Reclaiming my desk

Sometime late last spring, my desk's function shifted to repository for everything broken, unimportant and useless. The furniture in my apartment does things like that. Different items try on various roles. Coincidentally, in September the kitchen table became my morning writing space. But it is a sombre seat, not as well attuned to the world's energies.

In grades twelve and thirteen I had an eccentric English teacher named Tony Nespolon, who badgered me about my foolish persuasion to pursue a career in sciences. He rabidly encouraged my artistic and literary inclinations. On one of my report cards he wrote: "Needs space and quiet time to write." That was likely for my parents' benefit, who were always busy.

It would be many years before I finally followed Mr. Nespolon's advice. When my life and its illusions finally collapsed in insanity when I was 31, I found comfort in nothing but writing. During the last three years of my marriage we lived in a country house with a youthful elm out back. It wasn't huge, but it spread lanky branches and dappled shade across the parched grass. I had a Muskoka chair (elsewhere known as Adirondack chairs) where I would sit with the primitive laptop I had in those days, digging deep inside for resources while I gazed across the empty, rolling fields behind our property. I wrote poem after poem in that chair. I didn't know what I was writing about sometimes; the words trickled endlessly like gold coins from a hidden storehouse of the mind.

Nowadays I long for the freedom to write poetry that way again. Where did it go? The truth is, it was just the beginning. Now I write different things. I have a stronger sense of who I am, what I want to express. The poetry of 1995 was the soundless cry of an animal in pain. And sometimes a gasp of gratitude for the consolation of the universe.

I miss the spreading elm and fields rolling away to the horizon and scudding clouds. But wherever I go I can create spaces like it. Nowadays I have these bright southeast windows where I can welcome the dawn, if ever I choose to rise that early. Here at my desk the sunlight can wake my sluggish mind to another day of language.

The writer needs time and space. Empty space. This beautiful desk, this 1920s solid oak library table, is like an altar of praise.

Today I cleared away the clutter of my life, carrying books and papers to the coffee table for later sorting. Art supplies went into their proper storage places. At the bottom I uncovered a layer of pennies, tiny snail shells from the Lake Erie beach, and a few beechnuts from the cottage, mementoes of summer. I played with them a while, studying the slant of December light on their facets. Then I swept the whole collection into bowls and boxes. I wiped the softly gleaming, golden surface, preparing it for a new spiritual season.

~~~~~~~~~~

Coming storm

Somewhere it is said
you commanded us
to listen to your voice
where is it
in the wind
running the edge of hills
or dancing in the grey space of morning.

We fled and shut our ears so long
forgot the taste
of music and fire in the storm.
Grasping dried leaves
we cannot see the air
or interpret its language.
We imagine hares
and sailing ships in the clouds
but will not endure
the whole pattern of mystery.

When sunlight wrestles with zephyr
and tumbles over meadow's breast
come see the uncut grasses risen.
Their feathered pannicles
like beating wings pursue the sky.
Heaven stirs commotion
in the multitude.
Obedient in praise they bow
and whisper, bend
rise shuddering, roll
in silver waves.
Trees also hearken and roar
down windward galleries.

Then out in the field
amid thunder and an indrawn breath
among worshipping grasses
a sparrow says
Amen.

~~~
June 11, 1995
revised