Death be not proud, though some may call thee
I met her in a junk shop on Sunset Avenue. It had to be shortly after noon. I can't really remember the time. I try not to pay attention to such minute details, such as documented instances that we're inevitably moving forward, especially when trying to dally as long as possible in the presence of present. In the ignorance of time, it becomes startling clear. I'm able to dally around without worrying about fixed notions, such as when I'm going to eat, when I need to be back, and what things are due. I can simply exist in the environment. My environment then, included a low hanging sun cast over a clear blue sky, with some menacing clouds hanging thick over the mountains to the west. It included busy street lines with various cars and a topless homeless man passed out in the corner while passer-bys made sure to not notice the fetid stink and shit-filled newspapers surrounding hem. In included several sidewalk squares covered with transsexual prostitutes advertising their large wares, and a junk dealer sprawled open for people, like me, looking for holy moments.
I didn't get much of a chance to see what was in the junk shop. I saw rows of books piled upon a lot of brown metal things. I was naturally drawn towards the books. There were three rather non-descript piles. Each pile had a sign over it marking price. The dollar books were dime novels from the fifties. The three-dollar books had a bit better fare, but still didn't contain anything worth shelling out. The last pile had the works of Donne and the collected poems of W. B. Yeats. I was instantly attracted to Donne, because a few days before, Ghetto-Fab and I had watched a particularly good movie by the name of Wit.
Wit, starring Emma Thompson, is a wonderful flick, produced for HBO, about a professor of Donne who is dying from Ovarian Cancer. The character Emma portrays, Vivian, is one of those frightfully intelligent women whom I wish to one day be lucky enough to marry (that is assuming that I ever decide to get married, and marriage, at this point in my life, is the mental equivalent to wrapping my dick in a barb-wire garrote). Every line she speaks is wonderfully witty, sharp, and astute. As the film progresses and Vivian approaches death, we see her character develop into a quivering puddle of human emotions. Along the way, Vivian quotes a particular Donne poem, which is probably his most well known, Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Jesus. Isn't that magnificent? The poem does funny things to me, like give me tinglings in my pants. Each line radiates with the incredible vitality of the English language. I can imagine Donne writing this, tearing through the words before finally clacking a crescendo with a final pen pop at the last line. Death, thou shalt die! And, I must admit, that the last two lines of the poem are my favorite of this particular sonnet. Let's analyze it.
What does Donne mean when he says "One short sleep past, wee wake eternally." Obviously, a man such as Donne who was forever questioning the nature of death would hold religious convictions. If he were Christian, as most were in his time, then he surely would believe in the resurrection on judgment day. Judgment Day is when Jesus, or G-d, depending on the faith, calls the souls of the dead to their final judgment. On this day, the deceased will return to their bodies ( one short sleepe past), and the bodies will rise (we wake eternally). The Jewish faith says this is when G-d will determine who is saved and who is not. The Christian faith says that only those who have been determined saved (usually done while alive) get to see the rapture and the return of the messiah. In any case, the original sin will be wiped away and, with it, death shall be no more
Yeah, baby, yeah. But, I didn't buy Donne. I instead bought W.B. Yeats. I've always liked Irish writing. There isn't much out there. I guess poverty and booze do much to prevent one from writing, although I don't see how it should considering the best writers are usually poor and drunk. Hell, I'm poor and drunk and can only see how being so might improve the quality of my writing. In sprite of their lack of productivity, though, the irish writers of the 20th century have been quite nice. Consider the writings of Joyce. His stream of consciousness style spawned a generation, including Faulkner, who I adore. Joyce's A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man was the most intense, and most deep, text I've ever encountered.
Irish praise aside, Yeats excites me too, slightly more than Donne. I hadn't thought much about him until recently; when I was talking to this one girl I met at a party. I mentioned that I enjoyed poetry, and she gave me one of those long, melodramatic sighs that seemed to indicate that she, too, enjoyed poetry, and probably more than a n uncouth fraternity brother like myself could understand or appreciate. I hate pseudo-intellectuals like that, but I some how managed to weasel out the information that she loved Yeats, particularly He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven.
I say that in spite of her holier-than-thou stance, her choice of poems to prefer was quite well enough. I, too, really enjoy that poem, particularly the last line that I desire tattooed on my right calf. I might do that within the next year or so. First, I need that tattoo on my left wrist, which will be inked some time within the next two weeks. Tattoos, and melo-drama queens aside, Yeats writes some damned fine poetry, most which probably need to be enjoyed with a woman, or a large tankard of ale. Both, I must admit, would be particularly nice at this moment.
Part of the reason I chose Yeats over Donne was the man at the counter. He was a grizzled old guy, with wrinkled skin, a snow beard, and a skullcap pushing his forehead toward his gap-toothed mouth. I picked hp the collected poems of Yeats and inquired about the price written on the inside of the book. I had half a notion to argue it down, but he told me that Yeats was well worth the price scribbled in. I mentioned that I could not argue with him. He took this line as an invitation to talk. He acquired the book at an estate sale, which pleased him to no great end because Yeats was his favorite poet.
The old man first found Yeats when he was a child in Northern Ireland. At the time, the staunchly Irish demanded a return to pure Irish roots. Pure Irish roots meant learning gaelic, not latin or greek as Old Man's parents wanted. So, the Old Man rebelled and dove into proper irish writing. That included Yeats, which apparently gave the Old Man much comfort during critical times in his youth. I wasn't really sure what more he said, because the cars rushing past outside the dealer created such background noises.
At times like that, I loathe being deaf. I really wish I could've talked more to Old Man and maybe learned more from him. He obviously had a lot to say, and a lot of learning to impart. I wanted to know how he ended up managing a small junk shop in America. It seems like a far travel from the Orangeman shores of Ireland, the kind of travel that an aspiring writer such as myself could learn from and write about. But, I probably wont get that opportunity again. I think, the next time I'm in Los Angeles, I'll go back to the junk shop and hope that he's alive. I'll have some kind of communication medium with me, someone who can hear, or a pen and paper. That man's story needs to be told, especially to me.
While I was talking to Old Man, she came in. I noticed a smell of something faintly sweet, and a flash of a cochlear implant. I excused myself from the Old Man and approached her. She was a few inches shorter than me, with cropped, curly blonde hair, oblong blue eyes, and wide hips that stretched her skirt in a pleasing manner. She had wire glasses, a sharp smile, and a pink button on the edge of her skirt. I was taken, and strove to make conversation. We talked about poetry. She loved this one Jewish poet who wrote about the holocaust. I love this one Jewish homosexual who wrote about drugs and sex. She was a screenwriter studying at USC. I am a hack studying at ISU. We exchanged emails and promised to write. I did. She didn't.
I don't even know why I was thinking about her tonight. That time seems like long ago. I was probably having a wistful thought. Large hips do make me happy, and intelligent women who enjoy poetry make me even happier. If I think hard enough, I can picture her seated on a rug in front of the fire, red wine in hand, a smile on her face, and a book of poems opened on the floor in front of her. She is laughing over something I've just said. And then she peruses the book and reads to me in a slow voice. When she's done, we discuss the poem. Not so much what we felt about it, or what we thought about it, because we both know that the poem is good, but what each line means to us and to the poet.
Isn't that pretty fucking campy? Maybe I just want to screw those nice, wide hips. It was still a nice thought, though. And, I wonder if I set a record for the amount of superlatives used in a snitty post.
I didn't get much of a chance to see what was in the junk shop. I saw rows of books piled upon a lot of brown metal things. I was naturally drawn towards the books. There were three rather non-descript piles. Each pile had a sign over it marking price. The dollar books were dime novels from the fifties. The three-dollar books had a bit better fare, but still didn't contain anything worth shelling out. The last pile had the works of Donne and the collected poems of W. B. Yeats. I was instantly attracted to Donne, because a few days before, Ghetto-Fab and I had watched a particularly good movie by the name of Wit.
Wit, starring Emma Thompson, is a wonderful flick, produced for HBO, about a professor of Donne who is dying from Ovarian Cancer. The character Emma portrays, Vivian, is one of those frightfully intelligent women whom I wish to one day be lucky enough to marry (that is assuming that I ever decide to get married, and marriage, at this point in my life, is the mental equivalent to wrapping my dick in a barb-wire garrote). Every line she speaks is wonderfully witty, sharp, and astute. As the film progresses and Vivian approaches death, we see her character develop into a quivering puddle of human emotions. Along the way, Vivian quotes a particular Donne poem, which is probably his most well known, Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Jesus. Isn't that magnificent? The poem does funny things to me, like give me tinglings in my pants. Each line radiates with the incredible vitality of the English language. I can imagine Donne writing this, tearing through the words before finally clacking a crescendo with a final pen pop at the last line. Death, thou shalt die! And, I must admit, that the last two lines of the poem are my favorite of this particular sonnet. Let's analyze it.
What does Donne mean when he says "One short sleep past, wee wake eternally." Obviously, a man such as Donne who was forever questioning the nature of death would hold religious convictions. If he were Christian, as most were in his time, then he surely would believe in the resurrection on judgment day. Judgment Day is when Jesus, or G-d, depending on the faith, calls the souls of the dead to their final judgment. On this day, the deceased will return to their bodies ( one short sleepe past), and the bodies will rise (we wake eternally). The Jewish faith says this is when G-d will determine who is saved and who is not. The Christian faith says that only those who have been determined saved (usually done while alive) get to see the rapture and the return of the messiah. In any case, the original sin will be wiped away and, with it, death shall be no more
Yeah, baby, yeah. But, I didn't buy Donne. I instead bought W.B. Yeats. I've always liked Irish writing. There isn't much out there. I guess poverty and booze do much to prevent one from writing, although I don't see how it should considering the best writers are usually poor and drunk. Hell, I'm poor and drunk and can only see how being so might improve the quality of my writing. In sprite of their lack of productivity, though, the irish writers of the 20th century have been quite nice. Consider the writings of Joyce. His stream of consciousness style spawned a generation, including Faulkner, who I adore. Joyce's A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man was the most intense, and most deep, text I've ever encountered.
Irish praise aside, Yeats excites me too, slightly more than Donne. I hadn't thought much about him until recently; when I was talking to this one girl I met at a party. I mentioned that I enjoyed poetry, and she gave me one of those long, melodramatic sighs that seemed to indicate that she, too, enjoyed poetry, and probably more than a n uncouth fraternity brother like myself could understand or appreciate. I hate pseudo-intellectuals like that, but I some how managed to weasel out the information that she loved Yeats, particularly He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven.
I say that in spite of her holier-than-thou stance, her choice of poems to prefer was quite well enough. I, too, really enjoy that poem, particularly the last line that I desire tattooed on my right calf. I might do that within the next year or so. First, I need that tattoo on my left wrist, which will be inked some time within the next two weeks. Tattoos, and melo-drama queens aside, Yeats writes some damned fine poetry, most which probably need to be enjoyed with a woman, or a large tankard of ale. Both, I must admit, would be particularly nice at this moment.
Part of the reason I chose Yeats over Donne was the man at the counter. He was a grizzled old guy, with wrinkled skin, a snow beard, and a skullcap pushing his forehead toward his gap-toothed mouth. I picked hp the collected poems of Yeats and inquired about the price written on the inside of the book. I had half a notion to argue it down, but he told me that Yeats was well worth the price scribbled in. I mentioned that I could not argue with him. He took this line as an invitation to talk. He acquired the book at an estate sale, which pleased him to no great end because Yeats was his favorite poet.
The old man first found Yeats when he was a child in Northern Ireland. At the time, the staunchly Irish demanded a return to pure Irish roots. Pure Irish roots meant learning gaelic, not latin or greek as Old Man's parents wanted. So, the Old Man rebelled and dove into proper irish writing. That included Yeats, which apparently gave the Old Man much comfort during critical times in his youth. I wasn't really sure what more he said, because the cars rushing past outside the dealer created such background noises.
At times like that, I loathe being deaf. I really wish I could've talked more to Old Man and maybe learned more from him. He obviously had a lot to say, and a lot of learning to impart. I wanted to know how he ended up managing a small junk shop in America. It seems like a far travel from the Orangeman shores of Ireland, the kind of travel that an aspiring writer such as myself could learn from and write about. But, I probably wont get that opportunity again. I think, the next time I'm in Los Angeles, I'll go back to the junk shop and hope that he's alive. I'll have some kind of communication medium with me, someone who can hear, or a pen and paper. That man's story needs to be told, especially to me.
While I was talking to Old Man, she came in. I noticed a smell of something faintly sweet, and a flash of a cochlear implant. I excused myself from the Old Man and approached her. She was a few inches shorter than me, with cropped, curly blonde hair, oblong blue eyes, and wide hips that stretched her skirt in a pleasing manner. She had wire glasses, a sharp smile, and a pink button on the edge of her skirt. I was taken, and strove to make conversation. We talked about poetry. She loved this one Jewish poet who wrote about the holocaust. I love this one Jewish homosexual who wrote about drugs and sex. She was a screenwriter studying at USC. I am a hack studying at ISU. We exchanged emails and promised to write. I did. She didn't.
I don't even know why I was thinking about her tonight. That time seems like long ago. I was probably having a wistful thought. Large hips do make me happy, and intelligent women who enjoy poetry make me even happier. If I think hard enough, I can picture her seated on a rug in front of the fire, red wine in hand, a smile on her face, and a book of poems opened on the floor in front of her. She is laughing over something I've just said. And then she peruses the book and reads to me in a slow voice. When she's done, we discuss the poem. Not so much what we felt about it, or what we thought about it, because we both know that the poem is good, but what each line means to us and to the poet.
Isn't that pretty fucking campy? Maybe I just want to screw those nice, wide hips. It was still a nice thought, though. And, I wonder if I set a record for the amount of superlatives used in a snitty post.
posted by Jon at 5:19 PM
0 comments
