Impact (3 page)

In some areas it seems perfect for a picnic—

a sandy blanket, dozens of unbroken plates,

cutlery sparkling like it was buffed

with a napkin or long skirt.

Down here the water is so cold and heavy

time stands still—

even the cheese wheels are edible

and the wine is still as fine

as it was that final night.

Researchers soon determined that micro-organisms disliked

the tannic acid that finished brown leather,

 

so while they ate away at buttons, satchels, and shoes

from darker goods, they ignored the browns

 

as if they were stubborn children

determined to reject their vegetables.

 

While his colleagues marvelled at the realization

of brown leather everything

 

one researcher wondered why all the shoes

appeared in pairs, and always eight inches apart.

 

Later, they realized organisms had erased

every sign of existence—the flesh, hair, bone and clothes—

 

save for a few pieces of jewellery and a pair of shoes

resting the natural distance

 

between the feet of a prone human body—

eight inches apart, four miles below the surface.

At first it seems like any other cemetery,

a well-kept lawn, granite tombstones,

an unpaved driveway and the crunch of gravel

as the car slows down before a sign:

T I T A N I C

as if the ship were buried here too,

a Viking funeral.

 

This is where the City of Halifax laid to rest

many of the bodies unclaimed

from the impromptu morgue

at the Mayflower Curling Club,

where tourists take photographs

for vacation albums and young girls

leave panties and love notes

for the crewman with a name similar

to the character played by DiCaprio.

 

Some graves have only numbers,

the Atlantic pickpocketed the wallet

or purse that would have identified them.

Most are from second and third class,

their families unable to afford

the boat or train trip home.

 

A hundred years later,

people still bring wreaths, flowers

that survive through snowstorms,

year after year,

spring's first green accompanied

by plastic pink and frosted yellow.

One-hundred years later,

the final
Titanic
child now buried,

 

how strange that the last survivor

is the
Titanic
herself.

 

Some day even she will dissolve

into a golden treacle of rust

 

until all that remains

is her memory,

 

a story to hand down

through generations.

My thanks to the authors, directors, and historians whose works inspired this book. In particular, I'd like to mention Walter Lord, the author of the seminal
Titanic
text,
A Night to Remember,
for his book started my lifelong interest in the ship and her many stories.

 

Thanks also to the Maritime Museum of the Atlantic in Halifax, Nova Scotia, for its respectful displays, including the rolling pin that inspired my poem of the same name; and to the City of Belfast and its numerous historical sites and museums. It's true she was alright when she left there.

 

The poems from the section entitled “Voices” are found poems derived from quotes or the writings from the survivors whose names are used in the titles. The Violet Jessop poem is comprised of lines taken from
Titanic Survivor: The Newly Discovered Memoirs of Violet Jessop Who Survived Both the Titanic and the Britannic Disasters
.

Thank you to the following journals for publishing many of these poems, sometimes in early versions:
Antigonish Review, Contemporary Verse 2, The Fiddlehead, Grain,
and
PRISM international
.

 

Thanks also to Lorna Crozier and George McWhirter, whose passion and support were invaluable during my studies with them.

 

Thanks also to the BC Arts Council Scholarship program for its assistance; to the Writers' Trust of Canada and the Canada Council for the Arts for their support of the Berton House writers' residency in Dawson City, Yukon, where I had the pleasure to work on this collection; and to Kwantlen Polytechnic University for travel funds that allowed me to visit Belfast and Southampton.

 

This book could not have been written without the editorial (h)ear(t) and the friendship of Sheri-D Wilson.

 

Thanks to Craig Moseley, Michael V. Smith, Ivan E. Coyote, Elizabeth Bachinsky, Daniel Zomparelli, and the late Matt Davy. I am blessed to have met you all.

 

Thank you to the fine folks at Arsenal Pulp Press.