Category Archives: verse and worse

concerto of our climate

A supple line and steady chords,
A light, stately pace, a pulse.
The air itself vibrates with the
Bows on strings and the buzzing reed.
Oboe and counterpoint—one wants
So much more than that. Time itself
Simplified; measures and chords,
With nothing more than these pure notes.

Suppose that this old melody
Floated free of its author’s flaws,
Erased his bile, spite and fear,
Cleansed the players’ bitterness,
And turned our time into a tune.
Still, one would want more and need more
Than this oboe’s sinuous line.

There would remain the restless mind
So that one would want to return
To the music from bitter thoughts
From regrets and shames. That turn,
For us—with our minds so noisy—
Our delight lies only there.

(A direct response to Wallace Stevens’ “The Poems of our Climate,” using music and time instead of art and space. See also: Wallace Stevens, The Snow Man; Wallace Stevens’ idea of order; the fetter; and one supple line.)

Mrs. Dalloway with a smartphone

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Mrs. Dalloway created the Zoom link herself. There was so much to do for the evening’s virtual meeting: outreach, slides, breakout-group assignments.

Scrolling social media, Clarissa came upon a lovely vacation photo of an English garden. How calm the air can be early in the morning, like the flap of a wave, the kiss of a wave. She scrolled down to the comment thread and saw that Hugh had posted a cheerful remark. Her old friend Hugh–the admirable Hugh! She “liked” his comment.

A push notification: Active shooter. The location seemed to be no more than five miles away. Clarissa could have been there.

Septimus saw the same notification. Deep in a subreddit for veterans, he muttered to himself several times: “Active shooter.” Evans had been shot. No, it was an IED–Evans had bled out before Septimus’ own eyes when the shrapnel had ripped his throat. He’d come home in a body bag. But you could still see Evans sometimes, you could still hear him clearly speak. Septimus scanned the comments for Evans’ name, because he might still post. He might say what it’s like where he is now–is it a happier place?

Now, an automated reminder to take his meds. Septimus hated those pills. They deadened him so that he could hardly see the future or how love rules everything or the disgusting corruption of the human body.

On Clarissa’s screen, the name Peter Welch popped up. Out of the blue, after so many years, Peter suddenly wanted to know how she was doing. “Where RU?!?” she asked him back. He was in town, visiting from Dubai; maybe they could get together? His status was complicated and he wanted to talk.

A flood of memories, like photos from deep in one’s saved-items folder. For some reason, seeing Peter’s text brought back that time she’d hooked up with Sally Seton.

Richard was talking to someone, but Clarissa couldn’t see who. His laptop was angled away from her, and he had his headset on. She checked his calendar. He must be talking to Millicent Bruton. Millicent had sent the meeting invite and had asked Hugh to join them. Clarissa felt a pang. It wasn’t sexual jealousy–Millicent was no threat, and these people would never see each other in person. The feeling was FOMO. Why didn’t Millicent want her to join the conversation? Was Clarissa totally out of the loop now?

Richard honestly found Millicent Bruton a bit silly and scatterbrained. She’d drafted a post that she wanted him to put on his policy Substack. He, Hugh, and Millicent were editing it together in a shared doc. It was a mess. Her main point seemed to be that people should move to Canada. (That’s always the idea, Richard thought–let’s all move to Canada). Hugh, who managed internal comms. for his family’s real estate business, believed that no one ever reads more than 40 words. He was adding bolded headings– “What it means” and “Why it matters”–and turning Millicent’s paragraphs into bullet points.

Richard would post her piece–why not? His traffic was way down, anyway. So nice of Clarissa to organize the webinar for his org! A virtual get-together might boost his profile. He thought about sending his wife a heart emoji, but that feeling passed before he clicked.

Clarissa hoped that people would join the Zoom on time, leave their cameras on, post witty comments in the chat, and have a good time together. She pinged an old friend with a reminder and ordered a protein smoothie to be delivered for lunch. Before she submitted her order, she messaged Richard to see if he wanted anything, but he’d already ordered his own tempeh tacos.

Their daughter Elizabeth said, “I’m going outside for a walk.” Clarissa and Richard nodded distractedly and went back to their screens.

Amy Replies

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Written upon learning that Tennyson’s Locksley Hall (or its successor, Loxley), is now “occupied by a Staffordshire County Council special school for boys with learning difficulties.”

As you cease to babble, man, about my forehead and my cheek,
Once my ear finds surcease from the wordy cataract you speak,

Then I turn my thought to the future; I peer far as an eye can see,
And I trace successive branches of our august family tree.

With each generation, daughters appear less bound to duty,
Wriggling free of what you'd call their debt to men--their beauty.

I watch the public purse fill with funds for a war on poverty.
The revenue, from taxes on this very kind of property.

Loxley Hall, a council school for teenagers with special needs.
That is the vision, cousin, I descry once your voice recedes.

Locksley! our fruitful land, our ivied walls, our portion of the shore,
Where curlews cry and moorlands meet the hollowed ocean's roar.

My vision conjures the final squire, possessions in his boot.
A receipt for his old feudal seat has made his tax bill moot.

An administrator takes his place, perhaps a she or a them,
Born in the eastern lands, I imagine, whence you say you come.

Not in vain does the future beckon us; onward must we move.
The great world spins forever and it's our burden to improve.

Answering “Locksley Hall,” although Tennyson may also disparage his narrator. See also: three endings for Christabel; “For Gerard Manley Hopkins“

Red Line

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The decrepit T lurches into motion,
Its doors having taken--each--a full bite
Of the human mass that pushes through the tubes
Of Downtown Crossing. Damp, tense, tired, late,
The crowd flows under Tremont Street: so many!

I'm sitting on my buttoned wallet pocket,
Clutching the laptop hidden in my bag.
We fix our eyes on our own pairs of feet
Or on screens that, down here, cannot connect.

After Park (without an r), the pace picks up.
I remember to close my eyes. On each side,
An anonymous shoulder presses mine.
The only sound: that familiar patter
Of wheels' steel on track: tha-thump, thumpy-clack.
It’s been in my ears since cigarette smoke 
Still billowed in trains and settled on seats.

It brings to mind that turbid ebb and flow
That Arnold heard as human misery.
Maybe, but it's one pulse for all of us.
As we clatter over the rain-lashed river,
The breath of all the invisibles who ride
With me merges and thickens into one.

Cephalus

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I am so lucky: near the finish line
With no tragedies. My three sons are fine.
I may never have to open the door
To wrenching news or the grim stench of war.

I sleep all right these days, now that lust is less
A master, and guilt, that dogged hunter,
Lets me burrow in a secret shelter
Where I tell myself I deserve success.

When I heard Socrates had come down here,
I sent a boy to stop him. My knees are such
I cannot walk uphill to Athens much.
I hate to miss the clever talk, and I fear
The wise and famous will forget Cephalus.

It was like old times; we quoted lovely lines.
But I knew he'd start to press: “What do you mean,
Cephalus? Doesn't that come in different kinds?”
The more we examine hope, the more hope declines.
I left Socrates to my son, exited the scene,
And, wearing my silly wreath, resumed my place,
Performing prayers in the marketplace.

Cf. Plato, Republic 331d: “‘Very well,’ said Cephalus, ‘I will turn the whole argument over to you. For now is the time when I must take charge of the sacrifices.’ ‘Well,’ he said, ‘Aren’t I, Polemarchus, the heir to everything you have?’ ‘Certainly,’ he laughed, and he went at once to the sacrifices.” See also: Pindar on hope; philosophy and self-help; shelter

Peter Levine

A Blog for Civic Renewal

Category Archives: verse and worse

concerto of our climate

Mrs. Dalloway with a smartphone

Amy Replies

Red Line

Cephalus