Robertson, dear Robertson

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#CanadianPoet, Christmas poem, Elaine Stirling, Robertson Davies, seasonal poetry, terza rima

Photo taken by Dick Loek/Toronto Star in December 1990.

—being a visit of the spirited kind with the great Canadian man of letters, in the Dantean poetic form of terza rima

I

O Robertson, dear Robertson, I dast
not trouble thee in Paradise, Nirvana,
nor in Asgard’s halls if that’s where you now cast

your mighty nets of word and mirth. I wanna
seem as erudite and clever, Heaven knows,
as you, and not some whinging prima donna,

but as mercury subsides, the windy blows
of those who’d tarnish what is silver and sublime
of this great time are getting up my nose,

attempting to convince me it’s a crime
or mark of low intelligence to cheer
what’s goodly and expanding to a prime

of human understanding. With your clear
and unobstructed view of where we’re headed
and my obstinate refusal to adhere

to doom’s dark drivel, I am wedded
to the notion that together we might salvage
something priceless from the leaded

and corrupt events reported by the savage
and vindictive, by the weary and obstructive,
by the arguers whose logic seeks to ravage

all that’s mystical and unexplained. It’s relative,
I know, that yay and nay together must reside
in every possibility, but their order is subjective.

Am I right, or do I labour with false pride?

II

O mortal, winsome mortal, such delight
I take in finding you again with Thor’s great hammer
pitted ‘gainst depressives’ native right

to cringe beneath your cheerful yammer,
seeking common ground and seldom finding,
both of you reduced to wincing stammer.

Where is the proof? demands the grinding
intellect. I do not care, retorts the sprite
whose visage to the cynic is full blinding.

The passing fact, experienced, is right
but only in the moment to the blood and brains
of that to whom the truth gave light.

The gap between the witness who explains
her wonder with insistence to the rest
learns swiftly what it means to “take great pains”.

There is scant gain in it. You’re blessed,
make no mistake, but cursive souls
like yours who flow too easily ingest

the poisons of heredity. The holes
of graves preceding you contain no tales
worth digging up again. Their bells have tolled.

All life is made to vivify. What this day fails,
ignored, tomorrow proudly shows her worth.
Who keeps their wit and chin up, paradise regales.

In this tendering season of light’s rebirth,
rest easy. Good abounds on Heaven and Earth!

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2017

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Vintages

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#CanadianPoet, Elaine Stirling

When the grapes speak,
how soon do I listen?
The pinot noir who traveled
from the crumbly soil of a vintner’s legacy,
the subtle oil of tending hands
upon the fruit, picking up the whispers
of Etruscan poplar groves
passed down through generations;
hungry snuffles of the truffle pigs,
their handlers sharing tales
of honeymoons and fruitful traipses,
decades past.

Do I hear the symphonies
and feel the grace of wine amazing me—
or are numbness and escape the goal?

Obliteration’s all the rage, you know,
to wit, the Snapchat photos of the drunken wit
who, next day, wishes still she could be free
of it, whatever it may be.

Let’s not begrudge,
the vintage sings to me,
the excellence of depth humanity
provides to any mind who minds
her business and allows the rest
their rest or muddled conflict.

Nothing good will budge
or come of kicking at a wine
before its time.

A greater yield surrounds
with equanimity each comprehensive
soul contributing to greater wholes.

In this abide,
proclaims the pinot noir
abundantly.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2016

Giving Thanks

Tags

#CanadianPoet, Canadian Thanksgiving, Elaine Stirling, Thanksgiving poems

Thank you for my all-at-once moments of
the wonderful: sun and sky, cherry pie,
a child’s laugh, the seagull’s cry. Your big love
around me congregates when I don’t try
to make sense of other people’s quibbles.
I’ve quite enough forgiving mine. What’s more,
forgetting brings me marvels in dribbles
first, then joyful inundation. The floor
is cleared of notions grim of helplessness
and sin. We’ve room to dance now, sexy thing,
so wear your finest! Kissing off restless
thoughts of loss, letting expectation bring
more of what I think and feel. Each new day
of thanks shines proof that Life is how we play.

Happy Canadian Thanksgiving, everyone!

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2016

New Habitants

Tags

#bringingbacktheglosa, #CanadianPoet, Elaine Stirling, glosa, medieval Spanish fixed verse, PM Justin Trudeau, poetry

~~a glosa~~

Free thinker! Do you think you are the only thinker
on this earth in which life blazes inside all things?
Your liberty does what it wishes with the power it controls,
but when you gather to plan, the universe is not there.

—from “Golden Lines”, Gérard de Nerval, 1854,
translated by Robert Bly

~~~

I have a shelf in a quiet corner
of my house where books appear,
where spines with startling titles
wink like coin upon a beach
you think, at first, is crumpled foil.
I move in close. You little stinker,
where’d you come from? Didn’t I just
dust here yesterday? Three Bly collections,
now there’s four! Best not to blink or—
free thinker! Do you think you are the only thinker?

Laughter of the cynical sounds hardy
like a whack across the shoulder blades.
Well met, friend! One scarcely hears
the swallowed—gullible—or feels
the poisoned tip of reason penetrate.
The spy pretends to care. He brings
his little eye of mean intelligence,
then shrinks. He’s leather in the rain.
I know him well. I know he stings
on this earth in which life blazes inside all things.

Meanwhile, this new-found book,
the fourth or maybe fifth this year
falls open as do all things freshly
manifest, and from its novel pages
pour like immigrants through Ellis
and old Halifax onto these shoals
new habitants, thoughts never known.
Tides reverse. My salty backward-facing pillars
burble, angry, smash their begging bowls.
Your liberty does what it wishes with the power it controls,

The pale brittle shell of politics is broken.
Newborn patriots stand blinking in a sun
that’s never shone like this till now.
The rush of sea, the boats well laden
with supplies will dry all eyes
once sorrowful. You who swear
the age of miracles is dead, you’ll find your proofs.
Who negates life for afterlife, division
as your goal, we too will meet somewhere.
But when you gather to plan, the Universe is not there.

~~~

It’s been a while since I’ve written a glosa, but even longer since I’ve felt proud of my nation and government down to the cellular level. There’s been a sea change in Canada since the election of Prime Minister Justin Trudeau. I see young people politically engaged for the first time. American friends post videos of our PM greeting new arrivals and say they feel the shift too, even through all their media clamour.

If glosas and form poetry appeal to you, please visit my website where you can learn more–and perhaps buy a book or two.

© Elaine Stirling, 2015
Robert Bly’s scintillating translation of Nerval comes from News of the Universe: poems of twofold consciousness, published in 1980.

Happy Birthday, Beethoven!

Tags

#CanadianPoet, Beethoven's birthsay, Elaine Stirling, poetry, sonnet

Happy birthday, Beethoven, dear Ludwig!
Your season is here, your pure reason for
being. This blue spinning globe needs you more
every day as we plummet and soar, big
movements colliding with pockets of fear,
deafening hearts that seek to even some
score—what bores, pounding upon off-pitch drums.
You, though, never gave a ripe fig to fear.
You rose to odes of joy so we could hear
your ninth proclaims universal welcome,
encompassing all who have passed and come
again, naked and howling. With good cheer,
we shall compose beneath the moonlit tree,
and prove to be your greatest symphony.

~~~

If you like the framed photo of Beethoven as much as the music teacher who bought it, then you’ll love the gifts at Past Perfect Antiquity.

© Elaine Stirling, 2015