CANDLELIGHT
Don't Mind Me
Listening all day to Morton Feldman's
Neither. Words by Samuel Beckett. To and fro
between two lit refuges whose doors once neared
gently close… beckoned back and forth… intent on
one gleam or the other… by way of neither
… unheard footfalls… absences from self and other
…then no sound… gently light unfading… heedless
…neither unspeakable home… In the small hours
I sit on a bench in my drought-dry garden. Not a dewdrop
or the smell of morning yet, and maybe never.
And there it is… to and fro in shadow from inner
to outer shadow... a shock of hair on long legs…
Till at last it halts for good… unheeded… beside me
… Impenetrable self to impenetrable unself
by way of neither… the hedgehog. Play it again, Sam.
Lullaby for Second Childhood
I see the world. It's black and white.
And all the eyes are white and blue.
And all the eyes are weeping too.
And all the eyes have lost their sight.
The world I see that's black and white
closes its eyes, closes its eyes.
Lo and behold, what a surprise.
Everything seems to be all right.
The black and white that does not see,
except the darkness in the light,
is the black and white that is me.
The blue is gone and it is night.
The Maker Gets Out
On the vice between the ugly and beautiful
that is life, I hammer out sparks. Who is to tell
if they burn down the workshop or light a candle,
or just flicker out? But I'm bored with it all.
I'm into the swing of beating out the sound.
And if I hit the right note it has a ring
of the inevitable. The echoing
diminishes into silence, always 'profound',
so I can sleep in the backroom, dreaming of hoofs
thundering across the desert of body and mind.
When I shake myself awake I pretend to be blind,
and walk out in the street, waving white thorn reproofs
at passersby till a kindly soul lends me an arm,
and I see the town without doing myself a harm.
Celebration
A second honeymoon is not a good idea,
unless your first was a disaster. It feeds a
déjà vu most marriages can do well without.
Far better to stay at home and hug one's doubt.
Today is the anniversary of last year,
Ed Dorn said, and he would have seen reason to fear
the hope in the air. A pity a way can't be found
to celebrate the future the other way round.
Though a Happy Old Year would not have the same ring,
no one would be fooled, and we'd remember something
worth getting drunk for and behaving like a fool.
Past deceptions have a silver lining, as a rule.
They won't happen again as you anticipate.
That gives you something at least to celebrate.
The Curse of the Sick
1.
The stars are everywhere without a pattern.
The moon is a bad joke. All right, the planets
make some sense. But their pull means they're too selfish
to orbit us. They keep themselves to themselves.
That's how it is. Best fix your eyes on the ground.
2.
When you get seriously ill tell nobody.
At first the world is all flowers and get well cards.
Soon enough the We-tried-to-phone-yous begin,
and, once exhausted, the long guilty silences
from which there can be no return. Forget it.
Should you regain your strength and make a come back,
you're a violence to be avoided by those
who were not there for you when you wanted them.
And hate you for it. So they must cut you dead.
3.
The stars are everywhere without a pattern.
The moon is a bad joke. All right, the planets
make some sense. But their pull means they're too selfish
to orbit us. They keep themselves to themselves.
That's how it is. Best fix your eyes on the ground.
The Kisskiss
Kisskiss, the meanass, kisskisses
all the time. Sometimes he misses,
so says his Missus, who dishes
the dirt (he dribbles). But bliss is
the lusciously delicious
liposuction of bis bisous,
the kisskisskisses that are his.
The exogenesis of this
impulse to kissanerie is -
his mother smothered his sis-
ter, Pisspiss, with too many kisses,
and wished she hadn't. So he missed
out on them. Tant pis, said Kisskiss.
And sought succour in solipsis.
His kissing mission hit the street
with politisse. At first discreet.
Stealing a kiss on the retreat.
But emboldened by a beard, he'd greet
the world face to face and brow beat
a ribambelle of mouths to meet
his. The kisscircuit was complete.
Till Miss Cupid Lips made her bid
for exclusive rights. Once married
the patter of tiny feet did
for kisskissing. Missus Cupid,
for reasons of hygiene, forbids
the slightest peck till she's widowed.
Just a last kiss on his eyelid.
November Song
The courage I've shown in life
has been in conquering stage fright.
I have remembered my lines,
and the gestures that define
what is expected of me.
I haven't felt it personally.
Only the applause, so far.
I've not had a role in war,
or performing an act to save
life. By my lights, I've been brave.