Thursday, June 16, 2011

A Portrait of the Reader as an Older Man

In my own lone
some tower
I RISE where I lay.
Bare toes creaking lower
after first leak of day:
Light .

I look from my window across the far way
As Dedalus did gazing toward Dublin Bay.

I herald each morning now with porcelain cup;
A sea of dark forming. my hand brings it up.
Unlike bold Leopold,
There's no cat where I sup.

Off in easy chair corner is where I often am
And have with my coffee no toast, tea or jam.
Perched while waiting for perking to cook more fresh grounds
With mug and huge novel
in Ulysses' lee I drown.

Great book on the sidearm and vessel hooked hand
I watch young Buck Mulligan with razor in hand
And I am walking with stephen along a far strand.

I tried to get through it in school years before
Through imagey metaphors and day dreams galore:
oh how on first read
Did I not see before?

Now after each waking
When steps I've climbed down
I revel first hour not with T.S. or Pound
But reJoyce by my window
Where mourning clouds frown.

Then some times I shave in chalice like sink
As Mulligan did above Dublin's drink.

And when hot summer's come
And Spring falls away;
I'll go like the lot did down to swim in MY bay.
I'll splash soaking sore neck where wispy clouds wink.
Joyce voice in my brain will begin me to think...

His work works my mind and liquefies flow.
It furthers cognition that burrows and grows
And settles in snugly
to glow like his soft coals.


I will ponder on parapet high near the shore
Like Shakespeare, as Hamlet, did on Elsinore.
I'll let my thoughts travel from fingers to keys
Knowing "The Dead" man's long poem
Has lit his language in me.

Happy Blooms Day 2011


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