twelve

You were my time piece,
one hand on my shoulder, the other
rooting around
in my shirt. Even half asleep
your third eye was always on the clock.
A year in, you're still a stickler:
just enough time to shower, just enough
to eat so I can feed
you again: Tick
tock, mummy. Tick tock.

eleven

A year in

They say Winnipeg only has two seasons:
winter and construction. They say
you can only count on death and taxes
except I sum-totaled the toes
curled in passive recognition
around my sun-tanned fingers
too many times
to count.

But that’s old news. A year in, the fusty raisin
rattle from the change table drawer
is the only figment
of the stretch between birth
and afterbirth. You no longer upholster
my middle-of-the-night with sharp
screams, preferring to cut teeth
on the flesh of my day-to-day
my twilight
my early evening longing
for unencumbered certainty.

They said to wake you if you slept
through the night. They said
you shouldn’t sleep in our bed. They said
you would never get to sleep
if we babied you
but today your face was luscious
in sleep but today when you waited
for the man that curled
around you, careful comma,
before lurching across the room
I shed all
my expectations.

ten

The city at night
is a tinkling bracelet
of sirens

nine

Spring is low-down
in the morning she attempted embroidery
with the green horde –
but their long stitches looped
from limb to limb
every last worm taken by the wind
before she could show them
her tight
regular stitches

Her afternoon music lessons
were no better: frogs that overwintered
under a slowly softening log
or a wet clump
don’t leave anything to the imagination
flashed legs and white throats
while they sang
and it turned out
it’s all about the groupies
anyway

Spring wrings her hands
over the pulp
of fallen blossoms
the spent pussywillows
you see just about
everywhere
but what can you do?

eight

Footsie

In a world haunted by the hydrogen and napalm bomb, the football field is a place where sanity and hope are still left unmolested. ~Stanley Rous, 1952

At home, the play-by-play shakes
as beating feet and screamed-hoarse throats
shake the televised Toronto stadium
the long view of a North American soccer league
including thunder sticks and confetti in team colours
while your shrieking extends from living room
to dining room, your reach from my leg
to my outstretched hand (the wrist showing
your seven-tooth tattoo even hours later)
because where I stand
is where you stand
in the held breath
between you and walking.

You quiet as I stalk the few blocks
to the park where slowly loosening muscles
and the coarse sweetness of pollen
informs me and the shiny-suited men
arriving in ones and twos of spring;
the kookum who followed the five-year-old
to the edge of our blanket squints
as their feet begin to caress the early evening
also three four soccer balls
for the white man
responsible for your blue eyes.
(In this careful time between egg yolks
and whole milk I watch
as you eat dirt briquettes and tender blades
with black-tongued abandon
add to the confusion
by fathering yourself on strangers
with the outstretched pudge
of your pointing finger:
da-da! da-da!)

As the warm-up ends, avenue aspens
loose fluffy Christmas drag
from drooping catkins
into that slanting photogenic sun -
making all our smiles wider toothier
but the black man so glad to be running
after the simulacrum of a boyhood elsewhere
his face is an architecture
of tooth and cheek
while the toddler scoots among the muscled legs
and quick feet of Saturday night.
Amidst the hum of traffic
and the accented patter of old friends
you ignore me, clinging to the spokes
and struts of the stroller
as we all find some semblance
of balance.

seven

substitution 12

The green infestation of inchworm
arching after newleafnewleafnewleafnewleaf
for the white slivers of nail
you won’t let me clip
as you reach for me again
andagainandagainandagain

six

Sun. Traffic moves with only the suggestion
of one-passenger-per exhaust
arms gritty with sun crooked out
of open windows
while cyclists converge on corners
touching tips of tongues
to sweaty upper lips.

In the park, trees bring out leaves from storage
shake out their folds over sticky hems
wriggling with spring’s nervous fingers.
Birds in canopy condos built entirely
of dyed hair and cigarette filters
bide their time
before skies turn sticky with suggestion
and people pick small green scraps
from each other’s shoulders
instead of shaking hands.

Under the trees the shadows move
like the moon through the cycles of the hours;
a busker rehearses, his fingers busy
then his throat
opening
accepting the half-thoughts of elm seed
that breeze the long moist exhale
of everyone out.

five

When I peeled off the white shirt
ketchup-stained from the hot home fries
in Beasejour I found the red creep
of a wood tick picked up in Giroux
on the collar which I killed
using a shed button from a shirt
I got you for your birthday
standing in the Downtown Bay fingering
Arnold Palmer's seasonal stripes
(green gray blue) and thinking
of the long cool slope of your back
the set of your shoulders and also
how nothing stays clean

four

I wanted to write an ironic poem
about the lazy black cat & the mail carrier
locked in mid-morning mortal combat
the mail carrier’s single feint was refusing
to deliver to that house
any more
the cat’s tactics are familiar & include the growl
the stalk, the quick climb up calves
made wiry by walking
onto regulation navy & beyond
to slice at eyes; also, not blinking
when the camera’s iris opened & shut
for the wink wink second-to-last item
on Winnipeg’s evening news
then I was going to cleverly allude
to the kicker – the mooncalf born with six legs
but able to gambol in the flat bright light
of mid-day Nebraska
because its two extra legs, knobby & newborn
don’t quite touch the ground
but mocking bureaucracy is cheap sport
and deformations
are just no fun.

I wanted to write an elegiac poem
about half-frozen blood, the alley it was spilled in
and the man who at the end
of a boozy night had his throat cut
by a friend & lost it
how the temperature dropped (like a body)
overnight the blood becoming just another pool
of salty slush on the asphalt
in the alley behind one of my old addresses
how photographers gathered the next day
to shoot bike treads sneakers
beaters in blood
because the fire service didn’t bother
to wash it away until early afternoon
but we all know this is a bad way to die
and nothing came
after that.

I wanted to write a tender poem
about my daughter that marked the moment
months in months in her dry furious cheeks
were first wetted down
how the bruised pear between my legs
gave a final meaty contraction a glad twang
at this first drop in the bucket
but I don’t remember when it was & there is no poetry
in sour two-day-old laundry & the greasy crumbs
in the seams of my days
& I would still give just about anything
for a moment to myself
& oh fuck she just woke up –

three

Incandescent

“.. …. .- …- . -. --- - …. . .- .-. -.. .- -… .. .-. -.. … .. -. -.-. . .. .-- .- … - .-- . .-.. …- . -.-- . .- .-. … --- .-.. -.. “

- Thomas Alva Edison, 1885.


“In speed contests between expert Morse code operators and expert cellphone SMS text messaging users, Morse code has consistently won, leading to speculation that cellphone manufacturers might someday build interfaces for Morse code input.”

- Wikipedia entry on Morse Code (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Morse_code)

1.

Electricity, like gravity, is a force of nature
no one “invented” it;
he did not invent the microphone
he had no machine that talked to the dead
although Edison claimed to have invented wax paper
he probably did not.
Edison did not lose his hearing
it is more accurate to say he was very hard
of hearing & the high-pitched sound
of the telegraph
“beats the babble
of ordinary conversation.”

He liked the phonograph so much
he called it his “baby.”
There are several stories
by people who knew Edison
that tell of him biting into phonographs
sound vibrations travelled through his teeth
to his inner ear.
(He bit the piano at home
as well.)


2.

Edison was a “news butcher” by twelve.
At fifteen, he roamed the country as a “tramp telegrapher”
moving thirteen times in seven years
often working all night
taking messages for trains
and even for the Union Army during the Civil War.
It was later found that people
become more proficient at receiving Morse code
when it was taught as a language that is heard
instead of one read from a page –
to reflect the sound of Morse code
practitioners began to vocalise
a dash as "dah"
and a dot as "dit."

At twenty-four, Edison noticed 16-year-old Mary
punching perforations into telegraph tape;
even on his wedding day
Edison returned to the lab to work
on his stock ticker.

In middle age, Edison still slept on laboratory tables
but he taught 20-year-old Mina Morse
so that they could have secret conversations
when her family was around
(her father held 92 patents
his most famous invention being
the Buckeye Mower
and Reaper)
tapping into each other’s hand.
In Morse code, the letters most commonly used
in the English language are assigned
the shortest sequences
but Edison always had what he needed
and incandescent lighting
is soft enough
for use indoors.


3.

Operators skilled in Morse code
can often "copy" code in their heads
at rates in excess of 40 WPM.
Some operators may have passed 100 WPM.
By this time they are "hearing" phrases
and sentences
rather than words.

In 1877, Edison recorded the first words
on a piece of tin foil.
He recited the nursery rhyme
“Mary Had a Little Lamb”
& the phonograph played the words
back to him.

Edison did not invent the first light bulb
he didn’t invent a hearing aid
he earned 150 patents on telegraph
improvements alone
(his daughter “Dot” claims to have seen Edison
propose marriage to Mina
using Morse code.)


4.

In 1927, Edison told 300 hard-of-hearing adults
"Deaf people should take to reading.”

There is little point in learning to read written Morse;
the sounds of all of the letters and symbols
need to be learned
for both sending and receiving.


5.

Edison once wrote, "I have not heard a bird sing
since I was twelve years old."

A dash is equal to three dots.
The space between parts of the same letter is equal to one dot.
The space between two letters is equal to three dots.
The space between two words is equal to five dots.

When the French navy ceased using Morse code in 1997
the final message transmitted was "Calling all.
This is our last cry
before our eternal silence."


* * *

Sources:

Edison National Historic Site: http://www.nps.gov/archive/edis/home.htm

Wikipedia entry on Morse code: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Morse_code

Great moments in science / Edison and Light bulb: http://www.abc.net.au/science/k2/moments/s1523482.htm

* * *

Okay, I've got a full blown Edison obsession going...meant to work on a new poem. Only wanted to work on this one.

two

Incandescent

“.. …. .- …- . -. --- - …. . .- .-. -.. .- -… .. .-. -.. … .. -. -.-. . .. .-- .- … - .-- . .-.. …- . -.-- . .- .-. … --- .-.. -.. “

– Thomas Alva Edison

1.

Electricity, like gravity, is a force of nature
no one “invented” it;
he did not invent the microphone
he had no machine that talked to the dead
although Edison claimed to have invented wax paper
he probably did not
Edison did not lose his hearing
it is more accurate
to say he was very hard of hearing
and that the high-pitched sound of the telegraph
“beats the babble
of ordinary conversation.”

Design for a Cabinet
Design for a Grille For a Phonograph Cabinet
Design for a Grille For a Phonograph Cabinet
Design for a Grille For a Phonograph Cabinet

He liked the phonograph so much
he called it his “baby”
there are several stories by people who knew
that tell of him biting into phonographs
sound vibrations his teeth
his inner ear



2.

Edison worked as a tramp telegrapher
moving thirteen times in seven years
it was later found that people
become more proficient at receiving Morse code
when it is taught as a language that is heard
instead of one read from a page
to reflect the sound of Morse code
practitioners began to vocalise
a dash as "dah"
and a dot as "dit"

Machinery for Perforating Paper for Telegraph Pump
Telegraph Apparatus
Printing Telegraphs
Chemical Telegraphs

The letters most commonly used
in the English language
were assigned
the shortest sequences

He slept on laboratory tables
but taught Mina Morse code
so that they could have secret conversations
when her family was around
they used it as a type
of sign language

Perforators for Automatic Telegraphs
Duplex Telegraphs
Chemical Telegraphy
Automatic Telegraphs

Edison always had what he needed
incandescent lighting is soft enough
for use indoors


* * *


Mmm. This is a mix-n-match found poem from the Thomas Edison home pages and the Wikipedia entry on Morse code that had its impetus from Regan's light bulb blurb. After more than an hour poring over Edison's list of patents, I have no idea if the poem works...oh well.

one

Spring fills ditches
decants and distills all the freeze! thaw!
and, careful drunk,
quietly drinks it down
elsewhere snowmelt puddles slop
with the swagger and ripple
of defrosted chorus
croak

Spring chokes up at bridges
rafts and scraped plates of ice stack up
under all that silt and foam half-seen trunks
roll like daredevil barrels
about to go over the falls
elsewhere docks get unmoored
deck chairs tilt ass
over teakettle
sink into reefs of catfish lures
grocery carts
and late summer suicides

Spring pulls trains of grit behind buses
fills mouths with left-over traction
every right angle filled
with foil cellophane
and the perfect chapped lip prints
on cigarettes
smoked down
to the filter

Spring spends seedy pussywillows
then invests in greening moss
mulch sod