The Blue Light of the Neutron Pool, by Diana Brebner

All the generations of me go up with you,
past Petawawa and the military convoys,
past Chalk River, Deep River, Rolphton, and
the rivers of nuclear power, past the
quiet churches: Our Lady of the Snows,
St. Andrew's Among the Pines, and the spires
in Mattawa where we turn. This is when
we are most together, driving the highways

that lead to our wild places. In an old car,
loaded up with: packs, boots, a borrowed
canoe, we go up to Kioshkokwi, leaving
the city and the everglowing sky behind,
hoping to see the darkness in each other,
the black joy of an empty night, the little
cries of the hidden stars as they become
visible and beloved. When we were leaving

Cally shouted "Have a good trip" and then,
unexpectedly, "We love you." So many people
are left behind, the ones who will not,
or cannot be with us. I bring them with me
and carry their eyes, old lamps in the dark.
Who are we to travel over water to the
islands of pines and spirit? Portaging in
mystic green worlds, the red leaves warning,

the winter coming, and wading small rivers,
leading the canoe in the turbulent waters,
I remember my friends and take their peace
with me. And you, constant man, who changes
shape with the days, with the weather: raven,
brother loon, river merganser, holy fish
as you leap in the water, companion, silent
comrade; be assured, I could never leave you.

First early hours in the north of Algonquin:
we are listening to the freight trains rumbling
on to North Bay. We see the eerie glow of
settlement to the northwest. Later, the loons
will greet us in the grey morning, the clouds
on the water. Then small rain, like a blessing,
dampens the day. A moose and her calf
browse in the shallows where our next portage

begins. We can wait. The baby canters
on the surface, confident, kickings its heels
like a small horse, and the mother, benign
madonna, watches and chews. In the forest
we will encounter silence, a man and his dog,
the cathedral green of lichen, moss, and
the emptying gothic of the columnar trees.
Winds are up at the beach at Manitou Lake;

a pair of ravens stand guard at the shore.
I, who have lived as a mind, cogito's captive,
must submit: this is a world of body and
spirit. In purity, or violence, the water
receives you, and you become it. Thunderbird
roars overhead and the drumbeats of the
spirit pound, detonations in the heart.
There is no turning back from fear, or joy,

and our moment of salutation. Every green
branch and living thing springs up, every
fish becomes a silver word. On the island
of pines, unmapped on the lake, we come
home to the animate universe, the breathing
earth. I'm alone. So, how can I explain: in all
my prayers, I am with you, and you are here.
In the morning we will walk among stones

and broken shells, naked as children, in
the living water. I will think of my friends,
the lovers and the beloved, the believers
and the quiet companions. The scientist lives
for the moment of light, to have one night
when the code unravels, or to spend a life
without politics or worry, her face alive in
the blue light of the neutron pool. My friend,

the believer, asks for enlightenment;
my friend, the painter, for vision; my
friend, northern boy, for the green country
of childhood that his heart cannot forget.
As for me, Thunderbird, I ask that you take
me with you, in a boat that crosses to the
world of spirits. I want to dance at my death,
to make a little thunder the earth will hear.

Posted by Andrea at May 5, 2006 7:30 AM under Friday Poetry Blogging

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