Four Poems by Gerald Hill

The Goddamned Birds of Saskatchewan

Drown them out with Occupational
Health and Safety DVDs or else
birds owned him. First thing, morning,
dreams ripe, they’d wake him up:
coo-ooooooh, coo-ooooooh. Stan hired
neighbour kids to pelt Mr. Mourning Dove
with lengths of rebar, stones, worthless coins.

He’d be sitting in his breakfast nook—
slice of bread with peanut butter, toasted.
Milk, banana, orange, pot of tea—
he’d  open windows into sweet
morning light, hear krrrrrr-rrapp,
krrrrrr-rrapp. He’d go for a walk.
If he can’t escape the so-called songs,
he’ll write them down, way down,
in his doomsday book. They might
look better than they sound,
hiccup, gurgle, chatter, twitter, chip,
oodle-oodles, that’s enough.

He’d never spent such a long afternoon,
ignoring forty or fifty “songbirds” yakking,
one bitter the rest worse. Fifteen species
of swallow, his bird friend had said.
Some you won’t hear anywhere else!
Not just noise, they flew, sewing the river
to ragged trees except for the lucky ones,
gliders, far above the sound of other birds.

In the best of all worlds the end
of bird book means the end of birds.
The cottonwoods could blow,
the river remember, all of it clear
as May. But in Stan’s habitat,
he must choose. One, put music on,
The Wailin’ Jennies, see if that helps.
Two, go further in, downstairs,
the deepest corner of the darkest house,
where a man can imagine birds
a man can’t hear.

The Haircut

George the barber kicks the box aside,
swings the chair around. In the mirror
Stan sees one-inch-wide demolition
around the shadows of his ears, leaving
a patch further up. No offence, Stan thinks,
but that’s the head of a man in over-alls
working the field all day. “You can take
more off the top, please George.” “More yet?
You’re gonna look raw, but here goes”
(whine of George’s ancient shears). He tells
Stan of his 80-horse motor at Spike Lake
and gals named Marge or Edna who like George
in a boat and happy. For his final pass,
George tips the razor toward the depths
of Stan’s ears and nose and across
his eyebrows. Good enough, Stan reckons.
“Five bucks, please,” George says.

Stan Gets Twice as Simple (As Before)

In the bare hills north of town facing
the Whitemud valley south, his legs spread out,
Stan imagined coulee. Like any groove
in his body, the coulee began
with slight creasing of an even field.
The crease defined a pair of rounded banks,
winding deeper to thick woods and, lower,
the open field again. Today he’d walked
across the top of several such events.

In dreams he grew bright colours that night—
wildflowers, rock-coats. He witnessed fissures
and decay, wind-assaults, familiar rubs
of sage. No stumbling in Stan’s dreams,
no picking up of sticks, no startling deer.
Waking up was easy, just a gentle
lift, but laborious, so gradual. In fact,
waking is to dreaming as one coulee
is to the next. You just keep following.

Stan’s Odyssey

He’s no Ulysses but doesn’t mind
a story when morning arrives wet
from night and the west view bleeds mist
and wind. He packs sweet Whitemud water,
a jackknife, whatever fits in his father’s jacket—
stout gloves, vital creams and lotions,
tin of smoked meats. A staff he’ll prune
from the first fine tree.

Stan, a man who once
was a boy, hangs the jacket on the back
of his kitchen chair, west-bound. His father
used to say after you’ve sat long enough,
get up and go, all the motion Stan needs.
He’ll finish his pot of tea, leave a note
for care of the house, lift his arms into
his father’s jacket and go.

Morning is disguise
he believes. The river is a thin road
to the iron bridge. What bright-eyed goddess
formed that notion, he wonders, adding two
pens and slips of paper to his pockets,
packet of seeds, something he can offer.

Let us know, Muse—what tumbles from the hills
this morning, what thought-rocks, what ancient bones?
Look, prepare yourself, earth is your witness,
for Stan has taken steps to leave the yard.