Hughlings Himwich

Journey to the Shore

 

The song is beautiful; the singer gone 

The best of us are lonely and forever in love 

Maybe not tonight but soon this silence 

Though there is a chill in the air Ono still purrs

The girls chatter happily.  Who can help but smile

Sea and sky are one.  So too the sand 

In the distance, I hear a voice.  An echo 

Words. Distant thunder 

No two alike.  This night and day 

Alone at last: earth air fire water

 

Sweet Mary

 

Sweet Mary down on the farm

took my hand and led me on
down to where the river wept
and lay with me while I slept..

Now it is of her I dream, 
lost forever in the river’s tears.

 

I never meant no harm

 

And don't you know it,

What will be always was

And don't you know it,

What was wasn't. 

It's like when we say,

I never meant no harm

But hurts before

The man the boy strikes

Down the father, cold

And stiff beneath the stone.  

 

Call it love, an irrational equation

 

        2(y² – 9) = 2

 

 

 

Discussion of the 'Irrational'

HH: David, is this just a stupid equation? (I was fiddling around trying to make a mathematical expression for love): 2(y² – 9) = 2 / Call it Love.

DM: I wouldn’t say any equation is stupid, but I’m not sure exactly why that one would evoke “love”. There are equations that yield graphs that are quite distinctly heart-shaped, though
.

HH: Does the square root of 10 result in an infinite, non-repeating decimal?

DM: Indeed it does.

 

HH:  So then, what is the value of ‘y’ in this equation?

 

DM: y would equal plus or minus root(10), to be sure.

 

HH: Would it be fair to call this an ‘irrational’ equation?

 

DM: You would definitely say its solutions are irrational, but it wouldn’t be standard to call the equation itself “irrational” since the numbers actually appearing in it are rational.

 

HH: I am looking for a little poetic license. 

 

DM: With poetic license, one could definitely refer to it as an “irrational equation."

 

    (DM is Dr. David Metzler)

 

 

Love is so strange

 

Every time he looked at her he scowled.  She finally had enough and asked him what his problem was.  He said, “You’re so beautiful.  I can’t help myself.”  She didn’t understand. “But your face is so ugly when you look at me?” He didn’t understand and, of course, all the while he was scowling and making himself look ugly.  Finally, she asked, “Can you smile?” and he answered, “I thought I was.” “No, a smile looks like this,” and she smiled for him. He scowled. Then, for some reason, she kissed him. When people see the two of them together now, hand in hand, he scowling and she smiling, they wonder aloud, “What an odd couple!" Love is so strange.

 

My Pick-Up Line

 

Be brave! No more sneaking around, no more affectation!
What great soul said that? Yours, of course! One soul
seeks another, that's how it knows where to go.
You and I the same, same with wings and wind. 
if you keep hiding, you may prove
you don't exist at all, no hands no feet, 
not those beautiful eyes that catch the sky
(yes, your eyes are beautiful. It's never a lie.)
no joy or grief, just an echo that dims. 
Listen! the ringing in your ear is the tolling of your soul:
it's time, it's time, it's time, it's damn well time already!
Enough of all this hiding only to lose, a soul
only knows itself as the moon --
the one becomes two. 
The less we fear and sooner than now
the more we can dance and dance our own tune.  
Let the kite go and be where it goes.
That's poetry! It's like falling in love, 
Hey there, beautiful, where ya goin?
I'm going with you. 

         (Can you tell I wrote this on a wish of a prayer?
          It comes as it goes and foregoes all despair.)

 

Starry, Starry Night

Both poetry and mathematics are forms of madness, the latter well disguised by what appears to be its rational method and application, e.g. facing west we plot a course to the third star to the left of that cottonwood where we pledge that someday we will travel. We are eagerly triangulating when a poet comes by and we dazzle him with our mathematical machinations. He seems for a moment unsteady on his feet and asks us to sit with him. We do, feeling sorry for our hyperbolics, but then, as if our diverging equations had actually driven him crazy, he begins to spout utter nonsense. He tells us we have already arrived where we seek to go and that the leaves are laughing at us. “Can you not see how the descending darkness of the evening is becoming one with the shadow of the tree?” We politely acknowledge the plain truth of what he says and, using that same darkness as an excuse, say we have to go. As we are walking off, we look back and then stare at each other: there’s no one there. We return to where we thought he had been and now, a little unsteady ourselves, sit again beneath the cottonwood, laughing ourselves into each other’s arms.

 

 

"O me! O life!"

 

He moved so slowly no one saw him

Disappear. He moved too fast.

O he’s still there alright, standing still

As though it were the dead of night

No moon or stars or morning fire

could burn away. O, he’s there.

He sings, we listen, and in our sleep

We wake to find him so close to hand

We could touch him if we dared.

There is no fear like fear of life.

 

Each Alone Together

 

From where I sit
I can hear the rain
And see the desert bloom

It’s but a room
Like yours,
On a street like yours

What we’ve done
To each other
Cannot last forever  

Outside a girl plays
In the rain
And gathers flowers

She sees me watching
And laughs,
She could be crying

She’s rooted there
As I am here,
Each alone together

 

How comes the rain?

How comes the rain?
There is no sky

And yet the moon is in my eye.
What I see is a girl in braids

Who’s lost cold wet afraid.
She calls out to all who are alone.

I know her voice. It is my own.
This is not a happy poem

Yet it may blossom in a storm,
A flower marking every stone.

 

The Silence Here

 

You’ve left and I am here

With what remains,

The singing and the chatter

Woven into everything

I hear. Never has it been

As quiet as it is now

And yet so full of pain.

The silence stays,

Words unspoken, mere air,

Notes of a song unsung,

A morning and evening prayer

That you and yours may forever be

As close as the silence here.

 

Summer Rain

 

This morning air is what remains

of one I met when all was lost.

She offered shelter for a night.

I woke to find her gone, adrift

in days, she left a note: There wasn't

time to say farewell. There was

no name. Alone again, I walked away. 

Her touch upon me like summer rain.  

 

Fifty Words

 

We blindly feel our way

Along the wall, then think

To dig, but never deep enough.

On the other side, we homer on,

Some fifty words to hold against

The light. A tiger leaps through us

As if we were not there.

It mauls its prey. We break

For lunch.

 

Emily Dickinson's "I saw no Way --"

Though some read Emily Dickinson’s “I saw no Way” as a description of a crisis of faith or declaration of profound loneliness, the way to Heaven barred, it for me an ecstatic statement.  It may be that these perspectives can be reconciled.

    I saw no Way—The Heavens were stitched—
    I felt the Columns close—
    The Earth reversed her Hemispheres—
    I touched the Universe—

    And back it slid—and I alone—
    A Speck upon a Ball—
    Went out upon Circumference—
    Beyond the Dip of Bell—

When I sing this poem to the tune of Amazing Grace, it seems to me to be in praise of what cannot be rationally circumscribed. There she is a speck upon a Ball, her poem, like the rhythmic swinging of the tongue of a Bell. reaches out beyond itself (beyond its lip).   I often ring a bell for my students and ask them where the sound goes.  Wherever it goes, it goes beyond the bell itself and takes us with it, escaping into silence.

    I sing in praise.  
    Of what cannot be known -- 
    We breathe – no paper 
    Stained with ink.

 

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

Not a myth

Out of blood comes anemone

Comes the flower the maiden holds

And falls in love with death, the truth

Of spring, not the myth,

a bird that sings at night

and sings alone,

the love herself denied, a sacrifice

that makes of art a vow

be true to death in life, no signs

but discarded treasure found,

a comb for her golden hair,

a paper knife, a silver coin, 

a button missing from her blouse,

the relics of an empty house.

 

A Bullfrog

Though “First Fig” by Edna St. Vincent Millay is better suited for other purposes than “Now I lay me down to sleep. / If I die before I wake, / I pray the Lord / my soul to keep,” it has become for me a bedtime prayer:

    My candle burns at both ends;       
          It will not last the night;
    But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—
          It gives a lovely light.

I know there are other versions of “Now I lay me down to sleep” but the one I know I have always known, despite the best efforts of my parents to laugh it off. I still love the poem but believe not a word. Poetry is like that. Edna’s “Fig” too. True, the candle will not last the night, but in the morning I will ‘doubly’ light another and then another, though that depends on the supply of candles and “if I wake”— meantime, such candle-burning does give that lovely light, as she says.

So, last night as “I lay me down to sleep,” thinking of the absurdity of life, of drawing meaning from nonsense, of burning precipitously through candles in short supply, these lines came to me like a serenade from a bog (pace Emily Dickinson, "I'm a Nobody! Who are you?"):

    A Bullfrog

    I laugh and cry, then laugh again,  
    And cry— it doesn’t seem quite right,
    But do you or you or you, my friends,
    Know another life?

It’s really just “Another Fig” via inspirationis magistrae millay, but it served the purpose of another good night’s rest.

What prayer or poem ushers you into that sleep from which, of course, you will wake? What bedtime words spring to mind? If there are none, there’s still time to make them up.

That’s an invitation, folks, to compose yourself and send the lines to me.

Here is one I have already received from Margie Keck, burning brightly:

    Burden me equally
    With the sublime and the common.
    The necessary honoring of both
    Is an issue of utmost importance.
    Leading to my spiritual awakening,
    The true work of my life.

 

Spartoi

 

If we were to sow our teeth,

There would come stories

To make us shudder

Like the one about a desperately

Happy old man who gave up

His love of life to become

A gravedigger and lied

To those asking whose grave

He dug, falsely saying

He was looking for treasure

But so far had found only gold.

 

Spartoi: the ‘sown men’ of Greek mythology, born from dragon’s teeth. Cadmus in founding Thebes had for good reason slain a dragon, sacred to Ares, and was advised by Athena to sow its teeth. The line of the Spartoi ends in a great many tragic stories, those of Oedipus and his spawn among them. In death, Cadmus and Harmonia, his wife, became snakes. It does not seem to have been a punishment. It is worth noting that Cadmus is said to have brought the Phoenician alphabet to Greece. The result we all know well. One might ask why are snakes sacred to the gods. To understand that would be a treasure. It may be necessary like Cadmus to become one.

When I say the wind speaks to me . . . .

 

When I say the wind speaks to me

Like a lover, I am not speaking

of the wind the leaves reveal

Nor of any lover who draws me near.  

There’s neither hope nor cause for tears.

She promises she’ll never leave.  

 

Another kind of seeing

For Eve

Even if I were blind

      your golden

Voice would light

       the way, my

Eyes forever shining.

 

Surprise

                for eve

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. 

 

Wild Iris

 

for Zoe

There’s that garden

that none

need pardon.

There wild Iris grows

beneath the trees

it loves.

They catch the light

and make its song

their own.

 

How a man becomes the sea

 

The moment she touched the old man’s hand

He lost his sight, yet standing lost upon the sand

He heard the light upon the waves like keys.

She sang and let him go and like the wind he sighed.

None knows what song she sang or how he blindly

Played with light or how a man became the sea.

Windflower

 

Come with me, two

three jumps but

don’t look back.

Lately angels

have been falling.

The garden is rank

With anemone.

 

 

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. 

 

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.

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

 

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.

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. 

The dead don't talk

I know why

the dead don't talk

to the living:

it hurts

to remember

and we stopped

listening

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.  

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. 

 

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

Advisory

 

Advisory for our Times

You're not a talking head to me
Nor I to you, I hope. The eyes
Are not the window to the soul
Without a body. Thank God for
Our bellies and ourselves.
We are knees arms toes and hands,
The grass gives way beneath our weight,
Our feet leave telltale signs
Of where we’ve been are going . . . .

Imagine a world in which a hug is forbidden
For fear of infection, body to body. Imagine!
Hugging your mother father sister brother
Can only take you so far – your soul
is going elsewhere.
                                Look to your right
Or left, there is another body, another soul,
Who desires nothing more than
Not to infect you.  
                             Do not believe it!

 

By lamplight

 

There is before me in my room
A broken lamp that yet gives light
from years ago when father read to me
of little mice who ruled the house
And left my room a fearful sight --
My toys and clothes all here and there.
He smiled his smile, as I do mine,
Beneath this lamp and its brief light.

 

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.

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.

The Going

 

In a quiet time long ago and now
a river runs past where I stand looking
at the play of light upon the flow
and draws me to itself
and I am gone
                        until the chill
of the evening hour shakes me loose
and I remember where I am
and where I long to be. Someone
is waiting beside a fire.

 O I am older now
and what once was home
is now the sea.
                         Long ago someone
held me in her arms.
                                  It’s there I go.

 

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.

Gaius Valerius

 

A previous engagement has kept me occupied for seventy-four years

and so I missed a chance to dine with Gaius Valerius.

His invitation read simply: Mortui mortuis solum loquuntur.

There was no mention of time or place. I thought it strange.

 

The Darkest Blue

 

I. 

This poem is a wingéd

thing, hovering

above the western sea,

seeing all

that isn't there. 

II.                                                                 

The day is dying,                                            

soft like glass,

what we've lost

is all that lasts. 

III.

The song leads on

to a hidden isle

where nothing is

is reality.

IV.

Song shields the eye

from the final fire,

the darkest blue

at the sunstruck hour.

 

A Reading

Our life hangs

by a single thread

That holds the weight

On which itself depends:

Words burn to the touch

the hand that holds

the pen and die(s).

There is no other light.

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.

For Alex Thomas Coming To My House

The thought of Alex Thomas coming to my house

The thought of Alex Thomas coming to my house

The thought of Alex Thomas coming to my house

Could make an old man cry. Not me! Round

The back my grandson plays hide and seek.

I’ve not the slightest idea what that means

But, Alex, you will know! I can only dream

And look for nuts on airy ground.

You see, I’ve placed a charm about the house

And made my home among earthbound clouds.

Alex, you deserve this stupid poem. Take the blame!

If you were me, you would do the same.  

If that’s confusing, Lord, just let it rain.

 

For Rachel

 

    I do not know the pain you feel, dear one,

    But it must be more than a soul can bear --

    I feel that and would say no more

    Than what the towering tree nearby

    Would have me say: we feel it,

    Earth and root, leaf and wind,

    The sky itself would fall for you

    and comfort you. It knows

    no other blue.

For Mary and Emma

Video Recording: For Mary and Emma

 

Hey Mary, Hey Emma,

Let’s say together

what we have made our own:

κοινὰ τὰ τῶν φίλων.

Those who know no Greek

will understand what is essential:

we are friends.

In class, you let me ramble,

which I do well,

while you do all the work,

if you call it work

to play qui, quae, quod

and quack like ducks.

Some folks say Latin and Homer’s Greek are dead.

They’ll know better

when they hear angels like you

speak only bella Latina

and reckon things by the Αlpha and 0mega.  

Those who know no Latin or ancient Greek

will find themselves back in school.

Not you!

Valete, vos amo magis quam dicere possum.

 

For Christine -- May, 2020

 

In times like these

Christine is our Christine

Not for better or worse

But for her gift not to dwell

On what’s not possible

But on what is

and do it so well.

 

Loci

 

Fragment

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] remember]

 

From which all life comes

for Brenda

We bury this bird
Where it fell.

It goes to earth
Where its mother dwells.  

Morning Light

The junk in my head gathers dust
Year to year, day to night

But rises with the call of birds,
Becomes a choir in the morning light.

For Alex Thomas Coming To My House

The thought of Alex Thomas coming to my house

The thought of Alex Thomas coming to my house

The thought of Alex Thomas coming to my house

Could make an old man cry. Not me! Round

The back my grandson plays hide and seek.

I’ve not the slightest idea what that means

But, Alex, you will know! I can only dream

And look for nuts on airy ground.

You see, I’ve placed a charm about the house

And made my home among earthbound clouds.

Alex, you deserve this stupid poem. Take the blame!

If you were me, you would do the same.  

If that’s confusing, Lord, just let it rain.

 

A Flea

Having not heard from you in days

(seems like years to a flea like me),

I worry, no doubt needlessly,

but there it is – the worry

worrying me, knowing

it will do no good,

and that’s a worry too,

so let’s call it prayer,

which likewise does no good

except it makes me feel better

or worse about myself,

depending, as it does,

on a dog.

All x 1 & done

At a certain age time passes more quickly,

we count days by a two by four

then all x 1 & done.

 

 

IT TAKES TWO TO TANGO

Porridge, she said,

Doesn't rhyme with orange,

And then, as if upon a stage,

Danced a golden tango

About my bed. O, I said,

That's how it's done,

A golden orange on my head. 

 

Thalassa

What poets know is what is not.
It sets us free upon the shore to dance like rain
And cry out to the sea as to a friend,
Who leaves and calls us home, its true name.

Its name is οὐ τόπος, the sea of tears,
In whose waves we would gladly drown.
We dance, I say, to enchant the sea
and make it sing: κοινὰ τὰ τῶν φίλων.

οὐ τόπος (ou topos): not a place
κοινὰ τὰ τῶν φίλων: (koina ta tōn philōn): common are the things of friends.

A Flea

for Charles

Having not heard from you in days

(seems like years to a flea like me),

I worry, no doubt needlessly,

but there it is – the worry

worrying me, knowing

it will do no good,

and that’s a worry too,

so let’s call it prayer,

which likewise does no good

except it makes me feel better

or worse about myself,

depending, as it does,

on a dog.

 

Nocte

 

He tripped and fell
and had a tale to tell

But all you could hear
was a door closing.

O there were whistles
and wolves and owls

But all anyone could hear
was an old man gasping,

alone at last
with a tale to tell.