RodMer Poem Package E Dog's Phylogeny and Other Dog Poems [24 poems, 972 lines]
by Rod Anderson	for on-line reading now in your browser

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Hi. Here is Poem Package E -- twenty-eight poems (27 by Rod Anderson, 1 by Merike Lugus). Some of them are dog poems. Many are not.

You can also download this package in rtf format.

All material is copyright. Some of the poems and stories in these packages have appeared in literary journals, anthologies, and in Sky Falling Sunny Tomorrow by Rod Anderson (published by Wolsak & Wynn, Toronto, 1989). Where the rights involved were other than first serial rights, we are grateful to the respective publishers (and particularly Wolsak & Wynn) for permission to offer this material on the Web

The first eleven poems are about, yes, dogs. I hope you haven't selected these if you can't stand dog poems. There are some people, I know, that view writing about dogs, as sort of cheap sentimentality because it's lavishing attention on what is, after all, only a dog. Well, I think the 'only' is misplaced.

Every species has its own integrity and nobility and, yes, even spirituality -- and if you think that only the most advanced species warrants compassion, then I hope, for your sake, that the Alpha-Centaurians are merciful with you when they finally make contact with us (remarkably inferior humans) in 2009.

Because despite our shortcomings (from the viewpoint of a higher intelligence) there are surely things worth honouring and celebrating in human life.

And by equivalent reasoning, in canine life.

The first two poems are about Tassel, our previous dog, a miniature poodle, stretched out sleepily on the thick pile carpet in our then-apartment on Madison Avenue in Toronto. In the first, it is clear that the hierarchy begins with the dog and then descends through various orders of humans.

		From pile-high belly-float
		Tassel guards from the centre,
		chin point on petty paws,
		miniature poodle breaths
		undulant in white tundra permacurl
		harbouring the world's pole.

		We come and go on the periphery,
		horizon folk, barkless ornaments,
		decorous around her carpet-stretch,
		fringing her meat bowl and leaf-walks
		with dangle of tall legs
		right now hanging deadpan
		from the big quilted rest-box.

		Time to watch out it is then
		for flappery pat-hands that
		zoom down from no place,
		friendly but trickster eagles
		catching one's fur in the unready,
		But none come, at the wait-centre none come --
		and possibly it is we're stuck?

		Untousled, Tassel looks at us quizzically,
		triangle of nose and dark brown eyes
		equilateral with question;
		why's the circumference gone sudden wag-still?
		what's going round in our minds?
		do we have  minds?
		No matter --
		she forgives our absent-mindedness,
		One can love dumb things too.

.....................................Copyright © Rod Anderson 1987

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In this second poem, I look at Tassel's constant passtime of trying to dig up the pattern from that carpet. It takes a certain patience to keep at such a task day after day -- a patience which humans usually lack. Or maybe the poem is about time rather than dogs. I've always been fascinated with the strange contortions of the future perfect tense. Someone (I can't now remember who) argued that many people who said they wanted to write really meant they wanted to 'have written' -- in other words to have the accomplishment of writer behind them (another notch on the bow). So then what is this obsession with accomplishment after all? It is what makes us both superior and inferior to dogs.

		How shall we spend our time?
		Slumped on the marble hearth, Tassel ponders.
		Sleep, she thinks, is best.
		But is nineteen hours too much?

		Some might say so,
		Some might say it's obscene.
		Orphans and strays can't get that much.
		Does any dog have the right
		while others are deprived?

		Tassel yawns -
		it's not that she lacks charity
		but politics is hard thinking
		except for barking away the nextdoor cat,
		and sniffing at passing dogs.

		Well even forgetting the others,
		isn't nineteen hours a waste?
		She could learn French, how to play the piano,
		seaman's knots or chess.

		She thinks about this a minute:
		this is true,
		such things are not so hard,
		but what's their point after all?

		She'll have accomplished something, I offer.
		Oh my, bite a crunchbone, the future perfect -
		what tenses these humans!
		how strange to want something finished
		before it's even started!

		Well then curious. Isn't she curious? I ask.
		Am I? she wonders,
		intrigued.
		Perhaps we're on to something.

		For yes there be two curious things:
		why one can't dawdle on winter walks
		and why the carpet pattern won't dig up.
		Both should be checked daily for any hint of change.

		Research is pleasant work,
		the hours are short. Some patience
		is helpful and an unflustered mind
		for sleeping in between.

......................................Copyright © Rod Anderson 1988

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Tassel moved with us to the country and lived for one more year -- until old age overtook her (as it does us all). But the third poem ('Dog's Sleep') was written at the time, when she was still alive. And I guess it's talking about the futility of our compulsion to leave 'monuments' behind us -- whether the monuments be fame, business achievements, works of art, children, or good works -- for all such momuments will surely perish with time.

			Tassel sleeps on the floor
			her legs shivering slightly
			though it's not cold

			is someone recording all this?

			I don't mean these notes
			humans make notes
			then go away
			their libraries crumble
			pages eaten by acid
			tabula rasa
			look little dog
			don't count on humans

			but doesn't Earth itself
			record this stuff? she asks
			can't future dog-lovers work back
			sedimentary clues
			construct me at this moment
			know that I   Tassel   was here   just now
			shivering on your floor?

			old sleeper don't count on Earth's records
			a Vostock drill went through a mile of ice
			decoded the core reading temperatures
			a hundred millennia
			but never your shivers
 			the records are spotty

			Tassel blinks her good eye
			then the Universe will keep track
 			changed by my passage through it
			won't its particles stay?
			my story locked in their code?

			dear friend
			don't count on the Universe
			here today gone tomorrow
			when the stars burn out
			when galaxies evaporate
			when there's finally nothing once again
			what then for your record?

			then it's been badly arranged, snorts Tassel
			I'll keep track myself
			cramming an eternity of bones
			between now and next year
			and that's enough

.....................................Copyright © Rod Anderson 1989

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After Tassel died we got a soft-coated wheaton terrier (Zephyr) and a standard poodle (Madeleine), which you can see on our personal home page, should you happen to be a dog-lover. The next three poems are about Mady. In 'Naturalist' I try to learn from her but inevitably fail.

		Mady stares out the window
			grey juncos against the snow
			flit back and flit ground
			forth and flit flit to
				feeder   the lilac
			here!		no, here!

		Mady watches
		unmoving
		paws up on the window still

		she can do this for hours

		I conclude
		she's making some sort of study

		or maybe waiting
		for the pattern to repeat
		knowing until then
		new things can still be learned

		things juncos can't know

		I watch her watching
		consider how to study her

		at which she
		flaps her ears up into a spin
		her brown eyes on me
			don't push the analogy

			I'm not

			up to her level

		she turns back
		you see? like this:

					just

							watch

......................................Copyright © Rod Anderson 1991

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The 'Poem by Madeleine' arose because I was trying to get a poem done for a meeting of our little poetry group and having been slacking off on other things for a while (consulting activities interfering, once again, with life) the words weren't coming easily. Fortunately, Mady came to the rescue.

					Number Two Dooropener
 					  asked me to poem write for him.
					So here is it. But look -- be on outwatch.
					Translated he it into Dooropener using new
					   his theta brainwave software
					But I would count not on the translation
					   being accurate very.
					Know I only a few words in Dooropener
					   - such as "Zeph" (my dogfriend), "Mady"
					   (seems that to mean me), "look" (seems
					   that to mean a hard outward throatwoof),
					  and "out" (which ambiguous - but seems
					   sometimes meaning  car ride).
					Which my point is -- forms Dooropener
					   often ambiguous are -- unlike the clarity
					   bone-like of Woofrumble.
					So look, be on outwatch.
					My meaning badly twisted may throat
					   and its expression much narrowed
					   by those who be the not-havings
					   of a real nose for language



		I have thought much about
		night and day and cold and warm
		and food and nofood and water and nowater
		and head scratching and tummy rubbing
		and stillness with empty house except Zeph
		and lying on the back with the legs up
		and leaning the nose over the sofa edge
		and pawing the see-through hardstuff
		to make a Dooropener come and slide it
		so Zeph and I can in come
		and all these thoughts fit comfortably 
		into my nose at the same time
		so I can breathe them slowly into my mind
		and sniff each one in turn for its under-meaning
		and my conclusion after four seasons
		of wet earth footsquish time and 
		four seasons of cold toelump whitepowder
		and thinking all the time (when not sleep is)
		be this:



		Well maybe I should again begin
		for the conclusion is the point not;
		the rather point is my lying here 
		and a Dooropener scratching my head
		and the other one mumbling something nearby
		that is surely the point I think you will agree
		and sniffing the thought further and further
		will not change its smell
		so that surely it must simply be that too much of . . .
		that (I think) too much of . . . simply . . .
		Well I've forgotten what I was going to say.
		But look no matter - it will back come.

		And now comes Number One with some yellow smellstuff
		I have to sit up for quick before the Zeph
		Glump - it's good but has not the lasting power
		of a chewstick though it more mustodour has
		and as I was saying
		the conclusion I want to emphasize here is
		so look pay attention close
		-- except it may be time to squirrelchase for a minute
		but later there are long hours sleeping on the couch
		and at those times many fragrant thoughts
		float softly through my nose
		all of which point to the following conclusion:

		I do not know why Number Two Dooropener is
		pushing that shovel through the whitepowder.
		When I am in the whitepowder I have no thought
		of pushing a stick through it
		but sometimes a nose can find small stirrings underneath
		and this is indeed a mystery
		though I have been working on its solution
		and a nose will get cold with too much of this.

		Hey, the Dooropeners have turned the day off
		and are going up the steps into the darkness
		so time it is to beat the Zeph upstairs to get
		the best place on the bed
		which is always a good way to nose up
		important thoughts as I am doing now
		with the soft featherstuff under my ear
		so that I can hardly that ear feel at all whereas
		the other ear is feeling still a little
		which makes me realize that the
		important conclusion is . . . the right conclusion . . . 
		well I'll just nap for a few minutes
		because I feel very happy right now
		as in fact I generally feel
		and everyone is here close by 
		my dogfriend Zeph and the two Dooropeners
		even if their legs sometimes in the way get.
		There the other ear feels not at all now
		which leads . . . will lead in the morning . . . to . . .  

.....................................Copyright © Rod Anderson 1995

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This poem deals with my discovery in 1995 (like where had I been the last two years?) that there's a whole big interconnected global community out there -- the Internet. But if you're reading this, you know all about it -- so I don't have to explain it (as I sometimes used to at live readings). Oh, and one other fact -- in a recent book Merike read out to me a question. What is it that dogs want the most? I don't know, I said: car-rides? pats on the head? a bed to sleep on? No, she said. The book says that what dogs want the most: is to see other dogs. Mady, unfortunately, is no longer with us.

		Last Thursday night
		just after eleven
		when the dial-in rates go down
		but still an hour before the dooropeners would be back
		Mady leapt up on the computer chair
		placed one delicate paw on the trackball
		and listened to the mouse-like sounds she'd heard so often
		the modem handshake squeaking to its close -
		so this is what it's like, she thought.

		First she visited the Finance home page
		scanned the charts of the latest budget
		boring stuff!
		but those were the bookmarks left by the dooropener
		she'd need to escape those ruts!
		random poking at the keys would, she knew,
		occasionally yield a valid Web address
		(the dooropeners don't do much better -
		the Web's so disorganized
		like a huge maze of burr bushes
		sort of place a dog can feel at home in)

		Presto, the last poke brings up a Home Page for Poodles
		who'd have thought?
		new URLs appear on the Web every day
		no dog can track them all
		but now here they are
		gif images of standards, miniatures, toys 

		Another click of the trackball
		and she's looking at Planet Shmooze
		a list of rock bands
		can't find the one she wants.
		Fingers NASA
		and receives the latest Mars flight details.
		Fetches a couple of files from U-Mich
		in case they contain dog pics (they don't)
		does an archie search for chewsticks
		comes up empty-pawed -
		Dogs obviously have a ways to go
		populating this Net with useful stuff -
		like who needs these minutes from
		the Info Highway Advisory Council anyway?
		checks the recent G7 Conference
		someone has proposed an electronic commons for dogs
		where no one needs to be put on a leash
		(as if dooropeners could make leashes work in the new world anyway)


		She hits the back button a few times
		and, sure enough, back comes
		the Home Page for Poodles
		she clicks on the trackball
		and here's a standard from Singapore wanting to chat
		What's life like in Canada? asks Singapore
		OK, says Mady
		in fact, it's really good -
		squirrels to chase, lots of soft sofas
		and her friend Zeph to play with.

		You have a friend? yips the Singapore poodle, envious.
		Well, yes. Doesn't every dog? asks Mady, puzzled.
		Not on this island; most of us are alone.
		What a bummer, woofs Mady, giving the image a sniff,
		but you can be my friend, says Singapore

		Yeah,  says Mady, so let's Chat OK 
		(not, in fact, entirely sure how it's done
		but now, thinking of some things to say,
		she bounds right into it)
		I think one day, she woofs,
		all the dogs of the world
		will be able to touch noses like this, don't you think?
		and sniff out every good thing there is to know and feel
		and where bones can best be found
		and which chesterfields are the softest
		and how best to train dooropeners
		and the frequency of meat-nibbles
		and having a good friend like the Zeph
		and, really, everything that's important in life
		because we'll be running like in one global pack
		all part of the same litter
		and care for and sniff at each other 
		and maybe even teach dooropeners to as well
		and . . . she comes to an abrupt pause
		having run out of thoughts

		Hey are you white or black, asks Singapore
		apricot, woofs Mady
		way cool, taps in the reply, I'm tan myself
		look Mady, I gotta go now - lunch time
		I'll link to you tomorrow an hour earlier

		and the screen flips to the Intelligent Island Index
		Why do they eat lunch at midnight? Mady wonders
		but not everything is to be understood
		even though poodles are  very intelligent.


		Lost in thought, Mady stares at the screen
		then flips to Finland
		what kind of dogs are there?
		Zeph looks up at her quizzically
		(Zeph's a great friend and very real and right here
		and knows which ways to run for squirrels
		and is the pack leader in most things but
		she's not computer-literate)
		OK, just one more Web-browse in the bird section
		I really like the big ducks, Mady pants in anticipation.
		But Zeph paws at the chair urgently (Zeph's always urgent)
		Hurry it up, paws Zeph, I hear the car.

		Already? woofs Mad; already?
		time sure flies when you surf!
		quick, get off the Web
		do a soft close, paw the modem switch to off
		roll the trackball till the screensaver comes on
		run downstairs in front of the door
		stand looking innocent, wag the tail.

		They're back! the dooropeners are back!
		Zeph jumps up and down, up and down, up and down.
		Mady smiles happily - now there'll be chewsticks.
		Only one worrycloud drifts lazily across her sunshine mind
		how to tell the dooropeners tomorrow's e-mail from Singapore
		is for her.

......................................Copyright © Rod Anderson 1995

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		in a past life dog was a crocodile
		now she floats quiet, snout stretched along the carpet
		dreams of shallow Triassic waters
		estuarine minnows threading through her jaws

		sometimes from the side
		you see her subtle smile
		how it tuns up at the ends in a wry twist
		telltale sign of the crocodiliac

		other times breathing softly
		teeth just ajar    conjuring
		some small mammal foolish to the water's edge

		her yawn, of course, unmistakable
		row upon row of reptilian dentals -- at that

		dog snaps her jaw shut
		such things are hard to remember   dreams sink
		to a blur     water-logged     she forgets
		most details    only reeds along the Niger
		an ancient slump of river mud
		a limb   a small wing splashing to get free

		How imperceptibly time flowed
		is it two hundred million years already?
		the hours obdurate as the round stones on the river bottom
		she'd swallow them when the urge came    let them grind
		slowly inside her stomach     today such gastroliths
		can't be found   she does without

		still gulps her meat without chewing

		her lives have turned shorter now
		or the river quickened
		since those long half-centuries as Congo dwarf, as large black cayman
		Orinocan, gavial, siamensis
		great crocs of gold and gray and armour green
		their memories settling in her brain
		layers of silt building up
		how long since she clambered onto them     ran with
		the carnivores on the grasslands     grew fur
		howled at the tidal moon?

		the world moves on
		from ruling archosaur she falls to household pet
		recalls her antique prey from carpet-float

		and the birds!
		the small birds with meticulous beaks
		who used to clean her teeth
		bright orange and indigo, where have they gone?
		oh they had quick black eyes!

..............................Copyright © Rod Anderson 1987

Published in Sky Falling Sunny Tomorrow, Toronto: Wolsak & Wynn, 1989
Also published in Garden Varieties Cormorant Books, Toronto: The League of Canadian Poets, 1988 1989

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		Zeph, the terrier, stares at me
		I've never written a poem about her
		how come? her head tilts querulously
		some people hate dog poems, I fumble
		the adjudicator at the last contest
		passed out this useful advice for future entrants
		"got a dog poem in your head? -- forget it;
		gardens in the sunshine? -- yawn;
		your first love? -- don't even start it"

		Well growls, Zeph, 
		if life's so boring 
		why not just roll over and die?
		been there, done that
		bet he never tasted a good chewstick

		Yeah, I tell Zeph,
		if you listen to critics you never do anything

		She paws at my arm
		I know -- I still haven't answered the first question

		Well, your friend Mady is quieter, I try --
		more of a still reflective surface
		probably easier to project thoughts on to
		(there's nothing still about a Zeph)

		Zeph paws at me again and barks
		either she wants out
		or she's horrified at my fallacious logic

		I decide it's the logic
		Look, Zeph, your friend Mady's the resident listener
		don't even have to go to an office for her services
		she's not better, just different
		more the poem-attracting type

		Zeph's not convinced
		I need a poem and I need it now, she woofs
		like NOW NOW
		and she jumps up and down frantically
		Zeph's needs are never time-delayed

		OK, OK I'll do it, I say, opening the door, somewhat shamefaced
		and she rushes out happily after a squirrel

		all our universes intersect (the many worlds hypothesis?)
		what I know is -- when hers was created
		the joyful call rang out:
		let there be noise

Copyright © Rod Anderson 1996

		One thing about the Zeph --
		but why pick just one?
		vertical take-off jumper, cow-barker, squirrel commander
		growly gruffian alert on some squashed passenger's lap
		to discipline, through closed car window, a small white elephant
		(provocative downtown lawn ornament inviting barked response)
		and yet at times: Zeph the Silent, sitting skillful shadow
		supervising hose and spade, or weed and transplant
		loyal watcher and aide, and instant sneeze-investigator to
		Merike, Zeph's once quick rescuer from drowning in a springtime pond
		(and rescuers must be kept in good health)

		One thing about the Zeph --
		well to digress, she loved cigars
		chew-sticks savoured on the back porch under a moonlit night
		filled with cricket sounds and strange exotic smells
		Zeph was the senior happymaker on SwallowHill
		wise owner of fields and ponds and water-bowls
		black sugar-nose with popcorn paws
		chaser, in younger years, of her dog-friend Mady
		and later still the boss, car-ride policer, and
		direction-decider for her younger large companion
		always as well our watcher (with her one good eye)
		later conferring the honour of carriage each night
		up stairs now grown too tall

		One thing about the Zeph --
		just a minute, remember the time
		she ran away without her collar
		our carelessness - past the invisible fence
		turning up three miles away on a doorstep where
		she stayed the night till daybreak phonecall
		brought us shaken but relieved
		(having driven countless blocks throughout the night)
		to find her waiting patiently, calmly expecting us,
		waiting to be chauffered home?

		One thing about the Zeph --
		OK, I'll say it,
		she loved people
		loved people indiscriminately
		her short tail: light-speed vibrator
		greeting each newcoming two-foot visitor with joy
		some might see it a sign of limited intelligence
		(this taste for humans so inferior to dogs)
		they're wrong -- nothing was limited about the Zeph
		rather it was her generosity of spirit
		forgiving our trespasses
		and late last week licking me
		all the way up from hand to shoulder

		four days later -- some
		spinal disease, they thought,
		adding, however, what we'd always known:
		her heart was great

Copyright © Rod Anderson 1997

			fawn-shy, she backs away
			from hands wanting to touch
			this makes her irresistible 
			some hope she will come to them 
			before sunset    or midnight
			those who have a way with animals
			fall in love
				begin to woo her
				mostly in the same way 
			open hand          murmurs of praise
 			 dearer than conversation or wine
			they never lose sight of her  
			they tell her she is good  
				she sees the open hand from far
	 			  asks directly from the eyes
				runs away   remembers   returns
            		like this, a thousand times
					but, before the day is over
     			slowly  
					( body flexed   caught
					between running and squatting)
					still wrapped in shyness  
 	            		shedding it    inch by inch  
              		  she comes
			the sky is halo to this meeting
                        	with Madeleine 
			who in this moment is gift
                             is  naked trust  
                		as she comes                   

Copyright © Merike Lugus 1992

"To Bibi with Bouncing" is about our black Standard Poodle, Bibi (aka the Bibster), who was a new friend for Madeleine after the death of Zephyr. Unfortunately, she surprised us by not sticking around the property as all our other poodles had done. At only 2-1/2 years old she wandered down our solitary country road half a kilometer to an avenue with traffic and was struck and killed by a passing truck. Here I try to cope with the meaning of her loss.

		Six days before Valentine's
		you bounced into another world
		leaving your lovers in this one
		cutting hearts in exuberant curves from our lives
		pasting them onto doily snowscapes
		to send to you by dark dream-messengers:
		poodles like you, long-legged, with dense black fur,
		nightly nosing our valentines towards
		that bed hollow between us
		where your sweet curls no longer lie.

		Bouncing was your forever way
		of living caution-free among us.
		A year ago, at your first snowfall
		did you stop to reflect, as humans might:
		what be this white stuff?
		whence did it come?
		why wasn't I told?
		better paw at it gingerly?
		No, none of that, not one mean sniff of it.
		Rather, a flying leap out the door
		and bounce bounce through its playful newness,
		nose ploughing up thick silvery furrows of our laughter,
		then you, charging back, crystal-capped and panting.

		Had the world been laid one morning with trampolines,
		would you have stared in disbelief?
		nothing this-like has ever happed before?
		no way, no sir, no, Bibster:
		If life must be so brief, why live it cautiously?
		You'd have charged headstrong/long onto the very fun of it,
		bounced your springy way from door to beach horizon back
		returning happy, breathless, for our praise and chewsticks.

		Between bounce sometimes, in comfort soft and still
		on our black sofa, one ear draped so, half mast
		you were invisible
		black on black
		while we, in ignorance, called, at the door, your name.
		Yet suddenly the white of an eye or tooth,
		a meteor shower against the winter sky
		cascading through our lives,
		a brief, astonishing transit of joy,
		burned up in our atmosphere,
		still arcing its sacred way into our hearts.

		Bibi, if we could bounce like you -- 
		and maybe through you we yet can learn -- 
		why bounce we would our happily headstrong dance each day
		and day and ever again day -- 
		each instant light as the crystal air -- 
		and up and up and down and
		smiling, joyful up again
		to meet that speeding fender
		of our final night.

Copyright © Rod Anderson 1999

Some things can only be approached by what astronomers call "averted vision" -- using the acuteness of our peripheral vision to catch some subtle detail that staring straight on might miss. Most of our intentional life is like staring straight on. It doesn't work. Earnest intentions kill many things -- including laughter. Something in there is what this very short poem ("Intentions") is about. /p>

			two larch
			cones
			fall in the wind    hide
			meaning
			what MUST I do?
			your light laugh no no no
			not must
			above my head careless chickadees echo
			the same advice dee dee dee
			then forgetful blab it all again
			I try to concentrate
			my frown making you laugh only more
			lightly
			on the lake    waves    skip    next
			year I MUST learn
			your
			laugh too



		

..................................Copyright © Rod Anderson 1985

Published in Sky Falling Sunny Tomorrow, Toronto: Wolsak & Wynn, 1989

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"Birdcalls" is another very short one. About communication, I guess. Isn't that what our telephone lines are for? Or maybe they're there simply for birds to sit on -- a good vantage point for looking down on the human race, listening in to some of its electronic messages, and in general reflecting upon its sorry condition.

		one day sparrows in thousands land on the telephone lines,
		jostle about, rub shoulders, twitch tails,
		'stillbusy,' they call to one another, 'stillbusy stillbusy'

		the black lines bend, sag under birdweight,
		words slow down, jam at the curves,
		polysyllabics can't get through at all, disconnect

		people throw down their phones in disgust,
		take to the abandoned streets,
		haven't seen each other for years, how big they've grown!

		the sparrows peer down suspiciously,
		twist, poke at each other in surprise,
		'did you know thiswouldhappen? thiswouldhappen?'

.........................................Copyright © Rod Anderson 1986

Published in Sky Falling Sunny Tomorrow, Toronto: Wolsak & Wynn, 1989
First published in Implosion , issue #3, April 1988

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In this day and age, we're used to talking about the space-time continuum. But of course it's not really continuous. At the smallest sizes it goes grainy -- divided into lines marked off, as it were, by the Planck length (distances shorter than which cause the normal laws of physics to break down).. So in fact we might think of the continuum more as a screen of cross-hatchings. Lines to hold the ink or position the pixels or fix the tapestry thread. And while we're onto hatchings and fertility and -- well, read the poem.

		She stares out from her room,
		a screen's fine mesh
		engraves her jigsaw window view,
		there -- flickering
		pixels of dark peonies,
		a hundred tiny squares of red,
		below them -- green;
		the sky's the hardest part, she thinks,
		all those blue bits the
		same.

		She looks down: patterned sheets,
		their neatly arranged bodies,
		feels still inside the jigged-out end
		connecting one to one's
		neighbour.

		A shadow snakes between their thighs;
		curious, she presses closer;
		the shadow line remains, curves down around their knees,
		holding their puzzled skin apart,
		together,
		cloisonné.

		The window jigs her eye again --
		a faint Cartesian grid, almost invisible,
		thinks itself into existence,
		ties tightly up the pointillist sparks,
		tames them like miniature birds, rabbits,
		a Gobelin unicorn, captive.
		Without these dividing lines, she thinks,
		I'd not have seen how it all
		fits.

		Or maybe I have it wrong --
		the fitting came first:
		in the beginning, space-time hatchings,
		then the world flowing in like inks,
		filling up all the holes with
		colour.

		She takes a deep breath,
		colours rush at her,
		thin spectral lines race, whirl
		up each nostril, tickle tiny hairs,
		down in her lungs now she
		feels them fissuring,
		polychrome.

		Her lips outline a smile,
		a mouth exhales,
		back all the colours go to the screen,
		impressions of cloud-flowers, sky,
		the garden reappears and her sleeping lover
		who thinks they've met by chance
		not knowing
		screens.

..........................................Copyright © Rod Anderson 1986

Published in Sky Falling Sunny Tomorrow, Toronto: Wolsak & Wynn, 1989
First published in The Antigonish Review , issue #71/72, 1988

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"City Hall Wedding Room" arose from attending the wedding of some friends at Toronto City Hall. And it was the men who were giggling -- perhaps being on much less sure ground than their brides.

		Down the long corridor they wait
		the brides in white dresses
		small spring gardens in their hands
		full of afternoon strolls
		the grooms clean as new-washed cars
		shining with expectation
		glove compartments empty and waiting
		they try to look sober, responsible
		'were you for half past?'
		'they're running twenty minutes late'
		so many have come, crowd in
		keep deciding to love each other
		noon traffic jam -- honk honk 'just married'
		or soon will be
		'Jamieson' a voice calls
		a group of six stand up
		head inside -- uncertainly
		not wantonly or ill-advisedly, the judge pronounces
		the rest wait, parked in their separate groups
		quick before the light changes, one more photo
		among the witnesses it's the men who giggle

..........................................Copyright © Rod Anderson 1987

Published in Sky Falling Sunny Tomorrow, Toronto: Wolsak & Wynn, 1989

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Much has been written about the co-conspiracy between invalid and care-giver -- the one needing to enjoy the pampering of being looked after, the other needing to enjoy the power of being in control. The poem "Now You're To Lie Down" extends this into the metaphor of the vacationer who willingly gives up control over travel details in return for being 'cared for' by the tour guide. The comfort is seductive. I can remember on a couple of occasions looking out a hospital window to see 'civilians' in the streets below and feeling both comfortable that I lacked their concerns (being a willful prisoner in lotusland) and yet both envious and slightly fearful of their freedom. Now, years after this poem was published, I have set it to music (composing is my latest passion) as a quartet for oboe, violin, piano, and soprano -- you can find it on my music website -- but it is sung there wordlessly by the computer.

		One thing about hospitals, thinking's suspended
		they're a holiday from being in charge

		Package flight, like summer camp or Club Med
		someone else structures your time

		They take your temperature
		and don't give it back

					who needs to know?

		A nurse comes for your blood pressure
		why isn't your machine working? she asks

					not your problem

		She goes away     time for your walk
		unhook your nose-tube, trundle down the corridor

		See how expertly you keep the IV pole beside you
		never missing a drop

		Past the lounge and its blue screen
		flickering like a moon over dull stares, flabby legs

					not your problem

		You and your IV pole roll past them, superior
		clanging like a streetcar between stops

		Back in your room you rehook your vacuum pump
		gamely manage to shave left-handed

		The floor cleaner with her mop: bad today, she says
		it going rain bad, pushing her words along the floor

		Yes, you say to be polite
		outside rain is like distant foreign news

					who needs to know?

		Nurse to take your pulse, volunteers with more books,
		consent forms to sign, television rental, next week's menu

		Porter with a wheelchair, past the lunch trays
		down to X-ray, nauseous with your nose-tube unhooked

		You throw up discreetly in a crescent-moon tray
		visitors in the elevator staring at you

		Four o'clock, dinner trays won't clatter by till five
		you have an hour to yourself (hope for no turbulence)

		Propped up on pillows with your book you glance
		out the window: civilians with no IV in the street below
		How do they know where they're going?

		You lean back, oddly comforted

		Passengers strapped in their seats
		on the tarmac, waiting --
		the unexpected delay, someone else's worry

		package complete, the moon slivers seawards
		sun-tanned heads nod off

		Wing fracture, carcinoma, the announcement is vague
		passengers needn't know exactly
		there will be repairs

					not your problem

..........................................Copyright © Rod Anderson 1988

Published in Sky Falling Sunny Tomorrow, Toronto: Wolsak & Wynn, 1989

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"Understanding" is a poem for my late wife, who was born Urschi Schidrowitz in Vienna, and who lived for many years in Rio de Janeiro (as Ursula Pontual Machado) where I met her as a widow, and then for thirteen years with me in Toronto, until she died of leukemia. The poem was written a week after her death. This is not intended as a poor-me poem for I have been extraordinarily lucky in my life. While everyone knows that losses are anguish, life can also take strange twists. Three years later I met a wonderful woman, artist, and human being, Merike Lugus. We married and live happily in the country near Cobourg with a successful dog and six amazing cats. But Urschi's fawn-like gentleness should be honoured. And I attempt to do so here. I am embarrassed to admit I did not understand dogs in Urschi's day, and could only read their meaning through her eyes. Now that I have grown to love our present dog (and our four past ones) deeply I realize how much it must have hurt her to leave her aging red setter in Brazil when she came north to this cold country. One little increase in understanding. But in how many other things we must all remain so deeply in ignorance!

		Not understanding
		that we didn't know how
		to spring that trap
		biting your gaunt flesh, you
		stared, my pale soft startled fawn,
		brown eyes wide with pain,
		at fumbling humans who
		could do nothing.

		Where did you go the last two days?
		I remember, after your setter died,
		your chin starting to tremble
		and then a sudden sob
		as, one day, a neighbour's came
		bounding silky red across our lawn.
		And so I see, those last two days,
		whole fields of setters and one fawn
		racing together, ears flapping,
		dream-years away from hospital rooms.

		Meanwhile with us
		your poor lungs gulping air
		until suddenly your mouth relaxed, saying
		"Oh, now I understand,"
		but not to us,
		we couldn't hear it, darling,
		for you had left already and
		we remained behind
		ignorant.

..............................Copyright © Rod Anderson 1983

Published in Sky Falling Sunny Tomorrow, Toronto: Wolsak & Wynn, 1989
First published in Quarry , issue #35/4, Autumn 1986

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"Tapestry" is about the art of listening. In today's society activity gets a good press, and passivity a bad one. And yet if one's life is too noisy with activity one can never hear. As Margaret Avison once wrote (and I'm surely misquoting), one should "sit at home quietly and wait upon occasion". Sometimes we should just listen.

		in the distance traffic noises --
		and close by
		a sputter of lawn mower
		this is what your ear listens for
		someone is carefully cutting row
		after row of grass
		how wonderful that people still cut grass

		a mile away a lumberyard saw
		rips through two boards and stops
		background detail
		overhead a plane climbs
		someone honks impatiently
		someone else honks back

		it's like at one of those miniature models
		everything works --
		at the press of a button
		oil starts to squirt from a tiny well
		toy trains shuttle coal
		skiers gradually float up a chair lift
		below on mirror ice a skater
		pirouettes endlessly

		rain starts to fall
		you listen
		picking at little sounds
		every detail perfect
	
		

..................................Copyright © Rod Anderson 1986

Published in Sky Falling Sunny Tomorrow, Toronto: Wolsak & Wynn, 1989
First published in Poetry Canada Review , issue #8/1, Autumn 1986

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It may be indecent to talk of happiness when many people are offered only a life of suffering. I don't really know how to comment on that. But for lucky ones the happiness offered is astonishing -- undeserved, unworked for, simply encountered and astonishing. More or less the subject I was trying for in "Stepping Stones".

		when she bends her knee
		the skin goes taut
		a smooth white stone
		one hardly ever finds such stones now
		stones washed smooth for centuries
		the rivers teach them polish

		go on, touch them
		for a time at least
		touch them, skip them
		though they're not to be understood
		your wanting to touch is not to be understood

		or perhaps they're a way of learning want --
		touchstones of wanting
		as she might, staring at your white shoulder
		digging her nails in little hollows
		which shudder under her eyes her mouth

		white stepping stones
		crossing smoothly to other banks
		not yet not yet
		but the touching draws you on
		your feet step carefully along her many knees
		that lead away from shore

		some distance out you feel them, start to sink
		(or maybe you're across now)
		dark waves wash over your feet
		your shoulder softens, slips away
		no hands remain to touch with

		but the wanting
		this you remember
		how the touching astonished you

.........................................Copyright © Rod Anderson 1986

Published in Sky Falling Sunny Tomorrow, Toronto: Wolsak & Wynn, 1989
First published in Poetry Canada Review , issue #8/1, Autumn 1986

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"At First They Thought" is one of my surreal collection. What's it about? In part our propensity to blame the unfortunate for their misfortunes, in part our distrust of the non-conformist. By the way, in my view the Bett in this poem was no angel. She up and married the first-person narrator (whoever that is) the minute her husband's head disappeared below the cellar floor.

		at first they thought
		something was wrong with his feet
		didn't grip the floor the right way
		kept sinking in up to his ankles

		then they decided the problem
		was at the other end
		if only he had more faith
		he could stay afloat like everyone else
		
		whatever it was, it slowed him down a lot
		wading through turf, asphalt, shag carpets every step
		not that he ever complained
		but it sure embarrassed the rest of us

		his wife Bett thought he did it just to annoy her
		his kids wouldn't bring their friends home
		the condition grew worse (but maybe it would have anyway)
		he sank in up to his knees

		his boss strapped fake shoes around his thighs
		told him to pretend he was a dwarf
		the deception never worked
		edgy customers always glimpsed something below

		when he got down (or was it up?) to his waist
		he quit his job and stopped going out
		just bobbed about in his own basement
		did Yoga breathing, read up on geology

		Bett brought him bowls of soup, she was an angel
		he drank them through a straw and smiled
		looked up at her and smiled
		as long as his head was above floor level

		that was a year ago, Bett and I
		still hear his voice occasionally when we're down cellar
		he calls up asking after the kids
		gives the odd tip on mining stocks

		says it's not a bad life
		more tangible, satisfying than ours
		can't really explain it, he says
		but then he never was much of a talker

		

..........................................Copyright © Rod Anderson 1987

Published in Sky Falling Sunny Tomorrow, Toronto: Wolsak & Wynn, 1989
First published in Poetry Canada Review , issue #9/3, Summer 1988
Re-published in Cobourg Star , June 16, 1989

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"Angel" was intended to capture my love for my daughter (or your love for yours). Now I should say that my daughter is alive and well and no longer living in Paris but in Toronto with her French husband (and three of my grandsons). Nonetheless, this poem is about an imaginary narrator whose daughter dies of cancer at age fourteen. Cancer, as you all know, is the condition where cells start growing without limit. And, of course, cancer the crab, is a constellation in the zodiac.

		When Angel was very young
		she said to herself
		every year so far I've grown bigger
		I imagine I'll grow forever

		She did notice the grown-ups she knew
		had all stopped
		but how many did she know, after all?
		larger ones probably existed somewhere

		Not around here, of course, where
		people just smiled at her question
		no longer seemed curious
		(grown-ups lose interest in things so quickly)

		But a world of growers forever!
		now that would be happiness
		and she promised herself
		she'd find them someday

		Which at age fourteen she did
		Come away, Angel, their playful claws waved,
		come if you want to keep growing
		I do, she said, so she left

		Now every night, I look up
		imagine her covering half the sky
		Angel, daughter, briefest guest, I call
		but how can she hear such a small voice?

	

..........................................Copyright © Rod Anderson 1987

Published in Sky Falling Sunny Tomorrow, Toronto: Wolsak & Wynn, 1989
First published in Poetry Canada Review , issue #9/3, Summer 1988

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"Bath at Marian's Pond" is about a day visiting a real friend, really called Marian. Tassel was our miniature poodle at the time -- we were urban dwellers then, escaping for a day in the country from Toronto's Annex. The "this year at Marian-bath" is, of course, a reference to that wonderful film Last Year at Marienbad . Yes, we were taking the cure. Now that we live in the country all the time, the cure stays with us. And Tassel, who was with us for a year here, rests forever under one of the birches while our young country dog, Laijka (and Zephy, Mady, and Bibi before her) romps through the long grass ignorant of the city sidewalks which Tass knew so intimately.

		spring reeds ring the dark pond
		thin-lining wet edges in pen and ink
		none yet in summer rush
		but quiet, slow as an old dock
		picking our thoughts
		things still
				for pondering

		how red-spotted newts find water when it's time
		(Marian explaining their life-cycle)
		how trout-wise kingfishers roll their r's
		why bank swallows hole-up somewhere else
		overhead their high-pitched quibbling chatter
		straining at division of gnats, mayflies
		though heaven knows there're enough
		most of them fiddling around our heads

		behind us Tassel watches from the grass
		curious cotton curlings in the air
		settling in whispers on the water
		we guess it's poplar fuzz, seeds from their catkins

		too many poplars, says Marian
		they shoot up spindly quick, flop on their faces
		her hopes are set on the maple undergrowth
		fears on acid rain, already stunting the valley's pines
		oven birds in the far woods
		urgently call their teachers

		suddenly a splash of trout and Tassel leaps
		is stopped by the mud, the cattails loving it
		slurping their long roots in the stuff they laugh
		at a marooned dog, up to her bellyfur in slime
		oh God, Tassel, stay away from cats! haven't you been taught?
		four ink-black legs, not over here, shoo!
		oh you silly little city-dog, don't swallow the stuff!
		tarbaby, as if you'd rolled in it
		one pitch-dipped tassel, soon to be catkin-feathered

		how to get it off?
		why don't my teachers bath me? ponders Tass
		but no dogbath, hose, pawtowel here
		a bucket of water and dishsoap though
		(this year at Marian-bath, or was it Ischl?)
		the cure is grey suds, thick as facial clay
		we try washing them down, the slime remains
		so pitch her back-half into the pail, then front-half
		fish her out like a muddy trout, half her fluffed-size
		the clay thins to light gray foam
		another bucket and she's cured to white
		but wet as an unsqueezed sponge, squishing soapily

		now run it off, Tass, run it off in the lilac air
		and she charges one of us to the other
		her black nosetip forging rhino through savanna
		then, twisting grasswards:

		pond-wise poodle rolls her curls, this way and that
		then dries them slowly in the sun, good pup
		is allowed to sit underfoot at dinner
		overhead, our thoughts slurping (must be loving it:
		soup of fiddleheads, Marian's fresh picked)

		later, as we leave, whip-poor-wills in the valley
		call cross to us: if you're ill... if you're ill...
		not knowing how to cure
		but thinking it wise nonetheless to warn

		back home in the great urban hole-up
		we burrow in, peel off each other's shirts
		the city falls from our skin, things still
		should we move to a country pond, little dog?
		(curled fuzz on the hearth)

		and after showers, laughter
		our quibbling chatter, straining at division of legs, arms
		Tassel jumps onto the bed, ponders from reedy edge
		not sure of our intentions, are we well?
		should she get buckets? more teachers?

		dear Tass, it's all right
		it will be all right
		only just now      it's time
					       still
		and we shoo her off

..........................................Copyright © Rod Anderson 1988

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Dog's Digs" refers to our miniature poodle, Tassel, in the days when we were living in a Madison Avenue apartment in Toronto. Tass was tireless in her investigation of the pattern of our Chinese carpet. She never found the answer -- but it is patience and perseverance that characterize the true researcher.

			dog is scratching at the carpet
			not aimless
			(how some think dog is)
			but working to a pattern

			working at the pattern
			as a matter of fact
			as a matter of faith
			methodical checking

			a professional dig
			leaves, branches, embossed nightingales
			so far they haven't budged
			but experience knows better

			persistence pays off
			bones eventually appear
			plates for licking clean
			hands to command pats from

			don't try it all in one day
			(not how time works)
			for little by little
			packed down however tight

			leaves are known to come loose
			old birdwings pop free
			can be carried in the mouth
			for piling by the sleepbox

			surprise those talldogs
			couldn't imagine
			patience now
			scratch for the starting point

			the slightest tip of a
			tiniest poke-up of
			just get the teeth on
			true there's no sign yet

			tomorrow try some more
			matter of a few days
			matter of the front door
			rattle rattle rat

			better go check

..............................Copyright © Rod Anderson 1987

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Koans present their thoughts in paradoxes that stick you in the middle of the Zen quality of being "stuck". How do you study to be unstudied? How do concentrate on relaxing? How do you achieve effortlessness? How long, for godsake, must one wait to learn patience? They say when you answer questions in science, they merely suggest other questions. (What's inside the atom? Ah, protons and electrons. What's inside the proton? Ah, quarks. What's inside . . .? etc.) But when you answer a koan the answer is final. Yes, but in compensation, it takes a lifetime to get that first answer. Me, I'm still in the stuck stage. But I do feel some sense of anticipation, as when the lights darken in the theatre.

..................................Copyright © Rod Anderson 1987

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Our celebration of Hallowe'en is inherited from the Celts -- one of their two main festivals: the Beltane Fires in the spring and the Samhain (pronounced sort of 'Sow-en' as in a female pig) Fires in the fall. Of course, we often think of late night vigils by humans to see the ghosts and goblins on All Hallows Eve. In "The Last of the Samhain Fires" I look at it the other way around. Human evolution is not forever.

		midnight
				chill moon
						on dry All Hallows fields

		Are they coming?
			Shh! something's moving	behind that rock
		That's only the wind
			It might be them
		I don't hear anything
			Be quiet! no one will come if you keep talking

		It's a quarter past the hour
			So they've been delayed
		I don't think they're coming --
			But they always used to

		Not now, this place is as dead as the corn spirit
			They would come in their strange costumes, masks
		That was years ago
			Beating drums, light fires to scare us away

		No, for sacrifices -- trying to appease us
			Whatever! -- at least they came, shouting and laughing
			It was something
		It was very little
			The big ones with torches, the little ones with their drums

		Forget them, the mortals are over, there's no one left
			Dancing over the rich earth
			Their smiles flickering in the firelight

		No one.

.........................................Copyright © Rod Anderson 1989

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I hope "Identités Fausses" is not taken to be in bad taste. I certainly don't mean to make light of war crimes. And heaven knows the world is seeing more that its share of the tragedy of genocide going on right now. But, of course, while we can all agree on the heinousness of the crime, deciding who is guilty of it and who is innocent is another question. The point is our lives often intersect with others at such small crossroads that we lack the evidence to settle these questions one way or the other. We must live simply with the uncertainty as to whether a charming stranger we meet is in truth something quite different or, on the other hand, someone unjustly maligned. Most of these questions in our lives must stay forever undecided. And snippets of our own lives will similarly be open to questioning and doubt by others who see the little bits but without all the facts.

		it had a French name 
		the restaurant that used to be there
		perhaps a gastronome de plume
		for they were strictly hongrois
				 and with good appetites
				 at least he had
				 smiling from his cartoon picture on the wall
				 violin under chin
				 which he'd play before the evening was out
		an owner's privilege
		droit du seigneur
		and always smiling

		not her though
				 someone had to do the work
		coming in from the kitchen stooped with weight
		bearing a tray of hot schnitzel
				'yes please' she'd whisper 
				 putting each platter down before us
				'yes please'    'yes please'
		but she did not look pleased
		though what can we know of her reasons?

		one April night
		as we left    still tasting her crème caramel
				'good evenink' she mumbled but he
		escorting us gallantly to the door     
		took my daughter's arm    age six
		and twirled her down the sidewalk to our car
		a Viennese waltz     complete 
				 with heel click and hand kiss
				 if you please
		which she did and laughed and laughed
		and we smiled  

		the restaurant's gone now
		years ago
		transformed to a red brick office block
				 things change
		but today in the newspaper    his picture 
		now nearly eighty
		allegations of war crimes
		vigorously denied
		'MISTAKEN IDENTITY WIDOWER PLEAS'
		she would not have smiled 

		what can we know of
			 	these cuttings 
				 from other people's lives
		and our own?

..........................................Copyright © Rod Anderson 1991

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"Silence" is about noise pollution and how you can't get away from it. The Kurt Vonnegut short story referred to is "Harrison Bergeron" (from his collection Welcome to the Monkey House). Extending Vonnegut's idea slightly, one might say that the gods were worried that we might finally figure things out -- so they sent us sound as a thought-interrupter so we would never be able to put two and two together. What was I saying?

		smoking or no-smoking? he asks
			no-music? I hazard
		he smiles -- sir, that isn't possible
		the speakers are everywhere

	he's right
	it was an unreasonable request
	like asking to receive no junk mail
	the senders are everywhere

			overload! overload!
			turn down the input! 

		sir, that's anti-social
		hold still
		we'll just implant this tiny clipper chip 
		into the base of your skull
		you'll never complain again

			no no!
			I wake up in a sweat

		the virtual bureaucrat sits quietly behind me
		when did you first have these nightmares, he asks, 
		that noise was out to get you?

	I'm trying to read on a train
	and these two guys behind are talking about their fishing trip
	nothing to tell each other really
	they were both there -- know the same things
	but they tell them over again anyway
	that's the friendly human thing to do
	I squint at my book but can't make out a thing but fish

	I try a walkman with ear phones
	it simply burps in some treble
	without blocking the big-mouthed bass behind
	
	look, the implant I want is . . .
	the miniature toggle behind the ear: off for silent reading
	the finger-sensitive spot above the eyebrow: off for sightless listening
	the sinus-wave filter --

	the kid in the next seat stares at ne 
	you crazy or something? he asks
	I nod

	actually,  he doesn't say that
	he's not into talking (for which I'm glad)
	instead, uses his eyes as output devices
	while bobbing his head up and down with the beat
	the echoes escaping from his earphones shake the train

	I've got an hour before my meeting
	so if I could eat quietly somewhere . . .
	but all the restaurants have piped-in migraine
	the whole atrium is throbbing

	Vonnegut had a story about IQ-equalizers in some future world
	implanted electrodes emitting random buzzes
	to destroy connected thought
	the higher your IQ the louder the buzz -- a fair handicap system, after all
	but we don't have to wait, the buzzes have arrived
	and they're jamming in the parking lot

	at the fourth restaurant I give up and go in anyway
	smoking or non-? he asks
	listen, I --


	at night in the country
	when the sun and sounds go down --
	there flower one by one
	into the mute black sky
	pinprick constellations of stillness
	a pointillist quietscape
	dream rehearsal
	for the final

	silence

..........................................Copyright © Rod Anderson 1994

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"Regenerating Resolution" is about the senseless accumulation of unread books -- a topic also addressed in my poem "Collector". I don't solve the problem -- just write another poem about it every few years.

	I will stop buying books
		and start reading
	I will stop re-arranging books on our shelves
		and start reading
	I will stop making priority lists of what books to read first
		and start reading

	But I will not read aimlessly 
		just to satisfy some resolution 
	I will remember that all I will ever read 
		is a minuscule foray into the jungle that's out there
	So I will try to give my small foray 
		at least some inner connectedness

	And to that end
		I will make notes and questions as I read
	I will follow up those questions
		and read related books that address them
	And when my questions quickly grow beyond 
		my available books

	I will no doubt stop reading 
		and start browsing bookstores again
	I will assemble the newly-bought in priority order
		tick them off neatly on my lists
	And when this stupidity 
		becomes obvious to even me
	I will . . .

..........................................Copyright © Rod Anderson 1995

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