How about It’s Coming

How about It’s Coming

It’s coming
In double 4’s
Not much I can do
But really  live
till time runs out .
How about
You ?
Going to be here
till the black
Canary sings ?

So I walk
and walk
and walk
and i enjoy it.
Feet to the ground
Eyes on the sun
and the stars .
I choose
To be
This way ,
and walk away
Into horizons .
How about you Lady ?
How about you Bud ?
How about you son ?
How about you sweets ?
How about you Love?

The Great Gatsby. Why ?

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The Great Gatsby. Why ?

The Great Gatsby Why ?

My guts were eating at me tonight . It was Just one of those nights that compelled me to make a choice .
The choice was between either heading home to watch the 7th playoff game between the Toronto Maple Leafs and Boston or to see “The Great Gatsby” on a night when the theater probably wasn’t crowded . Well Gatsby won out . I paid my 16.00 admission and 11.00 for a small bit of plain popcorn with a pinch of salt and a pint sized diet coke. Guess what …the theater was practically filled on a Monday night at the Manulife building . My wife and I tried to see the movie this past Friday but all the theaters playing Gatsby downtown were sold out . What is it that draws one to this movie besides the promise of the glorious 20 ‘s motifs, decor & dress ? I think it is something else other than that visual appeal . As I settled into my theater seat, put my 3Dglasses on and began to watch ,I realized I had seen the last Gatsby movie made with Robert Redford in 1974 on a week night as well, and that it too was packed at the time. (DiCaprio vaguely looks like a thinner young Redford in the movie) .

What is it about this story that makes it so popular ? Is it the symbolism of the green light at the end of the Harbour, the mystique of the author Fitzgerald & his wife Zelda , the splendour, excess, optimism, and excitement of the Roaring 20s ? I don’t think so, even though they are all relevant and have particular appeal especially in our times . As asserted in a recent newspaper article Fitzgerald wasn’t I think a stupendously artful or impeccable wordsmith . Hemingway in my opinion was a much more powerful wordsmith and a more technically elegant and simple writer. Hemingway’s descriptions of Fitzgerald and his wife in his novel ” Moveable Feast” were very interesting and revealing vignettes of Fitzgerald’ s character . Regardless Fitzgerald has deftly portrayed through the various twists and turns of his story line, the power of love and essentially has unfolded it as a 20’s morality play happening under the bespectacled eyes of G_d as well as thorough the eyes of the aspiring capitalist narrator Nick Caraway . Carraway unfortunately displays a moral sensitivity that propels him into depths of depression In the story , although he appears to be healed by a therapeutic return to his first love of writing. ( I’m sure a there are a good chunk of aspiring and established authors that can identify with that therapy ).

It is in Fitzgerald’ s skillful weaving of many storyline threads of love ,infidelity, and loyalty, into one thick and unbreakable cord that he achieves the memorable. On the completion of his work “The Great Gatsby”, he must have felt an emotion akin to what Hemingway referred to as the silent secret joy that a writer keeps to himself initially, guards jealously and possessively in recognition that something good has just been written. The joy is in the author’s recognition of something truly ,unique and relevant.

The movie itself was visually exciting and creative , the casting unique , the acting so so , but the storyline is what carried it off and made it memorable once again. Gatsby is in love, deluded, dashing , desperate , dedicated , and a pathetic victim all wrapped up into one well dressed package . The layers in the story are peeled away one by one like veiled curtains but no one gets to see the whole story except for Nick Carraway , with the spectacles of G_d and the eyes of the reader watching over him. The layers are fascinating and as they are peeled away the revealed story becomes smaller , more compact and concise. One of classic lines quoted in the movie of course describes how Daisy and her Husband Tom were careless people who in the end receded into their money and carelessness , as Carraway sinks Into to depression and Gatsby into a hopeful final oblivion.

At the end of my movie experience almost all of the viewers stayed in their seats for a while watching the credits roll . It felt as if they didn’t want to quite let it go . I felt that way as well, just as Gatsby did in the story: He clung to the past, blinded by love, regret, and desire, not wanting to realize that things had changed and that there was an ending .

The symbolic light at the end of the pier that Gatsby clung to was green. The colour green is typically symbolic of vibrant and constant love ( Greensleeves and all ) , but change and the many ways that it is dealt with , seemed to be the only relevant constant in this plot , as it is often in real life . Perhaps coincidentally or not , the colour green is also the colour of money, envy, and of forward movement .

I Will Cleave to the One I love

I Will Cleave to the One I love

I will cleave
to the One I love
In the beauty that comes
from inside,
and to and from above ,
to the  beauty of nature
without.
There’s  no lasting beauty in abandon ,
no true joy in a One night stand .
It’s empty with a promise
of panacea .
There is only darkness
hiding there
and a sliding
of the wandering
errant hand .

 

Embrace of Midnight Hours

Embrace of  Midnight  Hours

You wash my body with water

and tiny crystals of dissolved salt.

The myrrh refused,

is now welcome,

and received with oils on skin

from rounded vials and bottles

of scented red and blue.

Rubbed on flesh is

fragrant cedar, cypress, myrrh,

and oil of Lebanon.

Tongue, arms, hands,

legs,and feet,

are motionless and limp,

stigmatized with love.

They reside here in limed spa

of striated stone,

so dimly lit by wick of lamp,

and laid out wavering candle.

I hear monotone music

of the chorus

of your beating hearts,

and the feel labour

of experienced hand.

Wrap me in the shelter of your linen

one final time

as in the womb

once long before,

celebrated

with flute and song.

When will I awake

from this narcotic state

to stir again

from my so deep,

and palliative sleep?

Let’s Walk Together

 Let’s Walk Together

 

 

Let’s walk together

 

you and I

 

so we can find

 

a road

 

that gives peace

 

to both our souls.

 

Just yesterday

 

I spoke of you,

 

Love

 

and my heart requested

 

that we walk together

 

on that white

 

and ancient  road ,

 

that will surely

 

calm and ease us.

 

Come now if you can

 

Love,

 

So we can walk together

 

always

 

on a road that has no forks

 

or  parting of the ways,

 

where we can talk

 

and walk together always.

 

Let’s walk together

 

Love

 

so that we inherit wings

 

both you and I ,

 

to fly

 

with all our steps

 

and prayers

 

up

 

into heaven.

 From “Free Verse in Useless Times” by PWChaltas

One of Irving Layton’s Most Moving Poems-“Senile, My Sister Sings”

Senile, My Sister Sings

By Irving Layton

Senile my sister sings. She sings

the same snatch of song over and over

in a quivering voice, her lips trembling

when she tries for the high notes. Her white

hair close cropped like a prisoner’s

and her unobstructed tongue lolling,

over her furrowed lip while her dentures

grin at us through a glass of water,

my sister is some kind of vocal chicken ,

especially when her small raisin eyes dart

from visitor to visitor  as though about

to pluck worms out of their garments .

My heart breaks , remembering her beauty

and wit , the full mouth with a tale in it

she finally exploded our ears .

Is this my sister so frail and emaciated,

whose valour and go were family legends ,

her smiles so dazzling they made the roaches

leisurely roaming the walls of our kitchen

scurry behind the torn wallpaper

to hide there till the incandescence had passed?

Sing, my dear sister, sing

though your trembling lips break my heart

and I turn away from you to sob

and let the tears course down my cheeks ,

my grief held back by pride and even a kind

of exultance. You do not mourn or whimper,

you do not grovel before the Holy Butcher

and beg Him to spare your days ; or rock

silently like the other white haired biddies

waiting to be plucked from their stoops. No

though His emissary ominously flaps his wings

to enfold you in their darkness, you sing.

Your high-pitched notes must rile him

more than rage or defiance. You sing him

no welcome and if your voice trembles

it’s not fear or resignation he hears

but the crack voice of the elan vitale

whose loudest chorister you are , abashing Death

and making him skulk in his own shadow .

layton