I like the ribald poems of sloggers and shufflers, their sweeping hands and glint-eyes, the meat still in their teeth as they tell it loud. I like swaggering poems—poems that have a pack of Players rolled up under the short-sleeve of a white t-shirt. I like bawdy, libidinous poems, flowing flowering Song of Solomon poems; I like a full-lipped-Flaubert of a poem. And I like the balanced elegance of a plaited poem; a filigree of Frost. I like the surprise poem—the one that at the end of a perfect day happily pushes you in the pool; and I love the one that steals you away to a slow river with broad grassy banks, and lets you lie there and breathe. Such permission in a poem is like roughed-in plumbing—all you need to do is choose your tub, fill and bathe. I like poems that are unsure of themselves; a teacher will say these are weak and deficient poems, but I like them because they are so much like people. I like a carefully-wrapped poem, and inside something turquoise and without purpose—something you’ve always wanted but would never buy for yourself. I like care-less poems, poems that sleep-in, then leave you notes under your windshield wiper while you’re in church—telling you when and where to meet them. I love a free-verse small epiphany poem—like a friend skipping class that hangs outside of your schoolroom window madly waving her arms and grinning, waiting for you to notice her, and the clear sky behind. I also like the ones that take you seriously, respect your mind and your time—and if not your time, at least your mind. I don’t like freighted teleological poems or big cosmic ontological poems. They are like model rockets—all decals and plastic—that topple over in a minor gust, spark and fizzle and spin in circles on the pavement. I don’t like poems that tousle you, because I hated being tousled, and even hate the word tousle. And I don’t like hail-fellow-well-met cowboy poems, although I’ll admit to smiling through a few. At the same time, I don’t like elevated poems, pointy poems, God-bless-’em poems, poems that talk too much and don’t listen or look—those kind don’t have ears, which means they can’t have a heart. I don’t care for poems that support a thesis, unless the poem came before the thesis was conceived, in which case it can be brilliant and beautiful. But I do like poems that spitball you, chase you and chide you with their slant rhymes and bumpy meter and screwy trochee—and you sit there and take it because they’re saying something important. But the poem that breaks me open, the one that hurts without doing me harm, oh, give me this; give me your signet, your sonnet, your elegy or epic, and I’ll climb, kneel, open my hands, eat the host and drink the wine; trust me, I’d wait through any black night with you.
Welcome to Grow Mercy’s revised and expanded year-end list of unfounded propositions, or things I believe but can’t prove:
Time, love, quarks, discrete math, other minds, healing touch, the efficacy of hugs;
that words, as Elie Wiesel says, in moments of grace can attain the quality of deeds;
that our deepest desire is to be each others joy;
that an inner void must not be leaped over but into;
that both Kierkegaard and Nietzsche were necessary;
that you can love the earth and not love God, but you can’t love God without loving the earth;
that God with a cherry-bomb equals a big bang;
that mycelium will always remain mysterious;
that there is life on Gliese 581 C, and Harvey Pekar and Peter Popoff live there;
that the mind is not separate from the body, except perhaps for Benny Hinn, augurs and certain certified psychics;
that a sock prefers the single life;
that if scientists were mere sceptics we still wouldn’t know about the Copernican system of planetary movement;
that extraordinary claims do not immediately need extraordinary evidence;
that beauty is its own proof;
that if everything was verifiable life would cease to be;
that doubt is necessary and healthy but that the spirit of scepticism is a sickness;
that most things we hold as true are by way of other authorities;
that it was exalted certainty that sent the boxcars to Birkenau and not iffy disconsolate minds;
that to live without faith is impossible and to attempt it is a castration of life;
that there are more than a few fish swimming around with coins in their mouths;
that desire is triangular, and its nature is mimicry;
that a cultural obsession with sex is not a sign of social depravity but an indication of deep loneliness;
that if and when we humans become fully real we will no longer impose ourselves upon creation but see ourselves as one aspect;
that Gary Larson and Al Purdy are pure tellurians—and each in their own way;
that science is humble in theory but not so much in practise and that this is what it has in common with religion;
that faith needs a frame, and reason needs a trellis;
that we are not born with an existential void but develop it over time;
that the non-existence of God can be proven by symbolic logic;
that a formally valid argument can nevertheless be false;
that the argument of infinite regression is absurd;
that the earth rests on the back of a turtle…and that there are turtles all the way down;
that positive universal claims and negative existential claims are not testable in all possible worlds;
that all ravens are black, except for one or two, maybe;
that presuppositions are held viscerally and emotionally and half-consciously;
that God is a verb and not a noun and that existence is not a property;
that the word piffle can be appropriately applied to a plethora of propositions;
that when the Mayan Calendar is up, we’ll just switch to the Dan Brown Calendar;
that our deepest and dearest beliefs are not logically verifiable;
that miracle is still the best term to describe life’s origin;
that hope and mercy are stronger than hate and violence;
that Holderlin was shining in his wooden tower when he said, “But where danger is, grows the saving power also.”
That at the end, heralding a true beginning,
comes not the apocalypse but apocatastasis;
that instead of escalation toward extremes,
the possibility of universal hope, reconciliation and restoration.
‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the condominium
Not a participle was stirring, not even an idiom…
…that’s all I got.
We’re having a condo Christmas this year, son Justin is home from the misty coast; Daughter Teryl (who just finished her bachelor of science) and entrepreneurial Jordan, Musical son Mark and Blackbird Amanda will be ’round about; Deb, my wife, (who just got a job as staff manager of the Spady Centre) will be around as well:); a few weeks ago we spent a fine weekend with son Lucas and Jamie and granddaughter Madison (“motored to Saskatoon” as Julia Y. would have so aptly wrote it up in Local Happenings in the Yorkton Enterprise); as for eldest son Michael, we’ll be Skyping him in from Japan. (Awhile back we "Skyped" in a hockey game with him—the hockey game, that Olympic one—not long ago we Skyed an entire game of Monopoly with Justin, just a matter of getting the camera angles right. But he took too much pleasure in the win…so we’re wondering about the camera angles.)
But on this Christmas eve, dear reader, I’m finding that the older I get the more I want to plant myself in earth and family and friends. I’m pining for dirt in my ears and creased smiles over mashed potatoes and thinking that the closer I get to the microbial mass of humus and the hug of a sister or brother or mother the nearer I sidle to something eternal.
And the closer I get to that still point, the more I know I rely on ties. The immediate ones like Christmas with kids, New Year’s with friends. And the looser ones of memory—memories of you, to the memories of jokes my late Dad used to tell down at the Springside Sask. lumberyard like: Fellow comes in, says to the lumberyard guy, "I need some four-by-twos." "You mean two-by-fours?" The man says, "Ah, let me check," and goes back to the pick-up truck, his buddies roll down the window and they confer a while. He returns and says, "Yeah, I meant two-by-fours." Alright. How long do you need them?" The man thinks for a bit and says, "I’d better go check." After conferring again, he returns and says, "A long time. We’re gonna build a house." And that would crack ‘em all up.
These ties of matter and memory do matter. So thank you dear friends. And thank you to anyone and everyone who reads and/or responds. Know that my embracing thoughts are on their way and even now are arriving under your doors and settling upon your Christmas trees.
And on this eve of yet-another-Christmas for we ripe ones, and on this eve of a still-new Christmas for you suppler ones, have a wonderful Christmas.
After all, and for us all, ripe or supple, Christmas still signals the Incarnational mystery of "God with us"; the beauty and fragility of earth and family; the hope and sign of friendship and everlasting peace; and the wonder of resurrection, through the birth of baby.
May you all, dear friends and family, celebrate well and celebrate hearty, and have many fishes and loaves left over.
Salmon, asparagus and rice,
cooked over a wood stove,
a few lines from Merton and Purdy,
is all that’s needed to live out
this year’s longest night.
I awake hours from dawn,
poke at the coals,
then coffee and a bagel.
Turning to the news: BASKET EMPTIED OF KINDLING
Sports? Rabbits retire last season’s jerseys.
Market index? Chickadee portfolio: black-capped.
The weather? Unseasonably mild with coyotes.
Hungry, homeless and hurting people find care at Edmonton’s Hope Mission throughout the year, but Christmas is special. And it’s made extra special by the Mission’s hard working staff, the brigades of volunteers and the bands of supporters, who work together to serve up warmth, hope and basic compassion in Banquet form. It happens every Monday in December. It’s a tradition.
I lived in a basement in Victoria BC and ate cottage cheese because it was cheap and I had read somewhere of its complete-food value. The basement had a door facing the back-alley—it was badly hung and usually jammed so we used the large window in the kitchen to go in and out.
That was the season of lice and scabies and gallon jugs of Benzo-benzoate. And it was the season of a large landlord standing on my feet outside a pub on Government St. telling me I had a week to get him the rent or he’d "do something worse." He was a junkie and unpredictable.
Winter had moved in and it was rainy and I was broke, as we all were, and so it was back, once again, to Port Alberni for a few (Mac and Blo) lumber-mill pay cheques.
The months and years of no-fixed-address had been piling up and all around I sensed things were winding down, preparing to break up. Like there was a ledge somewhere down river and you could hear the water whitening as it fell over rock shelves but you couldn’t tell how far down, or on which bend you should start to back paddle. 
It was a year or so after we were kicked off Hornby Island—banned for a year for building a raft out of driftwood, setting it on fire and swimming it out into bay then swimming back and watching the beauty of the thing burn into the horizon. A flaming eye in the night, fixed back on us, pinning us to the beach.
Well, we had taken too much for granted. Like we were the only ones living on the Island. The first or last tribe. And I had fallen for it all. The beach, the salt, the oysters cracking open in a fire and eaten off the shell, the arbutus trees—their skin as sensual as the legs of Tina Turner—the turn of the tide like a seeking heart, the small store with the screen door a short hike away, the communal come-and-go.
That time was too spiritual to last anyway. It was too basic. Too Huck-Finn-human. I mean we built a driftwood hut, called it a house, and why not, it had two rooms and a big open door you hardly had to duck under to get in.
For a while there was a nudist family—a couple with two daughters—that camped on the beach just the other side of a rivulet that ran throughout the summer; and Joe, who wasn’t paired up, was always going over to the rill playing with the running water, then finally making excuses to go over and visit. One evening he just stripped naked and went and joined them by their fire—sat there on a log grinning. From where we were, we could see his teeth shinning in the orange-yellow light.
The morning after the raft-fire, police came and tore down our house and escorted us off the island. Ferries from Hornby to Denman Island and on to Buckley Bay, they saw us all the way to the main island.
Nobody said it but it seemed to mark the end of a beginning. Still we hiked, walked and rode, and landed on Salt Spring, flirted with other gulf islands; always finding ourselves in Victoria and then in Port Alberni when things got too bare-bone.
But the frays came, edges showed and life slowly became serious. People left, moved, found paths that lead far away. There was a time on Hornby that I thought it possible to live out a life entirely untethered—but for that sustaining bay. Silly. And yet here, writing this in the innocence of pre-dawn, I think; and why not?
Last Wednesday, we were a small group huddled against a sharp wind. Advent wreath blown about, candles going out, papers flying, sacramental wine knocked over—all reminders of the frailty of plans and projects; all reminders of our weakness and dependency, the vulnerability of hope, justice, and peace; the vulnerability of the Christmas “project”—the incarnation of Love shared. Well, all this simply made me want to go again.
The following is taken from the Occupy Advent Facebook page:
“Come participate in the only Christmas service this year that is a political action, performance piece, flash occupation, and act of worship.
Jasper Ave and 102st from 5:45-6:15 every Wednesday from now until Christmas.
The backdrop of a previously occupied and evicted lot will serve to illustrate the current struggle between the forces of oppression and the Force of Justice and the time of our waiting for the Promise of Hope during the season of Christmas.
The short liturgical service will be officiated by Reverend Thomas Brauer, and will include a candle lighting, scripture reading, reflection, prayer, and communion.
This is an outreach event by Occupy to the Christian community of Edmonton. Occupy is an open-faith community, and this segment of that community welcomes anyone to attend and participate to whatever degree they wish.
2000 years ago, Jesus was born to a people oppressed, in exile, occupied by a foreign empire.
During the season of Advent, the month leading up to Christmas, people all over the world remember those people who waited for a Messiah with a message of hope, justice, and life for the poor and oppressed.
Today, we continue to wait for the new earth that Jesus taught about, the just and beautiful earth that will be inherited by the meek.
Occupy invites you to remember with us that change is coming and that a new world is possible in four Advent observances each Wednesday leading up to Christmas.
All people of all faiths are welcome to come and simply attend or participate in any portion of these elements to whatever degree they wish.
It’s early and dark. In the south-east there is a place were the sun will come up, should it choose. Indications are good. So I wait for the first signs of brightening behind the city-scape. I wait.
Winter waits. The soil of summer-fallow waits, bulbs wait, bamboo is excellent at waiting, geese wait until the time is right. Beavers don’t abide waiting, but orb weavers don’t seem to mind. They spin and wait as long as it takes. The earth spins too, waiting its equinox.
But light bulbs, street lights, clocks, little chips in computers, never wait and will never care to wait. And we use them and anything else we can think of to train the waiting out of our lives.
The world of commerce is bent on bringing patience to an end. Industry and commerce keep company with the future. Corporations race each other to see how far they can project themselves into the future, or how much of it they can drag into the present, which destroys both.
There is madness here that we’ve normalized. Because life, our second womb, is about waiting. Waiting, not like Estrogon and Vladimir, but waiting without excessive effort in acceptance of a serial now. Impatience has nothing to do with waiting.
Advent is the season of expectation. It’s a storied rendezvous with a knowing midwife. A time for rekindled waiting—should we see to turn this to our soul’s advancement.
And in Advent, we wait in a commemorative way, for the birth of Jesus. As people of the paschal mystery we are always anticipating some kind of birth and some kind of resurrection. And so we wait as one waits for dawn.
I can’t see it yet but soon east will grow orange. Behind the berm of buildings across the North Saskatchewan high on the bank, the trees will turn skeletal as light strengthens behind them.
I saw a young man.
Saw him lean casual by the counter, waiting.
Saw him list as he walked, his cup cradled.
Saw him lower himself in a chair.
And pushing his case a measured distance,
saw him slump forward, open and lift
a notebook onto the table;
and using the effort of both arms,
slide it slowly towards himself,
such painfully long inches to go.
And if I were half a poet I could show you here,
how his pain was of a wounded dog,
a sparrow with a broken wing.
But I could also simply tell you,
how in one second my heart fell
and flooded me helpless and hurt
at the way he held up a smile
under those endless paralytic seconds,
that broke the surface of daily delusion
and swept me out of my head.
