Five Poems by Mike Madill

 

Afraid to Blink

(after Mary Oliver’s ‘I Don’t Want to be Demure or Respectful’) 

 

There’s a fire in the lashes of my eyes,

illuminating everything I see.

This isn’t like the cliché

of rose-coloured glasses, but far more

incendiary: the bitterness

that lines a fur coat; the overheated

toddler in wool sweater; the burning

soles of restless nomads. I see it all

and I’m afraid to blink, in case

I lose that connection, that longing

to belong.

 

Feigning Zen                                                             

 

Choose your saviour.

Cue the wings and harps,

maybe a Bodhi tree

to set your sights on,

or some white-robed hero

on high. Feign some Zen,

despite your deep-

down squirm

whenever there’s talk of

the beyond.

 

Belief crystallizes

only at the brink

of oblivion.

 

For the night sky

to be worth so many

upturned eyes, the stars

need to show more shine.

You say your faith can

rise above even the

abduction of hope

and yet, here I am,

walking on water

just to get my feet wet.

 

Forest Floor                                                                                                                    

(after Charles Wright’s ‘Matins’)

 

Today would be a good day to try

something new, break through

the crust of rote, set my sights

on the undescribed. But how exactly

do I let the light in, Charles,

without breaking, leaving me

with a net loss of shadow?

 

If we’re nobodies, then aren’t we

all equally forgettable,

fooling ourselves that we have

marks to leave, when we’re just

another fallen leaf on the forest floor?

 

Think of the combined,

subtle hue released in their dying,

however fleeting. How do I

put my faith in so tenuous a promise,

risk being let down again, always

further than any light can go?

 

So make me a mojito, with its bold,

green sprig of mint and its devil-

may-care icy tinkle, and I’ll be

the cubes immersed in swirl,

the melting and the draining away

someone else’s problem. This day,

this moment, now all I can embrace.

 

Kick away the ground cover,

face head-on the buried honesty

beneath the leaves, beyond the glass

tumbler. Inhale the musty scent

of all the nobodies who’ve fallen

before, every bit as vital now in

their loamy rooms below.

 

Digging down, I’ll discover

how much deeper I still have to go.

Grubby hands will reveal I’ve tried

to come to grips with myself and

my past: Dad’s driven work ethic.

And me, caught in the rocky stratus,

failing to measure up to my

memory of his expectations, or even

grasp how desolate that makes me feel. 

 

 

Tarnished 

 

Set your sights

on a second round

this morning, soothe

your conscience with a

swap to instant decaf.

Plunge tarnished teaspoon

into Nescafe, watch dusty

grains sprinkle down

into your mug, insides

stained more than most.

The kettle crackles, sputters,

roils its way to a tantrum.

Pour off just enough

of its pique, imagine

the rest of your days

this simple, until you find

you’re out of milk.

Resort to whitener –

truck-stop mediocrity –

these muddy days still

no easier to swallow.                                                                         

Stir up that same old

mini-cyclone, an

eddy of froth

imploding.

 

Throat, Claw and Crown                                                                                     

(after Charles Bukowski’s ‘The Bluebird’) 

 

There’s a bluebird in my heart

and a cardinal in my brain,

a vulture in my spine that won’t

stop eating me alive and a raven

that’s feasting on my toes.

 

Why can’t I break free?

If I’m stuck with them, then

they’re stuck with me and there’s

no way in hell either of us

will change our minds. That cold,

exacting cardinal upstairs,

stubborn shit. Such a motley flock

of misfits, too single-minded

to ever leave their nest.

 

I’m in pieces on the page –

throats, claws and crowns.

Here lies the dim smirk between

November and forever, the sun

again with its entitlement issues.

 

Is it even darker than I fear

inside, like those lenses that lose

their rosiness when I step outdoors,

like John Lennon confronted

by Mark David Chapman?

I’m not going to let anybody see

 

what’s really going on inside

of me. Until the day they

break open my ribcage, find

frayed feathers and dulled-down

beaks, everything scared stiff by

the sickly-sweet rot of regret.

Mike Madill’s poems have appeared in literary journals widely across Canada, as well as in the U.S., Ireland and Australia, including in The Antigonish Review, The Hobo Camp Review, Event, The Fiddlehead, The Galway Review and Witcraft. After his manuscript was one of four winners in the inaugural 2022 Don Gutteridge Poetry Award Contest, he was awarded publication of his debut, full-length poetry collection, The Better Part of Some Time, (Wet Ink Books, 2022).