Reynolds & Midway XLI

                       torture me, Father, lest not I be thine! 
                                   - John Berryman, Homage to Mistress Bradstreet  [39]

Fare forward; unmind the lost, the hollowmen.

Who hath not Christ w/in him? Pity him.

& put Christ there, plant seeds & shld you touch,

touch gently, as when He replaced & heald

the severd ear. Be watchful in the garden,

awake, nor sleep like the disciples leaning

lax against the olives, for He Who made kittens

put snakes in the grass (I.A.), now brace your heel

for a good stomping, remember good men,

and good women, persevere, endure,

& gain strength in prayer. O if only, breathd

Midway, I had any, his legs spindly,

fear racing thru him like electric current,

guts a twist. Make sure the badge is straight,

right breast, a rabbit quickly dips its head

& chews the green it bit, off to the left,

sun high, 'round 80°, w sumer iccumin

in, & luhde sing cuckoo

& springeth the woode nu

or some such— Pound's Goddamn

the stupidest thing he ever wrote— to right

Osborne, intersecting Claremont, crosses

everywhere, telephone poles, crucifixes,

crossings, Our Dear Lord dangling at his breast

tapping his heart, that Goodly Fere they hangd

upon the tree, to thoughts of Blatty,

another Billy, fallen to his knees

in tears to see w his own eyes remains

of Peter, how the vision came to him

for Dimiter, wich Midway hath not grokt

& must go thru again, now thru the door

he turns the handle w the left hand,

& first things first: to his immediate left

the water ! O Water of life, he takes in hand

and lifts it gently from the skiddish table

dressd for Cinco de Mayo, girlish boots,

sombrero, on soft browns & aquamarine

or turqoise papery covering the scuffd woode,

yesterday's water at half-level, he grips

the plexiglass beveridge dispenser w spigot

& says his shy helloes to med-tech, business

office manager & personal care assistant,

furtive, his eyes avoid their sacred beauty,

scans faux plants & posted regulations,

last months Easter bunnies & piano,

all the while in his head the secret question,

Will it be fire or ice, as askd the poet

whose lines of stonemade fences & swung birches

frilld the waysides of his slim green brain

along w Robinson's sheaves & Tennyson's

bardic yawping: things like spate spring up:

a young man in the Idyls, whatsisname,

his mother mourning early for his glorious

youth's demeeez, as Bob Shaw's Quint explains

in that seafaring epic Spielberg made

that made him many millions, for remember

God's alive inside a movie (Reid)

& speaks & sings & laughs, to you, mon frere,

to you & only you, so don't be bashful.

I lookd into the eyes of my teachers, all

young & beautifully seal-eyed, soldiers

warring in deserts unwalkd by lean bronzd

legs & bellies of shaded tattooed virgins,

drest in my off-white New Age poet's shirt

hips at a feminine angle on the couch,

I watchd Jarhead & learnd. I woke hrs later

face down, confused, a pain in my right side.

I'd fallen, it seemd, tumbled, as if down stairs—

thought Hitchcock Steps, Georgetown, D.C.

For Blatty & Friedkin's film I'd run nightly.

At last, feeling entrapt, I broke the disc—

Subdermal hematoma, read

the paperwork I clutchd awaiting discharge,

not myself, in ego-loss, wristband to tell

my name loose on my girlish wrist,

purple & red blood raised to the skin's surface,

spredd like a sea, escaped from proper vessels,

below the waistline, 'round the back & belly;

but I was glad for the wound & for the pain

wich wasn't insufferable, my life too safe,

too sound, too pink w health & too secure;

for I was to be as my Lord & welcome pain,

thus grateful: dazzled infant in a gown,

a baby spoilt, coddld & overloved,

sick in the head & stupid, stubbld, red

w razor burn, my vapid eyes scanning

the Windexd glass for whom? For where was I?

& why? & who? Later my father laughd:

whan askd my name I answerd, William.

& last name? askd the nurse. Shatner, I sd.

Late 5.2014

An important note, for any understanding of Reynolds & Midway, and other poems

"Turner argues that in the time-models of contemporary cosmological 

and evolutionary science all times may be connected and time may be infinitely 

branched and causally looped so that both forward-in-time and backward-in-

time factors may be in operation in the same event. Thus, the fundamental 

substance of the universe may be information rather than matter or energy. 

The universe is more like a vast living organism than a vast machine."

 - from a 

review of Frederick Turner's book Natural Religion.

Will edit in the reviewer's name, when I know it.

**Please note I do not necessarily subscribe to this view, but find it a fascinating idea.

Reynolds & Midway 41

Fare forward; unmind the atheist, hollowman.

Who hath not Christ w/in him? Pity him.

& put Christ there, plant seeds & shld you touch,

touch gently, as when He replaced & heald

the severd ear. Be watchful in the garden,

awake, nor doze like the disciples leaning

lax against the olives, for He Who made kittens

put snakes in the grass, now brace your heel

for a good stomping, remember good men,

and good women, persevere, endure,

& gain strength in prayer. O if only, breathd

Midway, I had any, his legs spindly,

fear racing thru him like electric current,

guts a twist. Make sure the badge is straight,

right breast, a rabbit quickly dips its head

& chews the green it bit, off to the left,

sun high, 'round 80°, w sumer iccumin

in, & luhde sing cuckoo

& springeth the woode nu

or somesuch Pound's Goddamn

the stupidest thing he ever wrote, to right

Osborne, intersecting Claremont, crosses

everywhere, telephone poles, crucifixes,

crossings, Our Dear Lord dangling at his breast

tapping his heart, that Goodly Fere they hangd

upon the tree, to thoughts of Blatty,

another Billy, fallen to his knees

in tears to see w his own eyes remains

of Peter, how the vision came to him

for Dimiter, wich Midway hath not grokt

& must go thru again, now thru the door

he turns the handle w the left hand,

& first things first: to his immediate left

the water ! O Water of life, he takes in hand

and lifts it gently from the skiddish table

dressd for Cinco de Mayo, girlish boots,

sombrero, on soft browns & aquamarime

or turqoise papery covering the scuffd woode,

yesterday's water at half-level, he grips

the plexiglass beveridge dispenser w spigot

& says his shy helloes to med-tech, business

office manager & personal care assistant,

furtive, his eyes avoid their sacred beauty,

scans faux plants & posted regulations,

last months Easter bunnies & piano,

all the while in his head the secret question,

Will it be fire or ice, as askd the poet

whose lines of stonemade fences & swung birches

frilled the waysides of his slim green brain

along w Robinson's sheaves & Tennyson's

bardic yawping: things like spate spring up:

a young man in the Idyls, whatsisname,

his mother mourning early for his glorious

bud's demeeez, as Bob Shaw's Quint explains

in that seafaring epic Spielberg made

that made him many millions, for remember

God's alive inside a movie (Reid)

& speaks & sings & laughs, to you, mon frere,

to you & only you, so don't be bashful.

I lookd into the eyes of my teachers, all

young & beautifully blueeyed, soldiers

warring in deserts uncandied w lean bronzd

legs & bellies of shaded tattooed virgins

drest in my off-white hippie poet's shirt

hips at a feminine angle on the couch,

I watchd a film° & learnd, & woke hrs later

face down, confused, a pain in my right side.

I'd fallen, it seemd, tumbled, as if down stairs—

? Hitchcock Steps, Georgetown D.C.

Blatty & Friedkin's film had playd nightly.

at last, feeling entrapt, I broke the disc—

Subdermal hematoma, read

the paperwork I clutchd awaiting discharge,

not myself, in ego-loss, wristband to tell

my name loose on my girlish wrist,

purple & red blood raised to the skin's surface,

spredd° like a sea, escaped from proper vessels,

below the waistline, 'round the back & belly;

but I was glad for the wound & for the pain

wich wasn't insufferable, my life too safe,

too sound, too pink w health & too secure;

for I was to be as my Lord & welcome pain,

thus grateful: dazzled infant in a gown,

a baby spoilt, coddld & overloved,

sick in the head & stupid, stubbld, red

w razor burn, my vapid eyes scanning

the Windexd glass for whom? For where was I?

& why? & who? Later my father laughd:

whan askd my name I answerd, William.

& last name? askd the nurse. Shatner, I sd.

Late 5.2014

° Jarhead

° spelld this way by Robert Bridges