I know what I'll do, I said to myself, I’ll launch a literary tsunami and write verse about death. Always a popular line, some might say inescapable. But at 86 I'm more cautious than I was at 17, and I couldn't help thinking I'd better check first. Better I did: scratching among the sconces, mullions, cornices and priest-holes of Tone Deaf (Middle Period) revealed I’d posted at least three moderate-length chunks on this very subject fairly recently.
Meaning I could treat these foundlings as I might the work of an unknown poet Р, you know the traditional sort of scribbler whose only creative function is to starve to death in a garret, made miserable by the surrounding clich̩.
What about the quality of this trio? I have to say: patchy. But then as blogmaster-in-chief might I just quote some of the better lines? No. It’s not fair on readers serving up re-fried stuff. Anyway, my verse – on the whole – is not that good.
But then death is so terminal. How about harvesting one of those mini-deaths which crop up especially in old age. Problems of drink, political antipathy, the complexities of the offside rule in soccer and whether the Queen should retire. Just a sec; I'd just passed a truly lousy night. How about a lyrical treatment of sleeplessness, a possible side-effect of my being scalpel-hacked twice during the last seven months.
The night’s excess
But just suppose we soldier on in scorching lightWhen what we want is death’s precursor, tranquil dark.Not cruel beams that show the brainbox cupboard’s bare,
And nought’s below except our twitching nerves.
Our begging bowl is full of taunting irony,
Oblivion’s nothing but its price – it seems - is high
We beg for curtains, get the street-lamp’s glare
Beg dreamless dreams not harsh reality.
Eyes closed I still saw inner bedroom space
Unwanted data from my shrugged-off waking life
The Cherry keyboard clicks defiantly
It’s some protection from this glowing enemy.
Most intriguing line...our begging bowl is full of taunting irony...which rode into my head as 'the begging bowl full of taunting irony.' Isn't that what life/death becomes or ends. Blame all this on reading all of James Joyce one winter in my sixties, and then wanting to 'off' myself. Plug on...R. Sand
ReplyDeleteSandi: Many, many thanks. I wasn't expecting comments on this one but if an original idea occurs one feels honour-bound to explore it. The irony about not being able to sleep is that light - something we normally welcome - becomes almost a disease. It keeps comforting darkness at bay. And the more we struggle (to sleep) the more awake - and harassed - we grow. Leading to the aftermath of a day spent wearied and knackered.
DeleteI am a huge Joyce fan, to the point of having read Ulysses more than once. And of course Portrait of an Artist and the short stories in Dubliners. For me Joyce is life-affirming but don't get me wrong, I can see how he might have the opposite effect. The fact is he tells us everything - good and bad - and leaves us to sort out what's important.
I'm glad to you resisted the temptation to "off" yourself. And that you delayed reading Joyce until you were "grown up". Should you now feel strong enough to nibble at the enormous Joycean Christmas cake, feel free to dop drop off comments, questions and speculations here at Tone Deaf on the subject and you'll find me a willing responder.
Ha, I think the secret to Joyce is to read one and ponder for a couple of years and then be reminded ---again later! And, perhaps on the porch in June instead of the dead of miserable winter. Grins, go outside and soak up any sunshine you find--'tis the best for the brain fogs! SM
DeleteSandi: I've never been one for reading in bright sunlight, the white pages glare too officiously. Also, on the beach sand gets into interstices you wish it wouldn't. I may have read Ulysses three times, I can't remember. Certainly I felt the need - first time through I'd say at least 25% slipped in and out without making an impact. Luckily, the stuff that stayed with me (esp. the characterisation of Bloom) was always going to last for ever.
DeleteI seem to recall a longish lapse - several years - then picking Portrait off the shelf and becoming quite angry. Why hadn't I read this more often?
One treat. There's an audiobook version of Ulysses on 22 CDs read brilliantly by the Irish actor Jim Norton. You'd expect it to be expensive but it seems the boss of that CD company is a Joyce enthusiast and has priced it to sell. Give one of your relations a nudge about your birthday, it won't break their bank.