After the Dark
They are wrong, you know, about the dark;
before the dawn it is much diminished
and is flecked with light in particles
large enough to make a difference. Dawn
by then has sent its spores to plant them
selves in us and erode the darker self
we carry, each of us, deep within.
Oh no, the dark when it is darkest comes
after dusk. The sun casts a dark shade
behind itself, dusk the edge of blackest
night which follows the sun’s light passing
too soon over us so that we must all
feel the chill of dark in some degree.
This is the dark into which I was born
long ago, that night of wind and sleet
howling round and through that mountain cabin,
and this is the dark within me still
as I approach that greater dark abyss
into which we all must fall at last.
It is into this dark he too was born,
far from here and far from now, of light
and fire in a valley far from his kind.
But I leap ahead of my story!
It all begins long before that secret birth,
Before his birth and before mine.
Long ago and far away, the old stories
begin: yet was this so long ago
and what place in those times was so far off?
No, I might say it all began here,
and those days not so long ago at all.
They say that men were gods. Light and fire
playthings, and the very winds like highways
upon which men would fly. They say these
And other things which the people believe,
but I am of another time, dark
and unbelieving without my seeing
with my own eyes proof of these wonders.
I will say only that there are legends,
and that somewhere in these ancient tales
may lay the truth of the matter. Just that,
plus that I have been to the plains once,
in my youth, have seen great cities empty
and in ruin. How they were built, by who,
and how destroyed, I would not guess.
I know only that they exist, that legends
tell of a race of giants, powerful
enough to conquer the universe,
a race that had harnessed all the magic,
and made it serve the needs of men, fire
and light and all the great forces, perhaps
even that great force that rules all others.
Such a race could raise cities on the plains
as I have seen, and ruin them, but
if the legends are true I do not know,
or if there is some other answer.
That is for wiser minds than mine to tell.
I shall tell of a later time, then,
after the time of which the legends speak:
shall tell of a time of deepest dark
in every soul throughout the land. This
is the time when he was born, and I,
who became his friend: shadow to his light.
Yet, if you would understand my tale,
I must tell something of that other time:
both of the legends and of the truth,
for it is from this my story begins.
Long before the time of darkness came,
there was more than this we call The People,
than these hills and valleys we live in,
than the plains below where no one dares go.
It is said the land stretches far beyond
the edge of reality, and beyond
waters even wider reach worlds
as great as this. Even the sky, it is said,
was blue as a mountain lake is green,
and broad as the waters at the land’s end,
and beyond it too were other worlds.
Man, the legends say, ruled over all this;
then were the days long and nights made light;
Man travelled the universe end to end,
his wondrous vehicles drawn by powers
Taken from the gods themselves. From the gods
Man took fire and light; from the gods too
Man took the power to move through the sky
and across the great seas of water
and across the vast lands at great speed.
Gods men came finally to consider
themselves: of great cities and great tribes, both
builders and destroyers. Man’s power,
taken from the gods, became all power,
ruled the universe, answerable
to no man or god, growing beyond man,
itself finally ruling, power
taken from the god’s control, never in
Man’s control.
The fires when they came, came
from the dark and with the dark, filling all
the universe with darkness no man
escapes for long. The legends do not tell
how some men lived, made shelters high up
in these hills, how then their children’s children
made their way to the valleys after,
becoming in time the tribes of the land,
the tribes who to this day rule the land.
None of this is known, for this was the time
darkness filled the land. This was the dark
he came into so long ago, bringing light,
Although we could not have known back then
he was the one of whom the legends spoke.
Bolex
There is no sound in this black and white world
missing even the whir of the Bolex
drawing in what it sees without comment
images to flicker on future walls
projecting a past world in black and white
A boy and girl climb the wooded dirt path
beside a green lake somewhere far below
followed by mother coming up behind
saying words now lost somewhere in the past
and father unseen behind the Bolex
A girl runs down a road in Viet Nam
screaming in silence as napalm burns her
while a newsman weeps behind his Bolex
while the world weeps at this black and white scene
knows things can no longer be black and white
The car door opens over and over
while the girl and boy follow each other
out of the car out of the car like magic
black and white and silent without ending
controlled by the man behind the Bolex
Over and over passenger jets crash
twin towers into reasons for new wars
while the New York artist in his loft makes
moving images with an old Bolex
knowing nothing is truly black and white
The boy sails a kite gently in the sky
as he runs through the fields eternally
looped slo-mo over and over again
the man with the Bolex keeping the dark
just out of reach where it can’t touch this boy
Anne Frank writes her diary in an attic
knows the men in uniforms will come soon
bearing death for her family and her
writes with no Bolex to tell this story
as the attic closes in on her life
A girl on the cabin’s porch is reading
while across the meadow a deer watches
her dad in the doorway filming this girl
her thoughts far away in a dark attic
with another girl about her own age
Unfeeling uniformed men with guns watch
people undress for the waiting showers
then enter a dark room they’ll never leave
while the gas stacks naked bodies like logs
all shot for the record with a Bolex
On a sunny day somewhere in the west
a boy chases a dog through prairie grass
while the man with the Bolex follows him
pleased to catch the fire of the summer sun
above this boy and dog in black and white
The eastern sun sits low in the sky
where rockets explode and a city burns
while across the way festive crowds gather
cheering with joy at fireworks in the dusk
while an antique Bolex records it all
There must be birdsong in the fields and woods
yet there is no sound in these images
no colour among the black and white fields
where light and dark are given equal weight
the Bolex records but never judges
Above Japan three men wait the moment
Little Boy falls from the bomb bay
silence all around them like death calling
then fire takes innocence out of their world
while The Great Artiste’s Bolex captures all
In a sunlit world without sound or colour
a boy and girl seem to live forever
dream of love floating across perfect fields
but it stops to leave a single image
where a spark spreads until nothing is left
Julie
I saw your daughter today
in the grocery store aisle,
your spirit close behind her,
or only an ancient woman,
your ghost given up and gone.
An old woman with a walker,
you aged beyond your years,
frail as the memory of you
still somewhere deep in me
an eternity after you left.
How long ago did I meet you,
how long until you ended it,
how long was the eternity
we spent crossing those lines
you needed so badly to cross?
You seemed younger than me then,
your spirit unbound by years,
crossing lines, breaking rules,
touching taboos and entering
shadows you shared with me.
There was a time I followed
into any fantasy you dreamed,
into the dark of your world,
and learned to read the dark
you led me into and through.
Your one phone call ended it all,
and another eternity’s gone by;
today I saw a girl in a store,
and you, a shadow from our past,
the ghost of someone I once knew.
Justice
My messenger is not working well now–
this devastating nonverbal beat heard
as though I see the world through a mirror
limited by an overnight raid somewhere
while a serpent come out of the north
wraps us around until it bites its own tail.
This man looks at me with death on his face
and there is always a tongue in your mouth
but you don't make excuses for the man
cornered by dogs in a dead-end tunnel
while beneath the surface a fire glimmers
banked perhaps too long and turned to ash.
hear us whisper
voices in the dust
hear our wailing
cries on the wind
hear our voices
waves on the water
hear us whisper
hear us hear us
as we rise again
Under ashes of those who have come before
banked embers of the future wait their time,
sleepers ready and waiting to light the way–
Justice is not patient nor always swift
no iron lady with torch and book in hand
no great colossus watchful at the shore.
This is not anger seething beneath the dust
for below the ashes of all civilizations
Justice lies in wait as the dust settles
keeps a wary eye on the dark as it grows
waits the perfect moment to bring truth
and with truth, light again to the world.
hear us whisper
voices in the dust
hear our wailing
cries on the wind
hear our voices
waves on the water
hear us whisper
hear us hear us
as we rise again
You imagine we’ve gone away long ago–
the ancients and the ones who resist–
the lost generation, the beat generation,
the hippie revolution and street warriors
people who stand up for love and justice,
who cry out for peace and understanding.
You think you can do things your way now,
the resistance dead and buried long ago
in the ashes of a nation you set burning
in the ashes of a world you set burning
ashes meant to cover your dark history
ashes meant to bury resistance forever.
Listen as our voices rise from the ashes
lifted up in the renewed wind of change
hid too long beneath your smoke and ash
millions of voices raised in resistance
old guard and new generations in harmony
resonance of times past and times to come.
hear us whisper
voices in the dust
hear our wailing
cries on the wind
hear our voices
waves on the water
hear us whisper
hear us hear us
as we rise again
Dust devils in the wind we dance and spin
ourselves out of the ash bringing others
outliers you have not seen rise before time
out from the cracks between the movements
standing hand in hand in the spaces between
holding the line as we all move forward.
Cancelled or covered up by political noise
voices of protest and dissent rise together
rise from the ashes you laid so long ago
dust devils in the wind become the thunder
rise up to rain truth over the old drought
ashen upon the land and you fear the storm.
hear us whisper
hear us hear us
as we rise again
the obelisk
wheat stands gilt ready for harvest
each crown bent in anticipation
hand in hand we enter the field
wade through the golden waves
toward the grove at the centre
a leisurely flow like choreography
across the calm and quiet space
our accompaniment not strings
lark and oriole and whippoorwill
this is slow motion
like the clouds across the sky
like the hawk lazing a circle at the centre
a day out of time
a day to leave one’s self behind
commune with some universal spirit
we are like that here
out of time
out of place
the chiaroscuro of the wood
dapple of light among the black
makes all reality appear unreal
puts the lie to any notions
we might have had of noon
the feel is not of ghouls and grasping shadows
we enjoy our walk across the dampness
fallen leaves with the untimely shade
the soft breeze cooling us
what dark shadows might threaten
the slender darts of the sun melt
or soften to nothing more dangerous
than the sodden leaves underfoot
after the webbed shadow of the trees
the sun seems brighter than before
we pause at the edge of the grove
uncertain of our eyes
the field here is almost exactly
as the one we have left behind us
grain as gold
sky as blue
clouds as brightly glowing
except in the distance there is a shadow
perhaps of coming rain
and the hawk is nowhere to be seen
none of this surprises me
what does is the obelisk
it stands in the middle of the field
white and redolent of sunlight
possibly twenty metres tall
at its top
the life size figure of a man
his stance and attitude of attention
feet together
hands at his sides
face forward and upward
caught in some undertow of flowing grain
we gravitate from the shadows
toward this misplaced monument
as we move toward him
the man on the pedestal slowly raises his arms
outward
sideways
to shoulder height
we are almost at the base of his tower
the man falls forward into nothingness
my heart stops
every function of my body stops
I feel the hand I hold in mine
convulse and tighten
the man sails gracefully forward
downward then upward
a broad spiral ever narrowing
toward the sun
her grip on me loosens
life returns to my body
this man sails like a bird
ever upward until
I can barely see his form
he is shrunk to the size of a distant sparrow
still he moves
toward the burning centre of the sky
I watch his form gyre against
the soft white of the clouds
his is not the only dark form I see
above him is the shadow
seen earlier in the distance
moving closer now
downward as he moves upward
only as it begins its dive do I see
in it the shadowy shape of the hawk
the hawk after that sparrow
that soaring, flying man
she touches my hand again
I turn to look at her
a young woman with raven hair
her eyes reflecting the drama
far above us
she is gripping me tightly
the sky melts away like plastic
everything is black
I am shaking
being shaken
her hand no longer grabs at mine
no longer pulls me back
I am floating free
the man was still rising
the shadow was still swooping
I do not know the ending
all I remember is that man
feet together and arms spread
like some Christ
suspended in the sunlight
that shadow dropping over him
onto him like some predator bird
and him not knowing
Bob
MacKenzie grew up in a photo studio in mid-century rural Alberta with artist
parents. His father was a professional photographer and musician and his
mother a photo technician, colourist, and painter. By the age of five, he
had his own camera and ever since has been shooting photographs and writing
poems and stories. Raised in this environment, young Bobby developed a natural
affinity for photography and for the intricacies of language.
Bob’s poetry has appeared in more than 400 journals across North America and as
far away as Australia, Greece, India, and Italy. Bob has published
eighteen volumes of poetry and prose-fiction and his work's appeared in
numerous anthologies. He's received numerous local and international
awards for his writing as well as an Ontario Arts Council grant for literature,
a Canada Council Grant for performance, and a Fellowship to attend the Summer
Literary Seminars in Tbilisi, Georgia.
With the ensemble Poem de Terre, for eighteen years Bob's poetry has been
spoken and sung live with original music and the group has released six albums.
"Bolex" first appeared in the book "Agapé:
Heaven & Earth" (Dark Matter Press, 2015), "Justice" and "the
obelisk" both appeared in the book "footsteps in the garden" (Cyberwit.net,
2021), and "the obelisk" had earlier been published in the online
journal "Terror House Magazine" on March 16, 2019.
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