figure) will, in a few more centuries of adaptation, become on par with the measles and chicken pox; that humans will gradually develop immunity to it. My personal opinion is that we all need to keep some susceptibility and vulnerability to poems going forward, and that healthy lives depend upon the occasional infection. So, as far as poems are concerned, I guess you could say: A pox on all our houses!

BIRTH—I seem to recall writing around the same time that I was working on "The Dying House", and the storyline of a journey and stopping at hotels in different towns was on my mind. And again, I was thinking of one moment that crystalizes and captures as many other moments as possible, and presents them as some kind of whole. And perhaps even a pretty one. In the birthing of a calf there are many moments along the way. Which one is THE moment? Perhaps the moment of birth occurs years and decades later? Or earlier? When does birth start? When does it end? What do you see looking out that window?

PATHWAY—I wrote this probably in a hash-induced haze during my student days when I’d spend much time mooning over all the lovely lassies in the commons, and less time studying. While mountain climbing will leave you gasping for air eventually, unless you bring along a supply of oxygen, love, on the other hand, will always leave you breathless—even if you find it at sea level.

ODE TO UNDERWEAR—Probably my fav poem in this batch. I like the comic aspect of it, but also how it morphs into an ode or paean to our skin, our flesh, our physical being. We disguise ourselves in clothing, but also in the choices we make in life. I happen to think that human beings are basically “good”, no matter how much we cloak ourselves in decisions and prevarications and pride. So, when a cup of wine is offered to you—drink it. When a hand is offered, take it, and when someone speaks to you, answer them.  

PERSEVERANCE—They say only humans can laugh. I’m not sure if this is true or not, but when you use your other hand—perhaps the less dominant one—consequences other than the ones you’ve come to expect may occur, at times making for pleasant, even languid, moments that will last in your memories. Stroke on, my friends! Stroke on!

"Walk softly, my friend. Softly!"

IN THE BEGINNIN’—An early, raucous poem that is a ribald account about how the whole thing got started. While what Eve said about the matter is for another poem, what Adam said, when he finally lost his fig leaf, has unfortunately gone unrecorded. Which is just as well (because it’s probably unprintable!) ‘Nuff said.

THE PORN STARS—A record of silliness leading those who are afflicted into sadness, others into badness or even madness. Ah, Porn! It’s the “Wash-Rinse-Repeat-Repeat-Repeat” cycle of some people’s existence. And in doing porn (my career in the industry lasted about as long as I did) just when you think you’ve made the perfect take, there's always someone who sneezes! As an aside, I miss old-school porn shops, with “Daisy Doll” half-inflated in the front window, along with bondage gear and assorted “toys”, (some of which look down right painful!) And in the murky backroom’s smoke filled air, came the whispered sounds of pages turning, turning, turning…Well, that’s how I remember it, anyway. I do hope Buck and Dolly make a go of it off camera!

MYSTERY AT THE END OF THE ROAD—The mystery is not what causes your death, but what causes your life. The former is only confusing when you haven’t discovered the later. 

Cheers, Jake.