Reynolds & Midway 62

°

O Lord? For we cannot decide—wait. What?

< that sh*t annoys me, for it's everywhere,

that forum where our fingers flew, elsewhere,

all social media, medium? Once we tried

to learn some Latin, as we did whan young

and poring over Dante: bought a book—

Italian/English dictionary—in

the naive hope we'd learn enough to grok

the lefthand page, but ended up in tears.

^That much is true, God bless my infant spirit,

gifted? but ignorant of that small voice

I heard at all times. < That is also true,

you, reader, ages hence, if ought there be,

so mark it down. ¶ I happen on, in books

I relishd whan in high school, pages bent,

passages marked with this*, or bracketed,

that tell my older & much wiser spirit

that he was listening than, tho' far more oft'

his mind wld wander while his eyes criss-crossd,

likely to girls who struck his boyish fancy,

and thus to secret thoughts we still think up

but won't relate—for what wld be the point—

the point!  as Julian of Norwich sd

was God, and we believe, the Genesis,

the Alpha & Omega: One wee point,

from wich that still small voice. Around it, what?

Nothing. But what is nothing? Nothing naughts

itself, a letterd signal, utterance

so trivial it wastes the time it takes

to speak or write it. < All of that was known

in ancient times, for there is nothing new—

(aha! ) Then, Lord, what would You have us do?°

Repeat in newer fashion, make again

in other form what has been sd & sd

and sd again? Repeat, reiterate,

—the opening of the throat— the primal ॐ ,

the aum of consciousness? No, Midway. Work

is what we're here for, for there's virtue in't,

as Robert may have written: not that Robt

of whom we speak at times whan steepd in sin,

but one that was committed to the Word

in heart & mind, so gifted he cld spin

1,000 lines as we might spin a sonnet;

late-bloomer, who left home at 34,

the lucky son of loving parents. Love,

the message of our Lord, Who knew the Word

and was the Word in flesh, Who walkd the world

and gave us truth in every word He spoke,

Who taught the rich & poor, the young & old,

crippled & kings, lectors & lepers, all

who stoppd and gave an ear. Now listen—

7.30.15

A Conversation Between Robert Browning & Wallace Stevens

A fancy restaurant, circa 1925.

B: Huzzah! My friend, what thinkst thou of my poem

Sordello?

S:          That Sordello of whom, or which,

Pound mentioned in his canto?

B:                                  That's the same.

Zooks, what's the hubbub there? Those waiters swivel

and swerve like dancers in Le Sacre du

Printemps. Hast seen it, Wallace? As a spirit

that lurk'd unseen, my keen unsubtanced eye

partook at—Paris, was it, or Verona?— Grr,

the memory fuddles e'en in afterlife!

S: Stravinsky's? Yes, but let's talk of Sordello.

I read the book, but like Lord Alfred, read

but two lines that seemed lucid, and the rest

mere huff and hum, a hullabaloo of words

put on the page to make poor widows wince

and scholars' fingers rush to dusty tomes

in search of fact and date.

B:                            Mere huff and hum

thou sayst? A hullabaloo of words!

Grr, Stevens, I had thought thee better read

than wincing widows. 'Zounds! that racket! Where's

my wine? But of Sordello, of my book

that critics found unworthy; my poor book

that left bluestockings and great men befuddled!

Zooks! Lizzy understood the thing, and more,

but what is that? The world is none the wiser

albeit a touch less patriarchal.

S:                                Hah!

Sweet Robert, have you found the time to look

at my Comedian as the Letter C?

Of all the scribblers come to Kingdom Come

I fancy you would find it to your taste.

B: What? Did you speak? Hoorah! The wine at last!

But hold, good sir, what's this? I said your best

chianti, in the bottle!  Take the glass

and bring a bottle ;  but make sure, thou knave,

the cork is stuck! If not, I'll have thy hide!

Lo! there he scampers. I'd not have his hide,

poor scamp, for I have yet a heart in me.

S: Forget it, Bob. Now where's that menu? Ah!

B: Zooks!  Look!

S:                  These prices! Ho! Harrumph. Harrumph.

7.30.15

Reynolds & Midway 61

Reynolds & I went walking once

over a hill & field to chance

  upon an ancient tree

so old & broad we couldn't hug,

and there we took a jolly tug

  of tasty Wild-Eye.

We didn't wipe upon a sleeve

  to dry the tacky top,

nor say a single by-your-leave

  but tippd the bottle up.

    The wind blew; our skin thro'

      was bumpd & bitter cold.

    We sippd some, & quipt some,

      like lambs slipt from the fold.

While far away the hills were green,

the trees were few & far between,

  the ground was hard & white;

and in that wide & stony field

long brown & yellow locks reveald

  two young men in plain sight.

And so he put the bottle back

  inside his padded jacket,

and we walked on. My teeth a' clack,

  each fist stufft in its pocket,

    I yelld then, "We're dead men,

      this fuckin' wind will freeze us!"

    But Reynolds laughd, his cheek chaffd,

      "Then say a prayer to Jesus!"

We made it to the winterd wood

wherein the slender birch trees stood

  whose bark was ashen, flaked;

out of the wind we stoppd again,

and, like a twain of tender men

  in whom scant conscience waked,

we opend up the Wild-Eye

  and took a second swallow,

and squinted off into the sky,

  assured a third wld follow.

    The birds yelld, for they held

      in there the honord claim.

    The sun flew; and we, too,

      returnd from whence we came.

7.29.15

Reynolds & Midway 60

     "The nest is full of nothing when the bird has flown." - I.A.

I see kiniggits pricking on the plain,

the crosses on their breasts, the horses' nostrils

steaming, and the stamping clopping hooves

with iron shod, I see the clumps of earth

fly up, and in the distance from a square

cut in the stone I see a rope, a braid

of maidenhair, say chestnut? Lethian,

or some rapunzeled girl, trapped in a cell

twain storeys high, of smooth wood and baroque,

fine carven, swirling stuff, and on the mantles

many vials, vases, polished mirrors,

porphyrian oddments, or of whiter work,

blue filigreed marble, flakier sandstone, veined

we should have said, for he was thinking deltas

deep inlaid, and Pound had come again

with some new brighter stuff, can someone list?

Can someone come along with us, O come

ye blousy spirits, there be avatars

in me and many, may we be possessed

of thee, but soft, for there beyond the door,

beyond the gate, be darkling things that cry

and wait and lie, that gibber in unjoy,

ungainly in ungrace, not far afield

but close and clustered, toady moist and gaunt,

or in an ungallumphing gravid mass—

Then pray upon the Cross, and say, O Christ,

for Thou art with me, I shall fear no evil:

None shall taloned tear me limb from limb,

O Lord, for I have with my rubbing thumb

upon Thy body, narrow on the Cross,

thanked Thee with gratitude, and anxious love,

and unaccosted laid me down to dream.

7.21.15

Reynolds & Midway 59

O let the briddes in tha greenie bours

pip & preen and lolligagging flutter

up & over happie one another

hoppynge beakèd thro' the dais longe hrs

& hrs of ioy; than wettend in them shours

that clap & bang i' th' welkin's darklynge wether

where Artymis, that hath the sea in tether,

silver-sickled ghostly bluely lours

whan even mingles light & dark and bringeth

nighte, who w her sable coverlette,

ouer the sleepynge villages she slingeth

gently, whan that Jewès harpe doth twang

and John of Birmingham dost croonynge sing

of cockerels crying whan the sunne is sette.

O let us run now many marathons

and race ahead to when the letters come

in proper order and the under drum—

its pitter patter in continuance—

remains, but in a subtle variance,

as Keats sd softly: Let it vary some,

her foot be sweetly sandald, nor by thrum

of rote be measured, yet shun violence

that want of fixd attention needs must bring,

the clash and clutter of the lack of Love,

the dearth of passion, and the paucity

of pulsing blood, and that still more dread thing

that kills her, which we shall not speak here of,

but bear in mind, for our posterity.

O let us open up our throats and sing

as Vachel did who thru America's towns

like Bertram, Cino, spoken of by Pound's

poems, troubadouring, minstreling,

cried poetry and did a wonder thing

w pockets full betimes, who made his rounds

as one be-loved by God & Christ Who crowns

w laurel all who sing in gude faith. King,

O Abba, Father, in Gethsemane

whan Jesus kneeld & prayd, and whan he sd

they set Him traps, then floodgates ope in me

and come the tears, here come the tears, this head,

O Lord, too full. Our overrunning cup

we raise to Thee. For aye O lift us up!

7.15-7.16 2015

Ditto and Kiddo: A Limerick

         for Liz Walker ("Ditto on the dodo")

There once was a boy bird named Ditto

who married a girl bird named Kiddo.

Kiddo didn't know, though,

that Ditto was a dodo,

and now poor Kiddo is a widow.

7.11.15

Reynolds & Midway 58

       Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be - famous song

Morrison said something to the effect: The barrel

is an extension of the eye but I would venture

cliche as fact: The gun is an extension of the cock,

its stiffness at the ready, aimd to fire its shot,

O long and slender but the bringer of sudden death

also preserver of life, in good and righteous hands

brute force in stasis and potential, masculine

hard arm and not of power which is Feminine,

O Mary Mother of Christ, eternal Mother of God,

Thy breasts the Power and the Glory, Hera's milk

sprayd vast and cosmic by the naked eye espied

the Way of life, the white of love and purity

O Arc of Triumph, whereas also sprayd & white

the seed of man, by that hard gun of fearsome force

O passive vulva Pound had spoken of, but power

incarnate, hidden mouth  O Solomon the pit

of Hell, Oh really?  Seven hundred concubines

and golden megamillions? Now thy words of wisdom

let us reinterpret for the sake of sparing youth

the folly of contradiction, for the spread of truth,

for mass dissemination: Brute force is not power!

And shun false witness: for the muscle of man is weak

and force is death without the guiding hand of Power

behind it, God in perfect balance, God the Father

and Mother, Lord of dreams & glossolalia, tongue

to Moses & Baruch, Guatama, Christ and Jung,

O hear me not O Lord lest I be blind and trickd

O chasten me, O Lord, lest I, a wolf dressd up,

be liar— O majestic Christ, o midway—   cry     
Be Silent!

7.9.15

Reynolds & Midway 57

Now let us speak of Gorlim, Barahir,
& Beren, not of Bob, who in the hands
of Julia lay idle in the bed
of Mark that beta who with mouth full-wet
did thru the fluttring shutterd lens betray
himself & wife; and that of Midway, torn,
conflicted, pinprickd by a rash of arrows,

redfaced & sacrletsinnd, who w/ clencht knees
did hearken unto demons & those angels
of his better nature, led afar astray
but not with fierce twang, as had sung that Robt
who told to Wm of those loaves of stone
where 2 cld walk abreast & of those birch
& apple trees, of departmental ants

(& those w Quaker hats were Simic's ants),

& waiting wives by hills where millers stalkd
where low greene hills did pop w dandelions
milkweed (milkweed?) daisies, beetles, cows
whose mild & comely girth did frighten Willie
whan he had hid behind his mother's hip
and thoght him that that milk wast tasty pee
& dreamd of ants that nite whan Daddy sd
Billy the ants are in yr head

& Billy cried in terror anxious fear
& dread of dreams before the skull machine
welcomd such visions: That Lovecraftian crackt
and cakelike mould of stinky mildewd stairs
where chains did clang below & clammy walls
& gappy crookéd wooden concrete steps
that wound & wound 
around & round
O cabbages & kings 
& queens & guillotines

far farther down than any wandring lad
wld wander had he will & wakend choice
deep in the ground where moles & slippry snails
& salamanders newts (who knew too much)
did slyly slither with those slithy toves
beneath the stones that gatherd Howard Moss

whan older he had taught us how to sing
in perfect measure, him the poet prophet
spectacled & modest, editor
& master, who had made the summer start—
and in a renaissance of rings—
who told of Midas who wld touch
the world to gold & thereby sufferd much—

O cabbages & kings 
& queens & guillotines
& Brad's left fingers dazzling on the board
we thoght were Joe's whan we were young & narrow|

Now, we have never spoke of Barahir
nor Gorlim, nor of Beren & we shant
for one far greater did that wonder thing
& died, alas, but lives w Luthien
in that Tol Galen, island in the stream
of Adurant, where they forever thru
for aye far fresher fields make pastures new.

7.2.15