Wednesday, 1 April 2009

Ice Ice Baby

Basilica

It’s the crisp, chemical smell
of the ice, of metal slicing through it,
the heat of a zamboni melting the surface.

It's the hum of the generator,
the AC on full blast. The perfect escape
in August when you’re sweating
off ten percent of your weight in water
just sitting in the sun.

It's like the hum of a river, constant.
Not the sea that comes in waves
crashing to the shore. The noise is perpetual,
consistent, like a Buddhist chant.

Trails of skate marks under a layer of freshly melted ice.
Melted and refrozen, the deeper grooves
never fully disappearing, creating a layered web of trails,
paths that have been carved out, then melted,
rewritten.

5 comments:

Susan said...

I see that Filatov has been called up; I'll have to keep an eye on him and see how he does this time up. I hope he does well. I also saw the Maple Leafs signed Christian Hanson, son of Slap Shot Dave Hanson. I just finished reading Dave's book, "Original Slap Shot". Pretty good read, lots of really funny stuff!

I really enjoyed the poem, even though I really don't enjoy cold :)

ali said...

Great poem... It makes me even more exciting about going ice skating this weekend...

Happy Wednesday.

Val said...

I love the title, and the poem was most excellent...however, I am so wanting August to be here right now so I can sweat off that 10% :)

lauren said...

I like it. It's very you; it also feels like something Kaz would write, and then never, ever show anyone, except maybe Anna.

I miss skating... the outdoor rink at my college has been melted for a while now and the nearest indoor ice is 20 minutes away. :-(

KD said...

Perfection.

I need to go skating right now.