Salad days
judgment green
wings untested
life unseen
soaring spirits
buoyant dreams
endless visions
plans and schemes
ideals of beauty
reason, truth
halo’d by snow
but more by youth.
Apologies (and thanks) to Shakespeare.
Thanks also to Wabash College for use of this photo,
and to S.W. Berg for sending it.
Many years ago, I taught in a pretty little red brick school across the street from the National Cathedral in D.C. I walked to and from school every day, right past that towering Gothic wonder, its gargoyles keeping wary eyes on me from their unfinished perches, sometimes its carillon belling from the clouds. Often I would stop in after school. Sometimes I was the only one there, or so it seemed. Always with a sense of unreality, I stood in that vast space, feeling both diminished and uplifted. Isn’t that the purpose of Gothic? Doesn’t it force our eyes up, and don’t our spirits follow? There was nothing there that wasn’t beautiful to me, in both the enclosed silence and the embrace of balance.
It seemed to shelter me and yet leave me open to some mysterious elements. I never quite believed I was there. I remember.
In that time, I learned what it meant to stand alone in that graceful vastness, I learned what it meant to fall in love with a classroom of sixth-graders, I turned 23.
I just returned to that cathedral to watch John McCain’s funeral, overflowing with the here and now. But part of me was back in the there and then. Through all those seated dignitaries, I could see that girl-woman who was me, her arms full of books and papers, moving in her snail’s pace, trying to absorb her fleeting present. She was very aware of transience.
I think she turned and looked at me, in her future, and I’m wondering what she saw.
De rigueur, I’m told, is the bottle flip
ah, the wastrel wayward ways of youth
they should be productive as we were
and pack themselves in a telephone booth.
Middle C
used to be
the first
forever imbedded
eared, eyed, and headed
for better or for worst.
The alpha note
small-finger-smote
awaking addiction
family friction
in eventual Czernian bloat.
Oh, the hours misspent
a perpetual Lent
da capo ad nauseam
no break or pauseam
my youth distorted and bent.
Why wasn’t I Rubenstein?
Why only me?
What sadistic muse
designed this ruse
this siren-song’d middle C?
Oddments 