PoetryMagazine.com Since 1996 Volume XXI Glen Sorestad Glen Sorestad is a nationally recognized poet who has published twenty books of poetry. His work has been recognized in Europe and the United States where throughout the years he has been invited to universities and writing festivals to present it. His work with the Saskatchewan Writers Guild earned him the Guild’s Founders’ Award in 1990. In subsequent years he was recognized by the Writers Union of Canada and in 1998 the League of Canadian Poets honoured him with Life Member status. In 2000 he was appointed the first Poet Laureate of Saskatchewan, a post that he served until 2004, and in 2010 he was appointed to the Order of Canada.
Out of the Sun The tiny woman who leads us – a motley group of tourists, supplemented with a family visiting from distant Mexico City – around
the rooms of this 1902 Montes Montoya mansion, can no doubt trace her own Yucatan blood lines back much further than this
architectural remnant of henequen-fueled wealth from an historic era when Merida became an opulent city gem of the Americas.
This splendid home is now a museum and our tour guide may very well be imagining at this very moment the mansion is her own,
knowing it as well as she does, leading small groups like ours daily, room to room, ushering them, as she does us, into a romantic past,
a different way of life. At times, she seems just a trifle impatient, edgy, as if perhaps we have become an unwanted intrusion in her day,
an impediment that diminishes the time she has left with her house, time that cannot be measured in agave plantations, henequen, or sisal.
Companions
The woman with one leg lame always greets us as old friends when we meet on morning walks -- and I suppose we are -- though we haven’t exchanged names, despite swapping greetings many mornings now the past five, or even ten years. She’s always a cheerful, outgoing person, always walking with a small dog and always more than willing to stop awhile just to chat a while. She lives alone, no doubt, but for the little companion with which she shares her morning stroll.
Over the years, I have noted, her dogs have been different, it seems every two or three years, which seems odd, to say the least, but I suspect she gets her dogs from the SPCA animal shelter, dogs that have been abandoned, or given up on by owners who are not prepared to tolerate the inevitable problems of aging. I imagine the lame woman as last home for failing dogs. She is delighted to have their companionship and for the daily motivation to greet each new day with a stroll through a summer park teeming with every delicious scent an old dog could possibly desire.
Inarticulate
Sometimes there are no words. Nada. Rien. Nil. Nothing comes to the tongue easily when circumstances would demand the right thing should be said.
But what is that right thing and do we always recognize it? What words need saying? Perhaps there are good reasons when words do not come and the tongue is a mute lump.
Better no words than words that do no good, or words that wound, hurtful words that cannot be called back.
Silence is often a wise friend. Silence can be a balm. Some never learn that not every silence need be filled.
Hair Perspectives
This morning, brushing my hair, it occurred to me, as I parted the sparse silver strands, that what I see in the mirror is not the same picture at all as that of the woman who cuts my hair and does her best to convince me I should keep returning monthly to accord my waning locks their due.
I sit in the salon chair and she stands alongside me or behind as she cuts, so she sees my diminishing hair from a vantage point I never get standing before the bathroom mirror and no artful brushing or combing on my part can disguise the fact that my hair is in all-out retreat.
She’s used to this, of course -- how men will do everything within their power to delay the inevitable, combing lengthy strands of hair, everything that grows on one side, upwards and across the gleaming scalp to nestle gently on the other side like a coverlet spread across the bed. She’s seen this subterfuge so often now she no longer needs to stifle a snicker, but lets them cling to their Samson illusions and says nothing, just busies herself with her buzzing clippers, looking for undetected strands or tufts she may have missed.
I could ask her what she sees from aloft as she looks down upon my disappearing strands, poised with her long black comb in one hand and her buzzing electric clippers in the other. But I need no confirmation of loss and I’d rather not encourage her to resort to a bald-faced lie. We all live with the illusions we have created and while it might be titillating to know hers, I’d rather not. Even perspectives have their own limitations.
A Luddite Confesses
I do not consider myself an ignorant man.
I make this disclaimer because, once again, I have somehow booked online a hotel room, assuming I was booking with the hotel itself, only to discover when I’d completed the deal, I had transacted this reservation with one of many invasive online booking websites and not with the hotel property at all.
I have done this before. Several times. And now I feel like a complete ignoramus. Whatever happened to Once bitten, twice shy? I feel both stupid and angry, with myself, of course. The first time it should have been a learning experience. But it seems I failed to learn my lesson at all because a year or so later, here I am, slapping my own face again like one of the Stooges over having repeated the same goof with a website I had no intention of using, nor had any idea actually existed.
Now, I really need to come completely clean in my confession of this sorry affair and disclose that I am a senior as well -- just to give you pause to recognize that the problem I’m laying bare for you is quite clearly not the only one I have. You might deem it least of my worries.
Am I alone in this self-recrimination?
Perhaps there are people booking rooms online right now who could care less about which website they are using, as long as they get a deal on the proper hotel and the correct dates. But I always prefer my booking to be with the actual hotel – after all, they are the people who will attend to all my needs – not some predator that wants to charge my credit card upfront and has penalties for cancellations.
Caveat emptor -- this should be the caution guiding every attempt to book hotels on the internet. So, for the next while, sour with self-admonishment, I will slowly recoup my diminished sense of self-worth, perhaps to the degree of again believing myself to be reasonably intelligent. But I have committed this same faux pas three times now, so whatever smugness I may once have harbored has been pummeled out of me online. PoetryMagazine.com is published by Gilford Multimedia LLC www.nycny.net |
HOME Mary Barnet Andrena Zawinski Grace Cavalieri Joan Gelfand Janet Brennan Reviews Video Podcasts Submissions Advertising |