My father recently unearthed a poem I wrote 23 years ago. Reading formative poetry written during one’s formative years is usually a cringeworthy exercise. Yet however green or clumsy the poet, writing poetry is a certain effort to encapsulate passing contemplations, which makes a poem something of a time capsule.

St John’s harbour, Newfoundland and Labrador

In 1997 I spent the summer working as a bartender in my uncle’s pub in St John’s, Newfoundland - a small local tavern just north of the city’s downtown. I recall that despite being surrounded by my mother’s extended family in the city, it was a solitary and reflective time for me. My uncle was undergoing radiation treatment for cancer, and so to help out I took on managerial responsibilities at the pub, frequently opening and closing its doors on my own, working long solo shifts on the bar.

To facilitate these efforts, I was granted the use of my grandmother’s tiny grey Toyota Tercel. As young road warriors are wont to do, I spent every spare hour bombing around the hilly, spacious maritime city and its coastal outskirts, listening to Pink Floyd at high decibels and taking in vista views of the dramatic seaside cliffs and the vast Atlantic horizon.

Late one evening, it would seem, I spent some time by the St John’s harbour, writing a poem while sitting in that car. It has to be said the poem is not entirely original, as it makes use of a phrase from the famous prose-poem ‘Desiderata’, written in the early 1920s by American writer Max Ehrmann. ‘Desiderata’ is Latin for ‘things desired’, and accordingly the poem is a compendium of wise instructions for how to live your best life. In the middle of that piece, the reader is advised to ‘Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.’ My philosopher soul was surely captivated by the wistful notion of ‘changing fortunes’ in a life, and by the hopeful suggestion of what in life we have to hold on to. With that contemplation in mind, I wrote the following, and gave it to my father for his birthday.

Evening trades the sunlight for stars.
A small fishing boat throws a rope to the dock
while a great steel navy ship slowly sets out to sea.
Wandering by the water
an elderly man holds out a trembling hand
to his son’s son,
his wrinkled fingers direct the boy’s bright eyes.
At this moment,
fading innocence leaves my soul to strengthen.

Day, night, passage, rite.

In the changing fortunes of time
I’m glad you are my friend.

July 13th 1997
11:30pm
In the car, by the
St John’s harbour.