Poems for Monday, December 5

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7

The feet of people walking home
With gayer sandals go -
The Crocus - till she rises
The Vassal of the snow -
The lips at Hallelujah
Long years of practise bore
Till bye and bye these Bargemen
Walked singing on the shore.

Pearls are the Diver's farthings
Extorted form the Sea -
Pinions - the Seraph's wagon
Pedestrian once - as we -
Night is the morning's Canvas
Larceny - legacy -
Death, but our rapt attention
To immortality.

My figures fail to tell me
How far the Village lies -
Whose peasants are the Angels -
Whose Cantons dot the skies -
My Classics veil their faces -
My faith that Dark adores -
Which from it's solemn abbeys
Such resurrection pours.

40

When I count the seeds
That are sown beneath,
To bloom so, bye and bye --

When I con the people
Lain so low,
To be received as high --

When I believe the garden
Mortal shall not see --
Pick by faith its blossom
And avoid its Bee,
I can spare this summer, unreluctantly.

463

I live with Him -- I see His face --
I go no more away
For Visitor -- or Sundown --
Death's single privacy

The Only One -- forestalling Mine --
And that -- by Right that He
Presents a Claim invisible --
No wedlock -- granted Me --

I live with Him -- I hear His Voice --
I stand alive -- Today --
To witness to the Certainty
Of Immortality --

Taught Me -- by Time -- the lower Way --
Conviction -- Every day --
That Life like This -- is stopless --
Be Judgment -- what it may –

1194

Somehow myself survived the Night
And entered with the Day --
That it be saved the Saved suffice
Without the Formula.

Henceforth I take my living place
As one commuted led --
A Candidate for Morning Chance
But dated with the Dead.

1234

If my Bark sink
'Tis to another sea --
Mortality's Ground Floor
Is Immortality --

1365

Take all away --
The only thing worth larceny
Is left -- the Immortality --

1728

Is Immortality a bane
That men are so oppressed?

A Poem by Joseph Bottum

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Reading by Osmosis



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Copyright (c) 2005 First Things 157 (November 2005): 28-30.




Well—

Mark Twain, Hart Crane,
and Ursula K. LeGuin—
We’ve mastered their books with a difficult trick:
We’ve read them outside in.

Percy B. Shelley and Machiavelli
and Norman Vincent Peale—
We’ve never tried opening one of their books.
We know them by their feel.

Does reading seem boring? Does reading seem hard?
Does reading seem too ferocious?
Then pick up a book and just give it a twirl.
You’ll learn it by osmosis.

Because—

Osmosis is the mostest.
Osmosis is the best.
Osmosis is the closest thing to reading without rest.

Osmosis means absorbing.
Osmosis means so much.
Osmosis means we’re soaking up the books we barely touch.

Harriet Beecher Stowe,
and Henry David Thoreau,
and Daniel Defoe,
and Jacques Rousseau,
and, oh,
hundreds of others we know—

We bobble, bounce, and throw them.
We never even look.
Osmosis means we know them without opening a book.

You know—

My sister osmoted The Mill on the Floss,
a wonderful book, and gave us a gloss:
concerning a man named John Stuart Mill
with terrible teeth that made him quite ill.
Why—oh, why—wouldn’t he floss?

My brother osmoted The Lord of the Rings,
a story of insects with thousands of wings—
or was that a book called Lord of the Flies?
Oh well, we’re getting wise
by learning the things that osmosis now brings.

We’ll juggle the books Little Women and Men
(they’re all about dwarves in a mountainy den)
and throw in a copy of Watership Down
(concerning a boat and some sailors who drown),
and then—we’ll run to the bookstore again.

But first—

Let’s have a lesson from Doktor Derzenna,
who comes here today all the way from Vienna
to teach us the meaning of difficult things:

“Ach, vell, now ve begin—
Osmooosis, zis ist meaning
zat vhen two zings are leaning,
ze one into ze other tries to sneak.

Ze liquid on ze right,
zrough membranes overnight,
vill to ze left most definitely leak.

Vhile coming here I sat
on dictionaries fat
und learned all zis by riding on ze book!

But if you have neurosis,
mine genius ist hypnosis.
You vill mine eyes most deeply into look.”

Ummmm—

Neurosis, hypnosis, psychosis, meiosis:
lovely words, in their way.
Cirrhosis, necrosis, and also thrombosis:
pleasing, but harder to say.

And atrocious prognosis of misdiagnosis
for aches of precocious sclerosis—
but words will find their apotheosis
remains the great osmosis.

We boast! We boast!
Osmosis is the most
phenomenal way
to read today
while eating jam and toast!

We shout! We plead!
Osmosis we will need
for playing jacks
and munching snacks
and dancing while we read!

So—

Rebecca West and Edgar Guest:
We’ll never be certain which one is the best.
Christopher Smart and Jean-Paul Sartre:
Just think of the wonders they have to impart.
Poets of genius like Julia Moore
and William McGonagall call for a roar.
William Shakespeare—Edward de Vere:
The difference isn’t entirely clear.
John Donne and Thom Gunn:
Osmoting them both is a gallon of fun.
Somerset Maugham and L. Frank Baum,
Josiah Royce and James Joyce,
John Bunyan and Damon Runyon,
Graham Greene and Molly Keane,
Tom Paine and Ed McBain,
Ring Lardner and John Gardner,
Alice Munro and Arthur Rimbaud,
and, oh, hundreds of others we know.

Because—

Osmosis is the mostest.
Osmosis is the best.
Osmosis is the closest thing to reading without rest.

Osmosis means absorbing.
Osmosis means so much.
Osmosis means we’re soaking up the books we barely touch.

We hold them to our noses.
We brush them with our clothes.
We’re learning by osmosis when we tap them with our toes.

We pile them on the table.
We slide them on the floor.
We stack them into stairways and we climb up for some more.

We bobble, bounce, and throw them.
We never even look.
Osmosis means we know them without opening a book.



Joseph Bottum is editor of First Things.

Candace's submission for Monday, November 21

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I DIE OF THIRST WHILE AT THE FOUNTAIN SIDE

Francois Villon (1431-c. 1463), French poet

I die of thirst while at the fountain side,
Hot as fire, my teeth are chattering,
In my own country, far off I abide,
Near the blaze I burn, still shivering,
Naked as a worm, dressed like my Lord the Mayor,
I laugh in tears and wait, but without hope,
I brighten up again, in sad despair,
I'm joyful, and I don't have any fun,
Powerful, and with no strength to cope,
Well received, dismissed by everyone.

I'm sure of nothing but uncertainties,
I find obscure all that is evident,
Doubtful of nothing but the certainties,
My learning comes by sudden accident,
Winner of everything, a loser overall,
At dawn I say, "God give you a good night,"
When I'm laid out I'm still afraid I'll fall,
I own the bank, without a sou in sight,
Await inheritance, as no-one's son,
Well received, dismissed by everyone.

Careless and carefree, still a working stiff
So I can buy what I don't need to buy,
Those who speak best to me most piss me off,
And those who are most true most often lie,
A friend is anyone who lets me know

That a white swan is just a coal-black crow,
And those who hurt believe they help I see,
Falsehood and truth are all the same to me,
I can recall each thing, and think of none,
Well received, dismissed by everyone.

Merciful Prince, let's hope yo like this one,
I've learned a lot, no sense or knowdlege won,
I'm someone special, and common in the dock
What's left to do? Get my junk out of the hock.
Well received, dismissed by everyone.

Tr. David Curzon and Jeffrey Fiskin