#hinterland
I am lately entranced by neo-noir,
The criminal mysteries of Europe
And the wilds of Canada and Britain.
There is rarely running, screaming
Or endless car chases through
London, Ottawa or Ystad,
Unlike the reckless pursuits
In Manhattan or L.A. streets.
These detectives don’t sashay
In long coats or wear black leather,
(Except for a couple).
They wake up hung over,
Like Wallander, or grieving
Like Perez from Fair Isle
And Matthias, self-exiled to Wales.
Bodies surface or are found
In gorgeous forests.
The detectives overcome depression
To quarrel with irrational superiors
(Who may themselves be guilty),
Yet they don’t yell like sergeants
In the gritty precincts of NYC.
They drive their Volvos through
Rolling fields of rye and rapeseed.
And even the mysterious quarries
Where bodies are found in Poland and Wales
Are beautiful—not like the junkyards
Of Barstow or east coast borderlands.
Some detectives are lucky, like Matthias,
In hiding in Hinterland.
He walks the shores of Aberstwyth
As Wallander does the fields of Malmo.
When suspects are caught, they aren’t beaten.
Their jails are neat and clean;
The prisoners get mattresses, pillows and TV!
The police question suspects casually,
As if they would rather be in bed.
The female cops are clever and quiet;
They rarely show their anger
When chided or ignored,
But carry on with dignity
And show the others
How work is really done.
At last, the assailant is charged,
Sun sets through the mist,
Sheep graze on manicured fields.
Village streets glow with low light
Reflected off rain-washed stone.
But despite the ambiance, people die
In weird ways: falling off of towers,
Shot while picnicking in costumes,
Lynched by a group of church goers
Floating past in a lake or river,
Or set on fire in a flowery field.
It’s as if the deaths are staged,
To match the serenity of the old world.
The slow machinations of justice
And drained eyes of the officers
Comfort me like a sedative
Always there, watching over their flock
As soothing as a soft, wool blanket
Hiding a frightened child.
When I am asleep, let
Matthias run along the cliff,
Let Wallander drink his wine
While Endeavour swoons to opera
And Cardinal stands in the birch grove,
All as semi-sedated sentinels
In the dusk or midnight sun.
I only ask that American blues
Take a page from these good constables
Across the sea or north of the border;
Imagine the settling peace
In the wide, new world,
If people of color were never smothered,
Or shot when carrying a phone
And people protesting were not gassed,
But spoken to with weary eyes
And a mind prompting peace officers
To listen, protect and serve.
Mar 18, 2021
Mar 18, 2021 at 7:31 PM UTC
We are in the hinterland
The frontier of change
Making decisions into
The wind and crossing
We are in the borderland
The edge of known ideas
Stepping forward into
The storm and breathing
We are in the wasteland
The place they don't see
Advancing across terrain
The sun and enduring
Jan 18, 2020
Jan 18, 2020 at 5:50 AM UTC
what is the blurry
between the joy and the blues,
we are daffodils flying in the wind
one moment
butterflies falling in the rain
another?
Nov 18, 2019
Nov 18, 2019 at 10:10 PM UTC
It is morning-time, and I walk
meandering paths pull me, a crisp breeze pushes me
the earth supports me and falls away with each passing step
it can only hold me when I'm there
softwood trees bend around the trail, and hardwood trees enrich their denouement. A glittering canopy of dewy leaves curls atop my route, the moonbeams seeming to dawn from inside each perfect ornament. but I know the finished moon floats just above them
my steps flow in a steady rhythm, regularly broken by the passage of a memory. Sometimes it is time. Sometimes it is a dance. Once it was another Being that caught my consideration; a ghostly doe, visible just through a break in the wood, a brown and white-speckled spectre crashing through the hinterland, startled by my feet, by my breath-
the breeze is stronger now, and made anxious by the din my pace quickens. memories stream by faster, woken up by the filtered moonlight, pulled out from abeyance. leaves drifting upon a whirling river, clouds being ripped into a storm.
it is morning-time, and I walk
the sky is deepening, though the moon is descending
too much has happened, too much has passed into yore
I remember just enough, and it is mourning-time
Oct 25, 2018
Oct 25, 2018 at 10:19 PM UTC