5-7-5

 There have been a few books that, because of their pure power, I have been saving until I consider myself worthy to read them. Humility, or possibly my attempt to create its verisimilitude, (in extreme arrogance), has caused me to shelve these books until such time that I perceive myself "worthy" of reading them. The top of the list is, of course, Ulysses. James Joyce has driven many more men into the grave, and/or insanity with this tome, than Canadian author A. M. Klein, I'm sure. I read reviews of Klein from his era that describe him as an up and coming genius in a time when Canadian literature was at its best. And I've read his contemporaries describing what occurred inside his head as bees buzzing in a hive after his obsession with Ulysses drove him utterly mad. For me, I think that's a (short) trip I'm not quite ready to embark upon.

In my salad days, what I considered poetry fairly oozed out of every pore of my skin. I was an unapologetically profuse producer of poetry for many years. I have exactly zero of those poems to offer as proof of this and I thank every muse, inspiration or deity that I can for that fact. I think I'd be embarrassed to read the stuff I was offering, nay bestowing upon the non-poetic souls who knew me in my youth. Who knows? There might be a few that withstood the maturity of my literary taste. But I doubt it. 

This brings us to Rainer Maria Rilke. I had the (extraordinarily lucky and) good sense to allay the readership of his Letters To a Young Poet, because, despite my overestimation of my poetic prowess, I actually WAS a person trying his best to live a life of humility at the time. As you can imagine, the two sentiments were like the proverbial angel and devil on my opposing shoulders. But I went with the right one. Until now. At the age of 53, I feel I have had enough wisdom shitkicked into me to avail myself of the advice that is given in the "Letters to a Young Poet." I have read the Tao Tae Ching, perhaps a little prematurely, and I feel it wasn't a bad choice. I accidentally stumbled upon some advanced thinking in the OTHER works of J.D. Salinger when I was young, and although I have re-read them all and continuously gain new insights with age, I don't think I was overwhelmed by reading that as a teen. There are some other examples too, so, while I may not have reached the academic, intellectual, and most importantly, the poetic maturity required to gain maximum edification from this work, I started to read it. Yesterday. I read the first letter. And today, while taking a shit (you didn't have to know that, but it comes to bear) I re-read the first chapter again.

In the first chapter, the first letter, of the letters, Rilke advises Kappus to take refuge, TAKE REFUGE, in our own day to day life. If your day to day life seems shit, blame yourself. There are no poor and trivial places. Especially not in the explosively creative pen of a poet. So back to the taking a shit, I SHOULD be able to, but won't (count your lucky stars) write a poem about that. It is my fate to write. I have (quite obviously) assumed that and am willing to bear it. So it is at this point that I will share with you a poem that arose from a very rich and non-trivial experience I had this very night. I apologize in advance for the undoubtedly OVERexplanation that is likely to follow:

                                  Taped my hockey stick

                                  giving instruction to an

                                  audience of none.

I thank you.

I may sound like I'm kidding, but I'm not. I actually did this tonight and it was an emotionally charged.... see, this is the part where I explain and ruin the whole thing. Let me try to give some background. That won't ruin one of, like, a handful of poems I've written since university, will it?

In fact, no! I'm not going to say any more. I'll let you imagine the longing for home that comes from being forced to work in a foreign country. I will let you contemplate the thousands of hours spent alone shooting tennis balls and pucks against garage doors, or into nets that are patched and re-patched so many times there are scarcely enough original pieces of netting left to make  Cheryl Tiegs' bra. 

Another image I'm sure is representative of my longing for things not of Korea that has led me to this little poem tonight. But I'm positive there'll be like one or two people who have never seen this image so it won't be shocking to you in the least. I, however, could write several more haiku about this picture! It holds a very special place in my wank bank. Let's move on, shall we?

And it probably won't do my argument any  harm when I tell  you that I haven't felt a hockey stick in my hands, MUCH less the nose-stiffening, ice crystallizing sub-sub zero temperatures at which I routinely went out to the public (free, yes that's right, FREE) rinks to skate around and blast a few slapshots, maybe have a game of shinny. That right there could be a(n) haiku. Let's see, 5 - 7 - 5

                                    Skate around and blast

                                    a few slapshots and maybe,

                                     a game of shinny.

I thank you again.

If you're like me, I see a long closed door opening up just from reading one letter in this book. If you've read it, please, don't tell me what happens next. I'm probably going to continue on because I see good from reading it, not bad. I am glad I have cracked it open after all these years of waiting. Maybe I AM ready for it. I certainly haven't been improving my poetic skills as a way of preparing, but, who can say it won't still work out? We'll have to see....

I am going to embark upon a holiday season that will include some things that I haven't done (in Korea) ever. I WILL do things that I've done in Canada, but not in Korea. So don't be surprised if you see another haiku or two on this blog. 

You've been forewarned.