DECEMBRIST
It's the old annual end-times go-round
When the revolution goes up in flames
And everyone flees to an assisted
Living facility. But not you. Yet.
Checks still go out to the truly needy
Which must mean that you yourself... You're young still
In some senile way and unprepared to
Abandon the ramparts and call the
Revolution ended.
End-time subversiveness
Mainly involves mantras. Surreality
Of Everyday Life remains popular.
A far remove from Here at Senior Sylvan Retreat You Are
Never Alone. Alone is what I want!
Alone I can work out another New Year --
Reckon up lost ground, lost troops, morale issues.
********************************
My basic animal spirits are sound.
Born lucky, raised lucky, lucky in work
And love, I pause in the hallway, steady
My mug of tea, and undergo full-body gratitude.
The room is cold, the words in the books are cold;
And the question of whether we get what we ask for
Is absurd, unanswered by the sound of an unlatched door
Rattling in wind, or the sound of snow on roofs, or glare
Of the winter sun. What we have learned is not what we were told.
I watch the snow, feel for the heartbeat that is not there.
Ancient Medieval Modern The high-speed train site, a substation with an epic switchgear, Also has triple-transformers: Ancient/Medieval/Modern. Roman/Norman/New. Keep digging. Further down, something neolithic will appear. Piling on with every mood swing... Then, years later, turning over Statues, witch-marks, scratch-dial. And now we lay down our own dedicated tracks: Frail rail.
Brodsky Museum, St Petersburg
Circled by Belomorkanal smoke
And, near the Arctic, by fast-cooled chifir tea —
We want these old apartments to evoke
The depth of this, deeper than poetry,
Deeper than your bitter words that spoke
The nothingness of time and history.
That is: The bathroom stink you tried to cloak,
Sharing the bowl with two other families.
The desk display of poets who provoked
You into verse: Auden, Frost… A messy
Desk, a mid-modern aesthetic baroque
Of books and bottles and a cup of tea.
Asleep for years, these dusty rooms stoke
Unembittered hearts — too young for ennui —
Who press against the doorway to soak
In the atmosphere. They pay the entry fee
And immediately want to stroke
The same cracked imperial walls that he
Lived sandwiched between, bitter and broke
But not broken.
And no more turn aside and brood Upon law's bitter cruelty; For cash still rules the Ivy Leagues, And rules the schools almost as good; It rules the fate of our dim babes And all rich dishevelled wandering spawn.
The Denial of Death in Shenandoah National Park
Cold air, barred owls, and the smell of smoke:
Only a little data here, to evoke
The August woods off the balcony.
Woods that always prompt philosophy.
As when I read, in Becker, a phrase like
“Immunity bath,’ meaning cultic rites
That cleanse the cultist of the dread of death
(Page 12) and sometimes even of its sight.
Or anti-vaxers who, with dying breath,
Admit they thought their breath would never end.
“Consciousness of death is the primary
Repression, not sexuality.” Mend
Your dread by bacchanal, or by fairy
Story, and you’ll still get badly scarred.
A death-accepter, say Kierkegaard,
Knows this is merely where the fun begins:
The wisest owls unbarred spin and spin
Out of smoke mythic immortality.
Take, among those I love, N., P., and D.
N. strode in to save Detroit, then broke down
At the vastness of it. P. circles round
The earth’s atrocities, repairing souls.
D., who must perceive the very world, stole
His life through abstraction. Hard led
By dread, N. is struggling, D. dead.
From the balcony again the smell of smoke —
Of our own ashy end an easy token.
YOU LIKE TO THINK THE STARS ARE DRIPPING You like to think the stars are dripping while You sleep. You like to think you'll snap awake And step out on the deck, and in a while, Your eyes ready, clusters will constellate And then start dripping, just over the oak: A weathered black and white Jackson Pollock Whose silvers slap the cosmic curtain. Like to think? No - you're actually certain That when you're not looking the universe Loses its straight face and gets to mugging Peeing its pants giggling and shrugging... Stable? Who said stable? Metastable Maybe and that's only maybe. Unstable Is just as likely. Don't sleep too lightly. --
… a set of thoughts on the British poet laureate’s poem about Prince Philip. As in: It is the responsibility of laureate-induced poems to be forgotten. Compelled into existence by one’s acceptance of a public position, compelled to praise the high-born to a large audience, these are so unlikely to be non-piffle. Yet – as with Philip’s surprisingly moving brief funeral – this particular poem is surprisingly good. I’m not going to argue it’s all that good, but as an example of its type, it’s way better than it should have been.
The tone throughout is non-heroic, casually musing; the poet avoids grandiosity for a man who, while physically imposing and genetically way royal (his DNA was used to verify that remains found in a Russian forest belonged to the slaughtered Romanovs), seems in fact to have had a spartan and self-effacing disposition. The poem will feature little direct reference to Philip; rather, in a series of natural metaphors, it will evoke his wartime generation.
The weather in the window this morning
is snow, unseasonal singular flakes,
a slow winter’s final shiver.
He has died in April, and his singularity as the sovereign’s husband will, as the poem begins, be evoked through the singularity of the unseasonal snow. His long life and long physical decline is nicely captured in a slow winter’s final shiver.
On such an occasion
to presume to eulogise one man is to pipe up
for a whole generation – that crew whose survival
was always the stuff of minor miracle,
who came ashore in orange-crate coracles,
fought ingenious wars, finagled triumphs at sea
with flaming decoy boats, and side-stepped torpedoes.
Unusually self-referential, this official eulogy will ask questions about eulogies for the sort of person Philip was. So marked for life was he by his wartime experience, it makes more sense to remember him in his collective military identity than in his singularity. His funeral ritual (designed by Philip himself) was overwhelmingly a military affair.
Indeed looked at in its entirety, Philip’s survival, much less his longevity, does seem a minor miracle – smuggled out of Greece (in an orange crate!) during the Greco-Turkish War when he was eighteen months old, he went on to “finagle” (to use the poet’s wonderfully non-heroic word) modes of survival under punishing battle conditions.
Husbands to duty, they unrolled their plans
across billiard tables and vehicle bonnets,
regrouped at breakfast. What their secrets were
was everyone’s guess and nobody’s business.
Great-grandfathers from birth, in time they became
both inner core and outer case
in a family heirloom of nesting dolls.
Like evidence of early man their boot-prints stand
in the hardened earth of rose-beds and borders.
There’s a nice subtle evocation here of the soft touchy feely world we’ve become, in which only faint ancient traces of “hardened” boot-prints indicate the bygone, born old (great-grandfathers from birth), men among whom Philip belonged; the patriarchs (this is the poem’s title) who kept their thoughts and feelings to themselves and (in the phrase everyone attaches to Philip) just got on with it.
They were sons of a zodiac out of sync
with the solar year, but turned their minds
to the day’s big science and heavy questions.
To study their hands at rest was to picture maps
showing hachured valleys and indigo streams, schemes
of old campaigns and reconnaissance missions.
Last of the great avuncular magicians
they kept their best tricks for the grand finale:
Disproving Immortality and Disappearing Entirely.
Relentlessly and ingeniously pragmatic, men like Philip spent their post-crate lives fashioning further escapes, further solutions to a world always perilously out of sync, until the very veins in their hands became strategic maps of (to use Graham Greene’s title) ways of escape. Their final Houdini maneuver, of course, was the whole slipping the surly bonds of earth thing.
The major oaks in the wood start tuning up
and skies to come will deliver their tributes.
But for now, a cold April’s closing moments
parachute slowly home, so by mid-afternoon
snow is recast as seed heads and thistledown.
The poem concludes with a return to the present, to a continued observation of a singular April day in which enormous sturdy old trees (this one in particular) whistle their elegy, to be joined in time by tears of rain. Enormous sturdy old Philip, Duke of Edinburgh (thus the poet’s thistle-homage – thistle being the Scottish national emblem) has done his final magic trick, leaving a world “recast” for the better by his having been here — winter turns to spring, the world regenerates itself, and the prickly thistle (Philip was notoriously prickly) is now thistledown, the feathery white top of the thistle, which will disperse in the wind and scatter its seeds.
Really, take whatever position you want on patriarchs, royalty, Philip, blahblah – this is on its own terms a more than respectable poem, a clever finagled triumph.
******************
Found it! The rule for the dead is that they should be forgotten. Ravelstein.
Double, double toil and trouble
Ginsburg was a body double
Rothschild did a fire make
Parkland massacre’s a fake
Spawn of Newt and and scourge of Hogg
Neo-fascist demagogue
Vampire bat with blind-worm’s sting
Not a human but a thing
Ginsburg was a body double
Double, double toil and trouble.
Of course DJT hasn’t written an inaugural letter, to be read by his successor. This is one of many departures from tradition for which DJT will fail to be remembered.
Already a Chicago Tribune writer has tried his hand at a satirical inaugural letter. UD offers a letter in the form of a poem – a poem in which DJT shows remarkable literary culture.
***********************
LETTER TO MY SUCCESSOR, BY DONALD J. TRUMP
They say you’re giving the place a deep clean.
Good call. I wish I could explain how I
Soiled the great gift of the presidency.
Didn’t want to! I swear I didn’t mean
To leave it like this: a moral pigsty.
But of course I know you don’t believe me.
Consider, though, how human beings lean
Toward self-destruction. Don’t believe me? Try
Kafka. Cioran. Freud. Dostoevsky.
From a review of an odd film I’ve seen:
“The film focuses on psycho-bi-
ological forces that make you your own enemy.
The lust for chaos; the lust to demean …
To demean yourself! You self-glorify,
But in a sick way. But only outwardly.
The hunger for colossal failure in
The drive for success; and for death in any
Vigilant and violent hypochondry.”
Raskolnikov skulks away; the final scene
A shabby nothing as I hiss goodbye.
Some day you’ll find a way to pity me.
*********************************
UPDATE: He did write a letter after all.
Probably a lot like the one I wrote.
You’re as cold as ice!
Suckers.
You sacrifice
When you’re asked.
You always heed advice
You always pay the price,
I know.
I’ve skipped out before
It happens all the time. I’m closing the door
To leave the cold behind. I’m warm in St Bart
But posting each day
Fake Canadian tweets
Makes you think I stayed.
You’re as cold as ice!
But peons must sacrifice.
I’m in paradise
And your taxes pay the price
Ho ho.
… an uplifting New Year poem full of wholesome wisdom.
Nah. Google New Year and you’ll get a zillion pages of those. No one with half a brain comes to University Diaries in search of uplift. Here’s this year’s year-end poem, which appeared in 2002.
NEW YEAR’S EVE, IN HOSPITAL
*****************
You can hate the sea as it floods
the shingle, draws back, swims up,
again; it goes on night and day
all your life, and when your life
is over it’s still going. A young priest
sat by my bed and asked, did I know
what Cardinal Newman said
about the sea. This merry little chap
with his round pink hands entwined
told me I should change my life.
“I like my life,” I said. “Holidays
are stressful in my line of work,” he said.
Within the week he was going off
to Carmel to watch the sea come on
and on and on as Newman wrote.
“I hate the sea,” I said, and I did
at that moment, the way the waves
go on and on without a care.
In silence we watched the night
Spread from the corners of the room.
“You should change your life,”
he repeated. I asked had he been
reading Rilke. The man in the next bed,
a retired landscaper from Chowchilla,
let out a great groan and rolled over
to face the blank wall. I felt bad
for the little priest: both of us
he called “my sons” were failing
him, slipping gracelessly from our lives
to abandon him to face eternity
as it came on and on and on.
***************************
So a little anecdote, a wee life narrative, from Philip Levine, a Jewish guy who spent some life-endangered time in a shared hospital room entered into one early evening by a cheer-spreading (but not really) priest. Those of us who know Matthew Arnold’s famous Dover Beach may read Levine’s first lines as a kind of modern affectless highly concentrated summary of that angsty Victorian verse. Both poets consider the seeming pointlessness of life, nicely visually captured by the eternal in and out of ocean waves expiring on the shore:
[T]he grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin…
Every day a little death; then, for no particular reason, even maybe stupidly, a gulp of air and another plunge back to the brine, only to dissolve yet again. One More New Botched Beginning. Levine even takes the word shingles from Arnold, who laments
the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Naked because these fragile piles of sea stones have been abandoned again and again on the shore by the always-retreating, always-betraying waves of “new” existence. In Levine, you hate the sea as it “floods the shingle,” dousing it with possibility, and then – (Lucy: football; Sisphyus: rock; etc. etc. etc. ) – stranding it. And then the ultimate insult: Not enough that life is drear; there’s the insult of life – even crappy life – “still going” when “your life is over.”
So with that general statement done, Levine proceeds to his story. The visiting priest asks Levine (this seems an autobiographical poem) if he knows what Arnold’s fellow Victorian, the great Catholic poet John Henry Cardinal Newman said about the sea. The poem never says exactly what that was, but take it that the priest might have had this in mind:
[My conversion] was like coming into port after a rough sea; and my happiness on that score remains to this day without interruption.
But Newman spoke too soon; he experienced very serious depressions in his later years, and wrote one of the most-cited poems about that condition. And here’s a sample of his late-in-life prose.
I have so depressing a feeling that I have done nothing through my long life, and especially that now I am doing nothing at all. … What am I? my time is out. I am passé. I may have done something in my day—but I can do nothing now. It is the turn of others. … It is enough for me to prepare for death, for, as it would appear, nothing else awaits me—there is nothing else to do.
The merry priest tells Levine to change his life – consider conversion, one imagines, in order to be happier, and situated in a meaningful deathless world – but Levine replies that he likes his life, bitter existential betrayal and all. The priest then complains that holidays like New Year’s Eve are “stressful” for priests – presumably because everyone’s miserably reflecting on their lives the way Levine (who has the double whammy of illness and end of year to get him going) is. So the priest himself ain’t so jolly, having to gad about from drear hospital room to drear hospital room attempting to spread cheer. In fact he needs a break and is off to the biblically and californically rich “Carmel” to decompress.
The priest is now silent; together he and Levine watch the night “spread from the corners of the room.” They are being engulfed by metaphysical darkness… The priest can only repeat himself: The poet should change his life. “I asked had he been reading Rilke,” Levine sardonically responds. Rilke’s famous sonnet, Archaic Torso of Apollo, ends with that imperative: You must change your life. But it seems unlikely that the priest would be quoting Rilke’s erotic, non-religious, hyper-aesthetic poem; it seems likely that Levine is having a little fun with the little priest.
Not that we’ve ever left it, but the poem ends with a big thudding return to godless modernity, with the retired landscaper in the next bed (he’s given up trying to alter the earth), who hails from a town with a random unartful name, groaning with emptiness (“blank wall”) and defeat. And who does the poet feel bad for? The priest, with his absurd “my sons” designation (he’s much younger, one presumes, than either of these old sick men) and his disappointment that these two sinners seem to be failing big time at eternal life. Not only are they dying without grace (“gracelessly”); they are, more problematically, robbing the priest of his much-needed certainty of their salvation – hence his need to retreat to Carmel and deal with his stress.
Darkest of all is the priest’s own peculiar metaphysical fate, meted out in the last two lines: Salvific eternity itself may present to our sublunary minds as another hideous Sisyphean tableau, the chilling endlessness of … endlessness.
Complainancies of the loseur, and late
Burgers and Diet Coke in a baby chair,
And a gold eagle with its wings outspread
Upon a rug mingle to dissipate
The violent rush of avenging hatred.
He dreams a little, and he feels the dark
Encroachment of this new catastrophe,
As a calm darkens among water-lights.
His rooms of opulence and fine bright blings
Seem things in some procession of the dead
Winding across wide water, without sound.
The day is like wide water, without sound,
Stilled for the passing of his dreaming feet
Over the seas, to silent Bedminster,
Dominion of the trap and fairway bunker.
************************************
Why should he give his country to the Dems?
What is autocracy if it can fail
After they hold free and fair elections?
Shall he not find in motions of the court,
In pungent tweets and chicken wings, or else
In any balm or beauty of the earth,
Things to be cherished like the thought of winning?
Malignity must live within himself:
Passions of rage, or moods in falling polls;
Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued
Vexations when the Bidens come; nasty
Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;
No pleasures and all pains, remembering
The past of glory and the present doom.
These are the measures destined for his soul.
LINES WRITTEN IN DEJECTION, JANUARY 19, 2021.
The tweets are calm tonight.
The vote is bull, and so unfair
And full of hate. On coastal elites the light
Gleams. So wrong … The cliffs of Alabama stand
Glimmering and vast, ready to vote another day.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of fake
Media, where scum weave their grand
Conspiracies against me …
Listen! You hear the grating roar
Of traitors, which a red wave will draw back, and fling,
In 2024, into the desert sand.
O sorrow cease! And then again begin
With tremulous cadence slow, to bring
A future dawn of gladness in.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.