A pause somewhere in time

July 19, 2006

I believe with a fair amout of certainty that at least four people are reading what I write here, at least on days when Sandy takes a look. There might sometimes be five, because I sometimes look twice.

And yet, peculiarly, I don't mind. Katherine was always the one who had the capacity to write in journals. I never did. And that was true, in large part, because I never really want to write things unless they're going to be read by others. So, it comes as a surprise to me that this blog that reaches into the ether is so satisfying. This is particularly true since, to paraphrase Auden, I'm pretty sure that when I talk to the ether, the ether answers "No one is home."

All this is by way of clearing my throat for something entirely different. Over the years, I've accumulated a fair amount of poetry (I mean poetry I've written. . .otherwise accumulating a lot of poetry would simply mean buying a bunch of books and that would be more a measure of ridiculous spending than of creative will). But I haven't quite figured out anyplace to publish anything. And now I've got it. To directly quote Jimmy Durante, "Dis must be da place."

So, what follows is something I wrote years ago. Before going on, you should take a breath, because I suspect you're going to anticipate something light hearted. . . which some of my poetry is, but this one isn't.



Walking

Last night, he dreamt of walking
down endless halls of a dark museum
Not noticing the art, but happy nonetheless,
Till a voice from the distance called "Come."

And he awakened to breakfast in his bed
Eggs and toast and juice, coffee with creme
And he told the nurse-type with the food
The she had interrupted a lovely dream.

And he went on, and she pretended to hear
About dreams he recalled of the sky
Soaring with eagles and leaping down stairs
The nurse-type hadn't ever dreamt she could fly

Every week or two or three at most, in years long past
He'd had his flying dreams, and he knew
When he had children -- they too would feel
The sense of air rushing by as they flew

He'd give up much, he thought, if he could capture
once again, the sense of freedom, he'd had then
The sky the palate for pictures his body drew
But the last flying dream. . .he didn't know when

And now the nurse-type took him from his bed
To his wheelchair, and to a large grey room
Where a teacher-type had the New York Times and read
The daily news to a small group gathered there

Later, he was wheeled back, to stare at his TV
And the grey reflection lit his features dim
How long ago, it was, he'd last had flying dreams
That night he smiled in his sleep, as he walked again.

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