Sunday, July 15, 2007
Latest poem published.
Crocuses
Some things are so poetic,
they don’t rhyme.
Or if they do,
it’ll take a little time.
It was one of those usual,
unpredictable,
glorious mid-February Vancouver Sunday afternoons.
Kits Beach was giggling with her reminder to allwhy we left our place of birth to be with her.
On the off-chance she might smile on us,
and knowing she always does.
Beaches all seem female to me, I thought,
as mountains all seem male.
They must have both, of course;
where else would they come from?
I was using the Bluetooth
Telus had given me for five years of indentured servitude.
As I sat on the bench chatting into the air,
a woman looked at me, thinking I was speaking to her.
I pointed to my head and she smiled,
her eyelashes fluttering with bashful recognition.
And I forgot who I was talking to.
And I swear to this day I can’t remember.
I watched her sit on the next bench down,
I pulled the ridiculous techno-tumour off my ear and looked over,
With that uncommon nerve I get
when the sun infuses everything with hope
I spoke.
“Great day,” was my brilliant initiative.
Again the smile and fluttering demurity.
“Yes.”
With the lilt of a Canadien accent she asked,
“Do you have another cigarette, that I could smoke?”
From my heart, I thanked my Lord for that sweet day when I was 14 and took up smoking—if only that I would have one that she could smoke.
I would like to recount the content of our thirty minutes in the sun.
I know she laughed, put on sunglasses,
leaned back on the bench turning ever so slightly toward me,
as I sat on the bench crushing Peter Jackson after Peter Jackson
under the heel of my boot.
But what we talked about vanished with the Sun’s
rapid descent into the Sea.
She had to go—and thanked me for the cigarettes.
I asked for her number, and she recited it as I poked razor numbers into the phone.
Just then, I saw a crocus.
I picked it and said, “Nadia.”
She turned.
“Here.” She held her hand out.
“It’s a crocus, the first flower of the year.
My father would pay a nickel to whoever found the first crocus every year.
‘They are meant to be picked,’ he would say, “since their time is so fleeting.
Their bloom is as finite as a smoke ring, or February sun,
or the first chance meeting of a new friend.’”
She cupped it gently—its purple tinge reflected the blush of her cheek.
“Thank you. See you soon.”
She kept looking at the crocus as she walked away.
When she was gone, I grabbed my phone.
Had I saved the number?
“Nadia, Nadia, Nadia.”
No! Unsaved? No history…
Gone, like everything we think is very important.
If I had seen her again the next day,
or the next…
But the crocuses were gone,
washed away with the reality of rain.
I will see her again,
somewhere else,
some other time.
And maybe, maybe then,
it’ll rhyme.
Some things are so poetic,
they don’t rhyme.
Or if they do,
it’ll take a little time.
It was one of those usual,
unpredictable,
glorious mid-February Vancouver Sunday afternoons.
Kits Beach was giggling with her reminder to allwhy we left our place of birth to be with her.
On the off-chance she might smile on us,
and knowing she always does.
Beaches all seem female to me, I thought,
as mountains all seem male.
They must have both, of course;
where else would they come from?
I was using the Bluetooth
Telus had given me for five years of indentured servitude.
As I sat on the bench chatting into the air,
a woman looked at me, thinking I was speaking to her.
I pointed to my head and she smiled,
her eyelashes fluttering with bashful recognition.
And I forgot who I was talking to.
And I swear to this day I can’t remember.
I watched her sit on the next bench down,
I pulled the ridiculous techno-tumour off my ear and looked over,
With that uncommon nerve I get
when the sun infuses everything with hope
I spoke.
“Great day,” was my brilliant initiative.
Again the smile and fluttering demurity.
“Yes.”
With the lilt of a Canadien accent she asked,
“Do you have another cigarette, that I could smoke?”
From my heart, I thanked my Lord for that sweet day when I was 14 and took up smoking—if only that I would have one that she could smoke.
I would like to recount the content of our thirty minutes in the sun.
I know she laughed, put on sunglasses,
leaned back on the bench turning ever so slightly toward me,
as I sat on the bench crushing Peter Jackson after Peter Jackson
under the heel of my boot.
But what we talked about vanished with the Sun’s
rapid descent into the Sea.
She had to go—and thanked me for the cigarettes.
I asked for her number, and she recited it as I poked razor numbers into the phone.
Just then, I saw a crocus.
I picked it and said, “Nadia.”
She turned.
“Here.” She held her hand out.
“It’s a crocus, the first flower of the year.
My father would pay a nickel to whoever found the first crocus every year.
‘They are meant to be picked,’ he would say, “since their time is so fleeting.
Their bloom is as finite as a smoke ring, or February sun,
or the first chance meeting of a new friend.’”
She cupped it gently—its purple tinge reflected the blush of her cheek.
“Thank you. See you soon.”
She kept looking at the crocus as she walked away.
When she was gone, I grabbed my phone.
Had I saved the number?
“Nadia, Nadia, Nadia.”
No! Unsaved? No history…
Gone, like everything we think is very important.
If I had seen her again the next day,
or the next…
But the crocuses were gone,
washed away with the reality of rain.
I will see her again,
somewhere else,
some other time.
And maybe, maybe then,
it’ll rhyme.
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