Posts Tagged ‘poetry’
deep waters – Clear Lake
As a result of my work, I have been privileged to see some remote, very special places in New Brunswick.
One of these is Clear Lake, a pristine lake in the south west area of the province. To reach Clear Lake, we canoed across Sparks Lake and made the short portage from Sparks to Clear. The portage crosses the narrow divide between two watersheds – Sparks Lake eventually flows into the Magaguadavic River, while Clear Lake is part of the Pocologan River system.
topographic map showing Clear Lake, Horseback Lake and Sparks Lake
Clear Lake is a deep lake with remarkably clear water. Lake depth measurements from the New Brunswick Aquatic Data Warehouse show the maximum measured depth to be 29.6 meters (97 feet), although deeper depths have been recorded. Stones on the bottom of the lake look like they are only centimetres away, but when you put your hand into the water, you quickly realise they are far out of reach.
standing beside Horseback Lake, a small lake just west of Clear Lake, October 1992 (photo by J. O'K.)
Clear Lake
~
behind us
dry leaves settle
waves on Sparks and Redrock
~
Clear Lake
bottle blue
silences our chatter
reeds and aluminium
whisper
~
we glide
~
between islands
group of seven trees
flung southward
quartz cobbles
rim the shore
dark Porcupine
bristles with conifers
tangled in the surface
plunge eighteen fathoms
to a cove
gathered in arms
of granite and pine
a cabin perched green
shadows peering
over the edge
~
sudden and silent
sunken logs
caressed by crescent suns
cast through ripples
only a touch away
~
through the mirror
shattered
numb fingers search
down
down
~
essence always
out of reach
~
dissolved
in the clear lake
~
Published as: “Clear Lake”, 1999, River Revue 5
(revised)
© Jane Tims
a woodland stream in southern Alberta
When we were children, living in Alberta, Mom and Dad took us for drives on the weekends. Usually, we explored the prairie roads or the landscape of the South Saskatchewan River. Sometimes, though, we sought the wooded areas of southern Alberta.
A place we visited more than once was a small wooded stream in the Cypress Hills. We called it ‘Greyburn Gap’, probably after the nearby community of Greyburn’s Gap. The site had a picnic table and shelter, woods to explore, and the little stream.
The Cypress Hills area is an eroded plateau, rising above the Alberta and Saskatchewan prairies. It was left unglaciated during the last ice age and has a flora and fauna much different than the surrounding prairie. Part of the Cypress Hills is protected as the Cypress Hills Interprovincial Park.
Elkwater Lake and the wooded landscape of the Cypress Hills Interprovincial Park as they appeared in 1967
My parents were raised in Nova Scotia and were accustomed to the forests of the Atlantic Provinces. The Cypress Hills, and the woods of Elkwater Lake, where we had a cabin, must have helped them feel more at home in Alberta.
mixed woods of Elkwater Lake area (2002)
our cabin at Elkwater Lake (1967)
Greyburn Gap, Alberta
~
I remember a brook threaded through the trees like string
black water in the gap between gossamer and fern
a fence to mark its moving a fallen fir
to tangle its water our hands
trailing in the eddy
~
a jug of root beer sunk to the neck to move the brook’s cold shiver
into our summer bodies
~
© Jane Tims, 2011
watching the wind
The wind fills empty air space with movement and sound. When the wind blows, the void above us suddenly has form and power and dimensionality. It can lift a kite. It can steal a balloon. It can fill the air with dandelion fluff. It can convince you a seagull lives to soar.
My favourite way to ‘see’ the wind is to watch clothes drying on a line. Colourful towels, flowered table cloths, patterned pyjamas, and white cotton underwear. They sway together and lift as the wind catches them. Surely the whole line will sail away.
Do you have a clothesline and do you hang out your bedding to dry?
a clothesline in the countryside
Hanging out bedding to dry
~
by the last acre
of oat field
grown golden in the sun
and wind
~
wet sheets billow
up
up and outward
the long husks of the grainheads
sigh like pebbles
sorted by the sea
~
pillowcases
pegged to a blue horizon
tug at the line
cedar masts are set
firm in the island till
~
quilts and coverlets
spinnaker and mizzen
carry me
over the wind-washed
waves of grain
~
Published as: ‘hanging bedding to dry’, Summer 1995, The Amethyst Review 3(2)
© Jane Tims
niche beneath waterfall
This past weekend, we made a visit to two of New Brunswick’s waterfalls: Erbs Falls and Smith Falls, both on the Kingston Peninsula.
Erbs Falls begins as a quickening of the water of Peters Brook in a narrowing gorge.
At this time of year, the water proceeds in one of two pathways, down the labyrinth of the fish ladder…
…or into a deep, narrow gorge through the bedrock…
… to emerge into the sunlight as Erbs Falls.
Smith Falls begins as a series of smaller falls in the brook. The path runs along the brook, so we saw every ripple and dip.
The water plunges over the lip of the falls…
…flows past a small cave…
… and forces its way between rocks over the lower part of the falls.
Waterfalls are the ultimate experience of water. At the base of the waterfall are the mingled sounds of the thundering water and the gurgle of the stream. The shade and mists are cooling, refreshing. Sneakers get wet, hands are washed in cold water, and balance is tested as you follow the downward path of the waterfall.
I also like to think about the shape of the rock under the falls. I watch the spout and flume of the water to see what solid shapes beneath the flow have shaped the waterfall. I try to see through the white curtain of water to see the rock and stone, and understand how they are both revealed and concealed by the waterfall.
beneath waterfall
~
what can I do
to cover me
feign a drip of waterfall
from a single eye
or a flume
from the fluid of two
~
shall I arrange
my hair to hide beneath
my skin a wasp-nest
paper waterfall
hung lightly
~
who will see me
if I place my hands on rock
freckles are dapples of sun
fingernail glints of mica
or whorls in fingerprint
swirl like water
~
the spare notes of white-throat
or fluid jubilee of robin
flow over, compose sheet
music of quarter notes
to cover me
~
sitting here
on the edge of the bed
far from waterfall
electric fan for breeze
electric bulbs for sparkle
down-filled white duvet
to hide beneath
~
© Jane Tims 2011
water from the well
an old-style water pump
water from the well
~
taps in the house
running water hot and cold
why did my grandfather
carry in from the well
two pails of water each day?
handle pumped
well primed
~
he filled three buckets
one he poured
half into Dandy’s bowl
half he left beside the well
for the next day’s prime
~
two he lifted to the narrow step
set them down
opened the screen door
with a squeak
shut with satisfying thunder
~
carried the pails into the entry
set them down
settled his cap on a hook
row of hooks made of wire
hangers bent double and painted
~
carried the pails to the white door
a narrow door
with a latch
set them down
opened the door and climbed the stair
returned in a minute or so
carried the pails
into the kitchen
~
set one next to the sink
by the inside door
where I brushed
my teeth in the morning
enameled metal
narrow mirror
one tap for warm water, one for cold
wire basket for a bar of soap
and a bucket of water
cold from the well
~
set one pail in the pantry
narrow room by the woodstove
lined with shelves
counter where my grandfather
kneaded his bread
rolled the crust for pie
metal canister for sugar
ice box for milk and eggs
and a bucket of water
cold from the well
~
© Jane Tims 2011
the location of our picnic table
Back in our grey woods is a place we don’t visit regularly any more. Our picnic table is there, in a mossy area among mature spruce and fir, at the top of a slope. It overlooks a wet spot in the woods. In the spring the wet area becomes an ephemeral stream, and a series of vernal pools among the mosses and ferns.
down-slope of the picnic table is a ferny area with an ephemeral stream... the dark areas in the photo are pools of water
Once, almost 28 years ago, the space was perfect for our new picnic table. The table was given to my newborn son by his Great-Aunt Jane and we took considerable care in choosing its location.
our picnic table in the woods
In years past, we took a picnic lunch there regularly. Sometimes I went there to write.
Today I pass the table when I follow the path through the woods, but I haven’t stopped to eat a picnic there in years. Another family has taken over, probably of Groundhogs (Marmota monax). They have built a labyrinth of burrows among the tree roots in the soft soil of the slope. Where each burrow exits is a mound, the remains of deep-earth excavation. One of the six burrow openings is larger than the others. My reading tells me this complex of burrows and exits provides quick escape from predators, a place to store food, and a place to hibernate.
the main entrance to the burrows, under the roots of a fir
Once this place was the ideal location for our new picnic table and our family picnics. Now the same site is perfect habitat for the Groundhog family.
concerning the location
of our new picnic table
~
share a meal with the unknown
to make it your friend
~
we find a clearing
near the path
where the sun will shine at noon
where we will not have to cut the trees
where the neighbours’ voices
and the passing cars
are quiet
~
we load the picnic table
into the cart
haul it through the woods
behind the Yamaha
~
we eat peanut butter sandwiches
and applesauce
drink cola
and sunshine
~
we laugh
make friends with the woods
and with each other
~
© Jane Tims 1983
hidden in the hollow heart of an oak
Hollow trees create mysterious spaces in the woods.
When I was young, a hollow in a tree was a secret hiding place for treasures, and one of my favourite books was a Nancy Drew mystery – “The Message in the Hollow Oak”. In the story, a hollow tree is used as a secret mailbox between long lost lovers.
- Carolyn Keene 1935 The Message in the Hollow Oak (a later edition, probably around 1965)
a hollow log in the woods
Cavities are usually found in mature trees. Their importance as habitat is a good reason for protecting older, mature trees in the woodlot. When my son was young, we made wooden signs saying “DEN TREE” for the older hollow trees in our woods, so we would remember not to cut them down.
Do you know a hollow tree and would you reach into the cavity to retrieve a letter???
requesting the favour of a reply
~
these leafless trees
brush against
a linen sky
ink strokes
on rice paper
letters
penned at midnight
~
hidden in the hollow
heart of an oak
afraid to reach in
to feel only
curls of bark
desiccated leaves
~
these trees
all seem the same
empty envelopes
parchment ghosts
~
branches tangled
messages
lost
~
black spruce scribbled on sky
~
Published as: ‘an answer in silence’, Spring 1995, The Cormorant XI (2)
(revised)
© Jane Tims
my grandmother’s eyes
Although my grandmother, my Dad’s mother, died shortly after I was born, she was always a part of our summer visit to my grandfather’s farm. Her photographic portrait, taken when she was a child, hung in the kitchen, above the cot where we played board games on rainy days.
I think about her sometimes, working in the kitchen, gathering apples in the orchard, making quilts for winter. My Dad, who called her Mama, told me how she made warm quilts by sewing wool squares from old sweaters to a blanket ‘backing’.
I know so little about her. I wish I had asked my Dad to tell me more.
my grandmother (photo taken in 1954)
Her Eyes Follow Me
~
1.
~
my grandmother
the one I never knew
was a portrait
a life-sized photograph
under curved glass
blurred at the edges
hung in the kitchen
~
she leaned over me
her eyes followed me
a child’s eyes
though she died at fifty
~
2.
~
the three of us
played a game
my brother watched her eyes
and I would creep
along the wall
~
leap out
~
her eyes found me
in an instant
~
3.
~
I know her eyes were blue
though the portrait was grey and white
~
4.
~
she is also
~
her last card at Christmas
a paper poinsettia
in the branches
of our tree
~
the dim photo of a mother
in a faded housedress
some unknown cousin
gathered in her arms
~
her last letter
love to the baby
~
5.
~
to say I never knew her
is a kind of lie
~
I knew her eyes
and they have
followed me
~
Published as: ‘Her Eyes Follow Me’, Winter 1996, The Antigonish Review 104:59.
(revised)
© Jane Tims
through Zoë’s eyes
Each space is unique to its occupier. For example, two people will experience a space quite differently. How they perceive a space depends on their mood, their individual preferences for certain tastes, smells, and colours, and their background and memories.
Animals perceive spaces very differently from humans. Their eyes and ears are tuned to a broader spectrum of colour and a different range of sound frequencies.
Zoë watches the air above her
My cat Zoë sees the world very differently from me. Her perceptions are much keener. At times, she will pay sudden and rapt attention to the empty space above her. I puzzle for a moment, look a little harder, and there it is … a tiny moth I would never have seen if Zoë had not pointed the way.
If you have a pet, are you amazed at how differently they experience their space?
Zoe watches the birds in the feeders
Stalking the Wind
~
the cat crouches
on the window sill
puzzles out the night
considers fireflies and the moon
explores the June bug
on the other side
of the screen
pats at a maple key
wandering on the wind
~
when the door cracks open
she is ready
she slips between my feet
into the yard
~
and waits
~
all around her
the crickets
the tickle of grass
the scent of other cats
~
no moment to gather herself
and run
scooped
into the arms of her keeper
scolded inside
dour at the window
~
next time
she will not pause
bewildered
she will leap and run
kin with the fireflies
pursuit of the wind
~
Published as: ‘Stalking the Wind’, Spring 1995, Green’s Magazine XXIV (1)
© Jane Tims
along the country road #5
Not far from where I live is a new road, built a few years ago along the edge of a field. When it was first built, it was a scar on the land, its ditches unlovely smears of muck.
This year, the weeds of the roadside have moved in to fill the empty spaces with green. At one place, where the new road joins the old, it is particularly wet and the ditches have been overwhelmed with a green and orange explosion of Jewel Weed.
Jewel Weed growing with cattails in a wet ditch
a profusion of Jewel Weed
The botanist, Nicolaas Meerburgh, who first named the plant, called it capensis, meaning “of the cape” since he wrongly thought it had been introduced from the Cape of Good Hope into European gardens.
Jewel Weed (Impatiens capensis Meerb.)
Jewel Weed
Impatiens capensis Meerb.
~
Jewel Weed
orange and green
tangled in the gully
spotted spurred
impatiente
for a visit
from a hummingbird
~
Jewel Weed
not used as gems
for lady’s ears
not (after all)
from the Cape
of Good Hope-
Celandine tends
to mope
~
Jewel Weed
pendulant
petulant
“Touch-me-not!
or I fling
seeds from my pods
into the spring”
~
© Jane Tims
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