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February 02, 2007
bloggers (silent) poetry reading
Domestic Animals
by Don McKay
that blue
blush rising in the snow and the dog
follows his nose into a drift: woof: weightless
explosion on the moon. Farther off
the dead express themselves
in little lifts of painless terror. Unadulterated
dance. By the edge of woods
they dress and undress mindlessly
shopping, trying on snowsuits
bedclothes, elegant underwear, nothing
fits their windscape.
They'd rather be naked.
Who wouldn't?
Dutifully
we chase the news. We cook
and type. We
calibrate.
Our jobs are on the line, our speed
is Zeno’s car. The same sunset
blooms, fades,
blooms, pursued from one horizon
to the next while sleep
widens its sweet toothless exit
underneath the chair: the missing
person: the cat's own
ecological niche.
From Camber: Selected Poems 2004.
One year ago last night, Peter called to tell me that our beloved thirteen year old cat, The Fuzzy Pickle, had died, and I was left to struggle with my sadness while stuck here, twelve hundred kilometres from home. Yesterday the day-to-day concerns of grad school caused this anniversary to slip from my mind, just as it had caused Claire's birthday to slip from my mind the day before. So, happy twelfth birthday, Claire. And happy sleeping, dear Pickle.
It's not the fact that pets are mentioned in the poem that made it remind me of Pickle; oddly enough it's simply the image of the dead trying on snowsuits that did it. My dad's wife Sherry used to sometimes hear the sound of people (ghosts?) in the kitchen at night putting on snowsuits, an unmistakable schwish-schwishing of crisp polyester and the long, rough chatter of a fat metal zipper that stretches from ankle to throat. This was in the farmhouse they lived in right before the house where Pickle was born (yes, this is the way my brain works, forging connections where connections should not be and then remembering them forever, which is why an air raid siren will make me hungry, why the smell of cooked chicken will make me think of Peter Greenaway's cooked lover, why sometimes eating apples makes me think of Weebles, the toys that wobble but won't fall down).
More about the bloggers' silent poetry reading here.
Posted by jodi at February 2, 2007 04:29 PM | categories: poetry : true patriot love
Comments
I was there that day when your sweet pickle had passed away. It's funny, because I was just thinking about that yesterday, wondering when the day had been exactly...
Your crazy brain is one of the things that makes us love you so much.
Take care,
~M.
Posted by: Mary at February 2, 2007 05:49 PM
The smell of cigars and fresh, wet plaster makes me think of safety and new beginnings... ! We should talk, sounds like we may have similar crazy brains.
Posted by: lisa at February 2, 2007 09:29 PM
Seeing the Don McKay poem on your site I thought you may be interested to know that in April Don will be releasing an audio recording of his poems around the themes of birds, birding and flight. With Rattling Books. www.rattlingbooks.com
Posted by: Janet at February 4, 2007 11:15 AM