a deity would sit among us,
confabulating, sharing insight.
Anon, the god, sore nonplussed by our too high
by the jinks in point of fact,
the scene for good.
in an Eastcheap alehouse,
boozing in the spirited aura of Hal & Co.
who long ago next locked their princely selves away, going
as to pay for protection from the jolly
uncool likes of us.
Currently, we descend to rising to
Take San Francisco,
midnight, no fans
in sight, chauffeur at black limousine's backdoor: Jane
startles! "Bree!" But it's not me she's
she shares no cheer of mine. Or Hammersmith,
Riverside Studios, one idle
Sunday matinee, no
importuning eyes, exits, Condition White, Vanessa
4.) We're fallen.
What a lark. Falling still. Fess up...
Borne in utero
the whole interminable
record-setting cold of '48-'49. Dunno
else the faintest thing of natal origin,
more than where to poke the map,
that foreign it was to all blood parties.
Not to say inimical, humiliating, frozen
one month, infested the next. Nothing
like her forfeit home or his jerusalem.
We split up and one sailed one way, I
at breast, the other covering our tracks.
Or bets. If hades bound, all the fond
goodbyes since is why. Don't know fact
one about where I'm from, barring coordinates...
Sentinel chopper hovered way high above
all the nothing we were up to, and who can say
didn't listen too to our prattle, eyeballing
lavish gesture, profiling one suspicious
pair, high enough we were not supposed to
notice, I dare say. The urgent and hilarious
tale there told being long forgotten, the teller's
back to echt-spectacular Pacific sunset, L.A.,
all that remains in recollection, that much, is
all that dismays me now as dubious or deprived.
Juvenile vulture cools its heels in shallow rock pool,
yesterday's rain, sips dainty as any songbird.
The company of happy girls, still lifes
Asita's waist-length eyebrows,
which is sexual nostalgia, which to hallow, which profane?
have been, before I knew, (as if Charles
Baudelaire would appear in Canada...)
solely to I or id,
tiny tumbling naked men&women
by the billion into the Void—
analog of nowt,
apropos the whole shebang
—or top floor rear
Linden Gardens, W2,
for hours that
night, '68, being of sound etc,
hunt as opposed
to Riding to
equestrian tack, bright horse brass,
dashing canary weskit, by black push-bike
did love red fox and kept the gentry's gift of
one's snarling mask in quiet entranceway
showed his little sheriff where tod denned
in a sandbank, small gnawed bones,
among bracken, beware the adder
split one Murraymint with his folding knife
pointing to where a downed jerry hanged
in a parachute, hidden by the crown of a
linden till autumn when the leaves fell
possessed his rescued commander's trench
whistle on neat's-foot oiled leather lanyard
blood-filled boots squelched retreating
gleeful swank, right shoulder half shot,
bowled trickiest armball on First XI
had equable grandad been American, horrors,
egalitarian, but all-Anglo and glad, beaming
oh, the Canadian soldiers were terrors, Guy
not the one who
finally called the asshole an
asshole, they never met, except in me, that was
this is the other, family name of
yore spelled Mychyll, consonant with our
He was khaki-clad
prairie boy cycling in Surrey,
bred through Depression and Dust Bowl, the War
the best break ever yet to come his ambitious way.
She pronounced that word so I heard it for years
a homophone of carkey in Home County accent...
He rode the miles off-duty from Bordon Camp,
courting, standing on the pedals, panting up
the Devil's Punchbowl, cracking thews for her,
to shew her folks at The Russetts he knew no limit.
And then must quick-time cycle back, breathing
hard, and would bow the rest of his life to some old
beskirted lady wheeling up the steep macadam behind,
effortlessly, scarcely taking passing notice of another
winded young foreign bloke in uniform on Hindhead Hill.
Moil in self-examination and self-criticism.
(Deplore the national standards of self-justification
and self-congratulation.) Understand that expression
is less venerable performance than sacrifice.
(which shadows would be intellection, education, prowess).
Information and skill are subsets of experience,
not of education, dammit, nor of training, but experience,
and faith a subset of intuition. Thus intellectuality
enjoys little prestige with us. "Art is reserved for
those who feel; revenge on the intellectuals."
non. Only then dare start,
falter, start over. Anticipating no conclusion. A hundred amends.
More. Deletion. Dilation. Heeding the sumptuary. In
doubt. Repeat. Ignoring exegetical itch. Exhaust the
Specious challenge, diction; structure, bona fide. (Or v.v.)
Such the frailty of the laity. Poetry is simply a taste and a practice.
that stays spoke. No expatiation. Ecstatic.
"Consolation and exultation over imbecility, vanity,
Poetry does battle with inanity, outgunned as may be.
Ambition is but inclination and energy; credibility, the casualty
of loss. What achieves the ordination of a poet?—Overarching,
the mysteries. "In the mind of the beginner,
many possibilities; in the veteran's mind are few."
© Guy Birchard 2015