death

Ghost Ships Pass By In The New Year

I’ve been reading my Shakespeare (As I often do)

Aloud, to Paw, my cat/kitten

Black as the grave,

With one white mitten.

He usually sleeps.

But he would agree with Horatio, that:

“There needs no ghost, my Lord/

“Come from the grave, to tell us this.”

And Paw, as is Horatio, would be right.

But still, the wrecks of ships,

Gone down to their watery depths

In the preceding year,

Float in a line

Stern to bow

Across the mouth of the harbour.

I go out, and always watch

In the dark dark dark of the night,

As one year of wretched release

Slides into another.

What can I do for them,

Other than to acknowledge

Their passage.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2023 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

DE BA. UEL

12/31/2023 0

A House Of Ghosts

It had been a house of dreams, it was now a house of ghosts.

Ghosts tranquil and benign peered through the dusty upper windows, stood in wait behind the boarded doors. The dreams of long ago, which had tumbled down the stairs, and frolicked through the rooms, were now memories in the minds of ghosts.

The ghosts were themselves memories, destined to further fade with each new birth. But there would be no births in this house, as it slid inexorably toward decay. The lackluster brown shingles would be more smudged, the remaining panes of old glass would break, the floors would warp and collapse, the roof would succumb to the years of harsh weather.

Even the `No Trespass’ sign was barely legible. Then where would the ghosts go?

Blaine left his car and walked toward the house.

If he had eyes to see, who would be there to greet him? Would children’s dreams, fair-haired and boisterous, burst through the front door and surround him in games of tag and laughter? Would he get caught by their enthusiasm (would he become a child himself), and race behind the trees, burrow into the hay, hide between the bins of potato and turnip, intent not to be `it’.

Or would he meet the ghosts, quiet and tentative at the top of the steps, moving slowly with their uncertain smiles. Would they greet him with a wave, invite him into their warm-smelling kitchens, offer him fresh tea, and squares right out of the pan? Would he sit in the stream of fall sunlight flowing across the well-oiled floor, and talk about childhood?

Blaine walked part way up the drive before he stopped.

He knew what lay beyond the boarded windows, and the sagging door upon its rusty hinges. Wallpaper would be water-stained, and curling off the plaster walls. There would be lumps of refuse in the corners of the rooms, with one inevitable rusty bed frame lying on its side. There would be gaps in the ceiling, where beams of sunlight shimmered through motes of dust. There would be holes in the baseboards, where earnest rodents made comfortable homes.

There would be musty smells offering a hint of long-ago meals, and something gone bad in the pantry. There would be one upper window (at the back) which still had a tattered lace curtain, half obscuring what had once been totally private. At night he would hear bats.

It was not this house he had come to see, of course. Of course, not this derelict house, which he knew could never be restored, and which was so beyond help even death slept while visiting.

12/29/2023 0

30 August 1917: The World Held Suspended Beyond The Massive Gates

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.

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

30 August 1917

I’ll just leave the newspapers. They will no doubt be appreciated as fuel for the next winter. My manuscripts though – regardless of the temptation – I’ll take. The pile on the table, looming behind the lamp, I’ll take tonight. The rest tomorrow. Max has offered to carry things – no doubt thinking that what he carries, I can not burn – and has arranged to be here shortly.

What I most want to take away with me, I can’t. The comfort. The view of the Stag Moat. The Castle walls. The world held suspended beyond the massive gates. The silence. Perhaps peace – which can be many things – can also be nothing more than silence. And here is Max at my open door. His worried smile precedes him into my peaceful room.

08/30/2023 0

28 August 1917 Kafka Is His Own Invention And Not His Father’s Product

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

28 August 1917

I avoid my parent’s apartment, and as yet they notice nothing from the ordinary. Actually, I think my father’s fervent wish would be to find something ordinary. Something he could understand. Such as sickness and death. His gratitude at this understanding would not, I think, even be unkind. The Director, however, notices things only too well. He came to my desk – an unusual activity – again today, asking after my cough, which proves futile to hide after any length of conversation. His concern is genuine – he has always shown me the utmost kindness – and goes beyond the conventional interest in a valued employee. How radically different my life would have been had such consideration ever been shown by my father.

I don’t mean I think of the Director as a father – we rarely see each other outside the confines of the Institute. And anyway, I am as much my own invention as I am my father’s product. How quickly I point my finger to others about my woes; how quickly I drop my hand when I’m faced with a mirror.

08/28/2023 0

Wagner And Putin Walk Into A Bar / Then History Takes A Turn

~ I’m singing at your funeral, Putty.
~ I made you what you are.
~ Götterdämmerung, baby.
~ You are my creature!
~ Always be afraid of Frankenstein.
~ I made you, and I can destroy you.
~ That’s what they all say.
~ You were my cook, for God’s sake.
~ So I know about blood and guts.

~ You are such a little man.
~ I wouldn’t throw stones over that, Putty.
~ I’ll crush you!
~ With what? I’m the only army you really have.
~ You were just here to get Ukraine.
~ Ukraine is lost. *Your* army saw to that.
~ I am the new Tsar of All The Russias.
~ I’ll give you some time, Putty, to get out.
~To where?”
~ Don’ know. Don’t care.

До свидания! / Do svidaniya!

D UEL

08/27/2023 0

Paw, The Cat/Kitten, Takes A Walk

I have had to affix

A bell,

Around the neck of

Paw, my cat kitten,

Black as feathers

With one white mitten,

Because

He has acquired

A taste for birds.

This is natural and

Was to be expected.

I might not have done so

On the Mainland,

Where birds are plentiful

And fair game.

But on this island,

Which one can circumnavigate

In under a two hour walk,

I feel the birds need

All the help they can get.

So – there it is.

And Paw, my cat kitten,

Protested for about

A half hour,

And not since.

He’s a smart li’l bugger.

He adapts.

And I swear, he gets

Faster.

Fast enough to still

Dine on the occasional

Avian feast.

Which he proves, by

Spitting out an errant

Feather or two

At my feet.

{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2023 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

DE BA. UEL

07/16/2023 0

Kafka & Death For His Birthday

I have written Franz the following letter (as yet, unanswered).

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

My Present / Your Future

Still in this World

A Life Away

Dear F:

You would find it perverse to be wished a “Happy” birthday, but your response would be gracious. Such is the reality you understand, and how you deal with it. I have found that your reality is actually real.

Although it will give you no pleasure – well, ‘little’ pleasure – you are correct in all your observations.

Governments become the tools of the bureaucracies which run them. It doesn’t matter what type of Government, from the monarchy under which you lived, to the right wing horror of fascists that called themselves socialists, to the inept socialism pretending to be ‘for the people’. All three governments held their sway over the city where you spent your life. All three oppressed the people they ruled. All three looked after themselves first.

Writers are either writers or they aren’t. The urge to write encircles one like a snake around its prey. Feed it and it won’t quite squeeze you to death. You can not ignore it – even at your peril. It is with you every hour of every day, ever inquisitive and (sadly) always looking for something better. You have thrown up your hands to ward off the snake. Sometimes – some few times – it loosens its grip.

Love is a see-saw of extremes. Every high guarantees a low. Every low reaches for a high. Every high reaches for a high. When these hills and valleys are eventually levelled, they are still desired.

Sex is highly over rated. The thing of it is, even rated fairly, ’tis a consummation devoutly to be had. Yes – I know – you appreciate Shakespeare. On a par with Goethe, even if you can’t bring yourself to say the words.

There is no castle with walls thick enough to hide against the perils of being human. Which is why you never tried.

Except the grave, of course.

Except the grave.

Yours,

~~~~~~~~~~~

And, in my novel about him, Kafka In The Castle, I gave him this diary entry.

03 July 1918

The anniversary of my birth.

In celebration of the day, I did not make it my last.

DE UEL

07/03/2023 0

After A Funeral Kafka Dreams Of The Dead

21 March 1917

Dreamed I was standing in a galleria with him. In a town in Northern Italy. We could see across the rooftops, to a plain slipping gently toward the foothills of the mountains. The day was clear – a cool spring morning – and the touch of sun was welcome on our skin. He pointed to a laden waggon passing beneath us. A curtain of dust rose from its wheels as it squeezed through a narrow lane. We watched it for awhile, then he turned to me, his body a silhouette against the vivid sky. “I enjoyed my funeral. I wish we could have talked about it after – it was one of those things to share.” “We did share it,” I pointed out. “I was there.” “But I was not,” he said.

Then he eased himself over the balcony, and without effort, we were sitting in the back of the waggon, perched upon boxes and equipment. We rattled out of the village toward the countryside. “I loved the outdoors,” he said. “I still remember my last walk in the fields.” We moved slowly through the country side, the waggon rarely being jostled along the rutted road. The teamster must have been an expert, but he never turned his face to us. Intent upon his business, I suppose. “You forget that I am dead; for which I thank you.” “Sometimes I do,” I replied. “It is at those times, I sometimes think I’m still alive.”

He occasionally pointed to things behind me. Once there was a rabbit. The countryside spread endlessly, without another person in sight. I mentioned this, and he nodded. “It will be crowded at our destination. But I’ll want to meet my wife.” He then leaned toward me, across the waggon. “You helped me, you know – in our final dance.” He smiled, then sighed, then pointed beneath me. “My destination is close, I must return.” I looked down, and saw I was sitting on a coffin – the polished brown one of his funeral. I moved, then bent over, prepared to open it. His fingers touched the wood beneath my hand. “No. Do not look. You would not like what you found.” His smile seemed forced, there were more teeth showing than usual. “I embrace my new world. But for you, I am well and truly dead.”

06/04/2023 0

“For God’s sake, let us sit upon the ground, And tell sad stories of the death of . . . queens”

I alter but one word from Shakespeare’s poem. I feel I’m allowed.

I concentrate upon the word “sad”. I feel sad about the death of Queen Elizabeth II. I note, that in newscasts, and on the internet, and from personal conversations, many folk feel “sad”. An unexpected sadness. A sadness that is greater than the loss of people close to them. They are surprised.

And so am I.

Today’s funeral took place on my birthday (by the Grace of God – I do not know) . So I’ll always be able to answer the question “Where were you when . . .”

I watched seven hours of the day from London and Windsor. I did not get tired. I could have watched more. But I am content – I won’t be delving very far into replays. The Queen’s removal from the earth was fully documented.

It is true that Queen Elizabeth has been with me all my life. I was greatly interested in her, and the history of her family. She took her part in two of my novels. I saw her five times in my life. I found her an exemplary leader and a fine human being. I am not alone in this. She was thought so the world over. Perhaps that is part of her commonality – everyone knew of her, everyone had an opinion. The majority of those opinions were positive.

I felt pain when she went up the steps to St George’s Chapel for the last time. She can hardly be thought of as a friend, but, perhaps . . .

Perhaps, on this occasion, friendship can be a one way street.

Blessed Be, Elizabeth Regina! Those Choirs of Angels are singing loud and clear.

~ Dale Estey

09/19/2022 0

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