When I Watch The Living Meet

Not much sleep last night. When I did manage to shut my eyes for a few minutes of agitated REM, I dreamt I was 20 again, and I was living inside A Shropshire Lad, by A.E. Housman.

This poem kept resounding in my head:


XII. When I watch the living meet


WHEN I watch the living meet,
And the moving pageant file
Warm and breathing through the street
Where I lodge a little while,

If the heats of hate and lust
In the house of flesh are strong,
Let me mind the house of dust
Where my sojourn shall be long.

In the nation that is not
Nothing stands that stood before;
There revenges are forgot,
And the hater hates no more;

Lovers lying two and two
Ask not whom they sleep beside,
And the bridegroom all night through
Never turns him to the bride.

Ouch

As I recall


Stranded on Mt. Morpheus,
I sat down on a rock,
Slowly unlacing my left boot,
Then rolling down my sock.

I pulled a pebble from my toe
And studied it some time,
Uncertain where I stepped on it—
Whose dream: yours, or mine?

Bed

I am not sure how well this one works for you, but it seems to summarize my feelings today very neatly. Wendi believes it is a little bleak...


Bed


How improbable the whole thing now seems:
the vast expanse of blue, the air, the grand-
iose freedom of feathers, birds, dreams
lazily searching for a place to land,

watching as the earth assumes a face,
fixating on soft features, like a friend,
a river bend, a tall smokestack, a trace
of cotton smoke billowing from one end,

a lake of slate below a buoyant cloud.
How distant, how abstract, how beautiful!
You wonder if the water is allowed
to sparkle so outside a dream until

you hit the surface, crushing every bone
inside your pillow—shaken and alone.

The Good Soldier

April 1st, 2008 was the date of my last posting.

I am not sure I really appreciated the solemnity of that particular date at the time, and for this I was punished by the Powers of Creation for impiety. Less than sixty seconds after pressing the POST button on Blogger, I slid under my desk, into the trenches, knocking over my computer, and falling into a deep and dreamy electronic sleep.

What visions coiled about my unconscious mind during the intervening year, I have yet to fully unravel. I probably will be spending the next several weeks stretched out on a divan, with Dr. Freud, just sorting out the naked women from the serpents and artichokes. Which is much better news for the ladies than it is for me, I suppose.

From my present perspective, however, back at work, calmly collected in front of my computer, my shadowy face glistening in the screen, the time between Aprils passed with uncharacteristically gentle alacrity, my consciousness wrapped in a soft, muddy, almost matronly mist. I woke refreshed, thanks to the kind words of a concerned friend, who found me curled up under my desk, next to the trash, gathering discarded apple cores, balls of crumpled Xerox paper, twisted paper clips, tired teabags, and dust.

Now, after a much needed change of clothes, a shave and a bath, I feel wonderful: as if I had just spent a delirious month in Deutschland, with my wife, Mrs. Dowell, and the Ashburnhams, taking in the salubrious waters of Bad Nauheim.

The only problem with this sunny scenario (if you want to be picky and call it problem) is that I am not married to Mrs. Dowell. I have no idea who this lady is, Constable. I am not married at all. My name is not Dowell. It is, as I have been telling you for twenty minutes, Shandy. And I have never been to Germany. I don't even know where Germany is. And even if I did, I am sure I wouldn't like it. The place sounds less like a spa to me than a spoiled petri dish, a sort of gigantic brothel for bacteria, the kind of establishment respectable middle-aged gentleman like myself never visit.

Seldom in my experience with literature have I met a more reckless, unreliable narrator than myself. I probably should be horsewipped. Indeed, this morning, it actually feels like I have been. Or it may just be that my undergarments are too tight. I am told by my two friends down there that I need a new tailor. Pshaw! I say, gentlemen. This whole recurring nightmare (some may call it "blogging") reminds of me of a poem once penned by my father, Professor Housman, concerning the delinquent diversions of one Terence (a man not to be confused with the immortal playwright).

Thus, the Professor:

Oh I have been to Ludlow fair
And left my necktie God knows where,
And carried half way home, or near,
Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer:
Then the world seemed none so bad,
And I myself a sterling lad;
And down in lovely muck I’ve lain,
Happy till I woke again.
Then I saw the morning sky:
Heigho, the tale was all a lie;
The world, it was the old world yet,
I was I, my things were wet,
And nothing now remained to do
But begin the game anew.

...

Until tomorrow then, I guess.

A Quiet Night

Last night, before Yasu came home (did I tell you I finally moved to Queens?) from his dinner party in the city, I spent a few hours alone in the apartment, head propped up in bed, reading Elizabeth Bishop, and listening to the soft patter of rain on the surface of the air conditioner outside. It was not an unpleasant sound, but a tiny tinny noise, more urban lullabye than an annoyance.

It fit in perfectly with the mood of what I was reading. Every now and then I would get up to pee (too much water with those six salty Chinese dumplings I had for dinner) and the sound of the rain would be overwhelmed by the unsalubrious and embrarassing sound of me. I had a hard time putting the book down when I clambered back into bed.

Here is a copy of the last poem I read last night.

It is nice, sometimes, to snatch a passage of poetry from a book and meditate on it as you drift off to sleep. It can have the most interesting effect upon your dreams.



THE SHAMPOO

Elizabeth Bishop

The still explosions on the rocks,
the lichens, grow
by spreading, gray, concentric shocks.
They have arranged
to meet the rings around the moon, although
within our memories they have not changed.

And since the heavens will attend
as long on us,
you've been, dear friend,
precipitate and pragmatical;
and look what happens. For Time is
nothing if not amenable.

The shooting stars in your black hair
in bright formation
are flocking where,
so straight, so soon?
-- Come, let me wash it in this big tin basin,
battered and shiny like the moon.

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.