It’s predawn, and the wood doves are silent.
The sun slumbers under the sea.
One blackbird sings achingly sweetly
diluting the darkness with zeal.
Further off, past the sound of the breakers,
first light limns the edge of the world.
The wood doves and we and the blackbird
are witnesses: sunrise is grand.
Cynic admonishes:
‘When you wish upon a star
you bet on something that’s too far
away to pay attention to
something minuscule as you.’
Stellar response:
‘Don’t underrate the speed of light.
We’re here for you day and night.
Pay no heed to cynics who
try to tarnish hope for you.’
Cynic sneers:
‘Ooh, silver linings! What comes next,
peaks with clouds up to their necks
who divert from mountainous tasks
to help poor you because you ask?’
Stellar response:
‘To believe in only what you see
blinds you to reality.
Once you’re wise you will perceive
that seeing starts when you believe.’
‘The tears roll down [Which way did you expect?]
the ageing actor’s cheeks.’ [Who isn’t ageing?]
My unwanted shadow editor directs
attacks on how I speak and think. He’s staging
a sit-down strike against my muse who’s paging
the gods and me to create something fine.
The chance is nil that I’ll achieve divine
or even adequate prose with my darts
of inspiration, but I’ll keep on trying
before the ageing actor’s out of sorts.
He could turn it on, but then he’d be connected
to headlines he’d find saddening and beyond
his power to affect. He smiles at ‘power’.
If he turns it on, he can expect new email.
That is how he and his friends remain ‘in touch’
across absences encompassing more years
…’Than what?’ he thinks…than his dog has had hot meals.
He does not have a dog; its bowl is empty.
He turns the phone on, photographs its leash.
(Note: I wrote this vision after ‘seeing’ it while in Switzerland. It was published in THE ARMCHAIR AESTHETE, New York, Issue #7, summer 1998)
I am not here with them, but I can see them — a group of people in every imaginable form of appearance. Their many forms of appearance make all the more impression on me because they are not imagined — they are real! Small babies, some only a day old, and many younger than that. Handsome children, ugly children. Young adults. People of greying years. Grey, old people. Some, in each of the ages, have faces haunted by pain. Some have bodies wasted by sickness or by hard usage. Some are horribly mutilated and dismembered by violent forces. Others merely look surprised, or less than that. They are all of them, just this very instant, newly dead.
‘Hello,’ says a voice. ‘You are here. Four things will happen here, one of which is this Arrival Lecture. In this lecture, I will tell you about the other events. I will tell you now, because when they happen, you will be less likely to listen.’ All of the group of people remain as they were; those who can, standing; those who can, facing the source of the voice. I see them, but I cannot see the speaker. A dense fog or mist is all around.
The voice says, ‘You have just died. All of you died at exactly the same instant. None of you were conscious of birth. Some of you learned more than others in the Soul School, that time between birth and death. All of you are conscious now, and will remember everything that happens from now on, as well as everything you have experienced when you were conscious before death.’
‘You are here, somewhere outside the Gates of Heaven. You will, in a moment, be bathed in the light of God. You will be further equipped. You will be free to go.’
A brilliant white golden light covered the People. Wounds closed, sores healed, backs straightened.
‘You will feel better than on that day, if you ever had a healthy day, when you felt the very best in your life before.’
The People changed in the white golden light. They all became slim and straight, all light and strong. They all changed to one height (I think about 1.5 metres). They all looked marvellous! Their bodies were covered with fine colours — each of the People was only one colour, but not all were the same colour. Did they have fine fur, like cats? Were these soft flight suits? Their faces were not at all identical.
‘Just as you are conscious, so do you keep your faces — healthy, vibrant, and You,’ said the voice.
How their eyes shown! I felt tears in my own eyes at seeing how excited, how excited they were!
The voice continued, ‘In the palm of your left hand there will be a mark — it is the stamp of your arrival here — so it is, for all of you, the same.’
As the voice continued, I could see the marks in some of the People’s palms. It was as if I could zoom in with a telephoto lens, although I could in no way approach them.
‘In your right palms you will see two pictures. One, the one on the left, is how you looked on Arrival. The other, on the right, is how you look now. The bar between the pictures you can refer to whenever you want to recall this Arrival Lecture.’
‘The picture of how you look now shows you correctly — you do have wings. Yes, you can fly.’
The white golden light disappeared. The mist was also gone. The People, standing in rows ranged above and below each other, stood on ledges on the sheer face of an enormously high mountain. The voice said, ‘Remember, this is fun. I am sure I do not need to thank you for your attention. You can go now.’
Some of the People flew away almost immediately. Some were terrified. Some of them fell. Of those who fell, some began to fly and others fell, and fell, and fell. Just before they hit the bottom, their wings worked quickly (a reflex?) so that they landed softly and safely. I couldn’t see any of them, any more.
A poem with ‘higher math and logic‘ (?) symbols.
Please click Formula Translation with marks to see it (it’s a pdf file).
Yesterday reading my life
in the leaves on which
the thrown-out baby
landed
and my future in salts
left on terraced towels
when the bath water
evaporated
I knew to go
unmoneyed but showered
to the closing Sunday
of the art show.
Unable when pressed to say
whether the skinned-rabbit-
in-tub-of-blood photograph
or the snack bar
across the aisle where eaters
washed down sausages with beer
and machine coffee
was worse
I turned the corner
embracing every third passer-by
impartially until security
intervened.
‘Now I lie, my down to keep,’
thinks the gander, feeling cheap
but knowing that his goose is cooked
should Eddie Bauer get him booked,
‘I’m worth more,’ he says aloud.
‘You’d best keep me (I’m not proud)
as a watchdog, on the hoof,
for my down’s not waterproof.’
The man before him, not his Maker
but perhaps his undertaker,
hasn’t known a goose to talk
though he shares the gander’s walk,
both being waddlers on their flat
no-arched waders that go splat
when they hear the lunch bell ringing
like their hearts do to girls’ singing.
‘If I pluck you,’ says the man
‘and your mates, I’ll get a grand
or so they told me at the store.
They promised they’d let me explore
their catalogue, and I could buy
toys, so it’s right you die.’
This talking gives Goose time to soar.
He flies off laughing, ‘Never more.’
Earth Tourist 