To thine own self be true

(after T.S. Eliot)

You cannot live in Art,
they told him.
Don’t trust in those dreams.
The Lady of Shalott died
by that river, you’ll recall.
(So they insist on ruts
and the thousand deaths
of heart’s desire.)

Keep a clear heart
when forests burn down.
Hang on to stars
when all the maps are gone.
(A fool’s paradise beats
the coffins of convention.)
Who could efface
the red-flowering snow?
The miracle of running water
in a desert of mind?
Imagination’s insistence.

The movie-reel of Time
unloops like an obsession.
Cups of tea, a long afternoon,
the sun through lace curtains.
Measures of quietude,
the lovers’ discourse.
(I guess we all lived here once,
heard concertos in the park
and wondered if the band
would ever play for us.)

Ice and warm hands–
we carry on somehow
with what is left of forgotten love:
What could be and what was.
The garden asleep, its forever
keys for the finding.

Close to ‘It’ on many daze
that elusive feeling
of sublime contentment.
The satisfaction of knowing
who and what I am
might really matter.

Much was precarious
and misfire–missed opportunity.
That and close calls amid
the sun-warm moments of being.

And all the while becoming.
Restless process
like a cold mountain stream.
The collective impression
of all who knew me
along my vertiginous edges.

Realizing however late
the long, slow climb
and precipitousness
of love–the eternal assay.

Never rueing though,
just enjoying the heights
after all–what it meant
to be so close, periodically
dissolved within another.

It is there you shall
finally find me
when recalling what it meant
to be who and what I really was.

Then you, too,
might come close,
be proximate yourself,
a mirror-like essence.

It is no longer for me to say for you.
You will need to fill in the blanks yourself,
to answer the remaining questions,
to find your missing peace
and decide which dream is worth
the living and dying for.

It remains but for you
to walk alone on that beach
with nothing but your thoughts.
It is up to you to decide
if touch is the best art of all
and if an old Inner Child still lives.

It is not in this poem then
that someone will smile fondly at you
and find all you say so interesting.
It is no longer the job of this poet
to free you, to whisper your name,
or tell you where all the treasure’s hid.

No, it is you alone
who will write the last poem, love–
your very own, and tell us all
who you truly, really are.

“I am fascinated by these nuts”
–D.L.

Happiest alone
in front of
an editing machine,
white-gloved
admiring the panoramas
he shot on location.

Blowing out holes
in mountains
for A Passage to India,
sweeping the desert clean
in Lawrence,
waiting for the morning frost
to look just right–
embroidering
Zhivago’s window.

Painstaking, patient
and more concerned
about ‘the shot’
and its composition
than his actors’ performances.

Explaining the script
ahead of time
to all his cast
leaving nothing to chance.
“This is my vision, my script.
I hope you like it.”
Unapologetic.
Supremely confident.
“Tea anyone?”

Days waiting to shoot,
waiting for every cloud to clear
or for a certain mountain look.
“Could you change that red shirt
down the road 300 yards
for a yellow one?”
Asking that a train be repainted
while thousands of extras
stood idly around.

Knew precisely what he wanted.
Exactly. Control.
“Here is how you stand, Bob.
Here is how you touch her.”
(To Robert Mitchum no less!)
Every detail and then some.
So much beyond the story
or literature that inspired him.

David Lean:
A gentleman’s gentleman
and rich visual artist.
Tasteful.
Romantic.
Passionate.
All ways.
Life and movies
mattered to him,
and never the money.

Genius.
Old school.
Timeless.
White gloves
at an editing machine.
Seriously sensuous.
Would have died
rather than use CGI.
Nary a false frame
in his epic sensibility
or grand classics sublime.

Notes:
(David Lean: director of visual epics
Bridge on the River Kwai, Dr. Zhivago,
Lawrence of Arabia, A Passage to India,
Ryan’s Daughter
CGI: computer-generated imaging

in Edmonton worth seeing. It’s large and impressive. The Viking exhibit there now is well worth the modest admission.

Parking downtown with all the roads closed is, however, another matter. If you can’t park at City Hall with its limited parking, your best bet is the library parking which is about half a mile away from the RAM, albeit underground protected from the elements, but not from spaced-out nuisance street types who can still make their way into the walkway. This is not a good choice for women, seniors, or families. So voila, you’ve got a great facility downtown (the art gallery doesn’t count because it doesn’t do significant art exhibitions), but it’s dangerous to get to even if you can find a parking spot or are taking the LRT.

Now with Hawrelak, the Muttart, the libray, Churchill Square , and Ft. Edmonton closing or closed, there are no other bona fide attractions for travellers to take in. You have to feel sorry for them driving Third World roads (like Edmontonians every day) and risking safety trying to get to the one and only worthwhile attraction downtown.

Only in Edmonton would a city make itself totally impassable, impossible, and closed to one and all. Only with Don and this ignorant City Council would such craziness be inflicted on so many. The latter has long declared open war on locals and now tourists. They have, wilfully and singlehandedly, made E-Town  one huge hideous nightmare of ashes and nothingness.

“Our correspondences have wings–paper birds that fly from my house to yours–flocks of ideas crisscrossing the country.”

Otherwise, I am truly glassless for the first time since grade 8, 1962-63.

A daily splash of rainbow color via a chandelier onto the kitchen floor.