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+ 1 day:
Happy Anniversary with WordPress.com!
You registered on WordPress.com 10 years ago.
Thanks for flying with us. Keep up the good blogging.
Just past sunset,
A Frigate and a Brigantine
Sailed past Partridge Island,
Heading out to sea.
The former had a line of sailors
Giving the Lighthouse a salute,
The latter paused to let Sister Darling
Of The Rarified Church of The World (Reformed)
Step onto the dock of the Island,
After she tossed me parcels and bundles
Containing a New Year’s feast.
The ships plied their way to the outer harbour,
Whilst Sister Darling gathered up
Paw, the cat/kitten,
Black as the new night
With one white mitten,
And we wended our way
Up to the Lighthouse Keeper’s house.
By the time pots and bowls and platters
Of food,
Were ready on the table,
And a haunch of venison, was re-heating
In the oven,
We followed the excited cat/kitten
Toward the Lighthouse, and up the stairs.
We awaited perhaps ten minutes, before
The two ships began firing starburst shells
Toward the approaching year,
Entertaining us, and the boisterous
Crowd on the shore.
It was a glorious sight,
And,
I will report,
That Sister Darling
Supplied
A glorious feast.
{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2025 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
—
Christmas Day is like
Any other day at
The Partridge Island Lighthouse.
Ya gotta trim the wicks,
And renew the oil.
So, I went about my business
At the usual time, only noting that
Paw, the cat/kitten,
Black as soot
With one white mitten,
Had abandoned me.
‘Mice’, thought I.
For there are always mice
On Partridge Island.
But, I found out
(After my chores were done),
That wily Paw had used stealth
– and his sensitive hearing –
To scurry to my Lighthouse-keepers house.
When I returned, as darkness settled,
I saw twinkling lights
Through the windows,
And smelled the delightful warmth
Of roasted fowl, and sweetened baking,
As I walked through the door.
Sister Darling, of
The Rarified Church of the World (Reformed)
Had hired a fishing boat to
Bring her to the Island, whilst I
Was occupied in the tower.
She had put her pre-baked goods
Into the oven, and
Stoked the fire.
A bottle of red wine, and
A bottle of white,
Sat upon the kitchen table.
And
Paw, the cat/kitten
Had a red red riband tied
Around his neck,
With a key attached.
I took it.
When I turned,
Sister Darling removed a small casket.
And handed it to me.
I used the key
To open a tiny lock.
I Opened it,
And looked inside.
Oh, My!
Oh, My!!
It GLOWED.
{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
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}
Paw the cat/kitten,
Black as dirt, with one white mitten,
Sought me out in the lighthouse.
He climbed the whole way
Up to the Lantern Room,
Which he usually avoids
Because the revolving light
Spooks him.
He doesn’t like the shadows.
But, there he was.
He meowed,
Which he doesn’t do
All that much.
But,
When I kept at my chores,
He came over and put his claws
Into my pant leg,
And pulled.
When he’s this insistent, I follow.
So, down through the tower,
Impatient at the door,
Outside and waiting,
To be sure that I follow,
Then he heads to the shore
Facing out to sea.
It’s a well trod path
(For a cat)
And I move swiftly (but carefully).
I find him waiting at the base
Of a five foot, stunted tree.
So I went over to look.
There was a small amount of snow,
Caught between the gnarled roots.
The remnants of some snow squall,
That obviously had passed in the night.
Knowing he had my full attention,
He stood over it
And pissed mightily,
Turning it yellow.
It’s going to be a long winter.
{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
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}
In my novel, Kafka In The Castle, I fill in **missing** diary entries from Kafka’s real diary. He either did not fill in these days himself, or he destroyed them. It is estimated Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote. I am as accurate as I can be in my timeline
11 August 1917
I went to the office as usual. I was still coughing, and took extra handkerchiefs. The Director asked if I had a cold, and I told him I wasn’t sure. That certainly was true – I wasn’t sure what I had. When I met Max in the afternoon, he was horrified when I told him what had happened to me. And angry with me – genuinely angry. He told me that I was stupid.
I’m sure it’s a word he has never used in relation to me. Stupid.
I was astounded, and my surprise was such that I started coughing again. This made Max propel me all the more rapidly to the doctor. I feel that doctors are never really to be trusted. But sometimes, they are necessary. There had been so much blood.
I suppose that is what woke me – the coughing – or else I might have choked on it. Or even drowned in my own blood.
I had to sit on the edge of the bed and grope for the light cord, to find out what this wetness was on my face and hands. Even then, I was more surprised than startled. I was wondering more how to stop the mess, than anxious about its cause. Blood from my throat, pumping out of my mouth. I slipped off the pillowcase, and tried to use it as a gag, coughing and spitting into it while trying to wipe my face. This gushing stream from my mouth did not seem to be stopping however, so I warily made my way to the sink. Even the usually chattering maid was subdued this morning, as she tried to scour the porcelain and the walls. “Herr Doktor,” she said. “You don’t have long for this world.” But at the time, the minutes had certainly seemed long when I had been leaning over the sink, one hand steadying myself against the wall while my gasping and spitting seemed to turn everything red. It was a relief to finally get to sleep. I felt I had really earned it.
Of course, this afternoon the doctor took his time prodding and peering, asking the most obvious questions while Max fretted like a parent. And took the doctor seriously. The questions about the blood seemed to disturb him. And the doctor was full of questions – wanting to know about the pain, and the amount of blood, and its duration. Had anything like this happened before? Any incidents in my family? Had I received any recent blows to the face or neck? Had I tried to eat or drink since it happened? Was I dizzy, or short of breath? Did I have headaches? Actually, this was the only time he seemed to take an interest in my answers. I mentioned that after the incident had happened, a headache which I had for days finally disappeared. I was able to sleep peacefully the rest of the night.
He then rattled off words like thoracic dual apices, hemorrhage, and catarrh, and gave me two bottles of medicine to take at alternate times of the day. And that was that. Examination over and we’re out in the street. Max also expressed some reservations about the diagnosis, and suggested I should see a specialist. As he walked me back to work at the Institute, I at least had reason for not taking an active part in the conversation. I noticed that one prominent word was prominently absent from all discussion.
Tuberculosis.
I once had the privilege to dine with two of Canada’s preeminent artists. I say privilege and not pleasure, because I soon realized I was out of my depth. I was more apprehensive than not concerning the conversation, and decided I’d best resort to asking a series of not too stupid questions.
This is not casting any negative aspersions upon my hosts. They were both charming and witty. And kind. And the meal was great.
I had been asked to supper by Helen Weinzweig, a formidable author who took fiction into unexpected directions. We were both among the instructors at a week-long writing workshop. I had been asked to say a few words of thanks to her at the end of a reading. Her noted book at the time was entitled “Basic Black With Pearls” which, according to the New York Review Books, is ” . . .recognized as a feminist landmark”. Helen and I got along very well, so I figured I could slide into a bit of gaucheness with her. During my thanks, I presented her with the best string of pearls that one could purchase at Zellers. And made sure they were in a black box. She did a double take, no doubt to make certain they were fake (though I like to think she had a fleeting thought they might be real).
Her husband, John Weinzweig, was a well-established composer of classical music. His compositions were cutting edge, and often did not fit comfortably into the conventional ouvre. I’m guessing neither one of them had a mundane thought or opinion. There were certainly none presented that night. Which was both a joy and a trial to me.
Oh – and the food was great.
However, it was only yesterday that I found out John Weinzweig won a silver medal at the Olympics. In 1948. A Silver Medal for Music. Specifically for Instrumental and Chamber Music, with his piece ‘ Divertimento No. 1 . As it turned out, 1948 was the last year such “Art” medals were awarded.
I do like to think that, if I had known at the time, I would not have been gauche enough to ask to see it.
DE
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