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Thinking about time, Misao Okawa, Van Gogh, and Delmore Schwartz

This week I am taking a short detour off of the poetic superhighway, perhaps into the philosophical ‘weeds’, but nonetheless, here’s what’s on my mind today. A news story that I read earlier in the month at first amused me, then it nagged at me for so long that I returned to the article for a re-read. My take away on the re-read disturbed me.

The article that I am referring to is one of many that appeared on various internet newsfeeds, as well as in the print and broadcast news media. It announced the birthday of the world’s oldest living human, Misao Okawa of Japan. Ms. Okawa, who on March 5 of this year, celebrated her 117th birthday, made her numero uno of the supercentenarians, a supercentenarian being defined as a person older than 110 years of age.

In any case, it was a ‘feel good’ article, and Ms. Okawa, who appears to be mentally sharp, and in good physical condition for a person of her age, had quite a lot to say to interviewers. Most noteworthy of her comments was one regarding life in general.

“It seemed quite short,” said Ms. Okawa.

I was stunned. If the life of the world’s oldest human seemed, “quite short”, what hope is there for the rest of us. As a time junkie, I calculated that Ms. Okawa was 57 years of age when I was born – a lady well into middle age at that time. Now in her later years, her she was telling us that, in effect, it had all passed very quickly.

Get it done, make the list, and make sure you get as much in as you can, because you only have your ‘allotted’ years. That’s what I take away from Ms. Okawa’s interview. If you want to write, paint, improve yourself, or travel to the ends of the earth, there is no better day to put a plan in place than today. If you want to build a cabin in the Rockies, ride a horse, jump a freight train to Calgary, or rekindle a lost romance, do it now.

Some of us are allowed many years, others of us few. Yesterday, March 30th, marked the passing of one who was allotted few years. It was the birth date of Vincent Van Gogh. Van Gogh was allowed only 37 years on this planet before insanity drove him to kill himself in July of 1890. In his wake he left a legacy of art that will survive him by millenniums (if civilization survives that long).

So this is where I am today, midway between Van Gogh’s birthday, and the first of April. Do I have a poem in mind for this occasion…well I do, but it’s not one that I wrote. It’s one of my favorite poems, and it contains one of my favorite poetic lines:

“…time is the fire in which we burn”

This line is from a poem by Delmore Schwartz, titled “Calmly we walk through this April day”. This poem describes an April day in New York City in 1937. I hope that you enjoy it.

Oh…by the way…
Ms. Okawa was asked the secret of her longevity.
She said, “I wonder about that too.”

Mahalo
ed

W E Patterson's avatar

Notes: on a final poem

write it fast
it’s your last

so to do it right
you’ll have to
drive out
to that truck stop
a few miles
outside of Harrisburg
PA
at 2AM
ignore the pain
enjoy the rain
find a booth
in the back by
the kitchen and ask
the blonde
20 year old heart-throb
to bring you coffee
and a cheese danish
for the road
and you tell her to
keep the refills coming
because you’re – ‘all in’
and heading for
the long haul

AND

it’s all uphill isn’t it?
like pulling
into Leadville, Colorado
in an 80 ton Peterbilt

so JUST

focus on that
laptop screen
and keep typing

after all

…you’ve been writing

for about seven decades
(haven’t you)…
so write a little more
(can’t hurt)

and
tell them how it is
out here on the edge

and most of all…
…don’t pull back
slam the throttles
to the fucking firewall

but
explain it carefully
to anyone
who will listen
and don’t let up
give it all you’ve got

for another hour

then

you can hit Send

and push this shit off
to that literary journal
in Indiana

 

and after that you can
drive back home
in the Subaru
and roll up
like you’re going
to live another
50 years
and park behind the house
beside the tomato garden
and
tiptoe in so you
don’t wake the dogs
and sleep
until
the Sun
says
no more.

W E Patterson's avatar

reflections on a reduction in force, circa. 1996

you think
when you have a job
to go to…
…one that
requires that you
wear a necktie
and appear in
meetings with
corporate clones
as well as,
note-taking
corporate drones
and debilitated
veterans of
countless takeovers
…you think
to yourself
that it will last
for as long as you want
…a charade can last forever
and
you believe in your heart
…sincerely…
that the
goodwill pump
in your chest
will beat on
…ad infinitum
and after that,
you say
to anyone who will listen:
“sometime
around the year
two thousand seventy seven
I’ll abandon this madness
for my
ranch out west”

where you’ll
drink a lot
until late at night
every night
like you always have
and you’ll tell war stories
in the only bar in town
to half a dozen
late night
well-heeled patrons
and you’ll
paint
that barn in
the South Pasture
blood red
and write poems
and read Proust
and raise
Siberian Huskies

….and…
when daylight wanes
you’ll learn to love
the sunrise
and you’ll fly that
damned helicopter

and you’ll
go to the Calgary Stampede
one last time
and you’ll tinker with
that old Case baler
out in the shed
every night
after supper
until your fingers
get blue and numb
in the February cold
and then
one night
when you are drunk enough
you’ll pull out that laptop
computer
the one that
you’ve kept locked away
in the safe behind the stairs
packed away with your
forty five
…and you’ll look for him
the one that you ‘furloughed’
in 1996 (or thereabouts) to
see if he ever,
…regained his corporate footing
or remarried
or found his lost child
but ultimately to find out
…if he has
in some way
caught up with you
because
you know if you don’t
do it now
…in the end,
you’ll do it
eventually
on your back
looking up at the
sky

W E Patterson's avatar

eternal return

maybe Nietzsche
was right

someday,
when they pull
the shades in the
rest-home in Hialeah
…when you are 97 years old,
you’ll open your eyes…

…and there you’ll be

…back

in Hibbing, Minnesota
and it will
ALL
start over…
… you’ll cry when
your third grade teacher
asks why your sister
is in jail
and why your mother
does her wash
at the Load-O-Mat
on Sunday
instead of attending
services at the first
Preysbeterian church

…and why your father
is still in Pensacola
and why your
Uncle Leo quit
the railroad job to
sell Amway
door to door

and you’ll NEVER

ask

the Army recruiter
about the job details
…and you’ll never
ask the landlady
who owns that apartment you will
lease
in South St. Paul
in September 1974
if the deposit
is refundable

and you won’t ask
that car guy in Mason City if the
cherry
Ford Econoline on the lot
has ever had, the
transmission replaced
you won’t ask
any of that

will you?

W E Patterson's avatar

The Land of the Brave

today,
you’re on your own
stay where you are
and don’t move
you won’t stop me

from writing a poem…

I’ll travel
today
to a picnic table
in a scenic overlook
by the Interstate
where I can look down
on
the traffic pushing
west toward
Ohio
and Indiana

and Chicago
and snaking east
toward New York

and Boston
and Philly
and I can watch the
Kenworths rumble
into the
last rays of the sun
and the Peterbilts
tumble into the

dark

and I watch
the headlamps
of a hundred cars
an hour
pan the twilight
all of them on

their way

to somwhere

and

before I leave

I watch
a solitary
Winnebago Brave
limp along
in the slow lane
like a wounded
water bug

heading west

crawling toward

the Continental Divide
two and a half days distant
(at fifty eight miles per hour)

…then

I watch
the sun sink
over the Delaware River
and I smoke an
afternoon pipe
and drink coffee

and I paint the words

rushing up

from late day

onto the back of

a past due

water bill

W E Patterson's avatar

On Collins Avenue, last week

on Thursday afternoons
Emily drinks vodka gimlets
with a guy
at the Fountainebleu bar

…he’s a b-grade actor
who is 3 times her age
…he’s a ‘has-been’
…a forgotten relic…
with silver hair

…a guy
who has fifty grand
left in the bank,
a guy who has
a cancelled
AmEx Card
in his wallet
and has recently had
his powder blue
Bentley repo’d

…a guy

who has a
house in The Gables
that’s in foreclosure
and a wife in Palm Springs
who is on the move…
and a daughter in Betty Ford
recovering…

…a guy
Emily has ONLY seen
in reruns on cable tv
late at night

…that guy…

but Emily delights

in the fact
that a tourist
from Montreal
walks up
as they finish their

gimlets

and asks b-grade

to sign his cocktail napkin
and then
Montreal tourist asks
b-grade actor
if he’d ever met Pablo Escobar
and asks if he knew
Ronald Reagan
back in the day

and

if he’d ever met
Don Johnson
on the set

old actors die hard
this one smiles politely
drains his gimlet
and signs the napkin.

 

W E Patterson's avatar

east of Coos Bay

the last time
I talked about David
was 5 or 6 days
after the service

Leo and I
talked about
the last fly rod
the guy ever
owned
and how his third
wife left town
six months before
it happened

… and we discussed
the disappearance of
his truck
from a non-descript
stripmall
in North Las Vegas
and the eventual
disintegration of
his new outlook on life.

then

…we talked about

the end

and after that I

never

talked about David.

 

So…
… about 10 years later
i heard
they’d
scattered his ashes

by the lake

where he used to fish
…a long way
from Long Beach, California
…so far you’d have
to take
six buses to get there
and now
they say

he’s somewhere east of Coos Bay

 

“forty five”
is too young
to have done
this sort of shit
to himself
says my cousin

Margie…
…she didn’t even know
that he had a gun…

…he was too
young to have
died fishing
but he did…

…and he
didn’t tell
anyone
he was going
(fishing)
did he?

W E Patterson's avatar

almost

after dark
he knows
his way along the animal trail
that crosses my back yard
better than
my neighbor, McDougal
knows the way home
after midnight from
the Black Thorn

both of them push along
with long noses
pressed to the dirt
but the marsupial
…the aged opossum

…this one…

…the one I wait for…

has escaped
for a year.
Now I hear him
rustling in the fence row
darting past
the 4 volt landscape lites
hiding for a moment
behind the hibiscus
sensing, maybe
the shit to come
but he makes
his move

…he darts up into the
bougainvillea
then in careful
avoidance of thorns
he appears on the far side
of the property
atop the fence and

HE’S
closing in fast

…I am careful, though
I’m sitting on an overturned bucket
wearing a bathrobe
and
flip-flops made
in Okinowa

AND I have
my sister Muriel’s
22 single shot
sighted carefully
as I,
in silence wait
for him

…and then he’s upon me
six, or seven feet away

Keep the dogs in, I yell to Leah
he hears me and
then he freezes, teeth clacking
eyes flashing

I squeeze off a shot
it misses by 2 or 3 feet

later, Leah asks
if I got him
and I say
almost.

W E Patterson's avatar

I discuss my poetry book and give away a few copies

The other evening at a writers’ meeting, one of our members, who is also a reader here at EEOTPB, asked if I had any new writing projects in the works – apart from the sporadic poems that I post. I told her that in recent months, my day job as a technical writer had left me creatively drained, and that the last half of 2014 had been especially demanding. For that reason, I hadn’t been able to spend as much time on some of my personal writing projects as I’d liked. Several projects that I should have completed by now have languished — sunk into the proverbial electronic dustbin, now  nearly beyond retrieval. Even blog posts that I wanted to write – intended to write – have grown stale under the heavy foot of “The Man” who puts food on my table, gas in my tank, and keeps my golden retriever Bailey supplied with expensive ‘all-natural’ dog food. I mean, even blogs I want to read I haven’t gotten around to reading.

Then my friend told me that although she had enjoyed reading some of the poems on EEOTPB, she was a bit confused by my blog’s title, as there appears to be nothing about Ed, nothing about the end of the planet, and nothing at all about books.

I replied by saying that there is a great deal about Ed on this site if you read the poems carefully, and although there has been very little about the end of the planet (since that Mayan calendar scare that was freaking us out back in 2011 turned out to be pure rubbish), there is a bit about books…here and there…

It was at that point that I mentioned that I had collected about forty or so of the poems (many of which have appeared here), into a small volume of poetry, put a cover on it, and made it available to the reading public for a nominal fee. The name of the book is “outrunning the storm” and I shall provide a link here. But hold on! You needn’t rush to buy a copy. I’m going to give it away…right here…well, at least I am giving five copies to the first five people who email me at wepatt@hotmail.com. No postage necessary. I’ll foot that bill. Just put “ED – SEND ME THE BOOK” in the subject line, include a mailing address in the body, and I will send you a copy. And don’t worry, on down the line I won’t spam you with any ads or gimmicks, or give your email address to some shady internet marketing scammer who wants to sell you a time-share in Belize. In fact, you won’t ever  hear from me again!  And don’t think I’m going to ask you to write some flowery, fancy-pants book review either (unless you want to). I don’t work that way.storm.cover

So back to my friend who congratulated me on the book, but then politely shook her head and told me that it was unlikely that I would sell any copies.

“Poetry does not sell,” she said flatly.

I nodded, recalling how few six figure positions for “Poet” I’ve seen listed on internet employment websites.

After that I left and went home and did a search for the 10 top selling poetry books this week. Without giving you a glimpse into my next blog, I will leave you with this teaser.

The top 2 are:

“I know Why the Caged Bird Sings” by Maya Angelou

AND

“The Odyssey” by Homer

…and they say poetry isn’t selling.

–ED

W E Patterson's avatar

bus trip to Missoula

You thought
when you were young
that you would never
ride a bus
all the way to Missoula

to try to find

Kathy, that waitress
from the Fireside Tap
to see if she had finally
made up her mind
about

whether or not

to marry that
guy who said
she reminded him
of his mother

and to find out
if she’d ever

decided to
leave her job
and apply
for a new one
at the public library

and if she’d ever
decided to
pack all of her
shit into her
repainted
Ford Explorer
and change her
cell phone number
and if she had ever told
that lady at the rental office
that she needn’t bother
to change the locks
for non-payment…
because she’d soon be

long

…long gone

…that Kathy

…but you rode that bus
didn’t you
all the way from

Albert Lea, Minnesota
to Montana
and you sat beside that
bass player for
a band

the band who’d left him
stranded…
…a couple of
weeks ago
after a gig
in the Twin Cities
and he snored
all the way across
North Dakota
and then he
elbowed you
in the ribs
a couple of times

when you didn’t want to

make small talk about
the state of the economy
and how the IMF
and the trilateral commission
and the Illuminati
and the Posse Comitatus

and the
state department
and the POTSUS

ALL of whom had
conspired to destroy
Saskatchewan
piece by piece

you rode that damned bus
didn’t you
and you didn’t look
back