Nuts.

Well, she certainly seems to be having fun; but as you can tell from the portrait on the left, the flowers have not yet begun their riot of color, not in our corner of Connecticut. And yet I feel certain that the reds, the blues, the oranges, purples, and even the whites, are about ready to pop: the forsythia have already hung inflammatory banners over the wall, as a warning. May Day is coming. All nature awaits a sign.

Even within me, your humble correspondent, I can feel a surge of sap returning to my limbs from hitherto frozen lakes and unfriendly ground. It is a nice feeling. I find myself walking more, swimming more, writing more, smiling more at strangers. It is the smiling, I think, which feels the best. Life is returning to life. It began in Japan, a few weeks ago.

During the past week, when I haven't been at the gym, or going to job interviews (more about THAT later) I have been spending an awful lot of the time on the porch, laptop on my lap, staring at squirrels, listening to lawn mowers, dreamily attempting to tap out a new poem.

...

On Thursday night, while visiting a friend in New Haven, we happened to drive past a very ominous, gray Gothic building. On our left is the edifice where the secret, Satanic rites of the Yale Skull and Bones Society are carried out. I have no idea what these rites are, or their relation to the Spring, but now I am aware of where they take place. No knowledge I acquire is ever wasted.

We happened to be discussing writing classes--words in general--what our favorite words were. He told me about an assignment in a college writing course where he had to pick out his favorite words in English and incorporate them into a story. One of the words he chose was brouhaha, which is a pretty hilarious word when you think about it, containing as it does the very seeds of laughter.

As for me, I was kind of caught off guard when he asked me what my favorite words were. I know I should not have been, but perhaps I was distracted by the radio display, shifting gears, or something else in the car. The only two words that immediately occurred to me were adjectives: the words anthropophagic and celestial.

The stars I need not explain. But I have no idea from what chthonic depths the word anthropophagic arose; except that I can remember feeling kind of hungry, and maybe slightly cranky as a result. I do know that the word celestial occurred to me first, which I find rather re-assuring. And it was the one I uttered.

...

Later, after we said goodbye, and I caught the 11:18pm local back to Stamford, I went back to the white wicker rocker on the porch. I flipped open my laptop, and I began to piece together the evening. I had had a good time.

I don't often seem to talk shop with other writers, no matter how garroulous I appear on the subject here. The word celestial kept ringing in my ears. And the forthcoming brouhaha among the flowers--especially the syllables ha and ha. And suddenly, as I sat sipping a tall glass of orange juice (my nightcap of choice), everything seemed to slip into place in my subconscious: the Spring, the sky, the lawn, the laughter, the squirrels, you and I.

I know it's extremely unusual, but isn't it nice when things work out perfectly?

It certainly is for me.


The Squirrels
For A.T.

They act a lot like we do, in a way.

Once, while I was studying some porn
I had discovered in an old suitcase,
I came across a slightly cracked acorn.
I can remember thinking, “What a place
To store your nuts.” Don’t attics get too warm?
And is an old suitcase the ideal space
For storing nutrients—like nut protein?
No wonder all those squirrels look so lean…

This was my thinking at the time, okay;
I probably had missed my morning nap,
Or something similar. I cannot say
I was delirious. Or curious. The crap
I do—I did—astonishes me today:
I had a dozen lovelies in my lap,
And far from having a hard-on, or stroke,
I ran outside to plant myself an oak.

While nothing very shady was forthcoming,
I lay there, on my stomach, with my spade,
Yawning, pelting birds, and maybe humming—
My other activities all seem to fade
Into oblivion. I am running
Over some details of this escapade:
The time, position of the sun, my age.
To Time alone, I have devoted page—

Page—page—well, I can’t seem to find it.
I’m sorry. It was remarkable—a classic
Piece of metaphysics. I designed it
First to entertain—which is the basic
Premise of this poem. And behind it
Lies no philosophy—no specific
School of thinking that I can remember.
This doesn’t mean those moments I surrender

To retrospection—in my reverie—
The sharper edges of the Past will soften.
My spade does not get duller, although we
Do get dirty in the garden. And, often,
We dig up buried treasures. Do you see
That bloke behind the oak—the hard to love one
Who could use a slightly closer shave?
That’s you. (I would pull up my pants, and wave.)

A few words about Auden.

This morning as I was standing in the vestibule of the 8:37am MetroNorth express, hurtling towards New York, my eye happened to bounce over a blue-suited shoulder. I noticed the name Auden in the left hand column of section B1 (as in bomber) of the NYT. Now, the Times is not a paper I normally read for news, preferring as I do to get my propaganda free of pretensions, but I have to admit that the name Auden caught my eye, like the face of a beloved old friend suddenly glimpsed in a crowd of strangers.

This year marks the centennial of Auden's birth. I was reading Auden's poem, September 1st, 1939 on the morning of September 11th, 2001. For six years I carried the book, The English Auden, edited by Edward Mendelson, around in my backpack wherever I went. A dilapidated copy of The Collected Poems of W.H. Auden, bound discreetly in duct tape, sits on my desk here at work, to my immediate right.

I have spent more time with Auden in the last decade than I have spent with anyone else, even myself. But I haven't been reading much Auden lately, and the fleeting glimpse of Auden's name over a gray column of print reminded me that my life has been emptier for it.

When I arrived at work this morning I gingerly opened the paper and began to read. Half way down the page I encountered the following lines, from "Tell Me the Truth About Love," soon to be appearing in a subway car near you:

When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love!

"Will it alter my life altogether?" I think if it is the real thing, it really should. I know that if it is the wrong thing, it certainly will. But how do we distinguish between the real thing and the wrong thing, and avoid ruining our lives?

I have no idea.

Do you?

Learning Japanese.

No poetry today. I have been spending every waking moment studying Japanese, preparing for my trip to Tokyo later on this month. When I went to Japan last year, I couldn't speak a word and I felt completely lost.

I have determined that this time will be different. I will not have so much trouble with what is on the menu. I would like to have a conversation with Takaaki's friends over sashimi. I want to make sure I can order enough katsu. I want to book train tickets to Hakone. I think it would be nice to be able to say more than "please" and "thank you"—although you can get pretty far in Tokyo, I have noticed, if you can deploy onegaishimasu and domo arigatou with the right amount of dexterity. These are magic words in Japan. They open doors—shoji.

Even so, Magic is a difficult art to practice, in any language. But I think it may be hardest to master in Japanese. There are three 'alphabets' in Japanese: the hiragana and katakana syllabaries, and kanji—the imported Chinese characters adapted for Japanese use in the Middle Ages. Right now, I can read my blue shampoo bottle—that part which says shampoo, anyway, in katakana— and I can understand snatches of lyrics in a few Japanese songs. I watch at least one hour of Bleach a day, and I am getting better at distinguishing phrases. But it is hard. I am more or less at the hiragana and katakana stages of development. This would probably place my mental age at about 4 or 5. I can count to 13 in Kanji—on very good day.

...

Still, I don't give up. Japanese literature has always been something of a hobby with me. Mishima Yukio was my introduction to that. The book was Confessions of a Mask, I purchased it in June 9th, 1992, at 3:43 pm, at Glad Day Bookstore, on Boylston St, in Boston. Very often I use receipts for bookmarks, and the receipt remains with the book as long as I own it. It is a very convenient technique for marking your place in Time, and for constructing a mental history of yourself, should you ever be asked to do so by the Authorities.

I think my eye was initially drawn to Mishima's Confessions for one very particular, but very superficial reason: the torso featured on the cover—a samurai version of the St. Sebastian motif.

We all know what happened to poor St. Sebastian, and what Mishima did to himself, but I am less sure what happened to me when I read that book fifteen years ago. I think it was then that something about Japan first began stirring in my imagination.

It can take years for the effect of words to sink into your imagination. And with some authors—most authors—the words never do. Most words are dropped again as soon as they are picked up off the page. You hear something beautiful you hadn't noticed before—perhaps the furnace ticking on— and you forget where you were in the last paragraph. At least, that is the case with me.

I think Mishima more than Godzilla was my introduction to Japan. And after Mishima, I moved on into the mysterious world of Akutagawa, Murakami, Lady Murasaki, and others. Then I met Takaaki.

My favorite Japanese author is probably Soseki Natsume. There is something very funny and very dark about this man's sense of humor, something sinister. There are times that I feel like his stories were specifically crafted to entertain me, which is preposterous.

Kokoro is Soseki's most profound work, I think, and Botchan his most congenial, but I think my personal favorite is I Am A Cat. Half Tristram Shandy, and half I, Claudius, and altogether Japanese, it presents a cat's eye view of the world, from the birth of one lonely kitten until his untimely death.

Don't get me wrong. I do not enjoy I Am A Cat because I especially enjoy the company of cats. I am not really a cat person. In fact, I think my relationship with felines bears an eerie resemblance to my relationship with men—Mankind, I mean. I am allergic Him as a collective presence, but I intensely love individuals.

That must be why we get along so well, I think.

Tokiyou ni ikimasu.

After the hideous cold of the last two weeks, the temperature in New York has climbed back into the 40s, and there is the distinctly tangy scent of spring in the air. In fact, and I hope you are sitting down, I actually enjoyed that my train was a little late leaving Stamford this morning. The extra eight minutes of sunlight on my face did me some indescribable good.
...

Last week, during the depths of the evil cold snap gripping Connecticut, and my insides, I made reservations for a return trip to Tokyo, in late March, to see some cherry blossoms (sakura) and spend a few afternoons soaking in a nice hot volcanic bath with Taka-chan.

Part of the reason why I have been writing such miserable poetry over the last few weeks is that I have been feeling frustrated with myself. I want to find a nice well-paying job in Tokyo, so Takaaki and I can start cooking rice together, but it is proving painfully hard. And why is it so hard? Obviously, I must be doing something wrong, even if I seem to be doing everything right.

Sometimes there is nothing harder to face in the world than your own reflection in the mirror. And when I turn inward, I can turn particulary vicious. Introspection probably should not be performed by an amateur with a deformed soul, but by some sort of detatched and finiky professional, with a gentle but penetrating eye. I really think I need that volcanic bath.

...

So, here are few quatrains totally unrelated to Japan, volcanoes, romance, or anything else. They are about the most boring subject imaginable: writing.

A Note to Alex
Inserted in his new notebook


One hundred pages occupy this book,
One hundred clouds of suds and rolling thunder,
One hundred sacks of coconut—and look—
A fish fillet. That’s right. I think it’s flounder.

Well, how would you interpret all this space?
Pour fresh foundations for a concrete world,
Or copy something? Sketch some kind of face,
Left earlobe laden with a teardrop pearl?

Our choices can be frightening. Take drug stores:
How do you choose a nice deodorant
Among the dozens of toxic metaphors
Out there? Try everything? Experiment?

Here’s roses and Rottweiler. How sublime.
There’s oxygen for dizziness—and wine—
If you have trouble breathing. Take your time:
Rhyme ‘kiss’ with ‘bliss’ and you should be fine.

There may be more I’d like to say to you;
But I’ve been told—by somebody who knows—
That I am just a book—a blank one, too.
So, fill me with your poetry. (No prose.)




Amateur Hour

When I’m at work—when I have time to think—
I’ll dip a long white feather in my heart,
Concealing how my pen and inkpot clink.
I am not sure this qualifies as Art.

I think a poet should be more profound;
He ought to scream, “Look at me—I exist!”
It also helps a bit to hop around,
Pierce pieces of your tongue, and shake your fist.

The fist establishes your right to speak,
The piercings vouch for your sincerity.
Of course, if I ever began to shriek
Somebody here would call Security.

So, I make do with the odd metaphor
For those emotions I cannot address
With people listening—like that cri de coeur
I spent all morning trying to express…

Please, do not adjust your set.

In keeping with the dismal note I sounded the other day, I have decided to post another dark piece. I hope you don't mind. I only propose to do this until it gets warmer.

I feel it is better to get these things out of my system, rather than let them sit in my brainpan foully fermenting, possibly blowing the top off my skull, like a hairy old cork. I have no wish to wind up like a bad bottle of champagne.

And I have no wish to create a great pink and gray mess for Walter to scrape off the ceiling in my office. He is a kind and diligent man. He and his bad back live in the Bronx, and I worry whenever I see him ascending a ladder.

...

Anyway, here is another poem.

...


My Poor Fool

Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life, and thou no breath at all?

King Lear, V.iii.352-53


Heaven was just the place for him to go.
He never understood this world. You know,
We would discuss it over marmalade
And coffee—matter—how the world was made.
He would take small triangles of toast
And dip them in his egg—completely lost.
Most considered him a child—my half-wit.
Like any parent, my poor heart was split:

His jokes were creaky as an outhouse door,
And yet I loved him—loved him to the core.
He turned the girls to jelly. For, in his eye,
There twinkled something wild in black tie
Which frightened the officials, children, and dogs.
He painted funny faces in the fogs
Which rolled in like thunder from the sea
Those nights we kept each other company.

He tested my love constantly. He’d twist
My heart right into knots—without a sweat—
One drop of effort. For some reason I
Don’t fully comprehend, he teased me, “Why
Are you so melancholy, Lord—so blue?”
He pinged me with a pebble from his shoe.
Most fools are a bit impudent. Of course,
This lad was lucky: he wound up a corpse.

I hanged the lad in public to remind
The peoples of planet Earth that God had died.
They stared at him like vegetables. The few
Who cried for Mercy I hanged twice. Like you,
I never thought his last remarks were fair,
Until I had him hoisted in the air.
“Good grief,” he gargled, “how the rafters shook
When we gave that carpenter the hook!”