. 8. Along the stripling Thames: in search of the Scholar Gipsy

As mentioned in the section “literary nationalism” (‘the river ran red: literary wars’), the so-called ‘poetry wars’ of the early ’90s left me in a state of considerable expasperation for many reasons, one of which was the charge that to write in rhyme and meter was to place oneself in a relationship of indentured servitude to the literary standards and heritage of England, and that no truly American poet would write “English forms”.  The galled me for a whole range of reasons: For one, I was of English lineage myself, and had an hereditory right to English traditions.  Second, my forebears had been in America since the 1630s, and had fought the British in two wars for American independence, so I hardly felt called upon to fight the war for American autonomy all over again on literary grounds.  Third, every poet who writes in English has a claim to English literary traditions, simply by right of mastering the language.  Fourth, my own sensibilities had been profoundly shaped by English poetry and I was damned if I was going to renounce the likes of Wordsworth or Keats or Yeats at the urging of some small-minded professor of American free verse. 

When by chance I found myself in England for the first time, ensconced in a little bed & breakfast on St John’s Street with my wife Marian, I felt that my hour of reckoning had come and that now was the time to prove my worth as an American poet by mastering an English form on English ground and shaping it to an American sensibility.  This would constitute both my homage to my English masters and my unequivocal departure from them. 

Accordingly, practically as soon as I had landed in Oxford (after first spending a few quiet days roaming Oxford with Marian, who knew the city and its history intimately), I headed off alone to the “Babe & Bird”, a venerable old pub on St Giles Street, beloved of Lewis, Tolkien & Williams.  I settled into a quiet corner booth, began ordering one ale after another, and launched into a long meandering, almost stream-of-conciousness poem, in that most Oxfordian of poetic forms, the “Scholar Gipsy” stanza.  There was no narrative line at all – my time was too limited and I was in too much of a rush to get something down on paper to worry about such mundane considerations — I simply wrote about myself at that time and place, and hoped for the best.  It was all rather 1950s-Beat-confessional, come to think of it.   

 

 PART I

Annother vague morning of mist and rain
           like every other since my arrival
                here in this moldy old town of Oxford.
           I sit with a half‑empty glass of ale
                  beside a window. Earlier it poured,
                        paused and started again,
            then tapered off slowly. Somewhere a bright
                   warbling of trebles‑‑ a blackbird, perhaps;
                   another soft rain commences and stops;
            the clouds admit filtering rays of light.

 

       I’ve lost track of how many days have passed
            since first I arrived; the afternoons blur
                 into early evening and on into night
            by such imperceptible shadings, I swear,
                 I can no longer separate dark from light.
                        And then there’s The Past
           that so overbears and burdens the hours
                that, notwithstanding their natural span,
                there are hours that take all night to wane,
           or so it would seem were they any slower.

 

         They afflict me, these leaden pools of time,
              till I grow unmindful of what I’ve done
                    or where I have gone. As of late I’ve found
              in Oxford such airs of enervation
                    as once were thought to collect underground:
                              exhalation of tombs
               and caskets that lie underneath the weeds
                    of countless old churchyards, issuing forth
                    with the evening damp from out of the earth
               like a virus that slowly spreads and feeds.

 

         Old superstition, no doubt– from an age
              when humours and moistures were thought the key
                  to illness and health; yet, looking out now
              across the turreted peaks of the city
                  where rills of insidious vapor flow,
                          tumbling from ledge to ledge
              to disperse along lanes and alleyways,
                  I find the old notion hard to dismiss:
                  I have never known such a damp as this,
              the way it creeps in and persists for days.

 

         It instills a species of lassitude
              that deepens with every hour of rain
                   till I feel disinclined to leave my room.
              I have grown so self‑reflective it’s plain
                   I am predisposed to congestive gloom,
                             the which, if I could,
              I’d uproot, disavow, and put to rout.
                   Yet, I suppose, my malady’s chronic.
                   I am, to be sure, morose, ironic,
              and the damps of Oxford but draw it out.

 

         I will shake it off! There is much to do.
              The Eagle & Child will open soon
                   and I must be present to claim my spot:
              a bench so remote that even at noon
                   no untoward light intrudes. I am not
                             adverse to midday brew.
              A pint, if you will, or, better yet, three,
                   and the mind receives an instructive haze,
                   a sort of metaphoric fog that grays
              every notion with ambiguity.

 

         Now there’s a topic, ambiguousness:
              the old no‑man’s‑land between this and that,
                   the vaporish hour ‘twixt day and night,
              the equivocal answer, never pat,
                   that joins in solution all wrong to right
                             and yokes each no to yes.
              What hour’s upon us? Eleven yet?
                   Already these vapid thoughts conspire
                   to dull my wits. How quickly I tire.
              The Eagle & Child! I’ll go and sit.

 

         So what if I’m early? Stuffing a book
              in my satchel, I stumble down the stair
                   and along a hall so indifferently
              illumined I bark my shin on a chair.
                   I mutter an oath irreverently,
                             fumble to slip the lock,
              and step out the door to the dampened stones
                   of St John Street. The air wets my skin,
                   insinuates by osmosis within
              and chillingly settles about my bones.

 

         I shudder and huddle within my coat
              and ask myself when precisely it was
                  that old sun became extinct. Never mind.
              Were it here I would only find it cause
                  for further grumbling, as light makes me blind
                          and heat’s a thing I hate.
              In the end a cold drizzle suits me well,
                  or as well as anything, I should say:
                 it softens the fact that another day
              has come to extract its merciless toll.

 

         A pint of Tetley’s will soften it more!
              Now there’s a thought to inspire resolve.
                  Forward, Old Charger, there’s plunder ahead!
              Never mind that all the buildings revolve
                  and you hear artillery in your head–
                          it’s just a block more
              or several at most, if memory serves.
                  Just make a right turn at Wellington Place,
                  then left at St Giles, keep up the pace,
              and soon you can deaden those upstart nerves.

 

         Right! Straight ahead on busy St Giles
              and there, silhouetted against the sky
                  a few meters down, the archaic sign
              creaking slowly above the passersby:
                  an oval painting that bears the design
                          of a hapless child
              borne aloft by a huge and heartless bird,
                  and below: the friendly door! Righty ho!
                  the hour is surely at hand, but no,
              the door is still locked. Oh this is absurd.

 

         I pull out my watch. Well, actually,
              I root around in my pocket awhile:
                  what’s this?– old kleenex, some coins, here we are.
                 I flip the cover, peruse the dial,
              shake it and dangle it close to my ear.
                          A quarter past three?
              I know I wound it this morning. Oh well,
                  one must resolve to stay philosophic,
                  suppress the emotions, hew to logic.
              It can’t be much longer ~ damn it to hell!.

 

         Never mind, I know of a quiet place
              right over there: the yard of St Giles,
                  replete with my favorite things: old trees
              and graves even older. I’ll sit awhile
                  and ponder some suitable point. Let’s see,
                          St Augustine on Grace?
              No, not before lunch. It’s enough just now
                  to make it across these lanes of traffic.
                  I can’t be bothered with some specific
              of God’s Intent when I’m being run down.

 

         Ah…, this is better, old graves in late May
              when earlier flowers are not yet gone
                  nor the onset of Summer’s denser hue
              and heavier blossoming quite begun.
                  I wander through grasses, plucking a few,
                          slowly making my way,
              strolling about with no destination,
                  lingering now and again to inspect
                  inscriptions characterized by regret,
              unquestioning faith, or resignation…,

 

         and other inscriptions more numerous
              on the pock‑marked faces of tilted stones
                  or lichen‑encrusted sarcophagi;
              like tracks of sparrows long after they’ve flown,
                  all these titles and epitaphs, by and by,
                          have grown mysterious:
              summation of lives mere shadowy print.
                  I pause above some old parishioner
                  who, centuries past, might have ambled here…
              undoubtedly to the pub for a pint!

 

         I approve this churchyard, wedged as it is
              like a tapering long peninsula
                  between the currents of two thoroughfares:
              sanctuary of memorabilia,
                  relics and bones of our predecessors,
                          its inherent stasis
              preserved intact against each incursion
                  of civic improvement. On either side,
                  continuous columns of traffic glide,
              but here things hold to the early version.

 

         This little church with its simple design,
              its plain Norman tower, its modest scale,
                  its rough proportions all somewhat askew‑‑
              this church, I say, looks distinctly rural,
                  as though, round about, the entire view
                          in an earlier time
              consisted of copses and grazing sheep
                  with little clusters of lovely spires
                  away to the south. Now screeching tires
              incessantly rattle the vicar’s sleep.

 

         Continuing onward, I cross the yard,
              noting a slight inclination to list
                  somewhat to windward and softly to creak
              till I put myself in mind of a mast
                  in need of an oiling. For such a wreck        
                          as I, life’s hard,
              which is why I must seek what consolation
                  I can: the occasional company
                  of women, old paintings, old poetry,
              cello sonatas, frequent libations‑‑

 

         little palliatives to ease the sense
              that our days are but a downward spiral
                  into disillusion, decrepitude,
              memory loss and all the usual
                  humiliating effects that prelude
                          our final acquiescence.
              How fitting that Oxford rains never stop,
                  with these little churchyards on every side
                  to keep us in mind of that eventide
              when curtains are drawn and we close up shop.

 

         But speaking of palliatives, it is time
              I collected mine. I have offered up
                  the required portion of gloomy thought
            and swallowed the requisite sour cup
                of hopelessness at the common lot
                        of motley humankind;
            I have tallied our existential fees
                and noted how soon we are all reduced
                to bones in a box or a pot of dust…
            I’ve been nicely morose, now liquor please!

 

         This retired corner of common ground,
              this sanctuary of sorrow and shade
                  where the past is a presence we apprehend
                  like hovering mist in a dusky glade‑‑
              there is something here which I would attend:
                          an ethereal sound
              like premonitions or fragments of dream…
                  but the time has come when I must be off;
                  my joints are rusted, I’m getting a cough;
              if I don’t drink soon I will turn very mean.

 

         I step from beneath the sheltering trees
              and, offering up my fate to the gods
                  of midday traffic, I face a torrent
              of tires and bumpers and gleaming hoods
                  without a break. There’s nothing for it
                          but to plunge, dodge and squeeze
              through the swarming fenders…, I reach the curb,
                  hissing imprecations under my breath,
                  indignant that I could encounter death
              in a way so commonplace and absurd.

 

         But here I am, having safely attained,
              as it were, the opposite shore. I’m still
                  of a piece, in spite of the wrench I gave
              my knee when I stumbled and almost fell,
                  convinced I was tottering at my grave.
                          Momentarily drained,
              I lean on a lamp‑post. There, on the street,
              is that to which I have long aspired:
              the pub, containing all I desire‑‑
                  a measure of bitter, a morsel of meat.

 

         Approaching the arched and iron‑clad door,
              I feel like a freshly translated soul
                  who, finding itself at St Peter’s Gate,
              has a first peep of Heaven by key‑hole.
                  Through a window I glimpse a roseate,
                          panelled interior
              of emblazoned and richly‑seasoned oak,
                  a few old gentlemen seated around
                  a table, beneath a hunter and hound,
              enwreathed in a halo of cherry‑smoke.

 

         There is nothing as yet contrived by man
              by which so much happiness is produced
                  as a good tavern. So someone observed
              in another time.., a notion endorsed
                  by all sensible gents without reserve.
                          A Pembroke man,
              I believe: second year, witty, in debt,
                  fond of his brew…, it was some time ago;
                  he exhausted his funds and left, or so
              I have heard. His quips are repeated yet.

 

         With the generous thought of quaffing a pint
              to his memory, I wander within
                  and directly make my way to the bar
              where, all around, a convivial din
                  of gibe and banter enlivens the air.
                          I solicit a pint
              of Tetley’s and sigh as the barman draws
                  the evocative amber softly down
                  to swirl in the tilted glass till a crown
              of froth billows up and overflows.

 

         Solace in hand, I return to the bench
              which I like to consider mine alone:
                  a bench and a table with fireplace,
              pewter and prints in a little alcove,
                  secure from all the foolery and fuss;
                          a secluded niche
              with space for one or two others at most
                  in the corner shadows; a cozy room,
                  more private than not, with adequate gloom
              to accommodate poet, priest or ghost,

 

         those most loyal and least observed of all
              the habitués of old Oxford pubs…,
                  and while never yet have I been confused
              with a priest or even a lesser cherub,
                  of poetry I am meanly accused,
                          and it’s said as I crawl
              from bed I possess a ghastly pallor.
                  Thus, finding myself a suitable heir
                  to such Old Regulars, I swallow a fair
              share of my pint to subdue a tremor.

 

         And now I have managed to put away half
              my drink before making my toast. That’s poor
                  behavior, Old Charger, poor as it gets,
              putting your own satisfaction before
                  the memory of a fellow poet!
                          I’ll just toss it off,
              the rest of this glass, and begin anew.
                  Here comes the man with my Ploughman’s Lunch:
                  wedge of cheese, heavy bread, chutney, a bunch
              of cress, half an apple and, ah! more brew!

 

         So here’s to you, Sam, wherever you are!
              Pembroke, I say, should have kept you around,
                  paid your way, even made you a Fellow,
              just for the sight of your massively round
                  figure sliding on Christ Church Meadow,
                          not to mention the score
              of Latin verses no Master could match.
                  You knew how to drink and to versify
                  and how to skip out on a lecture: I
              salute you, Sir! Enough said. Down the hatch!

 

         There…, now at last I feel more a man
              than a miserable, creaky batch of bones
                  contained by a coat. I swallow another
              draught and relax as a hundred-odd pains
                  are soothed and the very room grows softer.
                          The small leaded pane
              looking out on St Giles begins to blur
                  with rain. I return to the bar for a Scotch,
                  then sink back happily into my niche
              and take a long sip…, and then another.

 

         Ah…, ain’t it grand how the mind clarifies
              as that amber elixer melts on tongue,
                  suffusing the inner man with a deft
              yet langorous warmth, dispelling fatigue
                  and granting his spirit a sunny lift?
                          How swift the mind flies
              over all the tangled conundrums of life
                  on wings of whiskey and ale; how they sink
                  into insignificance, drink by drink:
              heavy debt, poor credit, spats with the wife…,

 

         and how, in their place, more crucial concerns
              appear at the fore, such as how the rain
                  in tiny runnels and tributaries
              rolls ceaselessly down the windowpane,
                  or how those aesthetic scrollings arise
                          to wreathe, curl and turn
              all about the ceiling-beams from briars
                  of portly patrons, or how this golden
                  liquid swirls in my glass like molten
              autumnal sunlight, or distant fire…

 

         … distant fire .., now there’s an equivocal
              image: sparks of divine inspiration
                  wreathing the poet in a bright aureole,
              or just the usual flames of perdition
                  that sizzle away in the poet’s soul?
                          Does it matter at all?
              The only fire by which I’m accursed
                  is what I hold in this tumbler and swirl
                  contemplatively, or mindlessly hurl
              down my throat to relieve a quenchless thirst.

 

         Let’s face it: all my embers are sodden–
              my muse has absconded once again,
                  fed up with my slovenly ways, no doubt,
              or maybe just sick of this English rain.
                  You would think, at least, she’d have left a note.
                          It’s oh, so maudlin.
              Behold the old poet adrizzle in drink,
                  all his youthful potential unfulfilled,
                  the better part of it squandered or swilled;
              he’s past forty now, and starting to sink.

 

         O Muse, lovely Muse, whither art thou fled?–
              you thankless bitch: a hell of a time
                  you pick to run out. I’ve nothing but verse
              to excuse this pitiful life of mine,
                  and now you vanish. I don’t know what’s worse,
                          being useless or dead:
              a dead-weight in either case. Here I sit,
                  commencing to mold like a sack of old spuds;
                  of my last twenty poems, twenty were duds–
              I’d retire, but what’s the point of it?

 

         Somehow it’s always the same old story,
              the same lonesome tale, where a woman’s concerned,
                  even a woman who’s insubstantial;
              they’re all alike in the end: when they learn
                  what you’re really made of beneath it all,
                          it’s Good-bye Charlie.
              But don’t get me started: I’ve more sad yarns
                  than a one-armed sailor– this foundering heart
                  has suffered more punctures by Cupid’s dart
              than Shelley’s poor bum by those cruel thorns.

 

         Melissa, Regina, Cheryl, Colette,
              Sonia and Cynthia, Rosalie, Anne,
                  Lillian, Claudia, Rachael so cruel,
              Celeste and Sylvia, Julie, Suzanne–
                  for each, in her season, I played the fool
                          and would play it yet
              with any one of them, given a chance.
                  Against the least smile, I am defenseless;
                  more than that all but renders me senseless:
              on my stone they will chisel, Slain by a Glance.

 

         So swift and hard fell the blows of mischance
              in all things amorous while yet a youth,
                  that I, at far too fragile an age,
              sought refuge and consolation in Truth.
                  What can I say? It was only a stage,
                          the fruit of romance …        
              Mishandling by night, misgiving by dawn:
                  how many a lad tries philosophy,
                  therapy, faith or theosophy,
              on finding a note and all her things gone?

 

         And how many poets, the well gone dry,
              disguise the absence by turning critic,
                  baring incisors, playing aggressor,
              spewing pronouncments barbed and acidic?
                  And how many cash in, turn professor,
                          submit to a tie,
              equivocate always, play it secure,
                  hedge their assertions, keep to their places,
                  admit to nothing, cover their bases,
              sing the old anthem and snag a tenure?

 

         Ugh, how I sicken — the whiskey at last
              exacts its toll, though what sickens more
                  is the sight of muses adrift at sea,
              clinging to wreckage of metaphor,
                  to overturned hulls of simile,
                          to rigging and masts–
              a vision of muses drowning in seas
                  of polemics and essays, articles, tracts,
                  manifestos, journals, mouldering stacks
              of old theses and M.F.A. degrees…

 

         What’s needed is air and rain on my head!
              I’m away, out the door, knocking aside
                  some poor old professor, glasses askew…
              Move along! Gangway! I am sorely tried,
                  What is the holdup? Look out, plowing through!
                          At last . . . liberated!
              Lungsful of air! The rain on my upcast
                  face is like admonishment of Grace.
                  I am off for some paradisal place
              of shadowy water and swirling mist . . . 

 

 

And so ended “Part One’.  At this point, after a spate of long afternoons the shadows of the pub, I determined I needed a bit of air and so, on a passably sunny morning, with a knapsack heavy with bread, wine & cheese, and a nineteenth-century edition of Arnold, off I hied me to the verge of Port Meadow, on a pilgrimmage to all the landmarks in the companion poems, “The Scholar-Gipsy” and “Thysis” that I could locate.   I must have covered twenty miles or more on foot, through Port Meadow past Godstow Abbey to the Trout, and then back some miles to Boar’s Hill, the ‘Arnold bench’ and ‘Arnold’s Field’, and finally to the fabled Signal Elm itself, which turned out, in fact, to be an ancient, hollow oak crowning a ridge very near to John Masefield’s cottage, overlooking the “Childsworth Farm” of the poem, with a breath-taking view of shining Oxford.

In my own poem, the protagonist, somewhat restored from his long ale-soaked binge, finds himself on the verge of Port Meadow:

 

 

 PART II

 

What country is this?– this land of meadows
          extending beyond the northernmost haze
               and blue of distance, where untold hundreds
         of cattle and wandering horses graze
              or lie recumbent, resting their heads..,
                         while limpid swallows,
          pursuing a langorous curve of the Thames,
               encounter their own reflections, deftly
               skimming the mirrored clouds, or swiftly
          soaring in effortless tendrils and turns.

 

     Skirting the shallow bank of the river
          a pathway beckons, its wandering course
               at intervals marked by immense cottonwoods
          that tower above the land and disperse
               abundance of cottony seed in clouds
                         with every shiver
          or stirring of wind.., and all the while,
               flotillas of billowing cumuli
               in weightless serenity cross the sky,
          as the long day eases, the hours lull.

 

     Already to westward the sun recedes,
          softening trees to a rouge, as varied
               rays mellow slowly to rose and shadows
          lengthen across the land. Unhurried,
               a swan delves slowly among the shallows,
                         rooting in reeds,
          dipping its beak where the river darkens…
               Above the meadows, a lingering light
               resists the violet stain of night–
          eastward, a glimmering spire hearkens.

 

     From somewhere upriver I hear a soft
          hissing of hull on water, a sculler
               coursing with consummate ease over glass
          with scarcely a ripple, skimming the river,
               approaching, suddenly arrowing past
                         and then as swift
          as mercury, vanishing into haze…
               I stand looking after, noticing how
               the langour returns, how the minutes slow,
          how still the indifferent cattle graze..,

 

     these cattle for whom little more has changed
          in a thousand years or so than a slight
               shift in the constellations, these cattle,
          who through numberless summer days and nights,
               have cropped the clover, shunned the nettle,
                         and placidly ranged
          all across these ancient, ageless meadows…
               What matters our presence to such as these,
               for whom summer days are eternities,
          for whom we are only passing shadows?

 

     I relax, reclining against a tree
          and, watching the meadows return to grey,
               I mull on the myth of a certain youth,
          an Oxford scholar turned gypsy, they say,
               some centuries past, and now a wraith
                         on occasion seen
          still haunting a lonely stretch of the Thames..,
               and for whom, they say, the cattle will pause
               and leave off grazing to watch him pass,
          or follow slowly along beside him.

 

     I find myself gazing across the way,
          along the horizon, as though he might
               materialize from the gloom… I wonder
          whether as wraiths we awaken from night
               or if under stars we are bound to wander,
                         forgetting the day,
          remembering only the hush of rivers
               heard at a distance, or whether we roam
               through the unresolving dusk of a dream,
          lost in ambiguous realms forever…

 

     It seems to me now that I know this place,
          this country of pastures– for, long ago,
               in an poem exhumed from a dusty book,
          I read of this same scholar, these meadows,
               this stretch of the Thames, these grazing flocks,
                         and of how he chose,
          in spite of everything Oxford could yield,
               to throw in his lot with a gypsy clan
               or, at times, to wander for weeks alone,
          sleeping each night in a different field.

 

     And, reading, I glimpsed for a moment there,
          as though in the margin, a narrow lane
               and corner of sky, and I knew at once
          that I could never turn homeward again
               but would, to the end of all endurance,
                         follow it where
          and however far and away it might lead…
               But now, all these days and decades later,
               that which enticed and sweetened is bitter,
          that which inspired and beckoned has died.

 

     Musings and melancholy enfold me–
          perhaps I had better be gone from here,
               ahead of the nightfall, back into town,
          safely tucked up under thatch somewhere
               with bottle and book. I feel oddly alone.
                         I whistle softly.
          Looking away to the spires, grown faint,
               I long for an hour of wine and rest.
               From the river there spreads a sodden mist
          and a sudden chill– it is turning late.

 

     And now how my spirits sag– I am spent.
          The phantoms of memory crowd around,
               reviving what I would rather forget
          until, as from openings underground,
               there rise up clouds of misgiving, regret,
                         and malcontent…
          I open my satchel, lift out a skin
               of good cabernet and take a long pull,
               then one or two more, till the phantoms fall
          away and amnesia soothes again.

 

     Then I take out a crust of bread, some cheese,
          and settle in for a decent repast,
               deciding to spend the night where I lie.
          I’ve slept in worse places, God knows– I’ve cast
               up dreams into many an unknown sky–
                         at least I’ve a breeze,
          the murmur of water, glimmer of stars…
               If Our Lord hath nowhere to lay His head,
               then who am I to complain of a bed
          where a few lowing steers and heifers are?

 

     I’ll just glean and pile up leaves, like this
          and, using my pack as pillow, stretch out
               in repose and savor a few more draughts
          of wine till the earth seems fairly to float
               and become a cloud and I seem to drift
                         in a hazy bliss…
          I gaze out across the river to where
               the meadows recede into nothingness–
               somehow it always returns to this:
          finding myself in the midst of nowhere,

 

          sleeping alone… I wonder exactly
          what could have caused a resolute scholar
               to cast aside all that was his by right
          and wander out over some lonely moor
               the rest of his earthly days and nights–
                         whether ’twere only
          disgruntlement at forever having
               to knock at Preferment’s door, or if he
               chanced his all for the love of some Lady,
          lost the gamble, his heart, his savings,

 

     and found himself left with nowhere to go?
          Traditionally, the broken-hearted
               would march off to war or repair to sea,
          but perhaps he wished his way uncharted,
               preferring the free-wheeling company
                         and colorful show
          of a venturesome gypsy-troupe to the harsh
               and ironclad regimen of a ship
               or company of hussars, or perhaps,
          as they say, he went off alone in search

 

     of a knowledge not to be found in books,
          a knowledge none can discover but those
               who live out their lives under sun and stars
          and roll on from camp to camp all their days.
               Perhaps, in the end, this gifted scholar
                         rashly forsook
          all advantage to rove with a gypsy band
               because he sensed, for everything offered
               of rarest lore and learning at Oxford,
          things rarer still in the meadows beyond.

 

     And perhaps what brings me here to this place
          is to find some part of what I have lost,
               to recover something of nerve, of faith–
          to seek out a sign of this bygone ghost,
               this scholar-gypsy, this wandering wraith–
                         to pick up his trace
          and pursue it inward to where the journey
               began, to that shining instant when first
               I beheld, of all things fair, the fairest:
          my own true path lying plain before me.

 

At this point the poem takes what can only be described as a wrong turn, and, for another fifty stanzas or so, never finds its way back.  That was some fifteen years ago, and I have yet to see my way clear to finishing the poem.  The entire endeavor might remain evermore as simply an enormous unpublishable fragment.

(NOTE: Thanks in large measure to Michael Heffernan’s note, I have been able to view the poem with more confidence and very recently a way to continue and perhaps resolve the poem has occured to me.  Stanzas are beginning to form, and I will add them here as they are composed.

 

 
 PART III
. . . twenty years later . . .

  

   In the middle of nowhere, a crossroads,
          a few straggly oaks on a barren heath –
               overhead a raven, but nothing more –
          there is dust in my eye, grit in my teeth
               from this wind that harrows me to the core.
                           There is nothing bodes
          well in this place – from one of the oaks
               a disquieting cypher: an unearthed bone
               with curious markings, dangling alone
          on a knotted cord like a twist of smoke.

 

     Sign of the devil’s spawn, if you credit
          what villagers swear underneath their breath
               (for crossroads indeed are the devil’s haunt),
          but this is no rosary hung by wraith,
               no unholy relic to tempt or taunt –
                           no demon tied it –
          this bundled-up bone is a gipsy sign,
               nothing more than a Gretel’s crumb to show
               to which far-off horizon one should go
          in pursuit of the wagons’ winding line.

 

     But when were they here? The wind has so scoured
          the marks of their passage no traces remain.
               I peer across miles of emptiness where
          ephemeral swallows like sunlit rain
               intrigue the horizon and disappear.
                         Slowly the hour
          concedes to evening . . . I shoulder my pack
               and set out to westward, pursuing the sun
               where it moltens to rosy oblivion –
          once begun, there can be no turning back. 

 

     Well into the autumn, the evening is cool
          and shadows are closing from every side –
               I feel like an old and broken knight-errant
          without so much as a star for my guide,
               venturing blindly forth on an errand
                         fit for a fool.
          In silence the night coalesces — soon,
               from behind a cluster of trees, a vague
               apparition of woe, a god of plague
          summoning tides of contagion  – the moon. 

 

      Such a barren, cold, indifferent place
          with nowhere to shelter — how many times
               have I been in places like this before,
          without an end or a friend or a dime,
               with only a shirt and not a lot more?
                         With rain in my face,
          I’d huddle beneath the brim of my hat,
               and try to remember a cheerful song —
               the cars barrelled by me all night long
          without ever slowing — leaving me flat.

 

     But this is a wierder region by far
          than any through which I have ever crossed –
               a hostile, uninhabited heath
          that leaves me as disembodied and lost
               as a spirit who, bewildered by death
                         and seeking a star
          in an old familiar part of the sky,
               discovers the constellations have changed —
               I wonder if I am dead or deranged
          or if I am only about to die?

 

     For suddenly scenes from out of my past
          perform a procession before my eyes
               as in the proverbial final flash
          in the very moment a person dies —
               the whole of one’s life distilled to an ash,
                         heedlessly cast
          upon the wind and entirely lost . . .
               that this is my fortune I cannot doubt –
               my cup ranneth over — I poured it out –
          I threw away all to become a ghost.
  

     Now it’s come to this — on this road alone:
          this terminal stretch of a journey begun
               in my seventeenth year in a mental ward
          when a voice of angelic desolation
               bespoke in my ear the unholy word,
                         a howling moan
          that echoed through pages of ravaged verse
               and awakened such a disturbance in me
               that I have wandered unceasingly
          from that hour onward, bearing its curse.

 

    

From that singer of garret and gutter whose
          refrain I would hearken the following year
               on the streets of Chicago, to others less
          notorious, less flamboyantly queer,
               from the hermit-monk in the wilderness
                         to the little blues
          itinerant hobo and troubador
               whose lays lay open the soul of an age —
               from these I would turn to the musty page,
          to the buried minstrels and bards of yore . . .

 

    

    A sabre of wind shears right to the bone.
          I huddle more deeply within my coat
               and trudge ahead grimly, hunching my head
          and drawing my collar about my throat.
               Perhaps even now I am lying dead
                         underneath a stone
          in some vandalized graveyard half-destroyed,
               with all of this lying before me only
               the dream of a corpse, a long and lonely
          highway diminishing into the void . . .

 

    

. . in progress . . .