DRY GUILLOTINE
In my childhood, "Verdun," meant madness.
Bars on the windows, cages around the intellect.
Time was a poor keeper of souls, it seems, wore out all but
a fragment of my memories. Musical, poetic. The sounds of clay china
being dropped on the floor. Fierce Celts with a gift for the muse in
keeping with their love of lyricism and war.
Driving by 999 Queen in Toronto accompanies a lot of the above.
A cuckoo bin by any calculation and a reference not meant to be
pejorative. A subject so clothed in solemnity only irreverent
"kidding," can hope to disarm its grasp. Still, the truth must be told.
In university, no one shrinked from whispering the ultimate fate--
a stint in Sydenham or a trip down the road to Cedar Springs.
Delightful euphemisms, the names reminiscent of sonorous rivers,
tree lined groves, peach blossoms across Georgia springs. Or
Ophelia's funeral oration wherein Polonius rightfully alludes to her
sudden falling away amid laughing brooks.
I am reminded of Charrière's desperate attempt to stay sane on Ile
du Diâble, the cutting edge of his dry guillotine--his mind's fabric
giving way to the slightest irritation. In the present, the chant of
a crowd's "jump, jump," to the would be suicide. Then there is the
most foreboding type of all dementia, the collective sort. A strength
through joy movement of the Hitler camp with society's many
institutions set up along the spit and polish order of the Reich.
Indeed, if we think of it, we all have a deep knowledge of madness;
days when the centre is about to break alongside the pit. Days when
wars on the periphery take hold, colours appear different.
As a child, madness was watching Ichabod Crane in cartoon form
outrace the Headless Horseman. In Sleepy Hollow trying to put
down the panic in himself. Ichabod, the peaceful school master,
driven to the edge. At war with himself but trying to reassure that
same self the plodding sound of approaching hooves was only dried,
bullrush stems hitting against his head.
Madness is more than Van Gogh offering an ear; Druid priests
garnishing oak trees in a British forest or plaintive Gauguin
abandoning his family at 34, mid-stream in a successful career. It
probably stands behind half the men on skid row, beckons like a
welcome friend before turning fiend and consuming impulse to a
bag lady.
The close relation between the creative impulse and "letting go."
Between the arts and wide eyed eccentricity. Between wanting to be
free. And knowing. Hearing if you go on like that you'll end up on
the Lakeshore. Another pretty euphemism. A dangerous truth left
like an upturned rock for someone to trip on in another garden.
The farthest away anyone can be.
[40]
Bars on the windows, cages around the intellect.
Time was a poor keeper of souls, it seems, wore out all but
a fragment of my memories. Musical, poetic. The sounds of clay china
being dropped on the floor. Fierce Celts with a gift for the muse in
keeping with their love of lyricism and war.
Driving by 999 Queen in Toronto accompanies a lot of the above.
A cuckoo bin by any calculation and a reference not meant to be
pejorative. A subject so clothed in solemnity only irreverent
"kidding," can hope to disarm its grasp. Still, the truth must be told.
In university, no one shrinked from whispering the ultimate fate--
a stint in Sydenham or a trip down the road to Cedar Springs.
Delightful euphemisms, the names reminiscent of sonorous rivers,
tree lined groves, peach blossoms across Georgia springs. Or
Ophelia's funeral oration wherein Polonius rightfully alludes to her
sudden falling away amid laughing brooks.
I am reminded of Charrière's desperate attempt to stay sane on Ile
du Diâble, the cutting edge of his dry guillotine--his mind's fabric
giving way to the slightest irritation. In the present, the chant of
a crowd's "jump, jump," to the would be suicide. Then there is the
most foreboding type of all dementia, the collective sort. A strength
through joy movement of the Hitler camp with society's many
institutions set up along the spit and polish order of the Reich.
Indeed, if we think of it, we all have a deep knowledge of madness;
days when the centre is about to break alongside the pit. Days when
wars on the periphery take hold, colours appear different.
As a child, madness was watching Ichabod Crane in cartoon form
outrace the Headless Horseman. In Sleepy Hollow trying to put
down the panic in himself. Ichabod, the peaceful school master,
driven to the edge. At war with himself but trying to reassure that
same self the plodding sound of approaching hooves was only dried,
bullrush stems hitting against his head.
Madness is more than Van Gogh offering an ear; Druid priests
garnishing oak trees in a British forest or plaintive Gauguin
abandoning his family at 34, mid-stream in a successful career. It
probably stands behind half the men on skid row, beckons like a
welcome friend before turning fiend and consuming impulse to a
bag lady.
The close relation between the creative impulse and "letting go."
Between the arts and wide eyed eccentricity. Between wanting to be
free. And knowing. Hearing if you go on like that you'll end up on
the Lakeshore. Another pretty euphemism. A dangerous truth left
like an upturned rock for someone to trip on in another garden.
The farthest away anyone can be.
[40]
MANGROVES
How do you survive
in the mangrove swamps--
amid the twitchings of fetid water
& water lice thick as baby tears?
How, with all the wallow of thick muck
making suction noises and the teams in relays
searching nightly with baited hounds, do you pull free?
Your bamboo pole knows every ploy
but is a slender craft ill-equipped
to sparring blows from every quarter,
the undergrowth necessitates.
The closeness of the clammy night
heaved about like so much rotting fruit will draw
the ants . . . devouring like that abundance of cold, yellow eyes--
the firefly swarms that mock your heavy steel machete arm.
Across the drift of darkness
and the insect life
you bat in swarms,
the ultimate danger is not in the cayman giant
or his reptilian cousin named of copper wire,
the Anaconda; or even mindless holes, thick black
ooze that throttles a victim . . . but the two legged form coming,
searching . . . a spectre on hind quarters with a bolo knife stepping
free of that beaded circle, the inner camp.
[41]
in the mangrove swamps--
amid the twitchings of fetid water
& water lice thick as baby tears?
How, with all the wallow of thick muck
making suction noises and the teams in relays
searching nightly with baited hounds, do you pull free?
Your bamboo pole knows every ploy
but is a slender craft ill-equipped
to sparring blows from every quarter,
the undergrowth necessitates.
The closeness of the clammy night
heaved about like so much rotting fruit will draw
the ants . . . devouring like that abundance of cold, yellow eyes--
the firefly swarms that mock your heavy steel machete arm.
Across the drift of darkness
and the insect life
you bat in swarms,
the ultimate danger is not in the cayman giant
or his reptilian cousin named of copper wire,
the Anaconda; or even mindless holes, thick black
ooze that throttles a victim . . . but the two legged form coming,
searching . . . a spectre on hind quarters with a bolo knife stepping
free of that beaded circle, the inner camp.
[41]
PONDICHERRY
Chess pieces resting upon the jade mantle piece
see sampans move quietly
thru warm night,
rich bundles of bougainvillaea crowd market squares
where deck chairs extend
to the Persian Gulf.
Leisured gentlemen
finger walking canes,
hold eyelids thick as goblets,
sharp tridents beside private lairs.
Skin in puffy whiteness bulges under
lamp's white glare, becomes copra gathered
miles from Pondicherry, sesame
oil in rotting casks.
And the Indian heat, closing with certitude
akin to the trance of the snake charmer,
holds his flute poised with the Bengali lancer
riding a slow crop over the prostrate polo ball.
[42]
see sampans move quietly
thru warm night,
rich bundles of bougainvillaea crowd market squares
where deck chairs extend
to the Persian Gulf.
Leisured gentlemen
finger walking canes,
hold eyelids thick as goblets,
sharp tridents beside private lairs.
Skin in puffy whiteness bulges under
lamp's white glare, becomes copra gathered
miles from Pondicherry, sesame
oil in rotting casks.
And the Indian heat, closing with certitude
akin to the trance of the snake charmer,
holds his flute poised with the Bengali lancer
riding a slow crop over the prostrate polo ball.
[42]
THE CLEARING THAT IS THE TREES
"They know they are going to the filth of numbers and laws,
to the games anyone can play, and the work without fruit."
Lorca
I want to go walking in troubled marshes
where cold gray coves leave off the mind
and the scent of rushes twist the wind
as fall covers dungeons of angry sparrows.
I want to go quickly to troubled marshes,
hear the squeak of brackish waters
over crocks of sponge bubbles crabbing
their surface.
I desire stands of dead brush
to wave in grave solemnity,
whimpering little houses
off forest glades to flicker
out lamps with
large dogs poised on verandahs
like stone gargoyles.
I want to handle anguish as if
it were an interesting bauble
plucked from the shallows,
a curious snail with ritual markings
or a mauve shellfish
caught in swift eddies
as the tide goes out.
I want to examine canker introspection
as a peevish child might
faint tracings on an old stone
lodged in the most forgotten
corner of a graveyard;
sample its wonders
fingering the many indentations
with more than slight awe
or hear the crashing of waves
far off from the physical restraint
of the marsh or this forgotten
burial plot so near an angry sea.
Then, awaken as if from a dream,
rub troubled memories from my eyes
but never the brain
for on winter nights just before
retiring as the wind stirs packets
of snow or the moon is chased
by skeletal hounds along Gretal trees,
there will come the realization
another day is thru
with another night to pilot away
fresh brush & rubble
before emerging, at night's end,
from the clearing that is
the trees.
[43]
to the games anyone can play, and the work without fruit."
Lorca
I want to go walking in troubled marshes
where cold gray coves leave off the mind
and the scent of rushes twist the wind
as fall covers dungeons of angry sparrows.
I want to go quickly to troubled marshes,
hear the squeak of brackish waters
over crocks of sponge bubbles crabbing
their surface.
I desire stands of dead brush
to wave in grave solemnity,
whimpering little houses
off forest glades to flicker
out lamps with
large dogs poised on verandahs
like stone gargoyles.
I want to handle anguish as if
it were an interesting bauble
plucked from the shallows,
a curious snail with ritual markings
or a mauve shellfish
caught in swift eddies
as the tide goes out.
I want to examine canker introspection
as a peevish child might
faint tracings on an old stone
lodged in the most forgotten
corner of a graveyard;
sample its wonders
fingering the many indentations
with more than slight awe
or hear the crashing of waves
far off from the physical restraint
of the marsh or this forgotten
burial plot so near an angry sea.
Then, awaken as if from a dream,
rub troubled memories from my eyes
but never the brain
for on winter nights just before
retiring as the wind stirs packets
of snow or the moon is chased
by skeletal hounds along Gretal trees,
there will come the realization
another day is thru
with another night to pilot away
fresh brush & rubble
before emerging, at night's end,
from the clearing that is
the trees.
[43]
HUMBOLDT'S CURRENT
Cresta roja wine
--colour of
arterial blood,
vena cava of
the alcoholic soul.
And seeing bottles bob
in mainstreams of men's blood
to pistol whip their reddened eyes,
Humboldt's current becomes a rash of drinking,
a map that charts more bloody lies.
The thirst that passeth
all human understanding,
(an alternate Biblical rendering)
certainly body heat surpasses
Vulcan's bellows
adding new faces to Delirium Tremens.
[44]
--colour of
arterial blood,
vena cava of
the alcoholic soul.
And seeing bottles bob
in mainstreams of men's blood
to pistol whip their reddened eyes,
Humboldt's current becomes a rash of drinking,
a map that charts more bloody lies.
The thirst that passeth
all human understanding,
(an alternate Biblical rendering)
certainly body heat surpasses
Vulcan's bellows
adding new faces to Delirium Tremens.
[44]
THE GINGHAM DREAM UTTERANCE
As I watch the clouds assemble, steam-ship fashion, with funnels to
alert passersby, I realize the Romanovs tore silk & riches from
every bazaar leaving the bright spot of this evening studded with
emerald marks.
A dot in the ocean is a spark upon which minnows play, their silver
bellies upturned to imitate the moon's white shawl.
I am wanting in the delights of the reef narrowly hauled from
rambunctious depths, the tiniest splashes of green, yellow, blue darting
in an upturned fish's tail.
An octopus rock commands squadrons of fingerlings while the eisel
fish decorates a steeper, coral garden.
Jet black sand crowns the lagoon volcanic ages' past the innocence
of this spurting palm while mounds of pitch dark ants deposit slivers
of rich eggs.
After a fashion, onyx enamours pearl and pearl ivory as cays and
atolls are swept to the wiggle of sun's dance on white sand. Eel-like
islands are only pomegranates undigested by the moon.
The amber breath of growing leaves is rich dark coffee stolen as in
a smile.
Almond drink is refreshing as the tips of cloven hooves to the dried
earth.
One might hesitate to watch firm nipples being given as broaches to
a king but the sandpiper is a river barge commanding slow access to
the next water.
Near barely lit lamps alongside make-shift beds, a woman with olive
skin prepares her toilet.
Hatchet brown birds beseech her with brittle songs stolen from
one wing.
A cathedral bowl lies overturned in the warm twilight of lovers
kneeling before the growing strength of day.
Stone stars are flattened by the glare of sun and shell encrusted
beaches bear a passing resemblance to chalices strung around an
avuncular stretch of land.
Perhaps in the hunted meadow near red spined caterpillars feeding
near the larvae of the elephant hawkmoth, a cistern will open the
earth and drink as a thirsty spoon.
[45]
alert passersby, I realize the Romanovs tore silk & riches from
every bazaar leaving the bright spot of this evening studded with
emerald marks.
A dot in the ocean is a spark upon which minnows play, their silver
bellies upturned to imitate the moon's white shawl.
I am wanting in the delights of the reef narrowly hauled from
rambunctious depths, the tiniest splashes of green, yellow, blue darting
in an upturned fish's tail.
An octopus rock commands squadrons of fingerlings while the eisel
fish decorates a steeper, coral garden.
Jet black sand crowns the lagoon volcanic ages' past the innocence
of this spurting palm while mounds of pitch dark ants deposit slivers
of rich eggs.
After a fashion, onyx enamours pearl and pearl ivory as cays and
atolls are swept to the wiggle of sun's dance on white sand. Eel-like
islands are only pomegranates undigested by the moon.
The amber breath of growing leaves is rich dark coffee stolen as in
a smile.
Almond drink is refreshing as the tips of cloven hooves to the dried
earth.
One might hesitate to watch firm nipples being given as broaches to
a king but the sandpiper is a river barge commanding slow access to
the next water.
Near barely lit lamps alongside make-shift beds, a woman with olive
skin prepares her toilet.
Hatchet brown birds beseech her with brittle songs stolen from
one wing.
A cathedral bowl lies overturned in the warm twilight of lovers
kneeling before the growing strength of day.
Stone stars are flattened by the glare of sun and shell encrusted
beaches bear a passing resemblance to chalices strung around an
avuncular stretch of land.
Perhaps in the hunted meadow near red spined caterpillars feeding
near the larvae of the elephant hawkmoth, a cistern will open the
earth and drink as a thirsty spoon.
[45]
JUNIPER TREES
Sitting as Buddha on a chocolate juniper
--the theme of madness
thirty cinnamon centres
Ophelia squares;
Brunelleschi floating down a fallen river
on nougats, perhaps onyx pears.
The sleek eyes of a cat stare floodlit topaz,
ocelot rings round her burning mask.
And sipping dry wine
Beaujolais, decantered Anjou
with iron doors not Ghiberti's fashioning but sweet meadows waving
fresh, summer grass.
And I at the garnet Buddha box--
a cold winter day pledging choices
pale, juniper tree
the carnival log egging up thick cordial;
the inlaid satin box hovering about silent, apple wedge
a child's fantasy, orgeat or bordeaux,
lactose fudge, bon appétit
syrupy taste of Burgundy cherry.
The axe ring of squirting tissue
with drone of passing feet
up finger stairs
until the rustle of cloth
crosses the turquoise box,
clamours almond clusters
into the courtyard cafe.
[46]
--the theme of madness
thirty cinnamon centres
Ophelia squares;
Brunelleschi floating down a fallen river
on nougats, perhaps onyx pears.
The sleek eyes of a cat stare floodlit topaz,
ocelot rings round her burning mask.
And sipping dry wine
Beaujolais, decantered Anjou
with iron doors not Ghiberti's fashioning but sweet meadows waving
fresh, summer grass.
And I at the garnet Buddha box--
a cold winter day pledging choices
pale, juniper tree
the carnival log egging up thick cordial;
the inlaid satin box hovering about silent, apple wedge
a child's fantasy, orgeat or bordeaux,
lactose fudge, bon appétit
syrupy taste of Burgundy cherry.
The axe ring of squirting tissue
with drone of passing feet
up finger stairs
until the rustle of cloth
crosses the turquoise box,
clamours almond clusters
into the courtyard cafe.
[46]
DISTEMPER
Looking into the glassy crucifix of water.
slits of rock form stigmata across creviced limestone--
green pools with an occasional fish passing
air bubbles to the top
the eerie night crumbling under shafts of starlight
with the smell of hemlock pods & cedar bringing
nard and precious stone within
crowns of natural thorn--
this body of muskeg pressed onto
aromatic herbs then borne away
along the road to a wooded Calvary and
the sense of Christ
in that light at dawn.
[47]
slits of rock form stigmata across creviced limestone--
green pools with an occasional fish passing
air bubbles to the top
the eerie night crumbling under shafts of starlight
with the smell of hemlock pods & cedar bringing
nard and precious stone within
crowns of natural thorn--
this body of muskeg pressed onto
aromatic herbs then borne away
along the road to a wooded Calvary and
the sense of Christ
in that light at dawn.
[47]
NIGHT WINDS
They made us sit alphabetically in rows.
Green oranges are sprayed systematically
in volcanic soil near pummelled surf.
One stood to answer questions,
was called after the surname,
requested permission for trivials.
Outrigger canoes with barnacles in tow splash
menacingly near coral reefs. Under a lazy orange-ripple
moon halfing itself between stages of growth,
night winds taunt puffish clouds.
[48]
Green oranges are sprayed systematically
in volcanic soil near pummelled surf.
One stood to answer questions,
was called after the surname,
requested permission for trivials.
Outrigger canoes with barnacles in tow splash
menacingly near coral reefs. Under a lazy orange-ripple
moon halfing itself between stages of growth,
night winds taunt puffish clouds.
[48]
AMHERST ISLAND
In winter, you were
a flash of light,
tundra against
Arctic floor
Warm breath
stirred yr
summer's breast
and I saw
windblown hair
the colour of kelp
transfix
the lavender print
of a scalp strewn
shore
Later,
tiny bits
from
a calico dress
became domiciled wings
off butterflies,
miniature bitterns
ever more shadowy
strewn across the Barrens,
an unbridled strength from that
Faraway isle released to orchestrate sunlight
amongst all colonies that flower--
a statuesque Red Admiral,
Banded Purple,
feckless Comma
all aswirl to the
pipes of a Devil's Paintbrush,
stranded drumfish, sage,
and tubercular ragwort
[49]
a flash of light,
tundra against
Arctic floor
Warm breath
stirred yr
summer's breast
and I saw
windblown hair
the colour of kelp
transfix
the lavender print
of a scalp strewn
shore
Later,
tiny bits
from
a calico dress
became domiciled wings
off butterflies,
miniature bitterns
ever more shadowy
strewn across the Barrens,
an unbridled strength from that
Faraway isle released to orchestrate sunlight
amongst all colonies that flower--
a statuesque Red Admiral,
Banded Purple,
feckless Comma
all aswirl to the
pipes of a Devil's Paintbrush,
stranded drumfish, sage,
and tubercular ragwort
[49]
ANCIENT OF DAYS
It's Epsom but could pass for Epping,
New Forest or Dumbarton Wood.
There's ivy of the thickest
English sort not commonly
found in America; sprigs
growing across open ground
mantling it.
Shiny to the eye, soft encircling
the touch, I am reminded of blue waters,
green grass Blake's Ancient of Days:
an old man's beard stepping from the trees,
Spanish Moss so unearthly it covers a
southern forest.
There are tendrils in herbal potions of unbroken lips that move
across both dew and clover.
I see Druids reciting psalms, weaving ivy along garlands
of oak, the incantation set before a British lake--
briar baskets carrying the trusting dead;
food offerings transversing the waters.
The ivy calls to mind all these things,
just a sprig held tightly yet aromatic beyond imagining,
my timorous English settlers seen thru a spate of leaves
clutching their holly on Roanoke island.
[50]
New Forest or Dumbarton Wood.
There's ivy of the thickest
English sort not commonly
found in America; sprigs
growing across open ground
mantling it.
Shiny to the eye, soft encircling
the touch, I am reminded of blue waters,
green grass Blake's Ancient of Days:
an old man's beard stepping from the trees,
Spanish Moss so unearthly it covers a
southern forest.
There are tendrils in herbal potions of unbroken lips that move
across both dew and clover.
I see Druids reciting psalms, weaving ivy along garlands
of oak, the incantation set before a British lake--
briar baskets carrying the trusting dead;
food offerings transversing the waters.
The ivy calls to mind all these things,
just a sprig held tightly yet aromatic beyond imagining,
my timorous English settlers seen thru a spate of leaves
clutching their holly on Roanoke island.
[50]
Biography
Previous titles by Paul Cameron Brown include fiction, poetry,
chapbooks, illustrations and broadsheets by a number of Canadian
and American presses.
". . . A master at evoking mood and atmosphere" The London
Free Press
". . . Beguiling writing indeed" The Canadian Author and Bookman
The End
chapbooks, illustrations and broadsheets by a number of Canadian
and American presses.
". . . A master at evoking mood and atmosphere" The London
Free Press
". . . Beguiling writing indeed" The Canadian Author and Bookman
The End