Braving the Wilds

Field Notes from the Suburban Jungle

The Time Between Dog and Wolf

The letters on the printed page
Become indecipherable,
A time the French call
“Le temps entre
Chien et Loup,”
Whereas at dusk,
It is impossible to
Distinguish a dog
From a wolf, a
Domestic friend, or
Potential natural enemy
Who haunted childhood
Fairy tales and dreams.

The late summer breezes
Slow. It is quiet,
The children having
Retreated to eat their
Evening meals, the sun
No longer offering a
Good perspective on their
Bike spokes, basketball nets
Or fishing lines.

The sky darkens and
The horizon seems
A painting, a tableau
Commemorating
The end of a cycle
That is one day.
The cooler air invites us
Out to our lawns
With a drink, making
Meditative exhalations,
Through curlicued smoke
As the last streaks of sunlight turn
Illuminated clouds
To a final grey blue.

The katydid, awakening,
Sounds his mating call,
The first one tentatively
Breaks the silence
Like an uninvited guest,
A killjoy,
Who reminds us all
Of an impending September.

Old wives of New England
Mark the first rushed chirp
Of the ephemeral tettigoniidae
As the last of summer,
The first frost only
Six weeks away;
With a mere year
To replicate itself,
To close the arc of
A short life,
The menacing sound
Reluctantly comes
Irregardless of
Human associations.

In the dark,
We retreat from a full day
When the world is awake and
Quivering with
Work and consciousness.
We curl into worn arm chairs
With books and weary limbs,
Around dining tables
With children, fresh vegetables
And decks of cards,
Into beds with cups of tea,
And music and with any luck, a partner.
We briefly crave
The welcome rest that
Autumn will provide, and
Bring us closer –
More quickly –
To another year,
Through the palest of dawn.

Katydid, Pencil on paper, Matthew Bohan 2014 Please see http://blog.bohanart.com/2014/10/katydid-pencil-sketch-p-55/

Katydid, Pencil on paper, Matthew Bohan 2014
Please see http://blog.bohanart.com/2014/10/katydid-pencil-sketch-p-55/

Second Cup of Saturday Morning Coffee

For many, Saturday Night is Date Night…

Survival Guide

Hyperbolic, first-world declarations
About coffee, air conditioning or
Wireless computer connections:
We couldn’t possibly live
Without them. Throw us into
The arctic surrounds of our ancestry
And forget the igloo, the seal hides
And blubber: we need to check
Our instagram accounts. Keep
The knife, the desalinization
Membranes and radio:
Drag us to the closest cell tower;
We need to read our e-mail.

Throngs of people line city streets
Clutching their surrogate electronic
Rhesus monkey mothers,
Offering nurturing security,
Loving attention from man-made
Bestowers of contact and affection,
A life-line offering one level of
Maslow’s actualized human needs:
Love. The basics come in
Much less comforting packages:
Lunch wrapped in tinfoil, apartments
Sweltering in brick façades,
Swaths of cotton stained from
Sweat of the daily toil.

Grief is love
Encountering its archenemy;
The delivery system of
Our will to live is
A mere incarnation of
Our will to thrive. Survival
Without reason or meaning is
A cell without connection,
Despondent and weakened
And not much worth it
To begin with. That’s
No exaggeration.

recharge

Two Turtle Doves

About a month ago, I discovered that I left the storm window open in my second floor bathroom. In an attempt to bring order to an otherwise chaotic life, I decided to strive for a spotless sill, capitalizing on minutae of life that lay under my power. Removing cobwebs and dead leaves from the space between two pieces of glass seemed an obtainable goal and satisfying task at the time, yet subsequently leaving that window open would have eventually defeated the purpose.

IMG_3256I likely wouldn’t have noticed the oversight until the next OCD attack, if it weren’t for the female mourning dove who had decided to build her flimsy nest there. One evening while attending to my toilette I heard the distinctive, soulful coo coming from the window, coupled with an aviary silhouette: an evening sloped bird shadow in the lower left pane.

The next morning she remained, periodically exposing her two small ivory-colored eggs, much to the delight of my children and me. We scoured the Sibley’s Guide To Birds, devoured the Cornell Lab of Ornithology website, took daily photographs and videos of our new feathered friends. We were careful not to disturb her mothering, her dutiful and steadfast wait for her squabs to emerge from their shells as she warmed them with her bulbous breast.

They hatched about two weeks later, wet little chicks with tightly wrenched eyelids, vulnerable to all that lay beyond that sill. My teenaged son crouched in the adjacent bathtub waiting for over an hour the morning we discovered they had hatched to capture their image on film. I marveled at his stamina, his persistence, the ability of this tiny winged creature to tear him away from all electronic distractions. It’s as if Lovey Dovey, a name coined by my five year-old, had reminded us all of a world that existed beyond ourselves, outside of our comprehension or natural abilities.

The squabs matured, violently devoured dove’s milk from Lovey’s esophagus, which is simply regurgitated seeds she had pre-digested for their convenience. The growing squabs bulged from underneath their parent, as we learned that both male and female take on child-minding responsibilities. We wondered when they made the shift change, musing to ourselves that the changing of the guard was done in much more private circumstances than those of Buckingham Palace.

Mostly, however, her presence was reassuring in that there was an order to the world that was natural and that perhaps we were part of it. We instinctively lowered the shade when her uneasiness was clear, when the reactionary ruffle of feathers in a stream of artificial light spilled through the pane of glass that separated us. We understood that there was a wall, albeit a clear one, that offered an impressive view, but kept us definitively apart.

About a month after we discovered we were playing host to one of nature’s wonders, we left for a weekend away, only to return to two adolescent doves struggling their way up our back steps, and clumsily flying to a near-by branch. The nest was left, empty and filthy with guano, as we regretfully acknowledged that we missed the flying lessons and the thrill of observing the first stretch of fully-functioning wings. Of course we are not part of that world, and understood that our connection to this little family was fleeting by necessity, distant by nature and yet unusually intimate.

Yet it is impossible as emotional beings not to connect the experience to interpersonal, human ones. We had suffered loss that all human beings do, albeit in greater concentration in the recent past: we lost a parent, a grandparent, a marriage, the dream of a cohesive, nuclear family, an adored family dog. We had begun to prepare for my oldest child to leave our own nest, as he begins to think about colleges. It made us wonder if all such connections are as fleeting as an accidental intimacy we shared with a doting dove.

So it is with joy that we discovered that Lovey has returned to her nest this evening, perhaps seeking shelter from a rainy summer night, maybe to delightfully re-use the nest for another clutch of eggs. Let her serve as a reminder that the simple yet wondrous experience that she has shared with us, by some stroke of serendipity, will always be ours, as will every human connection we were lucky enough to make.

Meantime, I will leave the sill littered with sticks and droppings, ignoring – for now – what can be controlled.

Labor and Delivery

A hospice published booklet,
A quasi “What to Expect” publication,
Featured a cover photograph of
Easter lilies in full dripping bloom,
A maudlin image of resurrection.

The penning nurse likened the dying
To laboring mothers,
Wincing through pain and anxiety
In wildly individualistic ways
With some aspects of universality.

The paragraphs that followed offered
Bullet points of signs, what to look for,
What to recognize, what to offer
As “comfort management,”
Generally undercutting the hope
Of a Hollywood ending.

Instead, caretakers are led
Inadvertently down a different
Stream of consciousness:
Wondering what it was like to be born,
And therefore, to die.

The birth simile sends us through a
Channel of the mother host,
Ending a parasitic relationship
In loneliness and fear, the light
At its end, elemental
And blinding.

The first point of a finite timeline,
The lives of their babies are marked
With altruistic, private emotion:
Joy and relief for a relatively safe delivery,
Overcome with colossal responsibility of
A new coexistence.

In the blink of a new clouded eye
The world and all of its realism,
Material conditions now grips a new being in
Wondrous danger: the cold from the air
Will parch their skin, the hunger from
Lack of umbilical support will
Hinder them thrice daily for the rest
Of their lives.
With an innate survivalist urge
A newborn grapples for the breast,
Cantaloupe-scented milk, for sustenance
And comfort, while the clinically-minded
Marks birth weight, length,
The ticking minute at which one
Masked attendant happens to look at
A school house clock perched above an incubator:
The start, his point A, one milestone throwing
A shadow at light speed.

Easter lilies replaced by poppies,
Hedgerows, young soldiers who
Didn’t have the advantage of
Comfort Managers, their continuum
Stopped prematurely, they naturally
Cry out for their mothers,
Yearning for the same comfort.

Their own line has been folded,
Turned, pierced, offering
Sunlight and Moonlight intertwined;
The axes of a place inconceivable
Bend to form a sphere that rolls,
Time ceases to exist and loved
Ones float in ideas.

May the more seasoned veterans amongst us,
Those more fully realized
Making the trip in necessary solitude,
Leave loneliness and fear at
The beginning, be enveloped in light
No longer blinding with all
Points in the line marked
By hash marks of recognized Grace,
And be met by the one woman, who
By a more natural course
Might be present, somehow,
At both ends of the labored line.

timeline-33

Skating on Page Park Pond

We are shuffling together
Across a hospital corridor,
Your aged body weak with malady,
Mine assuming a new role:
That of doting child.

One arm around your waist,
A hand under your twitching arm
We maneuver a wheeled walker
And trailing oxygen tube with
Slow and deliberate mobility.
Your skin still emits warmth
Regardless of all that has
Atrophied underneath.

You held me this way once,
Thirty-five years ago, as we
Glided across ice,
Blades on our feet,
My ankles buckling from taxing
Rarely-used, unnamed muscles.

Embarrassed over my lack
Of skill, trumped by my
Pride in yours, I savored the
Attention, paid with parity
For each acre of your
Complicated life.

Our piece-meal skating costumes
Blue-collared sheaths, were
More like crimson cloaks
And cadet grey capes in
The vapors of our exhaled
Breath, staccato waves of
Effort and laughter.

Currier and Ives printed
The same over your utilitarian,
Cotton, hospital-issued gown,
Shrouding sorrow, grief, and
Illuminating an evanescent
Physical warmth of our
Eternal familial connection.

Central Park, Winter The Skating Pond Courtesy of the Currier & Ives Foundation

Central Park, Winter
The Skating Pond
Courtesy of the Currier & Ives Foundation

Still Life with Pear

A bartlett pear, held atop the
Touching wrists of a child,
Is a homage, a prayer,
A subject of Van Gogh, more
Than a simple selection of produce.

Brought to the nose,
Molecules dance to the
Back of her tiny throat
In a sweet wave
That whispered:
I am a healer! The strength
Of my seeds will arouse
Even a dying king,
Prostrate on his bed!

Or so goes the legend
Of the Bartlett’s
Fifteenth Century
French origins.

The child declares
It must be saved
Until story hour,
When mother and child
Would tuck themselves
Into one another’s bodies,
And read a selection
Divine enough, simple enough
To illustrate life’s sweetness,
No matter how small.

She lay the ovoid-shaped,
Pinched like maternal hips,
Fruit into a dough bowl
With others, still too
Green to be savored.
She staked her claim and
Gazed at it, golden,
Amber and radiant
Like the sunshine that
Cultivated it.

At four years,
Nowhere near
Ripened herself,
One wonders how
She found the time to understand
The value of delayed gratification,
Drawn-out pleasures,
Or the wisdom to place
Luminosity on a single,
Perfect pear:
Ephemeral, rare,
Tucked brilliantly
Into her monotonous days
Of letters, numbers and
Bird-sized, earthly meals.

1887 -88, Vincent Van Gogh, Still Life with Pears Oil on Canvas Courtesy of Staatliche Kunstsammlungen Dresden

1887 -88, Vincent Van Gogh, Still Life with Pears
Oil on Canvas
Courtesy of Staatliche Kunstsammlungen Dresden

Anubis

Oh, some scholar! oh, some sailor!
Oh, some wise man from the skies!
Please to tell a little pilgrim
Where the place called morning lies!

Emily Dickinson

Radiance of Ra,
A sun god, illuminates
The chamber, aglow with
Yellow hues of a
Signaled Spring.

Blinding, waking, the
Light saturates objects
Of routine and comfort,
Casting shadows on
The wall above a
Clanking radiator, busy
Tossing off artificial
Heat on our waking,
Still bodies.

A picture frame, an
Armchair blocks
The rays, forming
A suggested image of
An Egyptian jackal
On the wall.
A sweater tossed
In weariness over
The arm becomes
A scale, projected,
Weighing the heft of a
Leaden heart, bursting
But burdened.

It hangs over the
Twitching body of
A still sleeping dog,
Content and relaxed
In its unconditional
Sharing of affections.
He blinks while humans stir
Knowing he lies
Securely in
Dickinson’s morning,
Where death stops
Not, and we all
Acknowledge the gift
Of one more day
To try and get it right.

Kinship

Two sisters barely fit
Into the soaking tub anymore.
They lie curled around
One another, like a monochromatic
Human rendition of the
Yin and the yang,
All alabaster and pink,
Slick with soap and
Bath water.

They take their turns, out
Of spatial necessity, rinsing
Their hair, golden made
Dark amber with the water,
Which clings to their heads
Pronouncing the enormity
Of their skulls, the fullness
Of their cheeks. It drips
From curlicued ribbons,
Onto their tiny,
Rounded shoulders.

Imagine, if years had not
Separated their births,
What a sonographic image
Of them would have looked like:
Two new bodies, underdeveloped,
Intertwined, unable to
Support the greatness
Of their heads, the epicenter
Of who they are and
What they will become.

Stoics Shoveling Snow

They emerge from their dwelling-places,
New Englanders, to the public
Colonnade, suburban sidewalks
Clogged and choked by
Township plows. Mounds
Of packed snow, churned up like a wake
Line the streets, shrouding
Helpless cars in drifts and clouds.

Tax payer dollars, purchased plows,
Providing service for the public good,
Ipso facto, is a burden: the personal
Chore of freeing one’s self
From the natural reality
That is the weather, worsened.

They nod to neighbors
Commenting on the beauty,
Bright and peaceful,
In the recaptured sun.
Aware of their public persona,
Shells of themselves,
They bend at the knee
And smoothly, without complaint,
Clear a path to the larger world
Beyond themselves.

Their pajamas, hidden
Under snowmobile suits,
Goose down, soak with
Their efforts. They bear
The logical result of
Precipitation in
Sub-freezing temperatures,
And ignore a nagging,
Lonely voice that is heard, loudly
And echoing off new-fallen,
Silent snow.

They connect with the fire,
Their primordial being and
The warmth of strength,
While the cynic across the street,
Who with his heavy equipment
Curses the long winter,
And claims a seat on
The next flight
To Paradise Island.

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