Skype’s dying fall
Hail distant friends! Ta-ra di-bum; I hope
These words ring out a Hallmark note for you,
Not too egregious, that five-dollar term;
Not claiming amity which wasn’t there;
But if I fail then pardon me toute suite
Why distant? Simply because your bookshelves,
Cars, faces, house facades, offspring, pet dogs,
And how you manicure your nails, must be
Forever blurred to me. Distorted
As they are through long electric links
But let’s disdain the intervening miles
And mobilise the power of thought. Let’s say
We’ve met on Chichester, that urban route
I walk each day to buy the fruity stuff
That spills its juice and keeps my love alive
We stand. We talk. Oh, how we did. Discussed
The horrors of the presidential cloud.
Our wit. The whys and wherefores of bad health,
The songs we sung so plangently. And how
Our histories do inform on us. (Good quote)
Yet, as I watched, you weren’t quite there. Instead
Seemed haunted by a vague-ish entity
Coming and going, only partly seen.
Raising questions you did not dare to put.
A matter of suburban delicacy.
But asked yourself: who’s that vestigial wraith,
Ten feet behind him and his shopping bag?
Comprising mist yet reeking with overt.
Significance. A threat? A prophet with
A view of what the future might portend?
Talk ended blankly thus you turned to leave.
I bid goodbye, devoid of friendliness.
I’d recognised your faint distress, but felt
It better that your doubts should rest
As now, in unresolv-ed ignorance.
The wraith went too but – sure as eggs
Are eggs – he will return. He must return.
He is my lately born and helpful twin.
He did not share my birth but has a past,
Once was a babe, arms waved in protest
In his pram. Went soccer-mad in youth,
Then Grand Theft Auto brought insanity.
Shrugged off with an improving adult tome
Did well in uni with the harder stuff, then
Took a job because it promised empathy.
Sought those in need in other quadrispheres.
Succeeded, after which he travelled west
To take up station at my ageing side.
I say “my twin” but that was then - the day
We met; since then, in time, he’s passed me by
But I’m OK with that, it is his job
To surf the future’s waves on my behalf
And stay erect where I’d be lost in foam
That’s why the wraith you saw on Chichester
Was/is a fraction older than I am;
The same but saner, more experience.
Less angered by surrounding politics,
More able to engage with life to come
Older, faster, yet on my trajec’try.
If asked, he could convey new news to me.
When will it rain? The hell with that. Horse wins,
Who cares? Yet there’s a knot’s to be untied.
The biggest question anyone may ask.
He’ll get there first; and see with clarity
My ailments coalesce within my frame;
See cleverness dissolve, arch words turn dust,
The urge to write be deadened by the dark;
Wisdom – if it exists - be foul and crass.
And music, ah, the cruellest change of all,
Losing its song and beat, becomes mere noise,
I’ll be alone, mute, deaf and unsustained,
I’ll sense the nothingness as tangible,
Departure finalised with no return.
An awful preview which – ironically -
Will shine light on my former, wordy trade.
A scoop of answers gifted by my twin,
Brings understanding at the price of pain.
It’s why I named him: Curiosity
These words ring out a Hallmark note for you,
Not too egregious, that five-dollar term;
Not claiming amity which wasn’t there;
But if I fail then pardon me toute suite
Cars, faces, house facades, offspring, pet dogs,
And how you manicure your nails, must be
Forever blurred to me. Distorted
As they are through long electric links
And mobilise the power of thought. Let’s say
We’ve met on Chichester, that urban route
I walk each day to buy the fruity stuff
That spills its juice and keeps my love alive
The horrors of the presidential cloud.
Our wit. The whys and wherefores of bad health,
The songs we sung so plangently. And how
Our histories do inform on us. (Good quote)
Seemed haunted by a vague-ish entity
Coming and going, only partly seen.
Raising questions you did not dare to put.
A matter of suburban delicacy.
Ten feet behind him and his shopping bag?
Comprising mist yet reeking with overt.
Significance. A threat? A prophet with
A view of what the future might portend?
I bid goodbye, devoid of friendliness.
I’d recognised your faint distress, but felt
It better that your doubts should rest
As now, in unresolv-ed ignorance.
Are eggs – he will return. He must return.
Once was a babe, arms waved in protest
In his pram. Went soccer-mad in youth,
Then Grand Theft Auto brought insanity.
Shrugged off with an improving adult tome
Took a job because it promised empathy.
Sought those in need in other quadrispheres.
Succeeded, after which he travelled west
To take up station at my ageing side.
We met; since then, in time, he’s passed me by
But I’m OK with that, it is his job
To surf the future’s waves on my behalf
And stay erect where I’d be lost in foam
Was/is a fraction older than I am;
The same but saner, more experience.
Less angered by surrounding politics,
More able to engage with life to come
If asked, he could convey new news to me.
When will it rain? The hell with that. Horse wins,
Who cares? Yet there’s a knot’s to be untied.
The biggest question anyone may ask.
My ailments coalesce within my frame;
See cleverness dissolve, arch words turn dust,
The urge to write be deadened by the dark;
Wisdom – if it exists - be foul and crass.
Losing its song and beat, becomes mere noise,
I’ll be alone, mute, deaf and unsustained,
I’ll sense the nothingness as tangible,
Departure finalised with no return.
Will shine light on my former, wordy trade.
A scoop of answers gifted by my twin,
Brings understanding at the price of pain.
It’s why I named him: Curiosity
You have me piqued, intrigued. Picasso of the word...
ReplyDeleteI fully intend to dwell on this at some length. And profit greatly from each read. First pass? Absolutely beautiful.
ReplyDeleteI don't often check your blog anymore, or anyone's for that matter. Today I stopped by, and I'm happy to find something new. It's very good. Like MikeM, I will revisit this poem again.
ReplyDeleteFed/Mike/Collette: Since Tone Deaf had almost ceased to be a real dialogue I decided to reduce it to a series of intermittent posts issued only when I had something original to say. The above verse is complex in structure but this is intentional since it deals - indirectly - not with death itself but with the foreseeing of death. Recent events have made it seem almost prescient.
ReplyDeleteJust suppose we were suddenly endowed with the ability to envisage our own end. Uggh, most would say, in immediate reaction.Shying away. But with the passage of time... and (say) time was hanging heavily...
Just yesterday I was sitting on the stoop feeling very tired and a little dizzy - and I envisioned toppling to the ground there, pictured the hubbub and sirens and a small crowd gathered to watch my removal. I’ve experienced these imaginings too much recently - imagining the scene of my passing. It’s stark - but natural in a possibly unhealthy way. A quick exit from quickness would be my preference - no consideration for those who would prefer I linger and try to keep chatting.
DeleteMikeM: Many will think I'm missing the point when I say I especially enjoyed the laconic way you described this event and then neatly tied off the bundle in your conclusion. But this is one of the points of the above verse. It's a cliché reaction to be scared of death (more often of the process of dying) but if you're interested in fashioning decent prose (as MikeM is) it's a good idea to keep the list of taboo subjects to a minimum.
DeleteAt the age of about eight, sleeping on a mattress on the floor of my grandparents' bedroom (Why there? I've no idea), I dreamt I was not only dead but also buried. Yet capable of observing the lack of interest in my situation on the faces of people passing uncaringly by my grave. As far as I can remember I interpreted this as a excessive belief in my own importance.
The idea of employing a personal death experiencer - as alluded to above - came in a recent dream and I genuinely did feel the need to ask questions of the wraith. Awakened I reckoned this was worth exploring but in verse rather than prose. Quite rapidly my early attempts got completely out of control and much re-writing ensued. Out of which a mini-narrative emerged.
Let's admit, here and now, this is no great literary creation. But I'm proud of the fact I did what I did and I believe it qualifies as "original". I'm also pleased it touched a chord in MikeM with whom I've enjoyed a fruitful exchange of ideas for several years. Especially when he revealed that his wife, having read one of my more lurid Tone Deaf posts shook her head and asked hubby if they should consider praying for me. The very slightest tinge of immortality, though I may well be overdoing things with that suggestion...
Okay, I think I have come back and read this three times now. Your curiousity is a clever fellow and so is the fellow who wrote this. As far as the deterioration we all have at hand, I just deal with it. I do think my cursewords come easier now, and I don't worry if I'm tottering about the yard in my night clothes...it just doesn't matter anymore. As far as having a stroke every time I turn on the news...that can't be avoided and then I tend to read what I want to know instead of listening to the packaged drivel repeated until you want to plug your ears. Your Curiosity describes our existence at this stage quite well and with a bit of humor. Nicely done. Sandi
ReplyDeleteSandi: Curiosity - the only developed tendency I had on offer when I entered journalism in 1951 - seems an appropriate tag for my imaginary twin being who has the ability to live my life in advance of my living it. He poses the question: if one had access to an exact and moving image of the way one would die, might one take advantage of it? Most wouldn't, I suspect; a large percentage of journnalists would - perhaps!
DeleteThere's a separate opportunity for a piece about the eventualities of old age that come as a surprise. I have touched on this but I think it deeserves a slightly wider exploration.
Thanks to everyone who persisted.
ReplyDeleteHere's a confession but only perhaps. I have re-read Skype's Dying Fall more than I've attended to any other verse I've written. And for widely varying reasons. Is it my worst or best? If it is my worst could any scrap of it claim to be poetic? What were my motives? May one toy with aspects of one's own death? Does cleverness preclude profundity? Does SDF deserve to be cut by half?
And so on.
This morning, as I shaved, another angle occurred to me. Is there a general aim for choosing to write in the poetic form as opposed to prose? If yes, might it be to evoke? Does SDF evoke? Yes, definitely.
I'm in Tokyo with time to spare. The Japanese woman guiding our multi-national group of journalists has been a great help in researching an article outside my main reasons for being on the other side of the world. I will buy her a book by her favourite author, Graham Greene. I take the underground to the centre of the city, buy GG's latest, return by underground and get out where I got on at Shinjuku station. I emerge into fresh air and am immediately disoriented; nothing corresponds with the start of this journey. I have just learned that Shinjuku has more than 200 exits. Some of that sense of disorientation is apparent as I re-read SDF. It seems to have as many themes and disparate fragments as Shinjuku has exits.
Evocation.
Plus a vague impression that SDF was composed and then hugely re-written by someone other than me.
Fun, eh?
Does this help?
I appreciate your candor when writing about aging and approaching death. There simply isn't much better than honesty, is there? You are often in my thoughts, even though I don't visit blogland as often anymore. You are a unique and special person. When you stopped blogging regularly, it was way less compelling for me to check my blog lists.
ReplyDeleteColette: I appreciate your judgments even if they do err on the side of over-generosity. But, then, perhaps that's why I like them. I didn't exactly kill off Tone Deaf, I saw it as a more rarely used forum devoted to subjects which had a wider potential for examination than I alone was capable of providing. That seems to be working in a small way.
DeleteHoping for a more rewarding exchange than those widely supported blogs stuffed full of short comments from people who, on learning the blogger recently had a birthday, writes "Happy Birthday", imagining that this met all intellectual needs.
One's death is a subject that's worth exploring if one may dare do it. There is of course more to say. Do you fancy your chaaces?
I did a two minute Google search pertaining to evocation in prose vs poetry. Top of list was an assertion that verse is evocative through rhythm - and so similar to the way music is evocative.
ReplyDeleteObviously there is rhythm to prose, but always(?) less intentional, less structured, so let’s call the rhythm of prose an “abstract” quality. The words are employed to precisely describe scenes, situations and dialog in a logical sequence.
In the much more pronounced (and often rigid) rhythm of verse, a great deal of precision is introduced, allowing the wording a more abstract role. More room for free association with memories.
I can’t recall weeping while reading prose (though the Mrs regularly does). “The Second Coming” though, even lacking (maybe especially lacking) information on its origin, pulls a lot of emotional strings.
Now re verse combined with music - quite a combo - this one springs to mind, slightly favored currently over Paul Simon’s “American Tune”
It’s Alright Ma, I’m Only Bleeding
“Darkness at the break of noon
Shadows even the silver spoon
The handmade blade, the child’s balloon
Eclipses both the sun and moon
To understand you know too soon
There is no sense in trying.”
(+ 14 more stanzas)
Bob Dylan
Mike: "Evoking" is a knottier beast than I thought. In fact the dictionary definition - "to call (something) forth or up" - has its own indirect appeal. Implying, perhaps, that it has more to do with poetry than with prose. Although there are no hard and fast rules prose tends to describe while evoke tends to imagine. Evoke also tends to be associated with the past and - if you fancy your chances - the future.
DeleteWhen in Tone Deaf I created a list of one hundred literary works that had aroused my interest I had hell's own job coming up with Number One. For me Ulysses was, of course, the greatest work of imagination except that there are - and always will be - huge chunks that are beyond my grasp. Other works (typically novels) are perfectly realised but may not deal with the ultimate in ideas. Somehow I arrived at a point where I told myself it had to be a poem.
Perhaps a poem which I'd somehow inhabited. Tell the truth I've only taken up poetry (reading as well as writing) comparatively recently. I flicked through the decaying memory banks asking myself: what stuck? It had to be Wordsworth's Westminster Bridge sonnet. I have just re-examined it and found myself astounded by the language's comparative simplicity. Also - of course - its power to evoke. The first three lines:
Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
But who am I to pontificate? Thinks: a verb that is getting something of a workout these days.
I think you’ve done well to choose “Bridge” as your number one - it is stupendously evocative. I agree that choosing a single top pick is a hellish task - that’s why I only stick with such a pick for the instant it takes to claim it. As a fifty something acquaintance once explained his persistent bachelorhood : “There’s too much fruit out there to taste”.
DeleteI’ll even go with the Wordsworth over the Dylan. So much more concise. Oh, and I can scarcely grasp that W.S. didn’t come up until now. Yet neither Wordy or Shaky won a Nobel prize. Please do not explain this to me.