A mysterious naked man has been reported
on Cranston Avenue. The police are performing
the usual ceremonies with coloured lights and sirens.
Almost everyone is outdoors and strangers are conversing
excitedly
as they do during disasters when their involvement is
peripheral.
'What did he look like?' the lieutenant is asking.
'I don't know,' says the witness. 'He was naked.'
There is talk of dogs—this is no ordinary case
of indecent exposure, the man has been seen
a dozen times since the milkman spotted him and now
the sky is turning purple and voices
carry a long way and the children
have gone a little crazy as they often do at dusk
and cars are arriving
from other sections of the city.
And the mysterious naked man
is kneeling behind a garbage can or lying on his belly
in somebody's garden
or maybe even hiding in the branches of a tree,
where the wind from the harbour
whips at his naked body,
and by now he's probably done
whatever it was he wanted to do
and wishes he could go to sleep
or die
or take to the air like Superman.
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From guest Alison (contact)
Nowlan's poetry has always appealed to me because of its absolute frankness. He is a very honest poet. His writing is sparse but every word seems to go out on a small, lovely errand. Nowlan strikes me as an observer, and much of his poetry recounts everyday events, with a little quirk that makes them instantly extraordinary and unforgettable. He is delightful, and this poem is one of my favorites. It's both funny and poignant, two attributes Nowlan balances easily in his writing.
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