blessed are the oxen
and the ass who will reign
in the kingdom of straw
—from Ash, 2020
Merry Christmas!
Month: December 2020
Selections from Lamp Black, 7
Lamp Black is a book of blackout haiku written in late summer and throughout the fall as a lament for the coronavirus and the brutal season of wildfires. The sources included Corbiere, Rimbaud, Baudelaire, Rilke, Duras, Vallejo, Leopardi, and old newspapers. The process was also influenced by the Book of Lamentations, the Book of Ecclesiastes and the Book of Revelation, as well as the poems of Nakahara Chuya.
I
the lonely towers
and ancient statues
undone on the naked earth
II
a cloak of smoke and dust
writes the fall of ancient fields
golden and flashing
III
in those fields die beloved
days of noble trees
mountains that became rocks
IV
one by one, glorious
the stars fall into
this earth of pale stones
V
my friends in exile
in our country of bone ash
work wisdom of stone
VI
endless evening
in marble and sand
the world left you behind
VII
the way ahead is dark
the earth is forgotten
holy ashes sleep
VIII
the light of the earth
ventured to shadow
the world ventured one brief page
IX
the fierce and empty field
followed the mathematics
of brutal silence
X
clouds washing shadow
to repair the damaged birds
shut up in dark fire
XI
to the wind time brings
dappled woods of sadness
ruined woodlands on the shore
XII
in the sorrowing embrace
of the lonely fields
a bird comes to sing
XIII
clouds and black mountains
the old spark of heaven nurtures
pure and silent hearts
XIV
long stars of old tradition
ordained for mourning
have a greater madness
XV
the wind that blows fields
the revolving stars
wander in deep brilliant light
XVI
the sky returns to earth
strong, just and faithful
roaring from the old clouds
XVII
my heart desires new stars
holy pilgrims dressed white
woods of boundless peace
XVIII
wandering the fields
abandoned wheels & footsteps
clouds silent lanterns
XIX
I lament the lost image
the lost words of parched earth
unnumbered worlds
XX
I love the wind and the leaf
the silence of a lake
my heart paints a virgin hope
XXI
I only wish for
a motionless watch
the earth frozen in springtime
XXII
the moon with the stars
the lament of the church bell
breaks into my heart
XXIII
books and streets shimmered
I cherished the cloudless sky
thoughts died in my head
XXIV
the lantern writing
the mystery of things
forgives my lamentation
XXV
revolving without rest
the stars burn the sky
in eternal solitude
XXVI
the mysterious
life by lantern light
good time is running everywhere
Selections from Lamp Black, 6
Lamp Black is a book of blackout haiku written in late summer and throughout the fall as a lament for the coronavirus and the brutal season of wildfires. The sources included Corbiere, Rimbaud, Baudelaire, Rilke, Duras, Vallejo, Leopardi, and old newspapers. The process was also influenced by the Book of Lamentations, the Book of Ecclesiastes and the Book of Revelation, as well as the poems of Nakahara Chuya.
I
bloodstained Christ suffered
and summons everything lived
to the strongest bread
II
I lost the white tree
the nonbeing of roads simple
a distant cross of light
III
forever Bethlehem
a symphony of olives
is the tree of my life
IV
cold and creamy morning
I unnail my dead flesh
of silent crying
V
I come to watch hemlock
I come to watch the honey
edge of the evening star
VI
a woman cold and faded
pale epiphany
will decant coffee
VII
I will hold the cross
the tragedy in ink
will break into pale petals
VIII
my shadow will drink
a vigil of ink
the virgin lily
IX
winter departure
in the evening I will pray
with the steel of the earth
X
a lost vision of
holy lyricism will
rustle like a bird
XI
to the praying field
the autumn-cast shadow
descends with brilliant stars
XII
my broken rosay
my goodfriday reproach
will wall together in light
XIII
night is a cup of
diaphanous dust
I drink the aching darkness
XIV
in the end of the reel,
apocalyptic stars
make golden sugar
XV
night has now fallen
the unpublished silence
burns like kerosene
XVI
the bell tower tolls
the words of a biblical
golden landscape smoke
XVII
the road to the sea
saltlessly weaves a bandage
of wind like gray wool
XVIII
like old terracotta
oxen wander exchanging
ancient cattle-bell dreams
XIX
rare centuries-old prints
wear wool and sandals
the watching apostle shines
XX
to the wind
prehistories of nebulae
shout in the half-opening skies
XXI
smoke and kindling eat
high autumnal winds
fragrant and byzantinized
XXII
the Indian smokes of
fabulous tobacco
sculpted of primitive dusks
XXIII
the wind sheds golden cold
tragic autumnal amber
distant prayers sigh
XXIV
walking forgotten twilights
I raise a cross, tree of life,
to my lips
XXV
I want the cold earth
and saintly hands to strip clothes
to burnt honey and shade
XXVI
winter wants the dust
a coat of resinous pine
the virgin depths of God
XXVII
with quill & ink, with sorrow
I baptize
a sacrificial shadow
XXVIII
long at the table
all my candles die
my God, the night is hollow
XXIX
my clock is locked up
in every clock
of fragile, rotating light
XXX
the long-shanked saints hung
through the pictures on the wall
the old legend helps me love
XXXI
the bell tower sings
my footsteps will be filled with
an unknown vesper
XXXII
in the cloister of time
the sad winds spoke silence
all has been cried out
XXXIII
five thorns drop to the earth
the honey of twilights comes
beyond the ancient page
XXXIV
I read one rainy night
that way of travelling
from shadow to shadow
XXXV
gray matter wanders off
I number the seasonal
innumerable keys
XXXVI
like an asterisk
saintgabriel starts
spelling rainshined books of gold
XXXVII
rainshines so pretty
and it hangs a cracked lantern
of chrome infinity
XXXVIII
clock husks in raw shade
closed hands plow numerators
silencing rough drafts of time
XXXIX
I imagine
a tea full of evening
a paranthesis cut off
XL
my priest turned into water
to number
a sedgelike sketch of the eclipse
XLI
my shovelful of star
like a match on paper
uninhabited
XLII
nobody leaves
certificates of
historicized candelabrum
XLIII
I want to dress
in a coat of leaves
departing the clockwork night
XLIV
with the fistful of dirt
roasted letters and stones,
I was only biting dusk
XLV
match after match in blackness
returned lost speech, lost verses
of ambulant burns
XLVI
the flint of time sharpens
not even a candle
might return again
XLVII
it is only the tar
of disheartened skies
when I clock the raining day
XLVIII
it’s raining all over
my pilgrim great coat
my black blotting paper
XLIX
philosophy leaves
a single black leaf
and inconsolable rails
L
an edition of tungsten
washes the four winds
it rains a dry leaf
LI
orphan stairways hush
a sonorous pendulum
a life not yet lived
LII
the blackboard would fill
with great numbers of chestnut trees
by the blowing wind
Selections from Lamp Black, 5
Lamp Black is a book of blackout haiku written in late summer and throughout the fall as a lament for the coronavirus and the brutal season of wildfires. The sources included Rimbaud, Baudelaire, Rilke, Duras, Vallejo, Leopardi, and old newspapers. The process was also influenced by the Book of Lamentations, the Book of Ecclesiastes and the Book of Revelation, as well as the poems of Nakahara Chuya.
I
reading the cracked book
of the time of the earth
the mathematics of waste
II
night was furniture
poor light and chronic hunger
written strong and black
III
a wind crossing the rails
a wind blowing inside
the earth forgotten
IV
a wind wearing cold scissors
I have black tea
looking at the streets
V
like long days of waiting
a question, a word
escaped the still glass
VI
in the burnt-out rails
the musty engine like the wind
to cross the drowned night
VII
the only thing left
is the salt dressed in
the history of silence
VIII
the night of a sign,
of a telegram to smoke
the cigarette waits
IX
the logical dark
full of streetcars expects
me to speak beyond pain
X
I desire the street
the end of the day, burnt sugar
charcoal fires and dust
XI
a smoking lamp of gold
brushing the desirable
sadness of evening
XII
evening has come
the way pictures present
stray dogs and nailed-up streets
XIII
I only become more lost
in the common events
of silence and dream
XIV
it was a long letter
writing that abandoned
words like mountains
XV
coffee with strangers
in the common light
of winter very pale, grey-blue
XVI
I don’t remember
a history of walking
the old black dusty street
XVII
in India ink
in old fox furs, words went cold
in the street cafe
XVIII
the cold runs off at night
there are lights in the trees
and other naked lamps
XIX
a long departure
the night of the woods
the smoke sugar of running away
XX
the night trees are inky-black
walking the empty road
as long as it lasts
XXI
the night of long avenues
running beyond my strength
the lights go off
XXII
I lost what happened
a slow motion watch will speak
my catechism
XXIII
streetlights and lampshades
dreaming iron landscapes
dark, old photographs melt
XXIV
rainwater makes
clothes of stretching, wet shadow
silent all evening long
XXV
the night can’t bear
unendurable questions
my life won’t come back home
XXVI
the last telegram
of the present moment
words of a dead question
XXVII
roads and railways
engines of cold wind
the old rain follows light
Selections from Lamp Black, 4
Lamp Black is a book of blackout haiku written in late summer and throughout the fall as a lament for the coronavirus and the brutal season of wildfires. The sources included Rimbaud, Baudelaire, Rilke, Duras, Vallejo, Leopardi, and old newspapers. The process was also influenced by the Book of Lamentations, the Book of Ecclesiastes and the Book of Revelation, as well as the poems of Nakahara Chuya.
I
outraged branches on
blighted ground fall
like old letters to be burned
II
the old naked days I love
the strong and sombre
machine of the world
III
lost in darkening twilights
only a crucifix
cries prayers
IV
the watchword lost
in the great forest of tears
is whispered eternity
V
midnight gathers antique sounds
numbers burn hollow
to render cold grain
VI
my hands make nothing
for the autumn rain
mountains and time rake lost fields
VII
long and far, time is
a hidden lonely axe
a solitary shade
VIII
the lamp resigned to
firelight meditated
amber and serene
IX
to trace a shadow
to travel and walk
one weeps unknown in the dust
X
questioning an evening
my autumn drifts to me
like a wind of time
XI
no wood, no leaves waste
the cold sombre boundless night
old time is unwound
XII
in solitude, in ashes
time’s long art should find
the magic north wind
XIII
legends of old time:
thoughtful verses hold
a strange sadness like tides
XIV
my stars are candles
my road and landscape
winds conduct fantastic light
XV
clothes illustrate the
darkness of the hour
the cold length of footfalls
XVI
like the smoked wrecks of
the fierce candles’ flame
an unimagined dawn breaks
XVII
every night is like
a sorrowing waltz
the sky trembles, vast and bright
XVIII
like Lazarus with his shroud
the bitter cup opened
old and dusty
XIX
like a book, other skies
no language would explain
print secret amber
XX
O pale antique flame
written out in cold watches
take his hollow hand
XXI
mysterious time
of winding sheets, snows
I contemplate your shrouds
XXII
my fall turns darkness
into empty thoughts
like Latin clouds without end
XXIII
lost and lampless wanderer
who craves the dark star, flee
the angel with the key
XXIV
clock and brazen hourglass
remember each second makes us
whisper and shiver
XXV
mist and lamplight smoke
and bring autumn thoughts
like clocktowers I will not heed
Selections from Lamp Black, 3
As noted previously, the following are selections from Lamp Black, a book of blackout haiku written during the late summer and fall as a lament for the ravages of the coronavirus and wildfires. Sources included Rimbaud, Baudelaire, Rilke, Duras, Vallejo, Leopardi, and some old newspapers. Each day I am offering some selections from each chapter (there are seven in total). The roman numerals have been added for convenience. Extratextual influences probably include The Book of Ecclesiastes, The Book of Lamentations, The Book of Revelation, and the poems of Nakahara Chuya.
I
the hanged overcoat
broken fingertips
rosary of clouds above
II
black rope whirls; the hanged snow
steams in smoky clothes
a wind saying prayers
III
clothes almost off a tree
half-nude, trembled, shining
broke into crystals
IV
little boxes of tobacco
don’t say anything
strange and brutal
V
the exquisite tapestry
of brown leaf, of dark old woods
bites a frightened fawn
VI
my walking boots had torn
to shreds, scraps of the woods
the clock half-cold and stretched
VII
most of time rusted
through the sky, the roadsides
stopped September nights
VIII
in the cool glow
in the light of a lantern
the white road smoking still
IX
clouds of smoke shove fire
crawling to lick the edge
of dark windowpanes
X
an old dark chair by the fire
the evening prayerbook
snow bending trees
XI
flowers of blueness
savage skies darkened
smoke fatal machinery
XII
burning nights in your clear eyes
O sorrowful city!
stretched out in time
XIII
dark interiors
devour old wax as the priest
shines holy pictures
XIV
epileptic skulls
embrace the chairs for days
their old screws entangled
XV
strips of straw feel like
the long dark halls and
commas of ink
XVI
the old man’s brain scraps
a dark shadow horrid
the moon’s light blushing
XVII
the roof always tried
to be calm and washed
old cast off clothes like novels
XVIII
fragile elms light up
cigars and imagine
water running away
XIX
old age, black and white
grillwork and illustrations
shining shop windows
XX
in ancient coats an old priest
seems only a handmade brush
dusting poor dreams
Selections from Lamp Black, 2
Throughout the summer and fall, as wildfires raged and the world battled with the coronavirus, I found some stress relief in creating blackout haiku. My raw materials were old newspapers and copies of Tristan Corbiere, Rainer Maria Rilke, Charles Baudelaire, Marguerite Duras, Cesar Vallejo, Arthur Rimbaud and Giacomo Leopardi. Here are a few poems from the 1st part of the book. Though the words themselves belong to the aforementioned, by way of translation, I was probably channelling the Book of Lamentations and the Book of Ecclesiastes as I blacked-out texts and arranged the lines. The original haiku do not have roman numerals in the book. I added them to these selections for clarity. The following are from the second chapter of Lamp Black.
I
the almond trees know
how to blossom beyond
night-winds of sky-clearings
II
the great dark candle
old like a meteor
the sum of unknown things
III
why must a landscape
have nothing more in solace,
the herd passing on?
IV
when traffic drifts and darkness
not light, not the shadows
pass into the lamp
V
the terror of stars
thinning out the darkness
of earth and depths above
VI
nightfall–dark, restless–
disheartened the landscape
of thought, saddened the earth
VII
a light transient skull
all radiance in its cup
skeleton crown
VIII
once I took moonlight
like something that endures
yet endlessly eludes
IX
the lamppost was alien
the lamplight inviting
the houses closed
X
lost in the great landscape
bridges signify streets
walked alone at evening
XI
the lost tree breaks the landscape
invisible
unsayable hands
XII
skeletal branches
in silence
wandering provisional things
XIII
my stripping bare awaits
the end the chair and coat
of fire, of incensed things
XIV
behold one small face
perishing crossroads
streets come striding bleakly
Selections from Lamp Black, I
Throughout the summer and fall, as wildfires raged and the world battled with the coronavirus, I found some stress relief in creating blackout haiku. My raw materials were old newspapers and copies of Tristan Corbiere, Rainer Maria Rilke, Charles Baudelaire, Marguerite Duras, Cesar Vallejo, Arthur Rimbaud and Giacomo Leopardi. Here are a few poems from the 1st part of the book. Though the words themselves belong to the aforementioned, by way of translation, I was probably channelling the Book of Lamentations and the Book of Ecclesiastes as I blacked-out texts and arranged the lines. The original haiku do not have roman numerals in the book. I added them to these selections for clarity.
I
not a book, if empty
a hand, a mystery
haunts a man, I rust
II
my head isn’t a script
written on the hollow night
a darkened day
III
harsh walking, sadly
without returning naked
empty this unknown
IV
in dreams sometimes
to wait for the forgotten
the dead go out looking
V
my head is the cold chamber
it rains in my heart
my lamp was dying
VI
a burnt out skeleton
went to see the candle hide
in the passive shade
VII
prayers in the morning
the terminal patient
old, heavy with sleep
VIII
smoky and golden
spiral skies thaw taciturn
to be a frresco
IX
the way is heavy
the boneyard is a magnet
our lady bitter
X
and the faithful only
dragging themselves on stretchers
crowned with mistletoe
Heading North, 9
Heading North, 9
August 22nd, 2020
It was 10 degrees when I got up and walked through pine saplings on a path of invasive bluets. It had rained during the night soaking our chairs and tent fly, but the sky was now blue and cloudless. Along the path, I found gray lichens and several kinds of moss growing on the forest floor. Light shot through the slanted trunks and curling branches uphill to the east. The crowns of the pines glowed, while most of their bodies remained submerged in shadow.
morning light and raindrops
sparkle in the hanging moss
a cool blue sky
At a quarter after 8, we set out. Lac La Hache started out bottle-green and grew bright blue as we traveled south on the 97. Wooden farmhouses and log cabin stables and barns drifted by. A flock of geese walked along the airfield of South Cariboo Regional Airport. At 108 Mile Ranch we stopped for coffee. South of 93 Mile they were clearing forest on the west side of the highway. Excavators were at work and mounds of dead wood dotted the clearings. At Loch Lomond we had to stop and rest because my youngest had a severe nosebleed. In 70 Mile we bought ice for him. The oldest was slumped over with stomach cramps and some general malaise. Ducks swam happily in the pond across the way. Gargantuan yellow dandelions lined the parking lot of the general store. Broken reddish stumps dotted a spacious grove on the road towards Clinton. Near the turnoff to Downing, fallen gray pine trunks littered the hill. Golden grass covered the slopes and forest floors. Then we drove past the wooden Old West shops of Clinton, winding around the large antique store with its stagecoaches and ancient machinery out front. Into the hills, we drove on past white horses and abandoned shacks and homes of a bygone age. Dark green ponds curled under the wooded slopes. A wrecked maroon car sat by the side of the road on the way down the mountain pass to the Bonaparte River. The trees were thinning out, the landscape turning the color of dust. Before the river a horse grazed next to a log stable.
in a golden field
a brown horse grazes
beside a crude log stable
A river curled among dark wooden barns below the hills at 16 Mile. Sage-colored bushes covered the shoulders until we turned off onto 99 at the junction before Cache Creek. Not far along, we pulled off the road to check on my youngest, who had been crying. The road here ran between a marbled rock cliff and a strip of dead clover. White butterflies whirled around. The sound of a stream and the pecking of a flicker where there were no trees. My son felt better, so we headed out again, climbing a short hill and passing through a forest of red and copper pines to the north. An orange wood chipper sat in the middle of a dirt field. Gray and russet patches of trees continued to the right for several miles.
skeleton trees and
sculptures of copper
rise from dirt fields and dead grass
A charred shack sat on the southern slope overlooking the creek below. The north side of the highway was drier than yhen the south, where the trees were denser and greener, though barren, pleated slopes like long limbs would stretch downward from the lush peaks, blending into meadows of bleached grass. A line of discarded automobiles shimmered in the high sun along the left; meadows of fallen trees to the right.
a roofless log cabin
sinks into golden weeds
among fallen trees
The road curved northwest, and there were signs for horse crossings, though I had not seen any livestock for quite some time. A quarry to the east terraced one cliff into marbled steps and reduced another to slopes of white sand. The sinuous road followed the dark green lake and edge of Marble Canyon Provincial Park. A gray forest of deadwood covered one of the western slopes. High cliffs of rocks like the sides of mesas rose to the east. The lake turned teal with shallows of turquoise further on. Rust and coral outcroppings of stone loomed above the trees to my right. Poor soil seemed to characterize most of the slopes; the forest tended to cluster around the summits while pale sage-colored bushes, gravel, golden weeds and sand washed down the lower three quarters of the hills. Only a few horses appeared. The corrals and fields were empty, in spite of the amber cattle crossing sign. A lone church with a red roof and steeple marked Pavilion. After crossing the CN Railway, we flew past the remains of a house, which consisted of a red brick chimney and possibly the lowest quarter of the walls. A wide valley with a canyon opened up between red cliffs. I caught a glimpse of the Fraser River far below. Wires, black rocks, railroads. The road crossed the CN again as we descended a switchback at 40 kmph. What looked like mining from a distance turned out to be roadwork–perhaps shoring up the cliff. There was roadwork at Lillooet. An eagle flew by just past the junction. Bare cliffs continued on the far side of Cayoosh Creek. The bridge was a primitive, wooden thing we crossed before ascending the hills along Seton Lake, which glowed like sapphire and turquoise. A sign said we were entering grizzly bear country. Thickly forested gravel slopes replaced the desert hills. Mt. Brew rose to the left. At 20 kmph we mounted a switchback and drove along a cliff. The forests seemed to have more variety. I saw cedars and firs growing among the pines. The roads improved as well. The pass climbed along sheer rock cliffs of slate and pale umber and gravel slopes at times.
green mountains huddle
along the foaming creek
the asphalt twists and turns
The sparkling and shallow Cayoosh, Gott and Rogers Creeks looked delightful. I wanted to wade in them. They wound through sun and shadow. The tall forests seemed to draw closer and closer to the highway. The road rarely straightened. A waste of moss-covered boulders and fallen trees glinted on the southern slopes. Traces of snow or pale rock adorned the summits ahead. After winding along creeks we came out along a lake with a good view of snowbound summits. Joffres Lake was closed. Not far past, just before the runaway lane, we pulled over, smoke coming out of our sides. The temperature gauge had read cool. Opening the hood, there was no smoke coming off the engine. It was coming out of the wheels. Our brakes were burning. We called BCAA, who dispatched a tow truck. One of the drivers later called back and said it was probably just the brakes, and if we cooled them off for a bit, we would not need to be towed or to find alternate transportation, since drivers could not haul anybody on account of the coronavirus risks. We had not waited long when a highway maintenance truck pulled over, had us start our car and checked our wheels. He confirmed that it was just the brakes and that we were fine if we just waited for some time.
pale smoke eddies upward
as the car rolls on gravel
the brakes burning up
The dispatched tow truck dropped by, asked if we were from Alberta, and gave us a hilarious lecture on not riding the brakes down steep grades. We realized that even through the Rocky Mountains, we hardly ever go through difficult passes. The highway maintenance driver said that drivers cooked their brakes on this route all the time, and the tow truck driver said he often dealt with fatalities from reckless or naive motorists. When he overheard that we had Pop Tarts, he asked if he could have some. We happily offered him one of each kind, but he was happy with just one packet of Cookies and Cream. It was about 2:30 when he drove off. We waited, eating snacks and having soft drinks. I was thankful for the reprieve. The cost of taxis and motels would have hurt.
on the gravel shoulder
the sough of the creek wafts up
burnt rubber and tar
Clouds were rolling in, and I expected we would hit rain before Squamish, though it was warmer at this end of the pass than when we first started climbing it. Just before three, we set off again, went slowly down the last switchback, came alongside the lake and crossed the Birkenhead River. Through here the highway looks like a simple country road winding around sleepy farms with white cattle and white horses. We did not stop in the town, but drove on. A kid was drinking orange soda and skateboarding along the highway as we were leaving. Green Lake looked like matcha. I had not been to Whistler since a ski trip twenty five or six years ago. Nothing looked familiar, other than the stereotypical architecture of lodges for skiers which one sees in Banff and Canmore. We stopped briefly by a waterfall feeding the frothy Cheakamus, and then continued on our way. The great peaks of the Coast Mountains leapt upwards into white clouds.
the dark fangs of mountains
chewing into clouds
white as river foam
The high old trees hemmed the road past the turnoff of Alice Lake where we first took our kids camping many years ago. Massive cedars caught the afternoon sun as we entered Squamish. The Chief also wore white clouds, but contrary to my expectations, everywhere else the sky was blue with no sign of coming rain. The Mamquam flowed in streams of cafe au lait. A yellow train rolled through the lumber yards of Squamish below by the edge of Howe Sound. A blue freighter was docked. Shannon Falls crashed downward in a terrific white blast. The rocks along the highway sparkled with water. The Sound beyond the pines was seafoam against the silhouettes of the mountains. Anvil Island rose black, clear, sharp and exquisite, a trail of sunlight to its south. The trail shifted, and could have been a path to Langdale across the waters.
the black anvil stands
in seafoam ripples
the scent of tar and salt
Looking backward up the sound, one saw the same layering of slopes and summits, as I saw on the way into Hope nine days ago. Instead of farmlands in between, the sea sparkled between the in and out of the folds of shadowed land, angular like origami. In Lion’s Bay, the water sparkled bluer with gold and silver. Scattered boats trawled the waters in the distance. Strip Creek passed. A sailboat and a BC Ferry were heading out. Later on, a boat with an orange sail followed. In North Vancouver, we stopped for fish and chips at a place recommended by my oldest son. I ordered a pint of 1516 Lager, ate halibut, prawns and oysters and ordered another lager. It could have been colder and fresher, but it was good after the exhausting day.
The road is an endless orihon, page by page revealing something to impress, something to express, something to contemplate, something to love. Back in the old, familiar and refreshing dark of our apartment, I drank some strong tea and read Tomas Tranströmer:
Oak trees and the moon.
Light and silent constellations.
The cold sea.
(Tomas Tranströmer. The Sorrow Gondola. Tr. Michael McGriff and Mikaela Grassl. Green Integer, 2010. 61).
This is the final installment of Heading North. Though I feel the tone of this haibun was better than my last attempt in 2019, the lack of time and trying to adapt to this platform’s new quirks and changes made editing a bit of a nightmare, with the end result that this is quite unpolished. Another change I would make, and hope to make in the future, is to replace the black and white photographs with the colour versions. One learns as one goes, I guess. I hope that this haibun was readable on some level and, dare I hope, enjoyable. In the weeks to come I will be publishing some haiku from my book Ash and Lamp Black on Road Straw–both of which contain haiku written during the pandemic. Ash consists of original haiku, while Lamp Black consists of haiku made through the black-out process.
Heading North, 8
Heading North, 8
August 21st, 2020
Wind murmured in the birches when I got up at seven. Only a few birds twittered. The long lake was silver, the mountains to the east still dark below pale gray clouds. It was 12 degrees with a 60% chance of rain. Some vanilla light from the hidden sunrise leaked through a crack in the sky as a long fishing boat motored southward. The sough of the wind grew louder and a light rain fell on the highway.
the long lake of silver
is a faint glimmer as
white birches whisper
An indefinable sorrow filled the air. I walked back down to the red house. My wife came out of the shower, and then I got a turn to bathe and change into clean clothes. Then I sat down in one of the large, black leather-upholstered chairs and looked out the window at the lake. A clock ticked somewhere.
For breakfast we had bacon, eggs and toast. I drank coffee with whipping cream. We packed up the van, said farewell, and drove out. Not far down the way, a coyote was crouching in the grass. Further on, a lynx crossed the road, stopped to stare at us with grave suspicion in its golden eyes, and ambled on into the brush. White horses grazed near Topley. I read the Kalevala and fell asleep until Endako, where we briefly stopped. I photographed the yellow crane truck, an old shed sinking below heavy pine boughs, another half of a shack with a rusted wheelbarrow, and had a smoke. The Stellako River was bright blue, but the rest of the landscape was drab and dull, the sky overcast without any clouds of notable shape or texture. Every so often, the road would warm up with a little sun through the clouds.
Most of the ride I felt dazed, my own thoughts far away from me. In Vanderhoof, we got coffee. Apparently there were thunderstorms to the south. For a while we followed a logging truck on the 16. Sinkut Mountain and its hills were dark blue, framed by white clouds and dark green pine forest. The logs ahead of us had starfish or sand dollar patterns in the wood. The northern sky was bright chrome and pale blue with purple nimbus floating eastward. Gravel logging trails and backroads appeared on both sides, interrupting the cattails that followed the marshy ditches along the shoulders. A field
of heavy black cattle flashed by. Another cross marked an untimely death.
the black cattle roam
in a wide, wet meadow
distant blue mountains smoke
roadside crucifixes
along the black highway
the cold wind blowing by
Although I did not have many thoughts, I did not find the journey boring. Pitching tents with cramped hands can get boring. Worrying about the children or gasoline or life back home can get boring. The endless forests rolling by could sometimes have a very calming effect. Being a coastal person my whole life, I would eventually get bored. I would miss the snowy mountains, old cedars and the scent of salt in the air, the iron-gray waters of the bay or the gray-green silt waters of the estuary. I would probably live well on the Island or the Sunshine Coast.
Near Shallow Bay Road, a woman was walking her dog and her white goose. It was starting to rain now, the sky ahead growing darker and darker. Golden and copper firs appeared to the south. After Tamarack Lake we drove into the deluge. The landscape became two-toned: silver sky and road; the dark outlines of trees and telephone poles. It was 18 in Prince George and raining. Four years ago today I was in heavy rain from a typhoon in Hokkaido. Three years ago today, I was watching an eclipse from the banks of the Fraser. That was the same year I finished my thesis on Bede, who loved eclipses. Nine years ago, I was meditating on this quote from St. Francis de Sales, who lived among the mountains: “What does our Lord love to do with His gift of eternal life, but to bestow it on souls that are poor, feeble, and of little account in their own eyes?”
We bought hamburgers for lunch. In the parking lot of the burger joint, I talked to a man from Whistler who was heading up to the Yukon. I wished him good weather. By the time we finished eating, it was pouring rain. On the way to a gas stand, we drove past the copper sulphate domes of St. George’s Ukrainian Catholic Church with its gleaming crosses.
clothed in copper sulphate
the roofs of the church gleam
with three wire crosses
Southward over the Fraser, the roadway turned white with tire spray and the scenery disappeared.
Bold and red, the Peterbilt sign was the last thing I saw as we left the city. We hydroplaned a little on the way up the hill to the Inland-Kenworth dealership. Our side of the highway was deeply grooved and full of water. The rain eased off around Buckhorn. The rotted bones of empty billboards, rigs parked in the weeds and broad farms with quaint wooden houses rolled to the west. A monochrome sign for sand and gravel. To the east, a grayish, lone llama stood at the edge of a field.
lost up north
the lone llama ruminates
at the edge of the woods
The road came down alongside the mud-green Fraser and crossed Stone Creek just as the rain struck again. It looked like nightfall in Hixon. Our visibility shrank to 200m. It cleared around York Road. A checkerboard of golden and brown fields spread out to the west, and beyond that pale blue streaks of sky cracked through the gloom. I read and fell asleep again, waking up to partly blue skies and the smoke from paper or lumber mills in Quesnel. In Quesnel, we stopped by the Old Fraser Bridge and the Cornish waterwheel. I got out to take photographs.
on the wooden bridge
the fragrance of tar
and streaks of blue sky
automotive and green
the river blasts under
the old wooden bridge
Mining machinery decorated the riverside park. There were life ring stations along the river bank because the current is deadly swift. Driving on from there, we crossed the yellow Johnson Bridge over the Quesnel River. Two pigeons were staring at the low sun and the sparkling river. Along the river were great quaking aspen with yellowing leaves.
pigeons on the bridge
watch the afternoon sun
shimmer on the water
Later, we passed a trainyard and the giant Quesnel Gold Pan. After Loloff Road we had blue skies with only thinly scattered clouds. The earth came back to life in full color. The highway passed farms and came alongside the railway. I thought of Tokachi and Sorachi with their green fields. Long pine shadows crossed the highway now. Around Kersley, we saw cattle grazing, a field of corn and sunflowers, a brother and sister running through a field with a yellow kite, and old wooden farmhouses and tractors. Our road skirted the hills and the Fraser blazed below. White horses rested by log cabin barns and stables between Alexandria and Soda Creek. Roadwork slowed us down to a single lane, and even after two lanes, we drove on grooved pavement at 60 kmph for a stretch into the hills near McLeese Lake. Old machinery lined the eastern hillside shoulder. Williams Lake was deep blue, the sun below the hills, the sky still incandescent and clear, the trees darkly spiked. My wife and I stopped to get some necessities. My other raincoat was no longer very waterproof, so I found an inexpensive rain jacket with a hood. The way south of the lake was dotted with skeletons of trees, like line drawings on the evening sky of vanilla and violet. At 150 Mile, debris flew from a truck hauling either small gravel or woodchips, but nothing cracked the windshield. Sheep and goats grazed beneath the pale, clear dusk. Knife Creek flashed into the forest along the bog below.
amber road signs flash
as the dusk deepens over
fields of dirty sheep
Monotony is an ambiguous thing. One can complain that Han Shan and the Classic of Mountains and Seas are dreadfully repetitive books, but kicking a ball across a field or watching it being kicked is also repetitive. Cigarettes and ice-cold cans of India pale ale are repetitive. Whereas the Iliad might repeat epithets, the Kalevala reiterates narrative structures and rhetorical devices. One recurring trope is the delay–perhaps a suspense-building technique. When Väinnamöinen seeks something, the first and second houses will reject, and from the third an answer will be given. Ilmarinen will perform a labor, only to be given another and yet another. At times it is humorous, and at times annoying. Another repeated trope is the need to find words and the origin of something in order to complete a task. Väinnamöinen and the beer-smith both seek words and origins—one to complete crafting a boat, the other to finish crafting beer. Throughout our days we repeat many actions that are repetitive and even boring. It can be a mystery as to how to define what is truly monotonous and meaningless. Most of the road trips I have been on, I have wondered if my enjoyment is a literal chasing after the wind. I love wind.
It was 8 o’clock when we drove in to Lac La Hache, named for an incident in which a French-Canadian lost his axe. I pitched the tent; my wife cooked dinner and my oldest son started the campfire. After dinner, I sat down to watch the flames. I was wondering how I could sneak off later to view the stars by the lake. Our lot was fairly flat, covered in fallen cones and nestled among well-spaced pines. The fire pit sat below a knoll of boulders, stumps and thistles.
the fire pit glows under
large boulders and stumps
where the high thistles keep watch
a gravel bed shaded
by high lodge pole pines
a roof of pale stars
The lantern glowed at the entrance to our tent. Faint lights from other camps
gleamed through the maze of trunks and interwoven branches. I thought if the murky, inviting landscapes of Chris Long. There is something vintage or nostalgic, noirish despite the colours, that I find mesmerizing. Some of my favourites include depictions of campfires, the headlights of motor vehicles at night, and mysterious woods. Even when his brushwork is loose, it is still precise and never deskilled. The cinematic paintings brood with hushed drama and expectant desire. The roads always make me think of the thrill of the unknown and the expected.
My oldest returned to sit with me. He had written a program in Python that picked random code numbers and then tried to crack them. I found it fascinating and leagues beyond my skill set. In my primitive kind of wisdom I couldn’t help but relate it to my association of safety combinations. In a way, a good poem, or any piece of writing, is designed to extract unknowns, to crack its own code. I would like to be able to do that someday. In his later life, Hokusai used the name 画狂老人–The Old Man Crazy About Painting. In the postscript to 富士百景, One Hundred Views of Mount Fuji, he wrote:
“From the age of six, I had a passion for copying the form of things and since the age of fifty I have published many drawings, yet of all I drew by my seventieth year there is nothing worth taking into account. At seventy-three years I partly understood the structure of animals, birds, insects and fishes, and the life of grasses and plants. And so, at eighty-six I shall progress further; at ninety I shall even further penetrate their secret meaning, and by one hundred I shall perhaps truly have reached the level of the marvellous and divine. When I am one hundred and ten, each dot, each line will possess a life of its own. ( Calza, Gian Carlo. “Hokusai: A Universe” in Hokusai, p. 7. Phaidon, via Wikipedia, s.v. “Hokusai”).
My second book of haiku was titled The Wooden Bear. It was vain, naive and flawed, and it is one of my favorite books. Each chapter is one day. Though each section might have more than one haiku, and thus several or numerous impressions, each day is meant to be a painting, a landscape in my memory. The book was designed to imitate Hokusai by having 100 days or views, even if they were not consecutive. It required a year or more to finish. Possibly up to three were published–two in the Mainichi and one in the Asahi. That was more than a decade ago. In my forties now, I am nowhere near being a beginner, even, but I hope that, whether painting or writing, I can also look forward to new summits of depiction and expression as Hokusai did. That I will learn the structure of things, learn their secret meaning, and find the Divine that imbues things with a life of their own, a life that is itself meant to be a roadway to the Divine. I would like to become a 語狂老人. An Old Man Crazy About Language.
My wife joined us a little after ten o’clock. It was down to 14 degrees and you could feel it the moment you stepped away from the fire. There was only one log left to burn.
the fire pit hisses
the last log lying close by
in cold, indigo shadows
When I threw on the last log, my wife said that the bug trails on the barkless wood reminded her of a Japanese poem written in calligraphy. The scratch marks were indeed beautiful. The fire began to blaze, the flames licking up the darkness between us. Motors roared and faded up and down the hidden highway in waves.
trails of insects on bark
write illegible poems
Japanese cursive
I then realized that though I had brought along my Japanese edition of Santoka, purchased at the Kiinokuniya in downtown Sapporo four years ago, I had not opened it once this entire road trip, spending my time in Finnish epic instead. I was just following Väinnämöinen, searching for origins and words. Loons.
Road Straw 