Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
And the green freedom of a cockatoo
Upon a rug mingle to dissipate
The holy hush of ancient sacrifice...
Well, anyway, that was Wallace Stevens's idea of a Sunday Morning, in 1915, in Key West.
93 years later, in February, in Connecticut, things look a bit different. Gone is the holy hush, replaced by WQXR predicting rain and snow showers for later this evening. There may be coffee and oranges, but for the life of me I cannot find the cockatoo. Clearly, there is a carpet, but the bird is missing. Perhaps he was eaten by the cat. She certainly has a guilty look around her whiskers. Perhaps, in a cantankerous mood, she decided to poop on the powder room floor. It is hard to tell with her: she is an inscrutable creature.
At any rate, upon the back of a leathery old ottoman sits an atlas of the stars, open to page 53, wherein the author distinguishes, for the curious reader, how the signs of the zodiac appear along the plane of the ecliptic.
The book is entitled, Nightwatch: A Practical Guide for Viewing the Universe, and it comes to us courtesy of the Ferguson Library in Stamford. I stopped there yesterday afternoon on my way back from the gym in the city. Usually, on Saturdays, I like to stop at the library, pick up a movie or two, or something new to read. I tried to find the adjacent book, too, but the section on mathematics at Ferguson is a bit weak.
...
I am inching a bit closer to making that telescope purchase I mentioned earlier this week. I think I may wait for the warmer weather to do it. For the rest of the winter, I am going to try to spend as many clear nights out in the backyard as possible, reacquainting myself with the Heavens. I used to be able to identify about 15 constellations, but these days...
I can still find the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper, Orion, Cassiopeia, the Teapot, Gemini, the Pleiades (a star cluster), and Hercules, but I have lost sight of the rest. I am better with the planets, Venus, Mars, and Jupiter I can still discern on a clear night, with almost no trouble.
Now, however, I must swab the kitchen floor. And then I must fold some laundry and conjugate a dozen or so Japanese verbs. So, I am off.
Have a nice day!
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…
