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Flotsam and Jetsam Wash Ashore On Partridge Island

As the Lighthouse Keeper on Partridge Island,

I have to make a monthly inspection

Along the shore of the whole island.

Of course, I make reports, and haul the 

Moveable trash off the shore, and put it

Above the tide line (which is high),

So it won’t set sail again.

All this is true,

But,

What I’m really supposed

To report,

Are the bodies I find.

There are generally three or four a year,

Mostly beyond recognition.

I can spread out this chore if I desire,

But – generally – I prefer to do it over a

Couple of days.

Paw, my cat/kitten,

Black as deep tide pools

With one white mitten,

Always wants to come along. 

He always regrets it,

When we reach the ocean tip,

Where he is surrounded, 

On three sides,

By water.

He doesn’t like that.

And he always complains,

But he soldiers on.

Today was no different.

Although the day was beautiful,

With clear sky and pleasant wind,

The ocean had an odd, opaque shimmer.

It was like looking at the coated side

Of a mirror.

Paw – who has been known to step

Over a dead body to see what

Was on the other side –

Avoided the shore,

And stayed above the 

High tide mark.

I guess he didn’t want to see

Something he couldn’t see.

He was impatient for me to haul ass.

And he let me know it.

{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2025 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

DE BA UE

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For Kafka On His Death Day: A Gypsy Speaks The Future Of Truth And Death [from: “Kafka In The Castle”]

gypsywoman

08 June 1917

A Gypsy confronted me today, and I was in the mood for a bit of sport. Her age was difficult to tell – certainly a decade older than me. In her swirl of shawls and dangling jewellery, heavy make-up on her face, she could almost have been in disguise. She peered at me with an intense sigh, attempting – I am sure – to penetrate my own disguise.

“You are a Jew,” she said.

“And you a Gypsy,” I replied.

She seemed pleased with my response, for her professional smile became real.

“You state the obvious,” she said. “As becomes a Doktor of Laws,”

I replied. “But to your eyes, do you not state the obvious?”

“Are you going to banter with a poor old Gypsy woman, instead of barter? That would make you suspiciously like one of us.” She said this with a growl in her throat.

“The Gypsy and the Jew,” I said, feeling the challenge which I so miss. “Perhaps an opera – but I think it’s been done to death.”

“They will try to do us all unto death,” she said harshly, and turned away.

I had the fear she was going to leave me without another word, but what she did was to spit fulsomely onto the street.

“They can’t kill us all,” I said, but I knew she heard the doubt in my voice.

She slowly faced me again.

“So. Even a Doktor of Laws can have hope. That is refreshing – but foolish.” She took my hand and felt my palm roughly with her thumb, although all the while her eyes never left my face. “You are going to travel.”

“Travel is a vague word. One can go on many types of voyage.”

“And reach many destinations,” she added, still holding my hand. “If you take away my vagueness, you take away my trade.”

“Then let me pay you for your services right now.”

This transaction would make her loose my hand, which is what I wanted most of all. She had frightened me, for her eyes and face were full of truth. I know the truth. I know it when it presents itself, stark and unobscured. I search out truth endlessly, yet still can flee at its approach. As in her eyes. But she gripped me more fiercely, and pulled my hand up.

“The coin, Herr Doktor.” Her voice was now soft. “The coin can wait.”

She at last lowered her eyes and looked closely at my palm. She rubbed the lines and whorls of my skin. She touched her finger to her lips, and spread the moisture along my hand.

“Your lifeline, Herr Doktor,” she took a quick look in my eyes, “of Laws. You deceive with the youth upon your face. Is that not so?”

“If your eyes stop at the mask, then no, the years have not etched themselves deeply.”

“Not on your face, Herr Doktor of Laws.” Her grip was intense. “But on your palm…” She hissed. “You will soon embark upon that final voyage.”

She released my hand, rubbed her fingers across her sleeve.

“But you will not go in haste. There will be many stops along the way.”

Suddenly her face was full of the most beautiful smile, and her laughter was genuine.

“I see you do not complain of vagueness now.” She held out her hand. “The coin, Herr Doktor of Laws. This time I have truly earned it.”

I dug deeply into my pocket, and feared that I may have overpaid her. But, perhaps, that is not possible.

DE

(image) http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SDayP1IJD0M/TVrspG3I5oI/AAAAAAAAGko/RjODxg1C_WI/s1600/gypsyWoman.jpg

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What Did The Black Cat Find?

Paw, the cat/kitten,

Black as a starless night

With one white mitten,

Has outdone himself.

Again.

He came and got me,

Tracked me down,

(I was repairing part

Of the Partridge Island

Dock)

And bade me follow.

Demanded, actually.

So (of course) I did.

He has yet to understand

I can not scramble

With the alacrity

His four paws

Allow.

He stood waiting

At the top of

The rough trail

And complained.

He then stood by the base

Of the Lighthouse

And complained.

He paced at the

Entrance

Of our rough little forest

And complained.

But he didn’t enter until

I stood beside him.

No complaints now.

So . . . I wondered what 

I was going to find.

And – no – I would 

Never have guessed.

Paw moved carefully,

But unerringly,

To a spot not far

From the water.

He stopped in front

Of a swath of tall grass.

He sat down.

The rest was up to me.

I stepped (deliberately) over him,

And peered.

In the middle of the

Swath of grass

Was the leg of a deer.

One leg.

Nothing else.

No head

No antlers

No exposed bones

No hide nor hair

(Save the tiny hairs

on this solitary leg

complete with hoof).

Paw didn’t make a sound,

But his tail twitched.

There couldn’t be

Enough meat on it

For even a cat to chew.

There are no deer on Partridge Island.

Nothing much larger than

Paw, himself.

Some hawk or osprey or eagle

Might have dropped it.

Some storm might have 

Heaved it ashore from some

Hunter’s field-dressing 

Of a fresh kill.

I let Paw do what he wanted.

He didn’t want much.

He did walk its whole length,

Sniffed and licked,

And once

Rubbed his face

Against it.

He paid special attention to the hoof.

He was satisfied.

I was satisfied.

The deer was

With its ancestors.

I carried it 

Across the rocks

And tossed it back

Into the sea.

By the time I turned 

Back to shore,

Paw was on his way

Home.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2025 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report.

DE BA. UEL

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Franz Kafka Dies June 03, 1924

Franz Kafka died on 03/06/1924. He was a young man – a month short of his 41st birthday. However, his death was preordained years earlier. In my novel, “Kafka In The Castle“, I fill in the missing days of his diary. These are the entries I imagine concerning the days he actually found out his fate.

*******************

04 September 1917

           A death sentence.

05 September 1917                                                                 

Max is saying all the right things. All the nice things. And he is saying them all in the right way. An earnest, matter-of-fact truthfulness which sounds plausible. If he does not tread from a very narrow path. Sometimes I find myself a part of his hopeful speculations. And sometimes I find that I am trying to keep his spirits up. If he is going to all this trouble, then shouldn’t I do my part?  But: it isn’t his blood.    And anyway – he was the one who insisted on the specialist. Chose the renowned Dr. Pick. And heard – almost as soon as myself – the verdict. Tuberculosis. Tuberculosis engaged in both lungs. Like a preparation for marriage. The engaged man now flirting with another lover. And planning a marriage which will be far more permanent that any I could have had with Felice.

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Friday 13th / Friday 13:12 The Last Of The Year

It isn’t that we had no warning.

Hell, even Paw, the cat/kitten.

Black as Death with one white mitten,

Knew it was coming.

Knew (perhaps) before the rest of us.

And fishing boats, the last couple of days,

Have left notes in the Message Box,

Down on the Lighthouse dock.

One of the notes had been relayed

From the brigantine, HMS Buzzard,

Informing of this passage into the harbour,

And the night this would be done.

So,

As Lighthouse Keeper,

I await

On the Lighthouse dock,
In my navel uniform,

Which I am sometimes

Expected to wear,

Since I represent the might

Of Majesty,

As sole subject, yet overlord,

Of the Lighthouse on Partridge Island.

Waiting for the Red Ship to pass.


I feel the still on the sea.

I understand why they have awaited

This shroud of fog.

I have,

With my vantage point atop the Lighthouse,

Seen the approaching ship,

With each of its lanterns

Glowing through red glass.

I can imagine the unfurled red sails.

So, I stand,
And I wait,

With my own red lantern,

And wish I were hunkered down

With Paw, the cat/kitten,

Who chose his hiding place

An hour ago.

I wish for Sister Darling,

Of The Rarified Church Of The World (Reformed),

To be with myself and Paw,

On this night.

And this passage.

She could offer both physical

And Spiritual comfort,

To Paw and me.

Paw likes to nestle beneath

Her wealth of long hair,

And I would like to touch it.


But she,

With both the Bishop of the Roman church,

And the Bishop of the Anglican church,

In their simple cassocks,
Unrobed of their vestments,
And also, with the Mi’kmaq Shaman,
Await on the dock, 

On shore,

In the deserted port,
To move this cursed cargo
Of human decay and death.

They will sing and chant their

Religious words of hope.

While I, when the time is right,

Will curl up in my greatcoat

Beside Paw,

And wait out the night

While these folk of Faith
Do the dirty business of God.

{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

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The Old Order Changes, A Saint Passes On

Robert (Bob) Gibbs has left the building:

I considered Bob Gibbs an honorary member of my very exclusive (and never acknowledged) “Grand Lake Writers Group” This august body consisted of myself, Elizabeth Brewster, and Robert Hawks (neither of them knew of its existence, either). We all three lived within the vicinity of Grand Lake (I could see it from the upper windows of my home). 

We three included aspects of the Grand Lake area in our books.

Well . . . so did Bob.
In some of his writings, his characters boarded riverboats, and took a trek which got them to Grand Lake from Saint John. One such Riverboat pier was a twenty minute walk from my house. Although not certain of this, I like to think he pulled into this port upon occasion. Evangelical meetings were generally on the agenda. I have (in my way) incorporated this into one of my novels.

I remember Bob once being nonplussed by my activity.There was a party at his house (such a delightful place, next to a railway). It was either a birthday party for Elizabeth Brewster, or a celebration of a book launch by her. I showed up with the gift of a bottle of champagne. I handed it to Bob.

His look was one of surprise. I’m not sure I had ever seen him surprised. I had the suspicion he knew everything. I still have that suspicion.

He made the comment (I don’t remember if it was to anyone) “Look, he brought champagne.” My interpretation was that Bob didn’t think I had enough sophistication to do such a thing. Or, he didn’t know what to do with the bottle.

When I left, it was still unopened.

The Essential Robert Gibbs – Robert Gibbs – Google Books

Whatever three ships mean

         two freighters and a tanker

         standing off Partridge Island

more like scanned-for presences

                            than really anything out there

(I saw three ships come sailing in 

            come sailing in        singing itself

            off-season  off-key)

                                          ~ Bob Gibbs [Skipping Round the Biosphere]

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It Is Friday The 13th And The Red Ship Passes: Part The First / Part The Second

PART THE FIRST

It isn’t that we had no warning.

Hell, even Paw, the cat/kitten.

Black as Death with one white mitten,

Knew it was coming.

Knew (perhaps) before the rest of us.

And fishing boats, the last couple of days,

Have left notes in the Message Box,

Down on the Lighthouse dock.

One of the notes had been relayed

From the brigantine, HMS Buzzard,

Informing of this passage into the harbour,

And the night this would be done.

So,

As Lighthouse Keeper, I await

On the Lighthouse dock,
In my navel uniform,

Which I am sometimes

Expected to wear,

Since

I represent the might

Of Majesty,

As sole subject, yet overlord,

Of the Lighthouse on Partridge Island.

Waiting for the Red Ship to pass.

I feel the still on the sea.

I understand why they have awaited

This shroud of fog.

I have,

With my vantage point atop the Lighthouse,

Seen the approaching ship,

With each of its lanterns

Glowing through red glass.

I can imagine the unfurled red sails.

So, I stand,
And I wait,

With my own red lantern,

And wish I were hunkered down

With Paw, the cat/kitten,

Who chose his hiding place

An hour ago.


PART THE SECOND

I had wished for Sister Darling,

Of The Rarified Church Of The World (Reformed),

To be with myself and Paw,

On this night.

And this passage.

She could offer both physical

And Spiritual comfort,

To Paw and me.

Paw likes to nestle beneath

Her wealth of long hair,

And I would like to touch it.

But she,

With both the Bishop of the Roman church,

And the Bishop of the Anglican church,

In their simple cassocks,

Unrobed of their vestments,

And also, with the Mi’kmaq Shaman,

Await on the dock, 

On shore,

In the deserted port,


To move this cursed cargo
Of human decay and death.

They will sing and chant their

Religious words of hope.

While I, when the time is right,

Will curl up in my greatcoat

Beside Paw,

And wait out the night

While these folk of Faith
Do the dirty business of God.

{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

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Kafka Goes On The Road To See Death

18 February 1917

               A drive to the country, to see the dying.

A man from my childhood. We could have been porters in the station, with other people’s luggage, so little did he care.

There was no pretence at conversation, he did not even feign an interest. He had gone into himself, and death patiently awaited his return.

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Is Kafka Correct About The Dead?

In Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the ‘missing’ diary entries from Kafka’s real diary. He either did not fill in these days himself, or he destroyed them. There are some estimates that Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

17 June 1917

            I am told that you can’t lose people, that “…they will always be with you in memory.” Max is heavy with this type of comment – as if the hand of sentimentality brushed off his coat before he set out on each day. Both the intelligent and the slow of wit seem to be struck dumb by this nonsense. Emotion, I suppose  – hope, I suppose – has no place for reason among its folds. But, if you can not touch, or have expectation of being touched, then the people and places are as gone as yesterday. There is no way to travel back, and the future beckons with only an empty gesture and a hollow laugh. Bowing low at the open doorway to usher you in, but the room is empty. And will remain ever so. When they are no longer there to hold their hand out to you – well, then they are no longer there.

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