TWO POEMS FOR AESRED, THE GODDESS OF WEDNESDAY

“Poetry is the art of creating imaginary gardens with real toads in them”

-- Marianne Moore

Insects who live in

Imaginary gardens

Are not sure they’re real.

Those who ask the toads

Do not return.

In his brown study the Blue Devil has stayed up reading

Le Rouge et le Noir for the seventeenth time. As always

He hopes for a new ending; this time the arc

Of Julien Sorel’s life will alter. He’ll board a ship, say;

Arrive at Newark and travel by stages to Cincinnati

Where he’ll tend bar, develop a sense of humor,

Marry a milliner who will cut his hair

With pinking shears. Leaving the book open,

Fifty pages from the end, the Blue Devil

Whistles his black dog out of the corner,

Puts on a scarf, checks an address; walks out the door.

INCIDENT ON THE WAY HOME

We heard a voice from the shore calling

“Tell them, sailors, when you make landfall

That Pan, Great Pan, is dead!” Strangely,

The first thing I saw on the shore

Helping to moor the ship, was Pan himself

Making fast a rope wound about a post.

I could not be mistaken; I knew

Those pointed ears, those crooked legs

Those eyes, yellow and disquieting.

He recognized me too; not always

Had I been a sailor. Taking my pay --

A fair sum; the trip had been long --

I went with Pan to a wine shop

(Not wise perhaps, but I had become

A follower of unwisdom). Three men

Neither drunk nor sober made space for us

And listened. “Near the Isles of Paxi

The wind suddenly began speaking

Mere babble at first, but then words

Telling us to report the death of Great Pan.”

“A sad thing!” the oldest drinker said

“My wife will give me no peace now

And I will have to turn Christian at last.”

“I will miss him, I think,” said the youngest

“The night is full of gods and the meadows

Are filled with goats but the combination

Was a rare thing.” The one not young or old

Raised his cup. “A toast, then!” cried Pan

“We will drink to my memory.”

MUSE

Though she drove me hard, my muse

Used to be punctual, stopping by

In late afternoon; or to watch the day turn

Upon the point of midnight. Quality did not worry us

We were after numbers; the notebooks still exist

Filled with rough drafts, placeholders for the ones

Which would come in time and take their lordly places

Calm and serene, with every word inevitable.

I’m not sure if the muse who comes now

Is the same who visited me then. If she is

I have not been good for her. She comes in half-frantic

At any hour, disheveled, grumbling, muttering

“Who said that you were a poet?’

When I say “Surely it was you,” she groans

And shakes her head and kicks me awake.

NO INSTRUMENT

No instrument by which I’ve reckoned

Could tell me where the summer flies

No demon perched astride a second

Could say “Here, where my left leg lies

She loves you still, but on t’other side

You are for her as things that were

But safe among the dead reside.”

An unmarked border, no fence, no sign

“Your money is no good, your ways

Are strange to us. New stars shine

Than those you knew on other days.

Your marvellous lies none care to know.”

When did your pockets fill with dust?

But step lightly as you go

If strength won’t do then cunning must.

ON TIMES

Friday afternoon; the workweek not gone

But fading. Other music is imagined

And begins to play. A shadow listens;

Beckons to other shadows who follow

Down an alley that vanishes.

Ghosts shake themselves, gain substance

Conjure themselves into being.

Three in the morning; the night

Is just a little thin at the edges

Stretching itself to last until morning

Decides to come. The hour is not ungodly;

There are all too many gods about

Who’ll not be seen by daylight.

Look – surely that is Great Pan

Rummaging for deposit bottles;

Three cats are debating in an alley

The fate of the unborn day.

Love is not here; she left a note

Painted on a brick wall.

A house light snaps on; Death

Has had a bad dream.

HEARING FROM PATSY

Except for now and then

Country music and I have not

Been of much use to each other

(Though I will admit there is

No better antidote for self-pity

Than standing alone at midnight

Singing “Everybody’s going out

And having fun.

I’m a fool for staying here

And having none.

I can’t believe it that she set me free;

Oh, lonesome me!”).

I know no good reason why the ghost

Of Patsy Cline should decide

To reside in my head today.

She is a frail spook, I’ll grant;

Died young, I think; a hard life

Leaving a name and some music

And many sad admirers behind.

Death has not been kind to her

I can tell this because she can remember

Just one line of all her songs:

“I fall to pieces.”

Her backup trio, for old times sake

Keep her company; they can recall

Even less. Just “Woa, woa, woa”

And then Patsy’s ghost mumbles what she means

To be the next line:

“Each night when I remember you?”

“Whenever stars shine in the blue?”

“Whatever I am trying to do?”

No use; the words are gone and so

We go back; I fall to pieces

Woa, woa, woa.

Tap it on the table; Dum (pause)

Dum dadadum (bababum)

Or whistle it softly on the platform

Surprising other passengers who

If they fall to pieces do it

Quietly  and without harmonic  backup.

I could, I suppose, call exorcists

Patsy and her backup would surely

Be no match for swooping Valkyries

Hollering down on them

But then, my mind would be filled

With large fierce women carrying spears.

Rest here, then, for a day

Falling to pieces until the night

Puts us back together.

THIS. THEN THAT. THEN THIS ONCE MORE BUT WITH A LITTLE MUSTACHE AND A DIS-SATISFIED EXPRESSION

Whenever I begin to write, the moon grows vexed, knowing I’ll demand she make an appearance. The ghosts which wander the halls, though, are always glad to hear my pen, expecting work. (Time hangs so heavy on spectral, death-forgotten hands). Stones put on dignity, yet somehow think of dancing. The mountains are unmoved; I rarely write of them. Death sends the shadow of his shadow; I’ve used its services so often it has thought of taking a room nearby.

I met Murder on the way

An old man, with a bad toupee,

And not, as I’d expected, grim

St. Michael cracked a joke with him

Each walked and jested with the other

As one would with a long-lost brother.

I stood there goggling at those two

St. Michael said: “Do I know you?”

And put his hand upon his sword

Till Murder stopped him with a word

“Stay, good Michael! Cease! Forfend!

I’m loath to lose so old a friend

Who’s never let his common sense

Hold him back from my defense.

He always speaks so well of me;

My work in foreign policy

He praises highly, and my plan

To arm each woman, child and man

He deems a very just solution

(Well-rooted in the Constitution)

To pressing problems of the time,

Crowded streets and petty crime.

Come, friend, come and break some bread

We’ll talk about the recent dead

And cities burnt, and battles waged.”

But I was otherwise engaged.

USHABTI

Some of the dead of Egypt once rowed

The Boat of Ra across the sky or helped fend off

The monsters that suddenly blocked the way

Others went to the Fields of Iaru, a pleasant place

But you had to do your own work there

Hoeing and weeding and gathering; the ushabti

Spent their days singing and gossiping;

Instead of the three or more souls a man might have

Ushabti had one apiece. Still, Osiris liked them.

Long since the Boat was carefully docked

The rowers dispersed, becoming jinns or angels

Or being reborn as men or cats or cows

As seemed best to them. The Fields remain

Only a few ushabti in them, but they

Have learned to brew surpassing beer

Which they offer freely to the dead men

Who, mistaking their proper paths, find there

A good substitute for Heaven.

THE LADY AND HER DOOM

The mirror crack’d from side to side

“My Doom has come upon me!” cried

The Lady of Shallot

But alas, by eventide

She was sore wounded in her pride;

It seems her Doom forgot

She gurgled now, all angry-eyed,

Contemplating deicide

In sooth, she liked it not

“I should by now have gently died

Been shrived and mourned and left to bide

In some poetic spot

“It seems that I’ve been set aside

Like some ill-favored cast-off bride

To wait and sit and rot

“Like someone whom the Fates deride

(It’s not as though I haven’t tried)

It’s just not fair! It’s not!”

She left her tower, went outside

Let ice-cold anger be her guide

She travelled like a shot

And soon she found, ah woe betide!

Her Doom! She saw him sit beside

A fuming, boiling pot.

“Have at thee, Doom!” the Lady cried

And drew the weapon at her side

“You die here in this grot!”

Her Doom looked mild on her and sighed

“These chips,” he said, “are nearly fried

They’re better while they’re hot.”

“So Tennyson,” quoth he, “has lied

If I were you I’d let it slide

Go read Sir Walter Scott.”

TWO POEMS ABOUT SWEENY

You think, perhaps, that it is easy to be mad;

“Farewell, Reason! I’m off; I’ve slipped your chain.”

I tell you it is not. Three years, seven months,

Six days I have followed Sweeny, who was King

And now lives in trees. Madness, like much else,

Takes practice. For the first six months, Sweeny

Could understand never a word the birds said

And feared their endless tweeting would drive him sane.

He could fly as soon as he and reason parted

But was clumsy at it, crashing into trees,

Perching awkwardly at night, liable to fall.

He flies well now; threading through the forest

Listening to the curlews and laughing at their jokes

(His courtesy is royal; curlews’ humor is dull).

His dreams tell him he will be king again

Unable to flutter a foot above the ground.

I prepare against that day.

One morning I woke on the ground

Which is where I accustomedly sleep

And found Sweeny gone. From the branch

Where he had roosted for the night, a cuckoo

With strange markings stared at me, bright-eyed.

Two hawks perched beside him, stiff and glaring.

In Sweeny’s service you grow used to odd sights

Nor did it seem amiss when the right-hand hawk said

“In the presence of an emperor, it is customary to kneel

Until he bids you rise.”

NOTE FROM THE DARK CITY

Of a Saturday or Sunday in the Dark City one is likely to see exhausted birds of every kind, sleeping on rooftops or convulsively clutching tree branches. There always seems to be a sort of truce between them, and one may see wrens and humming birds sharing a roof with owls and hawks and ospreys. Only the ravens flock by themselves on these days, and they are showing their usual wisdom in doing so.

          It used to be common knowledge that, since before the beginning of the world, every raven was obligated to bring a grain of sand to Hell every Friday. No one knows for sure why Hell needs sand, or if it needs it at all, or simply wants to remind the ravens of their old allegience. Me, I suspect that Hell may be trying, very slowly, to switch places with the world, or perhaps they’re building something. In any event, I always try to bring a handful of sand or two back from Hell, just to slow then down.

I don’t think men ever knew what bargain the ravens had made for which this was their payment, and few men now remember why ravens are so familiar with Hell. Still, the bargain holds. On Fridays you must look sharp and quick if you wish to see a raven.

          But ravens are dealmakers, and it long ago occurred to them that they more or less keep their contract if the sand gets to its destination, regardless of the messenger. Thus, they are forever finding other birds who, in return for some ravenly service, or perhaps to pay off a bet, will deliver a grain of sand to Hell. Most make the return journey safely enough, and the ravens do not grieve for those who find no exit.

          Most of the birds which stagger from the sky in the Dark City recruit their strength for a day or so, and then fly off, resolved to make no more bargains with ravens. Some, though, seem content to trade the forest for the roof tops and brooding trees we offer.

          One such is a hen whose bright eyes hold more of wisdom and terror than it is common to find dwelling in a chicken’s head. She came staggering into the courtyard of my building one day and collapsed. Her feathers were singed; and I realized that she had walked to Hell, left her grain of sand, and then walked out again. I spoon fed her on beer for a week, and we parted ways with mutual respect. She’s still to be seen strutting quietly in the shadows, and the cats do not molest her.

PLAYING THE SEDULOUS APE

          Well, if they’d asked me against whom I wanted to be matched, I believe I’d have chosen the fool. He is a gracious and noble opponent and, win or lose, it is an education to play the fool. I once saw him play ducks and drakes to a standstill, and the feathers were everywhere, and one of the ducks, at the close of play, made the most extraordinary curtsey which I have ever seen. Still, I thought, looking at the board, I could have fared worse (In those days I thought in such phrases, a sad prey to the delusion that they went well with the floppy hats to which I was prone). I could play the sedulous ape well enough, and perhaps show him a trick or two before we were done.

          The sedulous ape is not an adversary to be taken lightly. His reach is long and, for all his air of deliberation, he is capable of making lightning-quick moves which seem inspired though later, as you nurse your wounds and analyze your defeat, you can see how they’d been planned since the beginning of your game. In fact, when we were rooming together in Barcelona, he once told me that there were moves he’d been planning for generations, waiting for the right opponent to be born.

SENDING LETTERS

There are ways of sending letters in dreams

But no sure ones. Postmen from Thurn und Taxis,

Gallant men all, are reliable, but can scarce read

And insist the address be in old German

Blackletter, looking as if an arthritic spider

Has crawled from the ink and merrily danced

Defiant of its eight-legged woes.

The Royal Waverly Mail is much praised

But they will not exist for a century or more

And avert their eyes when we speak to them

Thinking they deal with spirits.

Best, perhaps, to find some dream-haunting beast,

Chimera, unicorn, manticore, rok,

And ask it to keep your letter until the adressee

Dreams of it. If you use this method I recommend

The Antichrist. He’s trusty, appears in many dreams

And – this is important, so mark it well –

Has pockets in his fulgin clothes.

WATCHING SHEEP BY MOONLIGHT

          I had never had a heart or word to speak against those who watch sheep by moonlight, but neither had I discovered in myself any great longing to be of their number, despite the many who had prophesized, with a certain satisfaction, that this calling I would ultimately follow. Now, though they have a reputation ill enough, I have never heard of one who has turned his hand to mischief after joining the profession, but they are silent men, mostly, and aloof. The ravens think well of them, and will stoop from a clear sky to stand upon their shoulders and whisper in their ears. ‘Tis like the ravens discourse upon the ways of God, learned from their kinsman, the crow. Whatever these shepherds hear, though, they do not repeat, nor have I heard tell that they give answer to what the ravens tell them. They are out in every weather, and any pay they receive does not hang heavy in their pockets.

          Still, I was, you might say, at a turning point in my life and, for all that I had told all who would listen that I’d just as soon forego the honor, I found myself, towards the close of day, standing on a platform, the focus of every eye in the crowd. The ceremony had been scheduled for much earlier, but it had rained heavily most of the day, and some things cannot be properly done in the wet. In late afternoon, though, the rain stopped, and we got underway.

          I had spoken some few words – persuasive, even eloquent, I thought, and such as might turn a heart of flint to beating flesh, but I might have already been talking to a flock of the moon’s sheep for all the response I could see. Suddenly, I gave a mighty leap (not entirely of my own will, mark you) and gave thought to how astonished they’d all be if I continued to rise, disdaining the dull ground forever. Still, the unlikeness of this even was just being brought home to me when I saw, over the crowd's head, a fellow standing on a flat boat who crooked a finger at me. The light, by then, had mostly faded, but I could see his great dark eyes, which seemed to wish me no ill. Gravity, I thought, can wait, and I joined the fellow on the boat.

And I have been here since, persuaded that if I step ashore Gravity will recompense somewhat roughly my refusal of her invitation. She is not a lady who takes anything lightly, least of all the failure of an intended guest. Nor will her friend the Moon, perhaps, be amused if her sheep go all unwatched of a cold midnight.

Grace and favor, I’ve been told, was extended to me in your memory, so I’ve reason enough to be grateful to you, even if you wee not by way of being kin to me.

MORE FROM MY TIME IN GHENT

Only six angels live in Ghent ; three others

Visit routinely. One of those resident

Had the desk three over from mine when I

Worked for three bezants and a bent sequin

(When I could get them) at the Tourist Bureau.

He was a very old angel and had been, he said,

A sort of functionary in the old universe –

The one God did not make.

 

There had been some sort of fuss in Heaven;

The other clerks told me they’d heard

His praisesong had not been up to standard

While the other angels sang Hosannah!

Or “What glory can compare to His?”

He would mumble “God? A nice chap.

Generous. Holds His liquor well.”

So he had wound up in Ghent .

 

After office parties it was my job

To see he made it safely home. Some nights

He’d look in the street for a stray pin

And urge me to dance with him on its head

Or remember that angels are able to be at one time

In two places. We would reach his house to find

He was already there. We would rattle the locked door

While he pretended to be asleep.

ANOTHER TRUE INCIDENT

The Beagle's naturalist, Mr. Darwin,
Found a toad miles away from water.
Kindly, he carried it in his hat for hours
To a pond. There, it almost drowned
Until he scooped it out again.
The toad, an atheist till then,
Preached afterwards that Fate

His unmourned death had decreed

Had not his frantic prayers
Moved God to reconsider.