Trevor Haug: 2008

Friday, March 7, 2008

Ironwood Giraffe

I hold in my fist

the neck of a foot-high

ironwood giraffe

I bought in a market

in Johannesburg

This hard wooden sculpture

reminds me that

I saw no giraffe

while in Africa

though I strained my neck

and squinted against the plane's

tempered double window

and looked upon Senegal

to see only darkness

and a few huts

All the way to Jo'berg,

to Maputo and north

along the coast of Mozambique,

past the swollen Zambezi,

there was no sign

of the prophetic beast

who says very little

but flaps an ear

while exfoliating

a village tree

I saw children close to earth

and mothers bending the knee

and a ragged beggar

sleeping on the beach

and many bare feet

There were homemade boats on the shore

and on the wrong side of the road

worn down diesel trucks

I met mahogany colored people

who raised the palm with "Salaama"

Beneath me, the hard red earth

Above, palms and boabab trees

At eye level, orphans and widows

bright smiles and laughing

music and dancing

I still see large yellow African morning skies

with rainbows at noon

I hear the rhythms of Makua and Makonde tongue

I listen to boys with wares on the beach

who can negotiate with anyone

Then back through small airports

named for national heroes

but never a glimpse

of a noble and cow-eyed

black and orange race of seers

So I hold my ironwood

giraffe by the neck

and plant him on the mantle

so I can see every day

what I have not seen

6/3/08

from "Poems of Africa"

Thursday, March 6, 2008

Rain on the Maples

(for Carolyn Blunk)

Rain on the maples-

The forest is overcome

With new shades of green

Deeper than we've known.

Our limbs and trunks

Bend with this season

Yet, like a psalm recovering

There is still

A silver-emerald

Late Spring joy.

Though your verdant

Leaves became crimson

And fell to earth

Well before autumn,

These hours

Given to us all

Will be raked together

Soon enough

In golden, scarlet mounds

Under afternoon sun.

Until then,

We still hear your laugh

Like rain on the maples.

from "Poems of New England"

Saturday, March 1, 2008

Psalm 071115

I am muted

like a trumpet

heard but more reserved

needing more lung, more lip

I am dampened and bandaged

like a ripped drum

holding back, fearing the stick

I am an awkwardly capoed guitar

holding down four of six strings

I am a dream

drained of colour

I am fingers with no rings

I am not desperate

but shun parades

I hold regrets

like half-eaten ham sandwiches

on white bread

I was standing, watching

destiny wave like the Queen

as she passed by

I often wonder where she went

I am too lame to

even shuffle

and too tired to lament

yet I

15/11/07

from "Poems from the Hedge"

Zamboni Dance

zamboni pair

before the third

Grown graceful twins

Prodigy of

street cleaner and

riding mower

Your swathing tongues

create a looking

glass with each pass

our sins smaller

until your dance

must be over

2/08

from "West of Vancouver, Poems from the Island"

The Heavy Door

The heavy door to November

is held open by the saints

"Come in," they insist

-short Italian monks

They show me their liqueurs

"You will need these for the storms"

And I was afraid

that colour would never return

It leaves the trees and enters my cheeks

15/11/07

from "West of Vancouver, Poems from the Island"

The Bird Feeder

My new tractor-green cylinder

Pez dispenser for sky musicians

Attracts only flightless acrobats

Grey Cirque de Soleil escapee squirrel

Hangs with monkey tail

Robbing the offering

Like an illegal lover

After dark, more obscenities

A tinsel-eyed raccoon

Has my John Deere green

Father's Day gift on the fecund earth

Gnawing and drunkenly oblivious

To the cursing flashlight

At last, sobered by my approach

Hurries to a forgotten appointment

I'll hang my scarred green gift again tomorrow

But even in the mirror-bright morning

These high church warblers

Will refuse my oiled sunflower virgin seed

Stained by squirrel scent

Spoiled by raccoon slobber

31/8/06

from "Poems from the Hedge"

Monday, February 25, 2008

The Mango Goddess

My wife is the mango goddess

not by birthright or decree

but by a local democracy

When she moves through the fruit section

squeezing, watching, and listening,

the locals ask her

about the qualities of mangos

"Why do they ask me these things?"

she asks in a Jewish tone

"Because you are the mango goddess, " I reply

"But I don't look remotely..., I'm Irish,

I should know about potatoes,

Why don't they ask me about potatoes?"

"Because you are the mango goddess, " I reply

She knows the difference between ripe and rotten

She passes judgement on raw and rare

Her village is as global as her vision

She commands the economy

and pays her subjects well

When she is out of the grocer's

and in my arms late at night

she asks me why I chose this night

for toast and tea

"Because you are the mango goddess," I reply

9/97

from "Poems from the Hedge"

Saturday, February 23, 2008

Tulip Yellow Moon

Tulip yellow moon

the children looked for you

this afternoon

while you were hiding

waiting for the sky

to finish bleeding

Then you rose and hung

from a dark pine bough

from "Tulip Yellow Moon, Verses for a Child-like Tribe"

Spring for Beginners

She cannot yet turn over

so she sits on the lawn

in her car seat while the twins

and the neighbor's cat

orbit her world

She cannot help but see

what we have been missing -

the budding maple

six stories high

an apartment for blackbirds

and mourning doves

Beyond, against the blue,

mute clouds

try to invent a dance

that we fail to imagine

because we rarely look up

Her eyes move to

her first movie screen,

the side of the white house

that shows all of our shadows

in the afternoon

The cat and she

hear the trucks growl

as they gear down

to pass through

town

She feels the same slow breeze

that feathers all our faces

while New England greens

from "Poems of New England"

Boabab

I ask a local how old is the tree

60 years, he says with little confidence

I'm thinking at least 200

Either way, it is beyond our span

Another tells me it is hollow inside

and can hide a whole village

So it has uses

beyond holding my mouth open

And I ask myself,

Why would such a village

need to hide?

from "Poems of Africa"