Hughlings Himwich

Personae

I play the round

'til at last alone adrift

almost a ghost I

lose myself

and take to bed 

and play the part

of one who's dead. 

Somewhere Else

I am thinking, my friend, that you have already seen this article: The Art of Dying.

It's a long, rambling read.  I haven’t read every word, didn’t need to, very familiar.  I’ve been comatose for the last four days, though I expect any time now to wake up and be somewhere else:

 

                    The Lake Isle of Innisfree
                                                  BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS

    I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
    And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
    Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
    And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

    And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
    Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
    There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
    And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

    I will arise and go now, for always night and day
    I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
    While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
    I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

As it happens, breaks from the routines of teaching are not good for me or rather not good for the first week or so until I can think about something other than tomorrow, which I am trying to do now, the ‘something other’. The words begin to write themselves, yours truly not really there at all, but there is a prophecy I’ve heard: If you are patient, you really will not be here at all or the words  Which brings me back to the New Yorker article. May you be doing better than I am, and dear Pauline. 

        Hugh

 

    If the sky should fall
    Or worse, there will be no one
    To know and no one to care
    That there ever was an open space
    Where old love comes to rest
    and pretends still to be,

    though I would not that
    be the final word
    or any word at all.

December 12: Arthur's Day

Arthur's Day

              for Arthur Sze, December 12

To you, who’ve written 

Some slip of verse

That made me fall,

A fool in love 

With words and you --

To you, who’ve hidden songs

In a worn-out sock

That now you use just for rocks--

I say, Barefoot and all,                  

Come out and play:

It’s Arthur’s Day,

When all who sing

Shall sing along. 

 

Download Arthur Sze Poster

Download Poetry Matters 2

Download Arthur the Owl and the Dragon

 

A perfect thing

A perfect thing is known by its imperfection

thus a man whose sole desire is to die well

or a love endangered only by fulfillment

or a paw without an opposable thumb

or a cut that bleeds so cleanly

that one regrets there’s not enough of you

to feed those starving for something else.

The High Ridge

   
   The mist on the mountains lifts

ghostly greens glimmer

   and a new day darkens the valley

far below—your fingers tracing

   a line across the high ridge

that runs just above my eyes:

   I hold my breath—a sudden

swoop of wind and wing

 

Autumn Rain

This autumn rain comes
on me strange
as you and I lie
beneath the ledge
hold hands and kiss
and say goodbye.

When shall I see you again:
in Winter when I am dead
or Spring when you flower
or Summer when you rise
with the waves upon the beach
and make love
to every passing eye? 

No, it will be as today:
the rain drop drops
like leaves like tears
that hold our love
and all that's lost.
 
I shall come
as surely as Winter
and die a thousand deaths.

You too will come
and lie upon these
fallen leaves
and give me up

again.

You shall come
as you always do
dressed in pearls
and make it rain. 

Getting it up with Shakespeare

Love, friends, is deadly.  You may wonder,
Am I suffering from a broken heart
Or has love, freely given,
Not been returned? To which I say,
Yes, O Yes, Yes!
Beat the drums and let the bagpipes play
And I will march ripe into that narrow patch
Of mind and sand and play, She loves me
She loves me not, and haply saw
My soul in two.
I shall send her flowers,
Long purples that prickly boys
Call a grosser name, 
But she will say as maidens do, 
"How could you be so lame?" 

 

Being Blue

(for my students)

Just remember the orange
Is not in the orange.

It is always you
Like a thumb in the eye.

The blue sky
So glorious today

Is also you.
Be beautiful!

Man

What goes
like a wolf
in the morning
like the sea
in the afternoon
and the wind
at night?

The wolf is desire.
The sea is the journey.
The wind is what remains.

The answer is always man.

Poem

I forgot myself

and spoke foolish things

and only now

does a sparrow sing

in my ear.

Summer Rain

If it would only rain my words would pour forth like girls and boys too young to know shame O they are bold as I would be the rain falls I am young again dance touch while the music plays so falls the rain O she is here there are tears of joy tears songs of praise for the beauty of the day earth yields up its flowers to her hand turns to gentle thunder her body lifts and holds her laughter makes the night shudder unbinds her hair and falls to me now here now there like summer rain

Leaf Fall

Follow the path
of leaf fall,
the short cut home
twixt sky and dream.

When you're there,
you'll be right here,
safe with me. 

One and done

You sit across the page, spelling

Your name like mine

Except it rhymes

And no one suspects you are lonely

Or looney or so hungry

you could eat this paper,

folding it into a star

popping it in the microwave

where you and I and the universe

will be one and done.

Surprise

Suddenly
this morning
I knew the rainbow
to be a bird

of my soul
taking flight 
and vanishing
into cloud and sky

as I am bound 
to do, shimmering
not with color
but surprise

to be at last
not here. 

Man on the Moon

 i stand

on the moon

and know

your heart

like one

who has died

and found

a home

What's left to say

He was watching the parade
The clowns, the words, the trumpeteers
And in his dream he was awake
Or he was awake and dreaming.
He closed his eyes.
No matter, he heard the drums.
He opened his eyes a second time
And saw himself marching
Now to a different tune
A martial cha-cha-cha
And wet his pants.
There is little more to tell.
The daily Tribune records
That during the St. Jude Day Celebration
Saturday passed and a forgotten man
Had died, shouting blessings
Upon one and all. 

a dead-wall reverie

Ibidom. Is no thinking thing here but the peepinghouse round it goes is there nothing there from sea to rounda coda no knowing no browbeating to hoedown the adamses and damses looking roundaway the wailing goes awagginawaning about the off wall but there shebares all to what is not there the museymusik makes you trot and drop so rainruns and her lastofall. There!

now east now west

 

now east now west

the road has a mind of its own

and my feet obey

 

the rest of me stays behind
treelike

 

above

the sky grows gentle

 

MY HEART OPENS

the road goes on

as if not knowing

which way is best

Oranges

He was determined this time not to cut his fingers as he sliced the oranges.  He would focus and keep his fingers well away from the blade.   He remembered all too well how previously his blood had flowed onto the oranges and pooled on the plate.  He knew it wasn’t just because he was getting old, fading into memory and the lure of the trees and his first kiss.  She had been as nervous as he and had closed her eyes.  Now all he could think of was feeding her oranges and the taste on her lips.  And suddenly, she had bitten his lip, making it bleed. And then, more softly, she was feeding him. She was delicious and he . . . . he was lost in the trees.  He put the knife down and wept.  

What she came to say

Though he is dying and lost in time,
She will not permit the truth be spoken
Or any other game be played
Until she says what she came to say
To one who knows her wilder ways.

(The sun and moon now count the time;
The trees and shadows bend his mind.)

She, undressing on the forest floor,
All green and gold and shimmering song,
Takes him to ground and shapes his soul:
You will not die and never know
What it is to love and be alone.  

(She holds him in a last embrace
And turns his eyes to see her face.)

Nighttime in the Lyceum

Before the light changed and I forgot

the rules for how to see things as they are,

day was day and night was hidden in my heart.

What is not there

Though I am known to God
As Hughlings, my friends call me
Hugh and leave it at that --
Grace takes care of the rest.

Though I do not believe
In anything or have any Jesus,
Yet I retain a kind of genius
For harmless lies.

It is as if during the day
I can still see the stars
Blazing out of the night
And truly see what is

not there. Some say
it is a harmless madness --
My friends though look deep
Into what were once my eyes

And all they see is night.

As you once were

Set out beneath the stars
on a solitary raft
that drifts along the shore
on a current
that will bring you
out to sea and sky
beyond all imagining

as you once were
as you will be again.

Our first night

We met when raw desire
first flowed like fire
through the dark fullness
of simple night. We met
in the play of wind and wave
upon an unsung shore,
where rack and shell
called out the time to come,
the time that's now
and will always be
and be no more. 
Before there was love
Or hate, our names were
Inscribed in every sigh
in the golden harvest
of our first night.
You came to be
as I lay dying, barely
breathing, ready
to be born again
and praise the light.

Out of Time

When they removed the tree they moved the place
Or rather the place became a barren field
Where light through the green, still moving shade
No longer marks the ground like rain. 
And yet here I am with you,
Your face bent over mine the air
rippling with laughter the tree
covering us in its bright shadow the earth
yielding as we fall out of time. Out of time?
What is left but song?
Listen! the ringing in the air, this rain
These tears hammering out the tune, time and place.
He, she, and all you love, draw near. 

 

The Fall

He fell (he was always falling)

Or rather, he jumped, missing the water

That would have taken him, leaving his remains

to flow in the rhythms of his speech,

Washed clean like one hoping to please

Instead of what was, a silent heap,

Though there was heard from a nearby street

What some would call a melodious scream.

Kiss and Tell

 
Who but a god

Could look at you

Sweetly laughing

And not die


For a kiss, dying

Again and again

Like gods of spring

that never truly


Die. Your lips

Like night

hold back the day

And close my eyes . . .

Awake! Awake!

You are no god

To kiss and tell

Of life and death.

 

The Sound that Wind Makes

(for Maya)

I want words to breathe like I do, weep when I do, and bruise easily.

I want words to dream and remember those dreams that first set me on this path.

I want words to grow old with me and become like the lines in my face and tell me
      old stories that keep my stumbling spirit from falling and new ones that tell of
      love forever young and freely given.
I want words of no regret even for the sorry waste of all I have left undone, unsaid.

I want words to hold up a mirror and see there all who at some time have gone hand
      in hand with me through this life.

O what a wondrously crowded reflection that would be, all of them in the morning
     of their lives, young and old alike.  

O that words would fall like these tears and mark the page in silver and gold, the true
colors of night, that these words would live on in their hearts and find some rest there,
though I myself be nothing but the sound the restless wind makes on a cold night,
the wind that sweeps down the mountainside and past all the houses in which loved ones
have died and gathers up all those lost souls and scatters what is but dust and ash
through the deep space of time. 

Two Part Invention

If all there is and comes to be
A child to hold a dying sun
Then let the world our night to know
And let this song be what we love.

If all there is and cannot be
Two to bind a trinity
Then let our love forever shine
And hope for dark eternity.

Rise, O child, as a single note!
Lift this song on the desert sea
And make us all forget-me-not
That all may know love's levity!

The question yet I put to thee:
Does Death herself sing harmony?

 

River Notes

As I sit here writing tonight at my desk I am on the river and see myself in the flow of all things . . . the sounds of water, bird and wind are my voice, and all my senses are alive as though the stars were at elbow and foot . . . I breathe in the night and orion, aldebaran, and procyon come closer, and there you are again, musa, luna puella, your body curving and folding in the current, laughing and inviting me to dive with you beneath the rippling and lose myself at last, these words nothing but the falling rain.

Digging in the garden

 

Digging in the garden I find

but earthy loot: worms, beetles,

pebbles and ocean shells

and a blackened shard to cast away

for luck and there in the shade

of a supple palm, taking hold

where it should not be, a girl :

I think of Phaiakia and Nausicaa

washing her clothes for some

beggar like me, rough-hewn

in all but speech and she lingers

beside the pool, wondering

if it be a god or beast or bard

that shapes her soul seaward

to be free. She looks and looks,

not believing what she sees

or what she feels. He tells her

of a younger, stranger man

who will come for her

when the spell is broken

and she as wild as the sea. 

 

Though she's lost her way

Though she's lost her way

a river runs through her veins,

the moon in her hand. 

 

For the life of me

Yesterday before school I watched the sun rise over the trees but for the life of me I couldn't remember what I was supposed to do next.  

                                The trees                                           

                                 I can’t remember    

                                Yes! It was

                                The sun

                                 Life    

                                Above . . .

Song for Richard

You spoke the only true word I know
And that word became an open wound
They cleaned with lye, not knowing
Your pain, your tears were like wine
That would save their shining souls.  

Pick up the rifle, son
No you said
That’s no SIR, son
Pick up the damn gun!
No you said. 

They called the captain
They called the priest
They called the doctor
Are you crazy, son?

No no no

Come with us!
You walked away.

I see you now forty years later
alone on that far thundering shore
    “I will not fight your fucking war!”
You are carving a face out of driftwood
the face behind the face of everyone I meet
I have it still and think of you.

You came back. True to your word.
And they sent you to Leavenworth
Where your bruises became sores
Your sores gaping wounds
Your screams the blessing
That saves our sorry souls. 

Once begun

Across the lake the sun falls

Water rises to the night

The moon divides

Lets loose a silent keening

Human bird and spark

And then there’s naught

 

But clap and clatter

Of constellations:

Your story once begun

For my students (2019 - 2020)

For Yoshi

Here an old man on his crane-like legs unfurls his wings and tucks

    his head into the clouds

Here a young man who does not know he has wings begins to flutter

    like a leaf in the wind

*****

For Mateo

Here the seasons wait in line to fall upon the land

Here a young boy already old and bent in two spins the wheel

Here Mateo, young in winter, dreams of hunting

*****

 

Dividing the night

If you were here

All aflame in the evening light,

If it had been you running

through my fingers

like long summer grass

If it had been you curling

Like a wave upon the shore

So much like my own heart

Beating for night to come

And you close upon me

Your eyes dividing night

To hide away the tears,

There would be no sound

Or silence, no hour,

just you and all delight. 

 

Turn the page

Turn the page and you will find
The emptiness you have been searching for:
A blank page is waiting for you,
Alone now for the last time,
Yearning for all that is not there,
Each word you write so full of life
You'll never want to turn the page again.
The sun will spin and the moon will weave
Itself into the mystery of the night
Where now you find yourself
As you truly are: not really there at all. 
Let the land flourish and be whole,
Let the thunder bring you home.

Fuck you I love you

 

Fuck you I love you is pretty

Much the same as the golden strands

Of your hair falling from the sky

Like petals and your lips a bitter

Chocolate and the children dressed up

In grown-up clothes, high heels and

Cowboy boots to begin their journey

To the dark and lovely Afterlife.

Fuck you I love you! All the prying

Eyes of heaven are not as blue as

Yours so lovely in that shade of black

Which is the same through my eyes

As the night sky is to the riverrun

Through dark fields of wheat and fire. 

Foraging

 

Last night the raccoons foraged

in our backyard: there were grapes,

bread, cheese, wine and figs

we'd left out ‘til morning. 

All the while we slept

 

and I, dreaming of dreaming,

tasted honey and found you

close, pawing softly, hands

and feet rhythmically climbing.

In the morning there were tracks

on my arms and legs and you,

looking out, cursed the varmints

gently and, like a detective, traced

your fingers through your hair

and could not help but smile.

Where no angels reside

 

You want to know

what is your life

but all you find

are words, zeroes

and ones,

and bread crumbs

in your beard.

Where you ask

is the red iris

that is your heart?

Where the feather

of your breath

or your absence?

You want to become

what you already are

while there is still a you

that cares how light

becomes a face

and looks at you

like you were glass.

There comes a time

when love turns away

and finds itself in dust

where no angels reside,

no one teaches you

how to live, where

no one knows

you are not there.

Touch

Your skin like this ground

Upon which all things run

Is scarred and cracked

yet yearns for life

and wordless words

that speak of love. 

You lie there

and think of spring. 

You are as old as rain

and ever young. 

A way of dying

He held her feathers in his hand

But the wind took them for itself.

There was nothing but these words

To write on this dry coarse paper,

Her skin, the red ink she died of

Running off like a mountain stream.

What poets do

A hawk is as little

a darting thought

or glance

As it is a sky-wolf

or windborne voice.

It is a name

for what cannot be

named within ourselves

and would else be lost.

So we stop and die

But would bravely say,

We dive like hawks

and climb the sky. 

So deep his eyes

                        for mickey

There is life and death

and life again, ground

to common cosmic

dust. Here we end

and begin again,

his eyes so deep

we find in death

his life and love

within ourselves.  

Botanical Terminology

                        -for so k

So, here you are

only different in form

prima puella

'heart blooming

irises'

even at night. 

No, not I / Revision

No, Not I*

I did not do
the thing I did,
nor say aught
that I have said.

Nor will I die
Like other men.
I will decline,
and lie in bed.

            *Hamlet, III.i, 96-97; V, gravediggers

 

            *    *    *

 

Revision

If only 'lie'
would take a nap,
but like my tale
it likes to wag: 

nor did I say
what I have said, 

Which I prefer, but
would miss the play.

Most would say, what’s the point?
Such slender threads are all my thought.

“I am not Prince Hamlet nor meant to be” --
Eliot says and does not say,
revels here are ever ended.

Dying well

She wore no more
than her eyes,
She held the ring
and spoke her vow. 
Simple as breath,
as wind she died.

We turned now
to hear him speak,
but all we heard,
as he fell, was
the fall of rain
in every word. 

We all agreed
they both died well.  
We could not hear
each to each
their vows betrayed
in the river's deep.

Moon walk

Walking through days
I have walked through
long ago, same
step and stride, same
heart wanting something

more; yet today
is the only day
I can’t remember you
Walking through the years
to find me standing

here alone, longing
for the moon,
Its light buried
in my heart of hearts:

Be with you soon.  

Pauline, Charles and Hugh

                                                                                                   Photograph by Ber Himwich

What the eye sees
Is true, though
only a shadow
of the truth.

What remains
Is ours alone
and holds us
All as one.

No one can take
What is not theirs
To give: a heart,
a mind, a simple

soul and what
at last is grace.
Just so are we
For what remains

So simply bound
As friends.