The Fat Lady Struck Dumb
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About this ebook
There is nothing didactic about The Fat Lady Struck Dumb, though the book is packed with wisdom compacted of love for the planet and detailed knowledge of its ecosystems, including the stress they currently suffer. These are passionate poems of a committed citizen ardently testifying for the globe, his home and ours. One of his recurrent techniques is the catalogue in which layers of global being are rounded. Waltner-Toews is a scientist by education and occupation. He understands better than most our tenuous place in the web of being. His poems are organisms rooted in that knowledge, gifts of language bound to call out of his readers a passionate return in kind.
David Waltner-Toews
David Waltner-Toews is an internationally celebrated veterinary epidemiologist, eco-health, and One Health specialist. He has published more than 20 books of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry
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The Fat Lady Struck Dumb - David Waltner-Toews
The Fat Lady
Struck Dumb
David Waltner-Toews
The Fat Lady
Struck Dumb
Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data
Waltner-Toews, David, 1948 –
The fat lady struck dumb
Poems.
ISBN 1-894078-12-8
I. Title.
PS8595.A61F37 2000 C811’.54 C00-932568-9
PR9199.3.W34F37 2000
Copyright © David Waltner-Toews
We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts
for our publishing programme. The support of the Ontario Arts
Council is also gratefully acknowledged.
Photo on the cover is of a dog being celebrated in Kathmandu,
taken by Dider Chemin.
Author photo credit: Matthew Waltner-Toews
This book is set in Janson Text and Novarese.
Brick Books
Box 20081
431 Boler Road
London, Ontario
N6K 4G6
Canada
www.brickbooks.ca
To Kathy,
for more than a quarter century of
love and friendship
Table of Contents
I. A Post-Cambrian Lament
Death of a Humanist
Death of a Naturalist
The Dogs of Kathmandu
A Man Sits Naked
Mt. St Hilaire, walking at night
A Post-Cambrian Lament
A Bill from the Power Company
My Mother’s Heart Attack
On the Death of a Father
Here, Not Here
Mine Field
Absence in Old Quebec
Sunday Morning
How the Earth Loves You
Beached
A Pain with Nowhere to Run
An Ordinary Life
II. Grace Amid the Ruins
Going Home
Teilhard de Chardin Surfs the Internet
What There Is
Grace Amid the Ruins
A Cold Night in Kathmandu
The Wisdom of the East
The Fat Lady Struck Dumb
The Olympic Thinking Competition
The Squirrels
Recognition
The Better Part of the Day
Silver Bird on High
Love and Chaos
John Donne Meets Chaos Theory
Grace in Mid-Winter
The Amateur
I Cannot Love You, Without
Concatenations
Where the Day Goes
The Sanitary Dream Engineers
III. Coyotes
Temple at Dusk
World Peace: December, 1968, Hokkaido
Mountains: a Poem for the Millennium
The Three Stations of Montreal
Bringing Home the Groceries
Birthday Anti-Poem
For Mother: Weinachtswuensch 1995
Flower Gardening
Matthew
You are Not a Cat
Dinner-time
Half Century Poem
Rebecca
Coyotes at Eyebrow Lake, Saskatchewan
Notes
Acknowledgements
About the Author
This I know at great cost:
All life is not outward,
Nor is all death from within.
Pablo Neruda, The Traveller
I.
A Post-Cambrian Lament
Death of a Humanist
In the chapel of La Faloria convent,
Cortina, Italy, I meditate
in the quiet dawn,
a shadow of habits
supplicating behind me,
before me the silhouette of a cross,
stark against the white mountain
and the Arian clear blue sky.
Later, I climb
a well-groomed mountain path
through the congregation of trees.
At the top there is a chapel, a guest house,
and a large military gun.
Up there, the sheer delight
of earth’s power, barely constrained,
rolls like an organ fugue
down, away from me
into a complex canon of trills and rocks
and breath-taking valleys,
up, billowing like a ragged wind-blown sheet
into the vaulted skies.
It tugs, at every peak,
against the slipping grip
of guest house, chapel, gun.
Below, in Milan,
I walk the narrow streets,
feeling at home, pause in the courtyard
of the Giuseppe Verdi Music Conservatory
in the Chiesa della Passione (AD 1486).
Violin sounds dip and wing
from balconies,
musicians in formal attire
pace gracefully, humming.
Around a corner, the Duomo
rises in the Central Plaza,
from a distance like an intricate
wet-dripped sand castle.
Up close, it is a rock-heap
of men on horses, torsos rippling,
biceps bulging in triumph and misery,
swords, flags, crosses
up-thrust in victory.
For a millennium these bodies
chopped, hauled, re-organized,
re-shaped wood, stone, earth,
cut and slashed each other over differences
of opinion, convinced each other
with argument, praised God, made
God redundant with thumbscrews,
racks, irons, stakes,
proved that people were superior
to God in all these things, carved the Duomo
in stone dragged down from the Dolomites,
re-built the mountains
in our own image until wild snow,
rock canyons, fearsome beast,
were transformed to cathedral, sewer, hospital,
factory, guest house, gun.
I sit at the edge of the plaza,
security helicopters buzzing overhead,
brilliant lights enflaming the magnificence
of stone, eating pizza, drinking red wine.
I sense the full weight of it,
the mass of flesh screaming
through the centuries, raining
down on me, arms, legs,
bodies of knowledge,
corporate legacies
like a legion of mad prions re-making the earth
in our image, demanding rights, attention, liberty,
trampling every living thing in the pursuit
of truth, beauty,
and efficient management.
I close my eyes,
recalling the small, dusky space
where Leonardo depicted a gathering of twelve men
arguing during a meal, one,
lost in sadness, seeing too far ahead.
I