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Saturday, April 18, 2020

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. 

Sunday, April 05, 2020

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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