Robert Burns ~ January 25, 1759 ~ 256 Years

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O, my Luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June.
O, my Luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly play'd in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun:
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run:

And fare thee weel, my only Luve!
And fare thee weel, a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho' twere ten thousand mile.

###########################

I sang a setting of this poem last night at the annual Burns Night 
dinner sponsored by the St. Andrew's Society of San Francisco 
held at the Family Club on Bush and Powell. I sang in memory
of my dear friend Lyle Richardson, who died at the age of 92
just a few days before Christmas. I first met Lyle when he was
my accompanist for this same song at the same event many years ago.

REVERBERATIONS: A Gay Lament ~continued

I moved to San Francisco a few months after my Groundhog's Day party in 1973. My poem REVERBERATIONS: A Gay Lament (continued below) gave a partial explanation for the move.

(I think it was pretty good for a twenty-three year old.

I was such a foolish Romantic then... and still am!)

I've returned to the same dark place several times in my life,

but so far have managed to pass through it.

* * * * *

I'm in the net again.

Old behavioral patterns reemerge from buried depths

like hollow airtight buoys vainly shoved beneath:

Nihilism--

fills a world 

devoid of cosmic purpose…

fits a life 

estranged from common bonds;

Self-defeating-deprecation

inflates my masochistic ego…

conflagrates my mental sores.

* * * * *

But why encourage death's dark forest

when time's abyss shall gain the final victory

in its own time?

Despite feeble grumblings and desperate fears

the end is certain….yes.

Yet I deceive myself

in thinking I will have won

by choosing the time and circumstances of my end.

Not victory……………………….capitulation.

And although oblivion might seem preferable

to the pain,

why not experience what is?

--whatever it may be--

the pain at least is memorable.

* * * * *

Memory

--- that vital substance of our being ---

present particles of time streaming

endlessly

from one to next---

We spend our days and minutes...

our lives

reflecting constant past…

projecting constant future…

The present never really is.

* * * * *

Recurring particles in my life

create a mood of disparate desperation.

Stifled friendships, muffled cries

expose futility in my projections…

….a life alone.

I can't accept it!

(But need I?)

I need fulfillment of my own…

(I must move…)

….understanding, companionship…

(…to western enclaves…)

…perhaps, even love, if it really be

(…to find, to save…)

So Farewell:

To one who never knew (…me)

to one I never knew

except as a perceptually-obsessive infatuation,

Adieu

* * * * *

My melancholic muse grows weary:

Depart, fair phantom of my soul.

Must thou be exorcised with false lethargy?

Must I crawl back in my withdrawn tortoise shell

preventing my destruction

concomitant with thine?

Summon me a surrogate death -- mental euthanasia--

Obliterate the memory of one face.

PEARL

Today, December 7, is Pearl Harbor Day. Because of that, a good friend, and perhaps first partner, was born in a detention camp in Topaz, Utah. 

On September 1, 1976, a bearded Japanese-American man, whom I had seen on occasion, wrote his name and phone number on the back of a fellow Sloane’s employee’s business card, and left it for me. That’s how I met Gary Murakami. He later told me he had been loaded, or he wouldn’t have been so bold. I hadn’t noticed. September 1st was Mother and Dad’s 39th wedding anniversary.

We started seeing each other. And for several years, I spent more time at Gary’s place on Pierce Street than at home on 23rd. Several times I offered to move, so that we could find a place together. But he hesitated. Gary said he could never live with me. Later, I learned that was because of a dependence problem. He thought he could disguise it, if we didn’t live together. But we virtually lived at his place—a tiny studio with a bath and kitchen. It was very elegant – in a modern, Japanese fashion. Gary was a wonderful cook, and a beautiful man. He had had several lung operations as a teenager, and had matching scars from his nipples, under the arms to his back. He called them his angel wings. His lungs were atrophying, and would eventually have killed him. I think that added to his anxiety, and contributed to his alcohol dependence.

When I first met Gary I wrote:

SYNTHESIS
OF EAST
AND WEST
DIVORCED
FROM LINGUAL
HERITAGE
BY RANK
INJUSTICE
ALL IN BUT
ONE DAY
MANY ENEMIES
AGO

CONFISCATED
PROPERTY
BROKEN
PORCELAIN
TRANSPLANTED
PEARL
CAST
IN THE DESERT
UNTO
SWINEHERDS
IN UTAH

AFTER CROWDED
STABLES
DARKENED
TRAINS
TO BE ABANDONED
IN THE WILDERNESS

BORN
IN ISOLATION
AMID SALT FLATS
AND DESERT FLOWERS
PERHAPS

PARENTAL
RETICENCE
UNDERSTANDABLE
WITH RIGHTFUL
DIGNITY

AWAITING
RESTORATION
EVEN NOW
OVERDUE

AN ONLY SON
WITH FAMILIAL
OBLIGATIONS
AND HOPE
OF MANY
FUTURES

DESPITE
THE PAST
OR BECAUSE
OF LARGER
PASTS
A STYLE
IMPECCABLE
AND SERENE
WHITES
AND WICKERS
TAILORED
APPROPRIATENESS
SIMPLE
ELEGANCE
TRANQUILITY

CAN THERE BE
NO BITTERNESS?

###

BEAUTY SEEN
EXPERIENCED
AND TRANSMITTED

MAY I KNOW MORE?


He said yes-- for almost five years. But Gary was always extremely moody on Pearl Harbor Day.

REVERBERATIONS (Excerpt) MEMORY

 Memory

--- that vital substance of our being ---

present particles of time streaming 

endlessly

from one to next---

We spend our days and minutes... 

our lives

reflecting constant past…

projecting constant future…

The present never really is.

REVERBERATIONS (Excerpt) CONTEMPLATION

 

I'm in the net again. 

Old behavioral patterns reemerge from buried depths

like hollow airtight buoys vainly shoved beneath: 

Nihilism-- 

fills a world devoid of cosmic purpose… 

fits a life estranged from common bonds; 

Self-defeating-deprecation

inflates my masochistic ego…

conflagrates my mental sores.  

* * * * *                                  

But why encourage death's dark forest 

when time's abyss shall gain the final victory 

in its own time? 

Despite feeble grumblings and desperate fears 

the end is certain….yes. 

Yet I deceive myself 

in thinking I will have won                                   

by choosing the time and circumstances of my end. 

Not victory……………………….capitulation. 

And although oblivion might seem preferable to the pain, 

why not experience what is?

--whatever it may be--

the pain at least is memorable.

REVERBERATIONS (excerpt)

Hail, Anachronism of another Age

beckoning again some golden, distant past --

that fallacy of idle dreamers

who, discontented with their present state,

invoke utopias unsurpassed--

through time's misty haze

and memories forgot.

But truly, thou should be at ease

amidst the splendour of Lorenzo's court…

commissions of immortal works.

Oh, were thou a model for Donatello!

Or grander still, heroic Michelangelo,

preserving for posterity the face of David

and thy nobility and grace.

But Raphael -- of gentler fame --

would need to recompense thy charm

and wandering Leonardo

paint the mystery of thy mouth.

Enough! Such vain, affected phrases

fail to capture You (not Thou).

Esoteric images less than flatter

what is real and now and yet

I know not what is.

You are but a phantasy, a distant mirage,

Here…………but unapproachable.

D'ARTAGNAN (excerpt from my poem REVERBERATIONS: a Gay Lament)

Your features need no vain disguise

to complement the beauty of their form: 

a perfect nose enhancing piercing eyes, 

a noble brow and mouth with molded chin 

all framed in brown from lion crowns 

with shaggy manes and princely ways. 

                                               

Why add the growth above your mouth… 

that curious sprout beneath your lips? 

In truth they render precieux airs 

-- superfluous to purest form-- 

and more disposed to foppish counts 

from courts of Louis Treize ou Quatorze.

 

            Yet even now

                        you are diminished

                        not a hairbreadth's distance

                        from your fairest self,

                                                my D'Artagnan.