The Thief

This morning I woke up with a chill at 6:43am, the covers dumped in a colossal blue heap on the floor, and a slight headache: the victim of an all too vigorous dream, I suspect.

Whether it was a bad dream, or a good one, I cannot say, since I am terrible at interpreting symbols.

It did leave me with an idea for a poem though. So, I suppose, I should be grateful to Heaven for that...

The Thief

On nights like these—
So dark, so cold—
Are fires lit
And stories told,

While in my bed
My lover sleeps.
And I wake up
With icy feet.

A cough, a twitch,
Then all is still;
And one is left
To contend with a chill:

To wonder if
Humanity,
As cold as he,
Might turn to steal

My comforter
To make itself
More comfortable.
It’s possible.

Signs and Wonders

Quite a celestial day, Wednesday, wasn't it?


First, in the morning, the Space Shuttle Atlantis kisses the International Space Station goodbye and glides to gentle landing in Florida. Then, there is an eclipse of the Moon visible from the kingdom of Connecticut (as photographed, by Wild Bill, and posted at the right.) Then, as the delicious maraschino adorning this collection of events, the US Navy blows up a demented, earthbound satellite, somewhere over the pacific.



Just another day in the Life of these United States? Or something more sinister? We distort, you decide.

...


While I was reading on the 8:39 express this morning, Mathematics for the Non-Mathematician, by Morris Kline, expecting to take a holiday from politics, and history, I came across the following passage, and I was flabbergasted:


Fears, dread, and superstitions have been eliminated, at least in our Western civilization, by just those intellectually curious people who have studied nature's mighty displays. Those "seemingly unprofitable amusements of speculative brains" have freed us from serfdom, given us undreamed of powers, and, in fact, have replaced negative doctrines by positive mathematical laws which reveal a remarkable order and uniformity in nature. Man has emerged as the proud possessor of knowledge which has enabled him to view nature calmly and objectively. An eclipse of the sun occurring on schedule is no longer an occassion for trembling but for quiet satisfaction that we know nature's ways.We breathe freely knowing that nature will not be willful or capricious.


Professor Kline taught at NYU in the late 1960s. What professor today would dare to write a textbook so brimming with confidence or pride in the technical and spiritual accomplishments of Western Civilization? Even a math book?

Where Angels Fear to Tread

While it was not my intention to appear as a complete fool, at least publicly, I have a feeling that the premature publication of "Canto I" may have created that impression. However correct your estimate of my idiocy may be, I wish to apologize to Homer--and to Humanity--for that poem.

After 20 years of writing, I really should know better than to run off like a maniac and publish early. I spent the weekend recosidering my version of Ulysses and re-reading the Odyssey (Fagles translation). I have no idea what I was thinking. A classic case of hubris. Oh, well...

There may be a few salvagable lines of text. I am going to put the whole thing into a drawer somewhere and forget about it for a few weeks, while I finish reading the Odyssey and begin working my way through my new math book. There is nothing like a little trigonometry to settle a jangled set of nerves.

...

On a happier note, the crew of Atlantis has arrived safely back on earth, after a 12 day mission at the International Space Station. Thank Heaven for answered prayers.

Mutatis Mutandis

I continue making changes to my little poem, and adding stanzas, playing with images, having fun. I am glad the poem is still in the fun stage of development. Having fun is usually the briefest period of composition.

I have tried to take the edge off the ego, somewhat, and I am begining to feel my way more affectionately toward the characters. I have tried to hint that Ulysses initial crudeness at the beginning is the result of captivity with Calypso--trauma--not any contempt he has for Penelope. I am not sure if this comes across. There are plenty of details to come.

I really have to pick up a copy for Fagles's translation of the Odyssey and read it again. It has been a few years since I read it last and my memory of events is a little fuzzy. Anyway, here are today's changes...

Canto I


Now, as a respite from Reality,
The humdrum horrors one might call a Life,
I shall return to the fictitious me—
Like old Ulysses. Won’t you be my wife,
Dear reader, patient, like Penelope?
I come—exhausted—from the arms of strife:
I’ve just spent seven years inside a cave,
The plaything of Calypso. A love slave

Is not the life for me. At 59,
Making love is too hard on the knees,
And you must monitor intake of wine,
If you are going to perform. Please,
Penelope, leave that alone. I’m fine.
Please realize great adventures on the seas
Can leave a sailor—well—I won’t say limp—
But—for seven years I lived on shrimp,

Raw oysters, clams, and Lobster Thermidor—
Foods rich in zinc—a common chemical.
I do not know what oysters use it for—
I’ll merely mention it’s available
In pills, at the General Nutrition Store.
Calypso used it for cholesterol.
She liked to think of men as her dessert—
And careful preparations never hurt.

Calypso’s kitchen—her exotic flair
For honey and hot wax—had its romance,
But lust will form a crust in one’s chest chair.
I’m not sure love stood much of a chance
Between us. No. Nymphs do not declare
Affection for a pair of underpants,
Like these, I haven’t worn for twenty years.
You have stained my skivvies with your tears.

Don’t cry, Penelope. Have some champagne.
This glass is a great improvement on the shoe
I used to drink from. I am so ashamed.
The things that cruel Calypso made me do—
Every word she uttered was profane.
She was like garbage, when compared to you,
My dear—Penelope—my darling wife.
I’m lucky I escaped her with my life.

Penelope, I’ve something to discuss.
I have been thinking of retirement—
Abandoning the huge, Homeric fuss
For something less—violent. I’d be content
To be a school custodian, drive a bus,
Pay taxes, pay the butcher, pay the rent.
Shall I say, “Sayonara,” to the port,
And to my men—though in some Eastern court

A eunuch’s eyebrow is bound to be raised?
You may be mocked in Athens. And in song,
I’ll be immortalized as the milkmaid
Who is discovered in a leather thong
Behind a big bull, spying. I have prayed
For guidance from the gods—prayed hard and long,
And Heaven has been silent. I am still
Ulysses—king of Ithaca. I will

Not live forever. Yes, much earlier,
We should have had this little conversation.
In retrospect, too much may be too clear
To men involved in the affairs of any nation…
Wasn’t Telemachus’s hair much curlier,
And lighter, when I left? He’s changed. Our son.
Not only taller. He smiles like a stone.
How will he handle sitting on my throne?

Would you consider him self-reliant?
Do dingy diplomats command his ear?
“Son, nobody could blind a giant
Like Polyphemus with a proper spear—
Let alone a broomstick. Son, the science
Here is clear: men die.” I want to hear.
I want to know. I had hoped for a sigh
Of satisfaction when he learnt I didn’t die.

Yet, all he seems to do is look at me
As if I were a large museum piece—
An amphora—a piece of pottery
Dredged up from somewhere after centuries.
He studies me with curiosity:
Not as his father—but a man with fleas
You try to pity, briefly, till his smell
Begins to catch up with your nostril.

Calypso and Company

The elation I experienced on Monday, during the first flush of creation, has abated somewhat, as it always does, a few seconds after I embark on something new.

Nevertheless, I managed to put together a few more stanzas today, and attempted to tighten a the other stanzas I published so prematurely.

If the Muses were a bit more reliable, in terms of inspiration, I might consider trying to wring one or two stanzas per day out of them, and putting the poem together as sort of serial, or an extended comic strip. But never fear. The idea of producing 730 stanzas of ottava rima, per year, or 5840 lines of verse, while attractive, hypothetically, would probably kill me in a week. Not to mention how unfair it would be to my indulgent readers, who would have to suffer through a dose of perverted verse every day, when all they really want to hear about are the antics of the squirrels in our back yard, my trips to Texas, art gallery openings, or how much I managed to squat on Saturday.

As it happened, last Saturday, it was 270lbs. And this weekend I am going for 325. Which is not bad for a guy who is 5'6" and weighs, 155 lbs.

Anyway, here's the poem so far...(annotated links to be provided later...)

Canto I



Now, as a respite from Reality,
The humdrum horrors your might call your Life,
I return to my favorite subject—me—
Like old Ulysses. Won’t you be my wife,
Dear reader, patient, like Penelope?
I come—exhausted—from the arms of strife:
I’ve just spent seven years inside a cave,
The plaything of Calypso. A love slave

Is not the life for me. At 59,
Making love is too hard on the knees,
And you must monitor intake of wine,
If you are going to perform. Oh please,
Penelope, leave that alone! It’s fine.
It’s just that great adventures on the seas
Can leave a sailor—well—I won’t say limp—
But—for seven years I lived on shrimp

Toes, oysters, and Lobster Thermidor—
Foods rich in zinc. A funny chemical.
I’ve no idea what women use it for—
I’ll merely mention it’s available
In pills, at the General Nutrition Store.
Men use it to control cholesterol.
We think of you as ice cream—our desserts—
And careful preparation never hurts.

Calypso’s kitchen—her exotic flair
For honey and hot wax had its romance,
But lust will form a crust in your chest chair.
I’m not sure love stood much of a chance
Between us. No. Nymphs do not declare
Affection for a pair of underpants,
Like these, I haven’t worn for twenty years.
You have stained my skivvies with your tears.

Don’t cry, Penelope. Have some champagne.
Glass is a great improvement on a shoe—
Those crystal slippers that she wore. Insane.
The things that cruel Calypso made me do—
They put the P into the word Profane.
She was like Lucifer, compared to you,
Dear reader—my Penelope—my wife.
I’m lucky I escaped her with my life.

I’m here because I’ve something to discuss.
I have been thinking about retirement—
Abandoning the huge, Homeric fuss
For something more—Platonic. Well, I meant
To mention this before I left. The bus
Was coming, and unfortunately, I couldn’t.
I had a ship to catch down in the port,
Men to command. In Agamemnon’s court

Great hairy eyebrows would have been upraised
If I had slunk in, in the middle of song,
Dressed in the chiton of a dairy maid,
And tried to change into a leather thong
Behind a pot. Besides, I think I made
My bed. And being gone from you so long
Wasn’t my idea—but God’s unfathomable will.
I am Ulysses—king of Ithaca! Still,

I might have set the cock for earlier
And skipped the speeches for some conversation.
In retrospect, too much may be too clear
To men consumed in the affairs of any nation…
Wasn’t Telemachus’s hair much curlier,
And lighter, when I left? He’s changed. Our son.
Not only taller. He smiles like a stone.
How does he handle sitting in my throne?