Life During Wartime

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Filling the bathtub

took an hour.

We knew something was up

when the pressure dropped

to a trickle

and the pipes inside the walls

rumbled, shook the house

like tanks passing in the street.

A call to Public Works

brought the Service d'Aqueduc

in maroon trucks.

We welcomed them anxiously,

booted, gloved, helmeted men

like a conquering army

equipped for battle.

 

A February freeze

followed by a surprise surge 

in degrees; 'probably a line 

break, we'll have to tear up 

your land,' the chief said. 

'Shut the main.'

Didn't take long 

for the digger to arrive,

attack the snowpacked soil

with a giant prehistoric claw,

the mechanized beast roared 

as it cut a trench,

desecrating 

the property line.

Thickly parka'd bodies 

lowered behind black

ice-laced mounds,

heads disappeared

like they were searching 

for buried treasure. The sun set 

and the temperature 

plummeted. 

When they reemerged, the elder 

of the group declared, 

good news/bad news.

The good news is there's no leak.

The bad news is

we'll have to keep the water shut

till we find the problem.

Another day without water. 

I thought of the First Nation communities

up north

where they live on the shore 

of pristine frozen lakes, 

and haven't had clean water

in decades.

Wife looked pale.

I reassured her, said

with a smile, 

'Life during wartime'

because I knew it wasn't.

Burt Bacharach (1928-2023)

Well, this one stung.

Born the same year as my late dad. Simply put, to my mind Bacharach was the greatest writer of American popular music of the 20th century after Irving Berlin, Berlin being the greatest in the first half of the 20th century, Bacharach in the second half. Yes, I can list his dozens of hit songs (especially the ones with lyricist Hal David), but more important to me is the craft that he brought to songwriting that made him unique. My wife, is so tired of hearing me pontificate on what makes Bacharach compositions special and important. In an era when popular music is decidedly 'unsophisticated' (I'd say dull), Bacharach's passing recalls a time when composers of popular song were classically-trained musicians who learned the trade. Bacharach was a music graduate of McGill, which should make my alma mater proud, studying a range of styles including jazz. It's easy to hear in his songs; the use of extended chords and harmonies, the complex rhythm changes, and the modulations of keys. We simply don't hear this anymore in popular music. It's why I think Bacharach's compositions will endure, and the shoddy junk of today won't. Bacharach's songs are always interesting and reward repeated hearings. For me, it was Bacharach's partnership with Dionne Warwick when he reached his peak. He found the perfect vocalist for his melodies. A (female) voice that could soar, had range, but also had a tone that made it feel grounded in honesty and experience. Her delivery made every word sound true. I don't think it's coincidental that he is Jewish American and she's African American (see also: Leiber and Stoller, and Hound Dog), but that's for another essay. As an example of Bacharach's compositional mastery, I like to take the song Promises, Promises, originally written for Broadway, and a personal favourite. Consider the song-craft employed over the course of a mere 3-minutes. No less than three changes in time signature. His arrangement has the rhythm section and strings moving in different but complimentary directions. The song launches sparsely and builds to a crescendo which perfectly matches the emotional journey described by the singer, from one broken love relationship to the promise of a new more fulfilling one. At the beginning, (Warwick) tells us, 'I'm all through with promises / I don't know how/ I got the nerve to walk out'. By the end, her spirit is rising as she finds the fortitude to move on, 'My kind of promises/ Can lead to joy/ And hope and love/ Yes, love!' It's practically the full narrative arc of a story, redemptive and trumphant! Bacharach may have had a reputation as a womanizer, but there is no doubt that he had a profound empathy for the experience of women. And he steadfastly believed in love, despite the ups and downs of relationships. Bacharach may have been a romantic but he wasn't naive. His songs about love were always tinged with a certain trepidation. Songs about love - who writes them anymore? It almost sounds trite. But admit it, love is most certainly what the world needs now/ it's the only thing that there's just too little of/ No, not just for some, oh, but just for every, every, everyone. Burt Bacharach will be sorely missed.  

What More

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What more

must you know

than how it feels

in the moment

like the fruit

how it tastes,

how it smells, 

appeals

in colour and shape

to the eyes

fills the belly

satisfies.

It's true

there's more 

to the story:

a tree, a farm,

a faraway land,

a migrant day

picker 

lending his hand 

doesn't speak

the language

but the past

interrupts

the pleasure.

Oh Yes

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Oh yes

this is what 

I want to do 

with my life

my entire life

for the rest of my life

all my life

devote myself

give myself 

every day

every ounce

of energy

every second

to the exclusion

of all else

only to this

my gift

my blessing

to you

oh yes.

The Night's Song

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He war his arms close,

But in his heart craved piece,

I waved my arms at hymn,

To show we could meat.

I kneaded him to no,

That we could make it reel,

Buy our words he might sea,

The weigh that we both feel.

The heir that we both breathe,

The children that we raze,

We halve this in common,

As we too spend hour daze.

The son's above the sealing,

Though sometimes we loose cite,

Of what we all hold deer,

And choose instead the knight.

So I'll give you my ascent,

In song with voices horse,

The cede of truth be planted,

And grow within your corps.

To quiet all the violins,

That you have maid your dew,

A reign for all your mourning, 

When winds through skies are blew.

The spirit settles on us,

That we may go in piece,

And prey to one that's holy, 

For those who fall on knees.

Poem For Rupi Kaur

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This week I've been re-reading 

Leonard Cohen's poetry. 

Re-listening to interviews. 

In one, he says his first books   

were celebrated by reviewers, 

given awards, people came to his readings,

so he had the youthful audacity to think 

he could make a living out of writing.

Meagre sales soon dispelled that idea, 

so he ran down to Nashville

to try to make it writing country songs -

bourgeois Jewish boy from Montreal.

What is it with messianic poets

who think they can defy the laws of nature,

exist in this world as if gravity 

were just a state of mind?

Then I hear about Rupi Kaur.

Canadian poet like Cohen. 

Women seem to adore her too. Otherwise, 

she's not much like him.  

For one thing, she's sold way more poetry books 

by the age of 30 than he ever did

in his entire life. Millions and millions I hear.

They're NYTimes bestsellers.  

She makes good money on her poetry. 

Amassed a huge following through Instagram.

Her TV Special was on Amazon Prime Video.

It's like she's cracked some Peter Pan code 

that taught her how to fly,

the alchemy of turning sadness into cash -

it's a dream, she's said.

In his 70s, after his manager

stole all his money while he was living

the monastic life of a Buddhist, 

Leonard was asked about the way he suffers.

He said, with people dying and starving

all over the world every day, it's hard

to take one's own traumas too seriously.

I think that was his first mistake.

Everyone takes every smidgen of their suffering

so seriously nowadays. His second, 

was an inability to think cheerful thoughts. 

His short pithy rhymers I think

could've worked well on Instagram.

He might have been the Rupi Kaur

of his generation.

Saved From The Fire

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1. 

Saved From The Fire:

the title of the poetry collection

you might have written,

aka Everything That Isn't Embarrassing.

2.

Yetnikoff told you, 'We know you're great Leonard' -

when you went to see him in NY,

songs in hand like a pauper -

'but we're not sure if you're any good'.

Your North American record sales 

had long since dried up,

out of respect, he listened, 

said he didn't like the mix. 

You appreciated his cold-blooded honesty,

and found a new label.

3. 

It's January in Montreal,

the snow's piling up,

and I'm thinking of you Leonard.

It's the time of year

you'd have escaped 

our winter doldrums

to Hydra

the place you bought 

with an inheritance from your grandmother

for your restless spirit 

to blacken pages

in the mediterranean heat.

4. 

Later, head shaven,

you'd be with Roshi up in Baldy,

where your peripatetic soul

found temporary occupation,

walking the mountainside paths,

cooking, washing your master's feet,

and occasionally driving his car to town

for grocery shopping.

5.

I relate to your desire 

to keep moving, 

to follow one call or another,

but also to stay put,

snuggle into the robed silence 

of Quebec winter.

I have lived around the corner

from your upscale childhood home

for a while now, 

longer than you ever did.

There's a shovel 

on the porch

and a bag of rock salt

to keep the path 

from the street

to my door 

clean.