Poems of a Spirit Wrestler
These poems cover a 35-year period from 1959 to 1994 and resemble an album of family photos of events, places and people each with a story to tell. During this time I moved from being a poet, to a journalist, to a lab technician, then a research scientist and finally in 1969 an academic position at a university in New Zealand. These poems are messages to myself and hopefully they will also resonate with your journey and the wrestling with your spirit.
About the Title
The choice of the title ‘Poems of a Spirit-Wrestler’ comes from the perspective of my Russian heritage. In about 1785 Archbishop Ambrosius, named a group of dissenting Russian Orthodox christians as Doukhobortsy (Russian: Дyxoбopцьı,, ‘Spirit Wrestlers’) since they seemed to be wrestling with and for the Spirit of God. These dissenters later became pacifists and took a stood against militarism and all forms of violence in Tsarist Russia. In 1899 they migrated to Canada. Both my parents and grandparents are of Doukhobor descent, making me a ‘spirit wrestler’ by birth.
On the personal level the poems convey my own wrestling with my spirit and the search for a meaning to life. Some of the poems may resonate with your own story.
The poems are being published in sections in chronological order. The first section includes the poems written in 1959 while living in Vancouver. B.C, Canada.
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Drink!
This poem was written on leaving my home-town on the Canadian prairies and heading out for the west coast, Vancouver — to seek my fame and fortune as a poet – drawn by the wailing sound of jazz.
Fill my cup with corruption
For the world is corrupt.
Let me drink of its evil and sorrow
For evil and sorrow are reality.
Let me know its happiness and its grief.
Drag me over the thorns of life
Let me bleed, let me suffer
Let me laugh at the folly of men.
I do not fear pain, for pain is real.
Do not shield my eyes from life’s agony,
Do not cheat me full measure of its bitterness.
Let me see its bitterness
Let me taste its bitterness
Let me know its bitterness —
Till the bitterness turns to sweetness.
Canora, Sask — October, 1959
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Mountains
For someone who grew up on the prairies, the Rocky Mountains were awesome to be amongst.
The mountains seem solid and everlasting —
Something to lean on.
They stand holding up the sky timelessly.
They are like the personification of
Hope
With their feet planted firmly on the ground
And rising up to the heavens
Their heads in the clouds.
They were the same centuries before and centuries to come.
They are the past, the present and the future
At the same time.
In this time of change and hectic rush
They seem to soothe the nerves
And shout:
What’s the hurry!
It takes me thousands of years
To become useful soil
So what’s your hurry?
Vancouver, B.C. — October, 1959.
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Night
Wandering through the streets of Vancouver on a rainy night.
I like walking the city at 4:30 in the morning.
The streets are empty of the day-people and
The rain falls slowly and quietly.
Puloot, puloot, on the canvas canopy
Trying to gently wash away this spew
Of man off the earth’s face.
This pollution of buildings and pavement
And rusting, aging agony of apartments.
Gently trying to bland the dammed spot
Off its surface where once were
Meadows, trees, grass, hills and life.
But alas the thorns are driven deep
Into its skin and only with time
Will it fester out and be washed
Away with the gentle rain.
I walk down Granville defying the
Traffic lights which the day-people obey.
There is nothing funnier than
Traffic lights blinking and changing
Colours of their anger to empty streets.
No one to listen to them. Just the
Occasional drunk wandering hopelessly
On the streets, shouting prophecies to blank
Walls and blind windows. No one hears
Him, but he knows the folly of day-people
What’s worse he’s caught in their folly
And cannot escape, but he knows it
But no one hears for the day-people are
Asleep now. Only now? — no, always.
I walk down Hastings where a few
Hours from now it will be full of
People, cars, buses, taxis, bicycles, trucks
And noise of people in a hurry going nowhere.
Now the only thing that walks the
Streets with me is their ghosts and the
Echo of my footsteps. What a wonderful
Thing an echo is, it goes jumping across
Streets and running around buildings
Exploring dark corners and empty alleys.
On the water front I could hear the clank of
Rail cars being shuffled like the uneasy
Resting of skeletons in their graves
Rattling their chains as they
Turn over in their restless sleep.
Off across the bay the city lights
Glow like jewels of ashes of a scattered fire.
Far off somewhere a fog horn
Groans his sad groan
The most mournful sound in the world.
And the mountains are there
Only you can’t see them
Just feel their presence.
I go up Cambie to the bus depot.
Maybe buy a cup of coffee and meet a wise man.
Locked. Only a hack driver sitting in his car
Eying me as I leave, his motor running to
Keep himself awake.
Walk down Pender with its funny writings
And wise old paintings. Funny that
Something so wise should be replaced by
Something so foolish.
Granville again to Robson, still no one
Here. A black shiny patrol car idles
Slowly by me, the cops staring fiercely
And I am reminded of the world of
Day-people.
I go into the Laundromat to get a
Cup of coffee. The smell of soap is strong here.
Thunk, thunk, I feed ten cents to the machine.
It ponders and grumbles a bit then
The coffee comes swooshing out, but no
Paper cup. Oh well, ten cents gone.
So I hang an “Out-of-Order” sign on it
And resign myself to a chocolate bar.
Light a cigarette and sit and meditate
Along the window away from the ambulance-white washers.
On the bulletin board with the other things
For sale I put my soul for sale
Only I didn’t put any price on it.
Because I didn’t know how much
It was worth. How much is a soul
Worth these days?
Outside the shadows began to creep
And hide as the east grows light.
And I leave the Laundromat to go
Creep and hide too. Creep into bed and
Hide from the starched, grey light
Of day and from the day-people world.
Vancouver, B.C. — November, 1959
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Souls for Sale
Souls for sale, souls for sale.
Fine souls, fine souls for sale,
Wouldn’t you buy any?
Souls for sale.
Come sell your soul to me
I’ll give you a job and security.
I’ll give you a job and with pay
But you’ll have to come here everyday.
But I’ll give you one day in seven
When you can look up and pray to Heaven.
But it wouldn’t do you any good you see
Because I’ll have your soul with me.
Don’t worry about your future life
Heaven and hell are right here and now.
Don’t worry about the toil and strife
I’ll give you a Heaven called the Pension Plan.
Come, sir, can’t you see
How good it will be
If you sell your soul to me.
Souls for sale, souls for sale.
Fine souls, wouldn’t you buy any?
Vancouver, B.C. — November, 1959
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Unzip
I unzip my soul
And go charging forward
Full speed, head back, eyes closed
At life.
Many is the time I trip on a
Root and fall flat on my face
Into the man-hole of despair.
But no time now, get up and
Charge forward again.
When I am old and can no longer
Run
I’ll sit and lick my wounds.
Vancouver, B.C. — November, 1959
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Cry
I want to cry
I want to lay down on the sidewalk
And cry.
I want people to walk over me
And trample me.
I want to beat my fists against
Its hardness until they bleed.
I touched live, moist, living earth today
I planted a flower for an elderly lady
And suddenly I was a little boy
Again, playing in the garden with my toys
Making roads and digging holes
In the live, moist, living earth.
WHY! WHY! WHY!
I want to run, I want to fall
I want to die on the live, living earth.
Life is too much with me.
Vancouver, B.C. — November, 1959
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The Lesson
In my bright and budding Youth
I sought the Path, the light of Truth
That I might go in this world of men
To help them along and be their friend.
An old man I met bent with age
So I asked him what he had learnt
As onward in his life he went.
He smiled a smile and shook his head
And walked along and not a word he said.
“Please, old man so worldly wise
Tell me your wisdom and the Truth you prize.
That I may in my youth take up the Torch
Of Knowledge and bring light to Men,
That we may walk on into Life’s mysteries
And so that your life, full of strife and devoid of ease
Is not wasted if in my Youth the Truth be tasted.”
He smiled again and with a wistful sigh
He ope’d his toothless mouth and said:
“Fate and Fortune and your shining star
To success and failure indifferent are,
With courage only can you meet
Shining success and sharp defeat.”
And I laughed aloud at the words he said.
He turned and smiled and on he tread.
I have a Will and a Mind
And a Soul, and cunning hands are mine.
With these I can control my Fate
Grab success and give defeat the gate.
Vancouver, B.C. — November, 1959
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ABOU BEN JOE
Abou Ben Joe (may his rating increase!)
Awoke one night from a fitful sleep
And saw within the desk light in his room
Making it dreary and filled with gloom
A clerk writing in a book of gold.
Exceeding uneasiness made Ben Joe bold
And to the drudge in the room he said:
“What writest, thou?” The drudge raised his head,
And with a look of sweet conceit
Answered: “The names of those with Credit Rating.”
“And is mine one?” said Joe. “Hell, no!”
Replied the clerk. Joe spoke more low
But cheerfully still and said: “I pray son,
Write me as one that has good reputation.”
The drudge wrote and vanished. The next night
He came again with a beaming smile bright
And showed the names of those who owed the Govt the most,
And lo, Ben Joe’s name led all the rest!
Vancouver, B.C. — November, 1959
(with apologies to Leigh Hunt’s – Abou Ben Adhem)
Now I too am old and bent with age
Have writ my song and filled my page.
And the words of the wise man come back to me
It is only now that I can see
That Youth cannot be shown Truth
And only with Time is the Lesson learned.
Vancouver, B.C. — November, 1959
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Mushrooms
I like to watch mushrooms grow when it rains.
Have you ever seen them?
The stems would be walking about, very
Ordinary, just stems.
Then just when it begins to rain Bloof
A full sized mushroom.
Some red, some green, some yellow, some gray
But mostly black. Just plain black black.
They sway and bob their tops as they walk about.
Before when they were only stems
They walked wearily about, but when they’re
Mushrooms they hurry along like they
Are going some place.
They stand in bunches at a corner.
Waiting. Then suddenly they rush forward
Across the streets paved with liquid light
Only to stand on the other side to wait again.
Some leaving the bunch, some adding, but
Always wait, then rush, their coloured
Tops jumping up and down, up and down from
Side to side with little beads of light clung to them.
But they don’t stay mushrooms long, alas.
As soon as they enter a building
Bloof, they’re stems again or when they
Enter a bus, bloof like a bubble bursting
Stems, just plain, dull, drab, stems.
Or when it stops raining they disappear
One by one, or all at once. Bloof. No more.
Just dull stems.
I like it when it rains. I like to see
The mushrooms dance and play in the rain.
Vancouver, B.C. — December, 1959
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The Dream
I can’t help but think I’m living in a dream
Life out there can’t be reality
How could it be?
Men selling their souls for a job,
Walking about with dead faces
And dead limbs.
It can’t be true, like a dream it will end.
Men clutching greedily at everything
He sees, hoarding wealth, hoarding property.
It can’t be true.
Clutch and cry “Mine”
Man has taken so much more than he
Needs that millions in Asia starve.
Man, because he possess a piece of paper
Thinks he “owns” something.
This is my property
My farm, my business and mine only.
I can do what I like with it because it’s Mine.
No one can take it away from me
See I have the papers to prove it.
He kills the animals and pushes out men
Builds a barbed wire fence around it
And declares it’s Mine.
He groups together to protect himself and others like him
And makes laws.
And he says that this is his?
His and not humanity’s?
I have a piece of paper and that proves it.
So he walks about in constant fear that
Someone else will take from him.
And he meets other people who walk
Around fearfully eying each other
Lest someone take from them.
He creates a new Power which
Everyone must yield to —-
Must or else it will crush you
And verily I say unto to you
This Power shall be called Money.
And behold there was Money.
And he saw that it was good.
So everyone prostrates oneself before
This God, their power.
Man comes home from his job and sighs unhappily.
Why should he be unhappy?
Why should men be unhappy?
But no, he hides his unhappiness
Lest someone else sees he is unhappy
And everyone else hides their unhappiness
Lest someone sees them
So everyone hides.
To make himself feel happy
He buys Car and things for Home
His tomb.
He risks his life travelling 80 miles per hour
In his car to show how great he is
See how fast I got here? But what did
You do once you got here?
Do? I must do something, yes something quick
Lest someone else sees I have nothing to do.
Do, do, what should I do? I know I’ll spend
More Money to show how great I am.
No, I know, I’ll build a new gadget for people to buy
I’ll produce it and give other people something to do
Selling produces Money and I’ll spend it
On other gadgets other people have made
And thereby give them Money
And they will be able to buy other
Gadgets that other people have made
And so on and so on … ad infinitum
Like an endless chain of carbon atoms each link to each
Until finally, Oh God, it must break.
People walk the streets and don’t know each other
Like creature each dropped from a different planet
And here they’re forced to live together
Each unable to communicate with each other.
No, it can’t be real, it’s only a child’s dream.
Yet day after day it persists, the same horrible dream.
I feel like running around to everyone
And screaming loudly: Don’t worry
The human race will survive.
I feel like bouncing people’s heads together
To wake them up. Hey, look it’s me
I’m like you, why are we producing,
Consuming, buying, selling and spewing?
Why, who wound you up that you run
Around like a mechanical man?
Here, hit me, see it hurts. I’m alive
Look the sun is shining, the sky is blue.
What? stik’em up you say
You want my Money, you have a gun?
Come my friend, you need Money.
Come I’ll buy you a cup of coffee
And we’ll talk about it like men.
Sure, I know you need Money
Come I’ll give you some
No use you stealing,
Come, I’ll buy you a coffee and we’ll talk.
What your wife is sick
Your kids are starving,
Poor fellow, come, I’ll buy you coffee.
Who am I? I don’t know
They say I’m insane because I’m awake
But I only laugh at them.
Come I’ll you a coffee and tell you about it.
“What rough beast its hour come round at last
Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?”
Vancouver, B.C. — December, 1959
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Life’s a Game
Life? Hell, life’s a game.
A funny, stupid, ridiculous game
And it’s easy after you learn the rules.
Just listen and watch for the part
You’re being cast. Take your cue
The curtain rises and the play is on.
You’re a writer, fine I’ll pay you for it
But you must act well and entertain me.
Me, I’m an aggressive business man
You must spend the money I give you at my store.
Me, I’m a critic — I’ll criticize you
But you must act eccentric and do wild
Crazy things and write
Nasty, caustic remarks about us.
Me, I’m your wife. I’ll give you
Sex and love
But I get prestige and respect from other
People
Because I’m a writer’s wife. You must have
Other love affairs and other women so that
I can be a noble, understanding wife.
Me, I’m the President of the University
We’ll give you an Honorary Degree
Because you never got one when you walked your
Wayward way through our halls of learning.
Me, I’m your neighbour. I’ll say
Good morning to you
But you’ll have to build an outlandish
House so that I can point to it and say
Yes sir, that’s my neighbour, the writer.
Me, I’m the undertaker. I’ll buy your books
But I’ll end up burying you.
Vancouver, B.C. — December, 1959
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