Another 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 drizzling in his 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 agressor,
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 . . .
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