The Pre-Raphaelite Lie

First, you must be a woman in pain
saved by a knight, of course,
or comforted by a dowager
in tableau grief.

Or float like Ophelia,
mouth open, hands supplicant,
to a Browning heaven.
Pretty, but not long for this world,
spurned forever in love.

Waiting to die for art’s sake.
Corny. Confined. Forlorn.
Wronged women
in posed melancholy.

Under the tree
she looked into his eyes
(and so did his dog)
with a blind, utter devotion.

The man clearly knew it,
but looked off regardless,
his ideal exceeding his grasp:
damsel and decorative pining.
The Pre-Raphaelite lie.

…………………………………………..

Pre-Raphaelitism was a late nineteenth-century art movement which harkened back to an imagined mediaeval past for its views of love and romance. Quotes by Victorian poet Robert Browning alluded to–“God’s in His heaven–/All is right with the world!” “Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp/Or what’s a heaven for?”. Some famous subjects included Shakespeare’s Ophelia and Tennyson’s “The Lady of Shalott”.  Betrayed love and death are common themes; the more mixed together, the better! Often there are also animals in the paintings, looking similarly melancholy.

Sometimes romantic roles are more dishonest and more for performance effect than anything else. The pre-Raphalites believed there was a beauty and truth to death and many generations of art fans and lovers would probably agree. This in itself was nothing new given Romeo and Juliet and other doomed or tragic lovers. But the great lesson of looking at this art movement may be the simple point–that a role can be fake, a stereotype, or basically just a mask or style–something that lacks a heart or the sincerity and truth of reality and real experience.

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Until Next Year

“So fold thyself, my dearest, then, and slip/Into my bosom and be lost in me.”–Tennyson, “Songs from The Princess”

He stands in a lane of an October night
Dark leaves blowin’ at his feet
His breath hangs white on the frosted air
As he keeps his vigil in the sleet

The light from her window glowin’ soft and warm
A long ago memory in the mist
An embrace recollected in the shadows
The closeness of a hand being kissed

Chorus:
Is my true love sleeping?
Does she think of me still
As I wait for the first lights of dawn?
Does she know I’ve been waiting
For her signal to return?
Will my true love know when I am gone?

He hesitates a moment by the street-corner lamp
And trembles, thoughts of touches he had known
Memories swell within his restless heart
With an ache that he’d never outgrown

Chorus: repeats

He stepped toward her window and he whispered her name
The shelter and her comfort, oh so near
He listened in vain to the echoes of the wind
And crept away again until next year…

Chorus: repeats

………………………………………….

With a nod to A.E. Housman, early Simon & Garfunkle, and Gabriel’s wife’s young lover in Joyce’s “The Dead”. Romantic roles and scripts are fairly common and some are more interesting than others. When one is in/to a role, the imagery usually follows as it does in this song. There are ‘the things to do’ and they, of course, make perfect sense. I guess it’s fair to say that for some the roles are very real, genuine, and deeply felt, and that some never quite move on or recover from scenes of the past.

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Death by Salesman

Dressed in a pinstripe suit
he promises you the moon
but offers you nothing.
Reeking of after-shave
he claims he can get you
‘the very best deal today.’

He lies about the options
& raises the price whenever
you think it’s finally fixed.
Other salesmen pop in
& give their 2 cents worth
on this deal from hell.
‘Oh, you can’t do better
than that,’ they sagely predict
clicking their donut tongues.

The salesman drives you down
back-alleys to a remote compound
where your car may be hidden
in hip-high grass.
On the way he tells you
of his migraines & how he
just started this job today.
He needs the sale bad, he says
picking at his teeth & nose.

Back in his office he leaps up
in mid-sentence & retreats to
his boss’s office to discuss what
they figure they can rip you off.
He changes the price again
(now you see it, now you don’t)
& your ulcer begins to burn
but you vow not to budge
an inch to these scuzzy sharks.

The business manager sits upstairs
like a vulture waiting
to work you over like the WWF.
His desk is littered with
photos of smiling children.
‘This is how I feed my kids’
he explains. ‘It’s your funeral’
he adds when you refuse his services.

The deal closed, there is some doubt
as to the actual value
of the vehicle in question.
Bravely you stride into the sunlight
& clean air, sans serial no., cheque
and warranty. Even now you are not
really sure if you have bought a car.

……………………………………………..

There are many other plays, scenes and roles that people would rather be caught in than this ordeal. Suffice to say that reality and illusion become very skewed in a car salesman’s office. I have been cast in this bad play more than once and lived to write about it. I always figure I am very lucky when the haggling, deception, insults, and arrogance finally stop and, mercifully, I don’t have to see someone like this anymore except to pick up the keys.

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Birdbath

True, it gets soiled
now & then
& after fall
with snow.

Eventually ice
then waiting for
beak-pecked memory.

Spring’s first robin–
full, the mirror bath
catches eyes alike,
revives new stock.

So someone
refills it–it is,
after all, expected.

I take the jug
& pour libations
to my aery brethren.

Honoured by their
short feathery stays,
voyeur to their dips.

Yes, I could do
nothing,
but it’s not mine
to choose.

And they cannot
do this simple thing,
the water of
necessity.

……………………………………

Some roles we just acquire or find ourselves playing one day out of the blue seemingly. Context and process can set up these unique situations in which one finds a role one did not predict or ever expect to play. Call it the working out of context and process. Although these wild birds would likely find some way to survive, I am in part responsible for attracting them to the birdbath and responsible for cleaning it and refilling it ultimately. That’s just the way it is. That’s just the way it has worked out. And…I don’t mind.

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The Marker

(with apologies to Kenny Rogers)

On a warm September mornin’ on a couch in a staffroom
I met up with a teacher, we were both too tired to speak.
So we took turns a-starin’ out the window at a school bus
Till boredom overtook us and she began to speak.

She said “Son, I’ve made a life out of readin’ student papers
And knowin’ what their marks were by the way the dot their i’s.
So if you don’t mind my sayin’, I can see you’re out of essays.
For a taste of your coffee, I’ll give you some advice.”

So I handed her my coffee and she drank down my last swallow.
Then she bummed a cigarette and asked me for a light.
And the room got deathly quiet and her face lost all expression.
She said, “If you’re gonna teach a class, boy, you gotta learn to teach ’em right.”

Chorus:
“You got to know when to pass ’em, know when to fail ’em
Know when to phone in sick, know when to lie.
You never mark your papers when you’re sittin’ in the staffroom.
There’ll be time enough for bridge and lunch when the markin’s done.”

“Every teacher knows that the secret to survivin’
Is knowin’ when reports are due and markin’ on a curve
For every A’s a winner and every F’s a loser
And the best that you can hope for is to win 649.”

And when she finished speakin’, she turned back toward the window,
Crushed out her cigarette and wandered off to class.
And somewhere in the hallway, the marker she expired.
But in her final words I found a gem that I could keep.

Chorus: repeats

………………………………

 

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Teechurs aftur hrs

Th howls r sighlint now
Zombeez shuffl 2 th mayn offis
wear janitur tecknishuns
cunnect th regulurz
2 tall hummean genuraturz
Kwalifyed pursonel
delicutlee remoov th leftovr braynz
cheking them 4 damidg
& vakuum out th hedz

Fullee sirvisd & smyleen wuns agin
th teechurs trayd all-noing glansez
(Boy if th kidz cud c us now!)
& reterneen buy instink
2 there classroom sells
thay clime on wuden deskz
& lie soopine i’s opin
awayteen dawn &
the furst arriveen skool bus

…………………………………..

Published  in On Spec, the Canadian magazine of speculative writing. For those who don’t know, Canadian poet bill bissett anticipated textspeak by a couple of decades at least. And one of the banes of my existence as a teacher was student spelling!

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Life as a Play: Of Performances and Roles

“All the world’s a stage,/And all the men and women merely players:/They have their exits and their entrances;/And one man in his time plays many parts.”–William Shakespeare, As You Like It

Shakespeare was right, of course, and many of his characters are very much conscious of the roles they themselves play whether it be Hamlet, Macbeth, Iago, Petruchio, or Prospero. It is no wonder that these and his other characters have remained thoroughly engaging, entertaining, and intriguing to millions globally through the centuries.

Regardless of how old one is once one enters adulthood, one can begin to realize the truth and relevance of Shakespeare`s statement and fundamental view about life as a play. We do, in fact, learn, play and acquire many roles through our childhoods and coming of age. We are constantly trying out new roles and giving performances in the many ways we act and behave.

As preschoolers, we are curious, trying out many things “to see how they work”, “to see what will happen, “to see how others will respond”. Thus, when children have crying fits, they may be attempting any or a combination of the above three goals. As they begin to develop a sense of self, they try out and play many roles and give many of their first performances. Identity, in even its earliest form of development and awareness, might be seen as an attempt of individuals to find themselves or the roles that want most to play or become.

In a family, each person finds his or her own roles and range of roles through a similar process of scenes and interactions. Of course, in school, that sense of individual development continues to grow through contact with classmates and friends. As we age, we continue to try out new roles via classroom and hallways interaction, on stages, in gyms, on fields, and through academic performance. In school, we find those subjects that interest us or don`t, and move steadily through a series of various roles and performances toward those we most want to be or aspire to–the roles and performances in adult life which will be us and provide meaning, purpose, completion, fulfillment, and satisfaction, comfort or peace.

Relationships work much the same way as we “try out” various scenes, performances, and other “actors” to see what works and what doesn`t, again acquiring a better sense, usually, of what we are still missing or still want, desire, and need by way of interactions with others. Thus, in this way, a marriage might be viewed as a play choice, or a divorce a rejection of roles and performances.

In the process, as we age, the roles and performances pile up. Some of the latter are good and “are more us”, and some are bad or inauthentic, not the roles we choose or want to play. Likewise, some roles and performances work and others don`t. In the end, it is up to us, to choose the roles we most want to be and the performances we most want to give and with or for whom–which audiences. To know those roles and performances is, in the end, to know ourselves and to become the people or identities we most wish to be in the play that is life. Beyond that step, of course, remains the final step of personal attitude toward, acceptance of, choice of, and quality of both roles and performances.

“Life`s like a play; it`s not the length but the excellence of the acting that matters.”–Seneca

…………………………….

Life has often been described as a game which suggests play and how people like to play, often pretending, assuming roles, and performing. Children do it, parents do it,  friends and family do it, workers and bosses do it, entertainers do it, adults do it, and so forth. It’s just something that happens and something which people do to alter or reconfigure reality, and often to adjust to reality or control and manage it and others.

We are all playing roles in the course of our days. Husbands and wives do it, parents and children, brothers and sisters, in-laws, neighbors, teachers and students, bosses and workers. As well, when we go out into public, we assume the roles of customers and clients while others act in the role of staff and employees waiting on or serving us. If we go to a library, a librarian or librarian technician, or a volunteer wait on us. Different places, businesses, and organizations call for different roles, and behaviours appropriate to and expected in such situations and dealings.

Each of us takes on and plays roles–fathers, mothers, counsellors, advisors, and so on. Often the roles are acquired, such as the role of parent. Or the roles are necessary in order to make a living. Being a breadwinner is a common role for many people in order to support many households. Along the way, we take on many roles and may, in fact, be playing several in a given day–for example, parent, employee, customer, volunteer. Some roles we will, undoubtedly like or prefer more than others. And some roles we will not be comfortable with; they are less ‘us’ or not ‘us’.

In the course of the day, too, we are involved in many scenes. A daily log of activities might include episodes in which we wake up, eat, get ready for work, have lunch with co-workers, make supper for the family, and play a game with family members. Each day plays out much like a play or a documentary film. At various key moments in life, we will enact larger moments such as birth, graduation, learning to drive, getting our first job, getting married or divorced, or experiencing a serious illness.

As individuals, we obviously look for the roles which suit us, which we dream of playing, and we look forward to experiencing scenes such as holidays, parties, and loving and being loved. Each person’s life then is a play or series of scenes with dialogue and action. We do our best with the lives, situations, and parts we have been given or end up playing. That is where the importance of attitude (mentioned in the above meditation) comes in. We will have choices; it is, as Seneca says, the “excellence” or quality of the acting which matters most in the long run.

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Time Together

photo                                                                                                                   

“Love took up the glass of Time, and turn’d it in his glowing hands.”–Tennyson, “Locksley Hall”

The city wakes up with the dawning
People run to catch their bus
We almost sleep in, we’re both yawning
Rushing out is not for us

chorus:
And time together never seems like time at all
True love never dies even though the leaves must fall
And time with you was the most special time of all

The evening bed was warm and golden
Like dreams of children at their games
We made love and it made us older
We would never be the same

chorus

We sat up and watched the traffic
Thinning out a half-past two
We held each other in the silence
Until the morning light shone through

chorus

………………………………………………………

1969-1970. Leonard Cohen said one of the first eloquent protests is to stay up all night–a moment of being if ever there was one. The city by early dawn has a special quality about it, as Wordsworth noted in “Composed on Westminster Bridge”. I believe one function of writing is to freeze some special moments in time, to preserve the moment of being quality about them.                                                                             

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Every Sunday

Every Sunday a man walks the campus of memory. He passes tall impersonal-looking buildings, and sometimes flowers, or squirrels foraging. He remembers being happy here—learning, discovering, putting the world in order thanks to books and professors. It is here he developed values and beliefs that have lasted the better part of a lifetime.

But, in particular, he is attracted to, gravitates toward one window in a low, one-story building. The story is of himself and his parents one Saturday long ago. His folks had come to see him married and he had brought them here to his adopted home—the u. The tour led that warm May afternoon to this building for a break in that busy pre-wedding day.

Just within the glass doors were pop machines, and his parents had coffee and sat at the only wooden table, oblong and chipped, sitting off to one side of the strangely dark vestibule. Then, as today, the lights were turned off and they sat in the shadows, laughing and enjoying their last afternoon together.

Over the years he has returned to this spot to find his parents and that happy moment, but the table is long-gone, though the shadows have remained.

Down the hall he walks slowly until he comes to a little alcove which looks onto an inner courtyard. In the centre is a long rectangular pool covered with snow. He gazes at the pool and imagines the garden as it is in summer. The fountain bubbling and excited sparrows flitting into the spray. The morning sun barely clearing the far end, illuminating a small corner of the courtyard.

Wind whips the snow around crazily. He wishes he had a key to the garden and could get in. Or could turn the seasons to spring again when the doors are left unlocked for students to pass through or to sit on the courtyard benches talking or smoking between classes.

His life, the remembered past, comes down to just this–a snow-covered courtyard to which he is denied access. A moment greatly unappreciated by the many who roll over in their December beds, oblivious to the possibility of all this–of secrets and inner life.

………………………………………….

A recollected moment of being and the later facsimile presence of that. Many moments of being get shared, but some remain private, except those shared through writing. (For anyone who’s been to U of A–the old v-wing–had its own strange character and charm.)

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Peggy’s

He could not
feel bad here
lying under
the good stars.

The lighthouse
was just visible
& tall waves
knew grey rock.

He recalled
other beaches,
summers & the taste
of strawberries.

The guitar of
wind kissed skin
& hair as nightbirds
made love to
quivering shoreline.

The tide had turned.
Mariners considered
new catches & dreamt
once more of death
by drowning.

The promise of
sky & sea were
never more obvious.

……………………………..

Written after two trips to Peggy’s Cove. Some moments of being have a tremendous calm, peace and simplicity about them and are more moments of be-ing than becoming. I find these are also often associated with love.

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