Something is missing from my life:
the crack of the ax
winter’s firewood piled high
wood smoke rising from a chimney
the snapping from the grate
heat sinking into the bones
live fire, primordial comfort,
on a cold night, its golden, spitting light
shadow painting a picture of all we
require.
Your pain bursts out the barrel of a gun
punches holes through community
explodes small town security.
Neutrality’s a liar.
And in world news:
Notre-Dame Cathedral is on fire.
.
My own photo, detail around the main entrance of Notre-Dame. Paris, 2011.
My own photo. Notre-Dame tower details. Paris. 2010
A poem should stand on its own merits, but I feel like a bit of clarification this time. There was a shooting in my small, Canadian town yesterday. Two people were shot in their church; one died. Our community has been reeling from this shock, and now another tragedy. The loss of life. The loss of a building. Can you compare the two?
The city is empty
save for the fire fighters.
Lines of vehicles
………….. ………wind past
………………………. ………wind through
………………………..wind by
devouring walls of flame
fanned by wind;
neighbourhoods empty
except for the crackle
of destruction.
She said, compassion is a light.
It attracts those in darkness who then devour it.
Oh what a sad and bitter theory!
No.
Compassion is a fire that burns freely
and radiates warmth and comfort to those who draw near.
Fuel for compassion is love and contentment, which renews the fire regardless if anyone has gathered to enjoy the heat.
Compassion can not be taken, it can only be given;
it is the essence of its fuel.
No one who is truly compassionate can be bitter,
because bitterness is the antithesis to love and contentment.
The fiery flame of your hair
declares you.
You flash with fury and
unleash lashes of your tongue.
Light catches
in the disapproving flips
of your flickering locks,
We witness your scorching glare.
Viewed from a distance,
a bonfire is a beautiful thing
and I occasionally enjoy ginger snaps
while watching the fire.
.
.
Ah, it’s a stereotype, I know, but sometimes folks walk right into their cliché and live there.
Oh beautious fire
Seeking to break
from the TV screen
and to devour
the drapes forever
out of reach.
I feel your pseudo-warmth
and hear your rich
crackling call.
Festive fire
Turned and fed
by the flannel
garbed arm,
you will not harm,
shoot cinders far,
force risk by axe
splitting logs, or
lugging them inside.
My floors are clean
but lack the lingering
scent of cold pine.
Yet still, you remind me
of fires from Christmases past
and fires yet to be.
You are quite festive enough
for me.
Mist drifts on snowy mountains,
slash piles burning:
molten eyes in a ghostly face
glowing above us
Illuminated sky,
brazing forest surrounds us.
Pile life in the car
Ghostly rain of pine needles
That are powder at my touch.
.
This month is the tenth anniversary of the Okanagan Mountain Fire. In 2003 this devastating fire surrounded the hills in Kelowna, led to the evacution of 27,000 people (including my parents). 239 buildings were destroyed. As we were evacuating my parents, ash was falling from the sky. When we looked into our boxes later, they had many grey pine needles in, but when I reached to pick them out, they dissolved.
This was my second entry on the theme of fire for the Burnaby Writers Society poetry contest. One more month until winners are announced. I played around with stanza parallelism here, sometimes using strict rhyme, sometimes consonance. I had never seen this done before, so I was impressed with how well it worked.
.
Okanagan Mountain Fire evacuation, August 2003
.
Fears.
A crimson hill glows above.
High from here, grey clouded skies
shower us in ghosts of pine needles
that dissolve at my touch
into powdered ashes,
while I load the van with memories.
.
Tears
Glisten, fill, flow out of,
My father’s grave, clouded eyes.
Cowering and aghast in pain, he huddles
and revolves as he’s nudged,
disempowered, ashen.
While I lead the man, his tremors ease.
.
.
This poem was linked to the Poetry Potluck on the theme of history and events. If you are visiting from the potluck, please include a direct link to your poem in a comment below. Thanks! It makes it easier for all participants that way.
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