A Pretty Sight - David O'Meara

Today's book of poetry:  A Pretty Sight.  David O'Meara.  Coach House Books.  Toronto, Ontario.  2013.

I was lucky enough to be at the Ottawa launch of David O'Meara's A Pretty Sight.  His reading that night a Socratic howl and punk song with finger puppets.

Of course I bought his book.  And like the fan I am, got it signed.  Got the puppets signed as well.

But by buying David's book I disqualified it from my blog because I don't write about books I purchase.  There you go.  One of my favourite poets, a writer I've long believed is one of the best in the country.  

Luckily, a few weeks later, Coach House Books sent one in the mail.  They sent along the finger puppets as well.

'In Event of Moon Disaster'

              —William Safire (July 1969)

After Borman,

NASA's liaison, calls

and urges 'some alternative posture'

should things go south — unforeseen glitch,

miscalculation,

technical whatever — leaving

Armstrong and Aldrin

stranded on the moon,

does Safire walk or run

to the Oval Office?

The president's aides rustle

around the furniture, their minds

touchy and tentative

like bees

in a cactus patch.

You can imagine Dick's face

when advised: cut all

communications, commend

their souls to 'the deepest

of the deep,' like a burial at sea.

Then call their wives.

As for text, it's left

to Safire

to get the spirit right. Christ,

this will be either

the speech of his life or words

that are never uttered.

Though he's no pacer, there

he goes on Penn Ave., ditching

the ride to a deli

with the government driver,

insisting he'll take

the few last blocks on foot.

He wants the air

of a summer night and an uncluttered sense

of the quotidian.

The stars might pull at time

like taffy out there, exhaling light,

but it's reassuring to know

that in the suburbs

someone's washing dishes, a curtain

is lifted by a breeze

and surely there's a midget team

looking for a homer under bug-infested

ballpark lights.

At the meat counter, he watches

them shave a sheaf

of pastrami onto the waxed sheet, pop

bread and mini paks

of mustard into paper sacks,

provisions

for what's going to be

an all-nighter in a toe-to-toe

with the typewriter.

If only he could peel

back the top of his head

to reveal slick words laid neatly

and glistening like that

cache of silver found

when a sardine key gets twisted round.

But all he can see

are two dead astronauts

canned in welded metal,

their ingress above the module's ladder

like Jacob's climb to heaven

and everything a question of how

anyone would spend their last few hours.

Would you stay inside, waiting till

the oxygen goes critical, tapping

the dead switch for the ascent engine

in a lonely Morse? Or, rather,

pull an Oates, and wander out into the cold

for one last stroll,

the whirling white like tickertape.

Safire slows

at the thought of it. All night

he'll haunt his office, taunted

by shades of scenario,

the moon's milky glow

hung in its pure potential,

stalled like those satellites of paper

balled up into the waste,

the future an empty shape

still left to fill with explanation.

...

O'Meara's is simply a voice I want to listen to.  

Henry Moore, Socrates, Sid Vicious and others come out to play as they bounce around and through A Pretty Sight.  O'Meara has an air of certainty, an astute voice.  He could wax eloquent and educated about the phone book and the results would be entertaining and enlightening.

Spoiler Alert

Wood warps.

Glass cracks.

The whole estate

goes for a song.

The cardboard

we used

to box up the sun

didn't last long.

...

Ha.  

David O'Meara makes me laugh, makes me pay attention.  When David O'Meara speaks other poets listen.  In four short volumes O'Meara has become an essential Canadian voice and it would seem like he's just warming up.

'There's Where the American Helicopters Landed'

Sixtyish, wrinkled, Ling Quang's hard look

lifts from the gravel where we've stopped,

the Honda's kickstand staked

to the road's thin shoulder,

our helmets laid like eggs on the leather seat.

He points at the place

near the silk factory where

the craters are almost overgrown,

green tangles scanned

through his knock-off Ray-Bans.

On the bike, I forget to lean

through curves, tires

eating the steep grade back to town,

past the bridge again

where a man stands fishing,

nylon net like a smudge of mist

that skims his catch from the creek

their fins struggling in the killing air.

...

A Pretty Sight is as engaging a read as you'll find in the poetry section.  

And finger puppets.

David O'Meara reads his poem Dawn Taxi, from the book The Vicinity,  at the Manx Pub

www.chbooks.com