Prompt: Where to, ma'am?

Autumn drizzle chills
Reluctant summer bones.
Streetcar passes
Before I get to corner.
I walk toward taxi stand…
Don’t need to be late
First day back at work.
No taxis wait at stand.
I stand chilling at stand
Wondering at wisdom
Of walking further
Or taking next streetcar.

Taxi approaches
I wave. Driver waves back,
Turns into grocery store lot with
Passenger in back.
I think his wave a code:
     Wait here, I’ll be back for you.
I wait, but without commitment;
There are no other taxis anyway.
 

In two minutes taxi reappears,
Stops. Driver leans over back of seat
Opens door for me.
     See how loyal I am?
Beautiful Trinidadian accent
Flows from broad smile.
     I let off my passenger back there.
     Another man with lots of groceries
     Started to get in.
     I tell him I already have a fare.
     A lady with beautiful eyes
     Is waiting for me.
I give him my destination.
     You do have beautiful eyes.
     Does your husband know
     How lucky he is?
His own bright eyes watch me
From rear view mirror.
I nod, say I think he does.
Of course, there is no husband.
There is a brand new boyfriend
Who tells me he’s lucky
To have found me after
Only sixty years of searching.
I think that counts.

     Shall I tell you what my grandmother say?
My driver draws my attention back
To his reflected face.
     She say advice to any beautiful woman
     With beautiful eyes?
     She tell me that any woman
     With beautiful eyes
     Even though she’s married
     Should have a boyfriend…
     Just in case of emergency.
We both chuckle.
     Yes, he repeats, just in case of emergency.
     I see you and you have
     Beautiful eyes and I wonder if
     You have a boyfriend for emergency.
I smile, shake my head.
Less in response to query than
In gentle DON’T GO THERE.
     You never can tell when
     Emergency might come up.
     Where can I submit my application?
     I really like your beautiful eyes.
I assert I’m not taking applications
     Even to keep on file for future reference?
No.

Then, to change the subject I ask
How long he’s been in Canada.
     Twenty-three years.
     I came because I had injury in Trinidad.
     Doctor say go to cold climate.
     So I went to Edmonton.
     Let me tell you, it is very cold
     In Edmonton. I thought
     All Canada was that so very cold.
 

     After only two weeks in Edmonton,
     One day in restaurant I see
     Beautiful Chinese-looking woman,
     With beautiful eyes. Beautiful Chinese eyes
     Like beautiful Chinese women in Trinidad.
     So I be sitting at my table
     Watching her…
     Planning my attack, you see.
I barely nod to indicate
I understand, but I don’t know
If I want to encourage him.
 

Of course encouragement is optional.
He continues unabated:
     I walk to her table,
     Bump into it
     I’m so sorry, I say to her.
     I don’t want to upset
     Such a beautiful woman
     With beautiful eyes, I say to her.
     She say, is OK. I say can I sit
     And get her a beer?
     She say yes.
     I try to get her drunk.
     I say you have beautiful eyes.
     Where are you from?
     And you know what she say?
A small shake of my beautiful eyes
Echoes slight movement of my head.
     She say she be Inuit.
     I say Inuit? What is Inuit?
     She say Eskimo.
     But you’re sitting here
     In a nice restaurant, I say.
     Do you have igloo near here?

He laughs great hearty laugh.
     Imagine. I didn’t even know
     Eskimo peoples don’t live in igloos.
     Ah, well, she had beautiful eyes.
At my destination
I pay fare.
Emerge back into chill drizzle.
Smiling broadly, he leans
Over back of seat with my change:
     You sure I can’t make application
     Somewhere, just in case of emergency?
     I like beautiful women with beautiful eyes.
 

Bette Forester
Toronto
26 November 2003

Remembrance

It's almost 11:11 of 11-11-11
But this isn't about numbers…
A simple row of ones.
Or maybe it is.

It's about the number 1
Already being too many.

It's about forcing
Sweet innocent children
To become trained killers.
It's about sending them out
To kill and be killed.

The number 1 Is already too many.

I met Arthur Charles VanTowsey
In Sydney. He was already 60.
He told of his youth in Auckland.
House filled with musicians
And singers from afar...
Guests of his
Pianist and organist father Arthur Cyril
And his
Opera singer mother Mamie.
There was always noise
In that home...
Noise of rehearsals,
Noise of friendships,
Noise of children.

In his early work
Van delivered telegrams
First on his push bike
And later on a motorbike.
He carried little tree seedlings
And planted them along is routes.
Go to Auckland and look for them.

It was a time and place
Of quiet confidence 
That each person
Could (and would)
Make a difference
For the benefit of all.

Van and his mates
Felt the distant sting
Of England's raging
Push against the Nazis.
They tried to understand
Why the US was not part.

But knowing their part,
This band of friends
Rushed to join the fight.

They trained together.
They became defenders
Of the just
And killers
Of the unjust.
They eagerly awaited
Their time to get
Over there.
Units trained and were sent out.
Units trained and were sent out.
Units trained and were sent out.
And Van noticed that
Training periods were being
Shortened and each battalion
Was sent out sooner and sooner
Than the one before,
Each training always less.

Van wrote to the prime minister
Protesting that the jewels of
New Zealand's future
Were being sent to certain
Slaughter.
The prime minister
Did not respond.

Van and his mates
Were sent to England,
Then onward to Egypt,
And finally to Greece.
They fought.
They died.
In the midst of one battle
Van watched as his best friend
Pushed a trolley of supplies:
A sudden blast
Blew off his head.
His hands remained on the trolley
And his body continued
To walk forward headless...
Before finally collapsing.
At the end of that day
Arthur Charles VanTowsey lived,
Wounded but alive,
One of only five left
Of the original 21st Battalion
Out of Wellington.
The last of the band.
The last of the hope.

I remember Van's tears
Each Remembrance Day
I spent with him in Oz.

It wasn't abstract for him.
The number 1
IS
Already too many.

Bette Forester

Toronto
about 10:15 am 11 Nov 11

As I Relinquish...

As I relinquish myself to this night's sleep,

My rabbit ears bring me TVO images
Of Rushdie speaking of his books.
And of his drive to write them.
He says, after all, the human is
The only animal that is Storyteller.

I muse on this in dreams and awake
To read Gaiman's American Gods,
A story of humans and their gods
And their mutual need to believe
In each other...
In each others' story...
To be associated with story...
To be Story.
All the while L. Cohen
Sings via iTunes and
Brings tears...
Hallelujah! in the Tower of Song.

I pause and remember
Tiff's Not Wanted on the Voyage:
The old god who invokes
Noah's participation
In extending His story.
How in the stage version
Noah's family search each other's
Faces for understanding...
Then nod in confused acceptance
Of Noah's story.

Leonard says the Light is coming
From a crack in the wall.
Of course his story's about democracy
Coming to the USA...
Now a national story of debt
That grips us all in it's spiritual despair.

I can hear it about other cracks in other walls.
The Light is always the same.

It is the Light of Recognition
Of human spirit... it is the Light of Knowing
Our part.... it is the Light of Acceptance
Of life... and its cycle with death.

Leonard, as well as Salman, Neil, Timothy et al
Shine Light on snippets of my own story.
That Light exposes myself to myself.
I guess we each choose storytellers to call our own.
Some write, some sing, some tap dance,
Some seek directly the hearts of others.
After all, we need each other to sense...
To discover...
To find The Story...

Bette Forester
Toronto
30 July 11

My Altar Stands

My altar stands
Directly in front
Of me.
I kneel…
Feel wool harsh
Beneath bare knees.
...I k-neel…
...Feel wool harsh
...Beneath bare k-nees.
...I k-notice Ks
...Like Bill K-near:
...He too
...Is silent k-now.

I take up sandlewood beads,
Still pungent after
All these years…
Rub them together
Between prayerful palms…
...As I've been admonished
...K-not ever to do.
The sound comforts
And focusses
Mind to heart
And back again.
Slow intake of breath, now.
Steadies.
Makes foundation
For what's to come.

Finally…
With eyes searching…
Finding,
Pin-point in heart
I chant.
And chant and chant.

At first
There is intention.
Then only chanting.
...Again, I k-notice
...Bill's Kin-ear.
...EAR.
The SOUND of chanting
Becomes link to
Wayward thoughts
And returns
Me to myself.

Other links vie
Like forks in roads.
The many giving way
To the chosen…
Obvious in tone
And time.
...Time beckons.
...Chants want haste.
I rub beads again…
Let sound gently
Waft me back to
Vibration of chanting
In my chest.
Breath remains constant,
Deep.
Flow of chant
Belies movement
Within my soul.
I chant and chant
More.
Confidence
Envelops.
...Confidence…
...Confidence.
...ConfidencES
...Told and guarded
...Give credence
...To trust-
...Worthiness.
Here lies truth
For the taking.

Bette
Toronto
2003

Forest Primeval

Great orb of sun makes
Dapple green and yellow.
Sweet fruit swells
To unrelenting ripeness.
Pungent perfumes mix with
Rich humus odors,
Permeate air that
Hangs so heavy as to be
Almost visible.
Velvet leaves rustle
Against each other
In endless breeze-dance.
Day again becomes night
In rhythm
Of action and sleep.
Spend and renew.

This night
Relinquishes its rest
To clamour of thunder
And piercing of lightening.
This massive tree snaps
As world’s first intimation
Of matchstick.
Quick. Brittle.
Mighty tree cracks.
Crashes to ground.
Smolders with internal smoke.
This one may flame into fire.
Or it may not.
Acrid smell does not predict.

Time and time again.
Before Adam.
No ears... no sound.
No eyes... no light.
No nose... no perfume.
No hand... no touch.
No mouth... no taste.
No existence without witness.

Adam brings
Five brand new senses.
All in perfect working order.
Now all forest performs
For an audience
In celebration of its
Own existence.
But Adam is lonely.
How does he know?
Alone he does not speak.
No voice... no record.
No words... no subtleties.
No language... no connection.

Eve's arrival gives
Voice to existence.
Fusion with Life.
Two.
Observers connect, define,
Enlarge universe.
Sentient beings together
Simply
Share
Moment.

Bette
Toronto
1997

Caledon Reflections

I find myself here today
As if by chance:
Circumstances have conspired
Over the past twenty-or-so years
To bring me here to Caledon.

The first evidence
Of this conspiracy of chance:
An ad for a job.
I applied.
I got the job and
There I met Jennifer in the early months
Of her Buddhist practice.
Her chanting filled her with confidence.
Some days her not-chanting
Filled her face with tension.
As if by chance, I noticed.

The conspiracy continued with
A chance meeting
Of Mrs. Izumi on Bloor Street.
Her radiant life filled
An aura for a mile around.
As if by chance, I noticed.

I heard Jennifer chant for the
First time
On a shared trip to New York.
We wanted tickets for a play
That night.
As if by chance, we got our
First choice:
A Chorus Line.
I later learned
As if by chance, it was written
By a Buddhist
Based on district meetings
Among members
Who were young performers.

The next step
In this chance-full conspiracy
Came from my own inner longings:
A series of repetitive dreams.
In each dream I chanted
And I felt a beautiful contentment…
Only to awake to disappointment
Because I didn’t know
How to chant
In my real life.
Oh, I noticed that!
So, I asked Jennifer to teach
Me to chant.
As if by chance, we both had time
On our hands.
I practised with her each day
And, as if by chance,
My relationship with my mother
Got back on track
After years of estrangement.
Yes… I noticed.

Oh, my!
Twenty years of this conspiracy
Of chance
Have wrought great changes in my life.
Nurtured and protected by the warmth
Of my Soka friends I have stretched:
•
I sang for President Ikeda in Japan
And he did magic tricks
For us.
•
Because Veronica asked,
I wrote plays for the
Junior Pioneers
And they, grown up now,
Greet me with hugs.
•
At the WG General Meeting
I tap-danced for the first time
In 35 years.
•
Now, I’ve played drums
At Caledon
To find a renewed
Spirit of unity.
And Mrs. Izumi
Played the piano
For us.

All by chance… I know.
But now I understand
The spelling is C-H-A-N-T-S.

By chants I now know
I am Soka Gakkai.
I am kosen-rufu.

What a truly remarkable
and fortunate
Bunch of people we are!

Bette
Caledon
29 June 2003

Kindness of Strangers

As I move around this city every day, whether walking or riding the TTC, I frequently encounter glorious evidence that we're all happy being human together. On Monday I saw two such instances and decided to start a new blog to mark these warm happenings.

Kindness of Strangers

This city is Toronto.

TTC is the Toronto pub trans, aka Toronto Transit Commission.