Why I Haven't Written

by Phil Hall

Why I Haven't Written takes Phil Hall back to Ontario roots in family immediate and extended, and on again into the larger world. In his beautifully-controlled poems, he catches much of a life in nodes of consequence-often painful for the poet, but not for the reader. The life may have seemed ill-fitting to the one who blundered or was buffeted through much of it, but in the long run it made him compassionate and observant.

Genres: Poetry

68 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1985

Reviews

[M.W.P.M. · Rating 4 out of 5]

A Gentle Man


My father killed everything
he could get his hands on.
As a gentle man h made
such a fool of himself.

The old paddle he shellacked
after painting, looked stupid:
little teepees, a tree. The man
was vain about his trees.

I hated to see him, retired,
at his work-bench in the shed;
he was putting tiny white beads
on the front sights of his rifles
to help him see.

The only thing he did beautifully
after that, was die. It seemed so brave,
or selfish, the way he asked for water,
then quit breathing the moment
he was alone.

*

Leaden And Tainted


My baptism was a formality, at 21,
witnessed by the minister's wife
and my fiancée. In white Christ Church,
to its jewelled roots, I wore washed
painter's pants, a white shirt,
no shoes. A lamb, an angel,
a baby, I thought, as his wet thumb
traced its target sights, then
touched my forehead to qualify me
for marriage.

Divorced now, though I strive,
live is leaden and tainted
by this mark of salvation I'm stick with
because I knew her.

*

The Smooth Curve


Once, I would have said:
domed like fruit, fully realized
in the growth of its juices,
when rubbing to sleep
my son's small, warm head.

Now, recalling the most recent
touch of his cheeks, a beautiful job
my own father did once returns,
tapped out from the inside: the smooth
curve, the almost invisible dent.

*

John Van Wagonner


If you didn't know
how to read or write
you ended up
shoving the fields
down chutes
for so much a can

pulling down circus tents
like an animal
from Asia

getting work done on your arms

the dagger
the anchor
the woman

a tattoo
of a scar

poorly executed

You ended up
a lummox
a hunchback
a cripple

loving the dray horse
that broke your feet

loving your little cricket
in the wall at daylight

You caress the bodies
on a new calendar

smell the heat
from the laundry
in your clean socks

point at your arms
and cannot speak

lifting them
only to cross yourself

or make an X
on your pension

*

A Fragment Of Mr. Wali


The anguish of balance has cost us
those tiny hosanna tendrils of hope.

So now, Bernice, my right leg chokes
at the knee, and is amputated.

Is given unto the unexplained archives.

And you vanish so crudely -
your poor kidneys ablaze.

*

Adults


Two line-men
lolling on straps

smoking
at the entrance
to my lane

told me I could not pass

till I had slid out from the ground
three long blades of grass

and eaten
the tasteless
pale shoots

I was six
when this happened

and awake

*

Dear Cathy


I don't know how to read
your letter

I don't know how to write
a reply

Stupid with the news
of your birth complications

I sit with eyes closed: the Ex

Seven ultra-sounds
monitor
the foetus of your second marriage

And someone I once was
walks across my grave
making me shudder

I am a disembodied stitch
of no use

An unlanded kiss
of no use

I mark the spot
where buried treasure has slowly grown
worthless
and odd

I don't know what to say
or do

Here is my love
uninduced

Here is my mark
and all it must stand for

X

*

Why I Haven't Written


You failed me

by fearing to trust the music
of the first green gods
you brought home on weekends
to introduce me to

Patsy Cline Buddy Holly

Now you wouldn't know a god
if one fell from the sky
singing

The record player you bought in 63
that so impressed me
with its fold-down turntable
and speakers on hinges

is a piece of junk now - testament
to the shrivelled spirit
you bought into

Of all the lack of nerve - you'd
come home instead with that guy called Lizard

or with the one
everybody at the Kent Hotel
knew as The Pope

You failed me
because you married The Pope

and because my gods grew dead
in the slack air of your serious decades

Elvis Presley John Lennon

Now every Christmas
I think of sending you a new needle
taped into a manger on a card

and some new Bob Dylan records

But it is too late
to reconcile my gods with yours
or with anyone's

That is why I haven't written

And why I write