VERSES OF THE DAY

"Many Happy Returns"

-W.H.AUDEN-

Johnny, since to-day is

February the twelfth when

neighbors and relations

think of you and wish,

though a staunch Aquarian,

graciously accept the

verbal celebrations

of a doubtful fish.

seven years ago you

warmed your mother's heart by

making a successful

debut on our stage;

naivete's an act that

you already know you

cannot get away with

even at your age.

so I wish you first a

sense of theatre; only

those who love illusion

and know it will go far:

otherwise we spend our

lives in a confusion

of what we say and do with

who we really are.

you will any day now

have this revelation:

"why, we're all like people

acting in a play."

and will suffer, Johnny,

man's unique temptation

precisely at the moment

you utter this cliche.

remember if you can then,

only the All-Father

can change the cast or give them

easier lines to say;

deliberate interference

with others for their own good

is not allowed the author

of the play within The Play.

just because our pride's an

evil there's no end to,

birthdays and the arts are

justified, for when

we consciously pretend to

own the earth or play at

being gods, thereby we

own that we are men.

as a human creature

you will all too often

forget your proper station,

Johnny, like us all;

therefore let your birthday

be a wild occasion like a Saturnalia

or a Servant's Ball.

what else shall I wish you?

following convention

shall i wish you Beauty,

Money, Happiness?

or anything you mention?

no, for I recall an

ancient proverb--nothing

fails like a success.

what limping devil sets our

head and heart at variance,

that each time the Younger

Generation sails,

the old and weather-beaten

deny their own experience

and pray the gods to send them

calm seas, auspicious gales?

I'm not such an idiot

as to claim the power

to peer into the vistas

of your future, still

I'm prepared to guess you

have not found your life as

easy as your sister's

and you never will.

if I'm right about this,

may you in your troubles,

neither (like so many

in the U.S.A.)

be ashamed of any

suffering as vulgar,

nor bear them like a hero

in the biggest way.

all the possibilities

it had to reject are

what give life and warmth to

an actual character;

the roots of wit and charm tap

secret springs of sorrow,

every brilliant doctor

hides a murderer.

then, since all self-knowledge

tempts man into envy,

may you, by acquiring

proficiency in what

Whitehead calls the art of

Negative Prehension,

love without desiring

all that you are not.

Tao is a tightrope,

so to keep your balance,

may you always, Johnny,

manage to combine

intellectual talents

with a sensual gusto,

the Socratic Doubt with

the Socratic Sign.

that is all I can

think of at this moment

and it's time I brought these

verses to a close:

Happy Birthday, Johnny,

live beyond your income,

travel for enjoyment,

follow your own nose. 

EQUINOCTURNE

EQUINOCTURNE Had I not stopped attempting poetry 40 years ago, I might have done better with these musings, but please be tolerant. They are, at least, reasonably iambic. EQUINOCTURNE Coquettish Spring, elusive, virginal Brushes the chill of March with wisps of warmth, While brother Winter's valedictory Breaths, the harukaze, sternly greet Plum blossoms and incautious daffodils. The days grow longer, and with now in sight The Equinox of spring, the Light and Dark In perfect balance, even-handedly, The Yin and Yang co-equal, as we're told In all phenomena they tend to be, Blind to this equanimity though we are. Depending on the region you call home, It may not seem the earth is heating up; The melting glaciers paradoxically Provoke the startling blizzards unforeseen. Has nature's balance truly been upset-- "Koyannisqatsi" as the Hopis say-- Or do the new locales for droughts and floods Bespeak a larger kind of harmony Indifferent to our fleeting destiny? Whatever on the planetary scale May balance out, I can't avoid the thought That in the weather of the human heart A new ice age approaches, even where The temperatures are highest and, in thrall To atavistic ideologies, Men drive compassion from their freezing hearts And sink to medieval cruelty. The poet Robert Frost may be the one Who said it best: "Some say the world Will end in fire; some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction ice Is also great, and would suffice." We may not hold apocalyptic views, Nor eagerly or nervously await The end of days, but harder to deny Is something I am tempted to describe As Thanatotropism, or at least A fashion for acceptance of decline In standards of the bodies politic And spiritual alike -- for which I see No antidote but Auden's "affirming flame".

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