Tom Thomson in Doubt

Lay down them projects for the crackling stars.

The hourglass sifts itself. Stars sprawl and blaze

in every each direction, and their howl

torments him into sleep. There was a point

from which they all emerged, of infinite mass,

through which he right now passes possibly through,

knowing it not. But then, what does he know?

And what could tell he to another ear?

Ears tilt away from him now when he speaks,

and people form strange patterns, fields, as if

a magnet he, and iron filings they.

“Lay down,” he just repeats, “them projects.” He

gives often to himself advice, and trusts

himself, though less these days, to get it right.

Tom Thomson in Stereo

The all-day all-night FM radio station

that broadcasts just south of his cerebellum

has switched formats. Now

it’s Greatest Misses From Your Teens and Twenties:

a looped guitar set on Repeat Repeat

overdub-echoed, greased with Frippertronics;

an anxious dream in which, again, again,

he do, he say, exactly the wrong thing,

or miss the meaningful, inviting glance,

or stand on shore as the last boat, last chance,

pass by his little island. Twist the knob,

the song remain the same. He needs anten-

nae longer than the ones he got to hear

the tune of glad heart that must somewhere play.

Tom Thomson in his office, Thursday afternoon

Fills out grant applications. Honestly.

Although they asked him not to. That's, you know,

against the rules. Is honesty, that is.

And knows he therefore will not one red cent

get from them this year. Nor desires he to.

Rejection is his muse. He thrives on it!

(Who else can say they thrive on anything?)

These days, that is. (His father's phrase.) But he's

more strong than they by far: For he can smile

and hoist a planet onto shoulder, he

can laugh at pain (and knows more pain than they)

more pain, more love, more lust, more everything!

He is made stronger what does not kill him.

And what does kill him, make him stronger still.

Tom Thomson in Flanders Fields

The poppies grow, between the crosses row

by regimented row, and as they bob

pathetic Tom bobs too (I mean sym-

pathetic, for our man is overcome

and only refuge he can find is in

corrective fantasy: 1916

with Thomson gun in one hand, Thomson girl

in other, doffs his cap he, take his leave,

and head to France to shoot up several Germans.

(Ignore the fact that he’s a pacifist,

and closest he has come to shoot a gun

is his excessive use of bullet points;

it’s his fantasy, for Christ’s sake!)) Tom,

he linger for a while, then go home.

**

Troy Jollimore’s poetry has appeared in Ploughshares, The Malahat Review, Margie: The American Journal of Poetry, and other publications. His symbiotic relationship with the fictional character Tom Thomson is the subject of a forthcoming documentary short subject, Me and My Other: A (Half-)Life in Poetry.

Archived at http://lit.konundrum.com/poetry/jollit_poems.htm