SCENES FROM THE RETREAT

I

The camp followers were with us still
But oddly changed. The sutlers had horns
And hoofs and limp braided mustaches
Tied with small bright bits of string.
They remained reassuringly surly
And did not allow credit. Our clothes
Were mostly ragged but washerwomen
Competed for our  business; tired feys
With black eyes and tattered wings
That could lift them a few inches
Above the rocks and hardpacked snow.


II

All that winter Death lay sick.
We had no heart to leave him behind
So he rode in a cart, half-conscious,
Groaning now and then.
When we had to abandon the carts
His attendants – bats and voles
And bears who wore clothes and expected
To pass as men – heaped blankets on him
And carried him in a wicker basket.

PRODIGAL

For twenty years no muse visited Macniece;
He became a respected critic whose poems
Were unreadable and unread.
Then his muse returned; he was delighted
She wasn’t sober and had obviously
Been through hard times. Still, he took her in
When she came by at 3 in the morning

Singing and swearing, riding on the back
Of Death's motorbike, her white arms
Locked tight around the driver's waist.

COMMITTEE WORK

There are days when death is not one

But a wrangling committee

Including three gods, a dog,

A backtracking algorithm that squints

And something that looks like an abacus

With an indefinite number of legs.

Libitina, once the Goddess of Corpses

But now of Corners, due to a misprint,

Is a non-voting member. Of them all

She is only one who, if I asked,

Might give me a lift back home.

POSSIBILITIES

I will probably be away from this blog for a little bit for medical-type stuff. The six or eight of you should talk among yourselves for the next week or so, read the old posts, or put up arcane coments.
Also, rejoice! Rejoicing is important.

Li Po called on the Moon
And his shadow to drink
And to dance with him.
Who knows but if you call
They will answer you?

Sin and Death built a road
Where no road could be
Perhaps your morning bus
Travels that road.
Examine the other riders!

 

EMBRACING THE MOON

Li Po died, they say,
Trying to embrace a moon
He saw in the water.
Nonsense!
He never
Merely tried.
Moons always
Welcomed his embrace.

ADELINA

In the great survey of medieval England
Called the Domesday Book
There is only one female jester.
Her name was Adelina. How hard
To be the only joculatrix in the country!
I see her running at a steady trot
Along the roads, where there were roads,
Somersaulting over hedges, sleeping rough
And not often. As she ran, she'd tell jokes
Or shout out riddles to ploughmen
Breaking the soil with dibble sticks
For spring planting. At harvest,
She'd tell them the answers.
When Death found her at last --
(And a hard time he had searching for her;
Small and fast and wearing motley so faded
You might take her for a shadow)
She was juggling apricocks while telling
A long story about a farmwife, three monks
And a talking duck. Death let her finish,
Let her catch the last apricock in her cap.
Did he laugh? Well, he should have.

MY FAMILY'S BANSHEE

Long ago my family acquired a banshee
Who would, when Death approached,
Wail like anything. Since we did not die often
She had much free time which she wiled away
Up in the attic, listening to radio soap operas.
It was a relief when Lodge and Bose and Marconi
Invented radio; until then we told visitors
That we were plagued by sentimental ghosts
Who liked announcers and swelling organ music.
She was last seen in 1956

When Max,  my father’s father, died
(Some members of his shul  felt that proper cohains
Did not have banshees.) Since then, a surly kobold
Bangs a drum to announce Death, if he remembers.
He's skilled but quite loud. Miming last words
Is hard for dying men and sometimes leads
To misunderstandings and hurt feelings.

REAL

My father's real soldiers in an imaginary country
Are the ancestors of the real men I once stranded
On the sides of a five-peaked imaginary mountain.
Their own ancestors, though, are more humble
Surely being Marianne Moore's real toads
In an imaginary garden. It is a pleasant place

And Moore’s tri-corned ghost often visits

Sitting under a tree listening to Red Barber

Broadcasting a 1955 Dodger game

The incumbent toads have mixed feelings

About living in Ms. Moore’s garden.
On the one hand, Death has no entrance key;

On the other, there's no sport in hunting
Imaginary bugs which never taste quite right.

DEATH, KNIGHT AND THE DEVIL

Over the years they’ve spent in that interminable wood

Death has picked up some chivalry from the Knight

While the Devil has become almost fearless

The Knight, however, remains impervious

And, despite their efforts, does not improve

I'll be offline for a bit; talk among yourselves. If anyone can figure why 150 Frenchmen and/or Frenchwomen have logged on to this (or perhaps just one Frenchperson 150 times) let me know. Also, why no Australians?

KNIGHT, DEATH, DEVIL

The Devil and Death have long concluded

There is no point in talking to the knight;

They think he may be deaf. Mostly,

They talk to each other on indifferent things.

Death thinks the Devil might like his sister

If he had one. When there are no watchers by

The Devil does complicated card tricks

Late at night, Death sometimes sings.

RECASTING

In some world where they do things better

Paradise Lost is a comedy, ending in a marriage

The evidence is all there: Eve and Satan

Were meant for each other. Milton could not

Conceal the strength of their attraction;

Satan softens when he sees her, almost forgetting

Who he is; she hears music when he speaks.

Adam means well, but is the fiance foisted on Eve –

The role Ralph Bellamy plays as he waits

For Cary Grant to cut him out again –

In Act Last, God would play out his role:

The Angry Father Who Finally Forgives

And blesses the errant lovers. Jesus, I think,

Would do well as the wily servant who sets things right.

After the climax, we might see Sin and Death

Performing their vaudeville routines

Which somehow never grow old.