I'd like to retire there
and do nothing,
or nothing much, forever,
in two bare rooms:
look through binoculars,
read boring books,
old, long, long books,
and write down useless notes,
talk to myself, and,
foggy days,
watch the droplets
slipping, heavy with light.
From Elizabeth
Bishop’s The End of March
It's
5:30 am and I am standing on the back porch in my pajamas. It’s March and I’m
shivering. The ocean is a roar away and the woods are heavy with fog. I can’t
see her, but I can hear her— my dog Frida. She’s snuffling in the leaves behind
the shed. She woke me moments before in what seemed a fit of desperate physical
need, but which now appears to be more about disrupting the pre-dawn activities
of the local wildlife. It’s an old trick of hers to get me up and I fall for it
every time.
I
call her inside just as the idea for a poem— in fact two lovely opening lines
complete with em dash and semicolon— vanishes. I held it close as I rose from
bed. I carried it with me as I descended the staircase. I cradled it on my
shoulder, as one-handed I unlocked and stepped out the door. But now it’s gone,
slipping away into the gloom. I watch it disappear with a sigh and a vague hope
that the smell of coffee might bring it scratching at the window to be let back
in.
I
am an early morning writer. If it's summer and I am working at my seasonal job,
I'll write between 6:00 and 7:30 am. If it's winter and I’m hibernating, this
routine gets pushed forward and extended— an hour more of sleep, a half hour
more awake in bed (writing in my head, reading, or trying to remember a dream),
and then two or three additional hours of writing before dog walking, chores,
and errands.
It’s
now 6:00 am. I have my coffee and the dog has gone back to bed. I've re-kindled
the wood stove (it is 14 °C in the
house) and I'm at my desk with pen and notebook and computer. I’m still in
pajamas, but I’ve added a wool sweater and a knitted hat. The notebooks are
mostly for show and doodling. I write primarily on the computer; my
left-handedness has been a perpetual curse and I’ve given up trying to decipher
my own scribbling. My desk is an old wooden baker’s table (the top lifts to
store flour and other bread-making ingredients). On examination, it now houses
a jumble of papers, expired double A batteries, phone chargers, post-it notes,
stamps, envelopes, an old tube of mascara, and a very stale pack of nicorette
gum left over from the time I quite smoking (just in case). It's located in a
west-facing ‘keeping’ room next to the kitchen, and in this old house (built in
the 1890s) I like to think it was the room where babies were born. Most likely,
it was also the room were the ill convalesced and the priest administered last
rites. Today, there are bookshelves on all three walls. The books themselves
were once arranged in alphabetical order— a system that quickly fell by the
wayside. Keats is now cozied up next to Susan Musgrave. Philip Larkin’s Collected
Poems leans into Margaret Atwood. I don’t think they’d mind. Someone has carved the name 'Emily' into the
old glass of the room’s only window. I don't know who Emily is or was, but I
like to think that she (or the person who carved her name) would be pleased
with what now happens here.
I
do write in other locations and at other times during the day. My favourite
spot and possibly my most productive time is when I'm waiting for the Lahave
Ferry (the nautical short-cut to town) or during the actual five minute
crossing. Internet access in the middle of the river is spotty, but I usually
manage to get a few lines typed into a Google doc before losing the signal. The
ferry is one of those ‘in between’ spaces where nothing is asked of you— you
are simply along for the ride, and caught up in the motion of the boat and the
current of the river, poetry will often find its flow. The ferry is great for
first lines. Driving is great for reworking subsequent lines in my head or
rummaging for a better word.
While
I like to reserve part of the evening for reading, I will also write. In Ted
Hughes’ poem The Thought Fox, he writes of poetic
inspiration stealing up on him like a fox emerging out of the dark. I live in
the woods so the idea of a poem entering the mind like a sly animal is in
keeping with my surroundings. Outside my house, physical creatures reclaim
their territory after the lights dim. Deer wander onto the porch (you can hear
the click of their heels on the plank boards), raccoons and skunks circle the
recycling bin, coyotes announce a successful kill. I know there are bears in
the forest on the other side of the two lane rural route, but I have yet to
find evidence that they make the crossing. They come to me in dreams and
poetry, but never in reality. The most disarming of the animal sounds is that
of the seals. From early spring to late fall, their halfling barks and moans
drift on the wind up from the shore. I can't see them as I don’t have a water
view, but they are close, resting on the rocks, yawping like a Greek chorus
hidden in the wings.
It’s
9:00 pm. The domestic animals are settled in and I’ve returned to my desk.
Outside, the stars blink on and the wild creatures stir. My fingers hover above
the keyboard anticipating the arrival of the thought fox. I am not a prolific
writer so her visits are quite rare— but still I am here, waiting, ready. If
she doesn't come, I call the dog and we head outside for a view of the night
sky. Tonight, it is unseasonably warm. Winter is losing her grip. The seals on
the beach below begin to sing. It’s the first I’ve heard them since their
departure last autumn. Frida cocks her head. I hold my breath and pause to
listen. I like to think of them as my muses. I like to think they sing for me.
Lisa McCabe reads and writes in Lahave, Nova Scotia. She’s published poems (or has
poems forthcoming) in a variety of journals, including The Sewanee Review, HCE
Review, Limestone, Better Than Starbucks, A3 Review, and The Wellington Street
Review. She’s working on a chapbook. She studied Film at York University and
English Literature at the University of North Carolina, Greensboro. She worked
in the field of software translation and localization before running away to
the woods of Nova Scotia.
