The False Ducks Blahg

     Yesterday, June 6th, marked one month since my last blahg.  Frankly, I’ve been struggling to think what I should write about.  Many things have been happening in my life and in the world but they just weren’t blahg worthy.  Sure, I’ve been angry about many things and in the past I’ve written here about the things that make me angry.  I don’t want this blahg to be like that.  I don’t want people to think I’m unhappy all of the time.  I’m not.  Well, maybe I am a lot more lately but I’m trying to get past that. 

     One of my favorite blahgs this year was IF YOU CAN READ THIS, YOU’RE TOO CLOSE.  You can check it out here:  http://falseducks.com/theblahg/?p=121.  In that blahg I shared some of my poetry and even managed to write something new.  I’ve been think a great deal about my poetry lately and how proud I used to be of the poems I wrote.  I even spent a five year period between 1987 and 1992 sending out submissions and trying to get published.  I was only successful a couple of times.  Nonetheless, I thought I would share some of my favorite poems here and go one better by posting videos of me reading those poems. 

     The following poem was not one of the poems that I had published.  It is one of my favorites however because it talks about this limit between youth and manhood and what separates us from the stupid things we did as boys compared to the stupid things we do as men.  It’s called “Drivin’ over the limit” and was written July 13, 1986:

                 Drivin’ over the limit

hangin’ onto girls
we knew years ago,
Steve and I take this dark drive home
from Kingston
and admit to each other
that no boy’s different
from the the man he’s gonna be and
that we all rush toward those guys of us
who’ll have it all
and’ll have who they want
from the whole crop and
yet gettin’ to those guys
means wasting yer youth
on moments that yer maturity
will kick you for passing by.

and those girls of our yesteryears
was ones we wracked our loins over
cause sex was what
the opposite sex was all about
and if you wasn’t tuned in
to the guy the other guys
said you was to be
then you gave up too easily
on the girls that you wanted, and
on the girls the other guys
said any red-blooded devil wanted,
and compromised yer self
by wanting girls
that was beyond yer limit

but now drivin’ home
we toss across names of girls,
who though women now,
will always be girls by names,
and confess those death secrets
that we expected to keep for life
and yet seem so unimportant now
when stacked against the women
whose girlish lives
we never knew as boys
but came to need as men
whose boyhoods become
a painful means to
getting us over out limit
so we might get home
that much quicker to our wives.

 

      This next poem was also written in 1986, on April 27th.  I’ve always had a fascination with Superman and what it would be like to be him.  I guess this answers those questions:

               if you’d be a superman

He works long hours
and he don’t ever get paid
or remuneration or thanks sometimes
but that’s all part of his job
being a protector of the good

If you wanta be Superman
you gots to be more than human
not necessarily superhuman
but better than most folks
who are always trying to do good
and put you out of a job

In the center of that man’s faith
is himself
and he’s pretty sure
they’ll all worship him always
for being a hero and not a villain
because Superman is where it’s at

Yeah Superman’s this guy
who flies you know
but when he walks
he walks among us
and is one of us
like he wants to be
and drinks a little
and he tells dirty stories
but he’s perfect on duty

Superman’s got no hang-ups
maybe hang-outs maybe
like getting in free at the drive-in
but then who’d really ask him to own up?

If you’d be a Superman
you’d be just a guy in tights
because you gotta hate the job
like it was the only thing evil
and you couldn’t defeat it

If you’d live a Superman
you’d be out of work
because there’s only room for one
and we’d all be Supermans if we could

Yeah Superman’s’ this guy
who flies you know
because they draw him that way
and he can’t object
like you would
if you’d be a Superman

Yeah Superman’s this guy
who fights crime and evil
and is always looking to be put out of business
but not everyone wants to be a Superman
and he cries at night
when he’s flying
but you think it’s rain
and he’s still up there
and he wonders what it would be like
if Superman’d be a you

 

      Now for some of my published poetry.  The next two poems were published in the April/May 1988 issue of the North York Arts Council Arts News.  Other than a University newspaper at Trent, these were the first two poems I had published.

                 A love poem:  and I probably am

it’s silly,
I know, but…
Ya know
I don’t know
how I got this way–
–extended into
yer hemisphere;
blockin’ out the light–
–but…aha!
yer hemisphere
YER hemisphere

yer HEMISPHERE

left and right
frontal lobe,
cerebral cortex,

and the time
I thought the stuff
was in my heart.

well I’ll be Damned!!!

 

     This is the second poem I had published in the April/May 1988 issue of the North York Arts Council Arts News.  It was originally titled “The Wooden Train” but they erred and printed the title as “The Wooden Trail”.  Frankly, I like their title better.

                 THE WOODEN TRAIL

Run into an old buddy tonight–
–same name
not the same person–
remember him when he was boy;
when we was all boys.
Lots of rumbling stomachs
mumbling talk
passed between us ago
but no call for this dark
half day.

Learned more thing
since him
but couldn’t find any–
–not anything that you can say–
and so we just moved;
too scared to stand still
and catch up on ourselves.
He’s been working six years
same place
but I’ve been working
on me for my whole life
and I’m still without a job.
Invited me over
but I opted for onward
and lost him somewheres.
All reunions–
–mine–
should be short like that–
–like my memory–
or I’ll start asking
what we’re here for
and be scared by
an answer…

     

     The next time I would be published would be in December of 1988. It was in the old Poetry Toronto magazine.  I had submitted to them before but they rejected my work and told me to study Canadian Poetry from the 1950s, 1960s, and 1970s and not just the modern poetry of the 1980s.  I wrote back and told them I was a Poetry scholar and had read, studied, and collected poetry of Canadians Poets of all of those decades.  This time they chose to publish 4 of my poems.  There was no note from them but the magazine showed up one day with a letter saying that this would be the last published edition of Poetry Toronto.  No thank you for my submissions.  I guess they blamed me for putting the magazine out of business.

                         DA MUSTARDMOON

dis moment,
separated from my wife
by job and mile

dis moment
barely
one month after we’ve married

I’d like to find
comfort
in her navel
risin’
slowly in her sleep
and know dat
does tiny fluctuations
is her guilt
fer lyin’ on my side of da bed

    

     Here’s the second poem from that Poetry Toronto magazine.  A little embarrassing perhaps to my wife and I but I’ll print it here regardless.

DA HONEYMOON

i’ve discovered
i’m no bluebird
’cause i wedded
and flew away to Manitoulin
where we made love
four times

but no
she corrects me
and says it was only twice

but yes
i contradict
and point out da four orgasms

but no

but yes

but no

but wait…she’s right
and fer the first time
i have to admit that to her

which after da first time
i discover is
a mistake to do so

 

      Here’s poem # 3 from that Poetry Toronto magazine. I was working midnights at a Texaco and it was taking a long time for them to get another employee to work those hours so I worked a long time without a night off and it inspired this poem.

                         A SHORT COLD POEM

the british tabloids
carry banner lines
THE QUEEN-MOTHER
ADMITTED TO HOSPITAL
and all the
commonwealth nations
draw in breaths

but a week later
surprise
JUST A COLD
DOCTORS SAY
and the air
is let back out

meanwhile
it’s whispered
in canada
“henderson’s sick.
I hope he won’t ask
for time off.
We’re already
short staffed.”

but I work anyhow
eight nights in a row
waitin’ fer
the trainee
to screw up
enough courage
to work alone
or to re-assure
himself
“henderson’s not
contagious.”

 

     Here’s the final poem of the 4 published in that Poetry Toronto magazine. It was a poem that described a conversation I was having with my wife over what to do one night when we were really bored and there was nothing but reruns on Television.  Alas, Kmart is now gone.  So’s Zellers for that matter.  Hmmmm, maybe this is the poem that put Poetry Toronto and Kmart out of business in Canada. 

 

                         DRY

it’s 8 pm
rerun
mass masses boredom

let’s jump inta da car
and drive somewhere dark and secluded
hop into da back seat

no response

but pressed she says…

nevermind

it’s 8:15
let’s jaunt to da beach
half-hour and skinny-dip

what beach?

nevermind

8:30 waltz around da Kmart

okay

OKAY?
MASS MASSES BOREDOM
LET’S ALL GO WALTZ AROUND DA KMART

at 8:45 I grab da key
boot to da water
and hope dere’s a drownin’

 

     I hope you enjoyed these poems and this blahg.  It’s too bad the poet now needs glasses to read his own work.  By the way, the Poet is available for recitals, parties, Bar Mitzvahs, funerals, shut-ins, or wherever there’s a captive audience that can’t shut off the computer or close the YouTube video.

Tags: False Ducks, Poetry, Scott Henderson

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