The Plague Diaries and the Annals of the New Utopia (IFT)

[BrianIsSmilingAtYou]

Barbara Jean - I'm glad you like the play on "Somewhere Over the Rainbow". I wrote that after seeing "The Wizard of Oz" for the millionth time over the weekend.
---
Dunc - yes, I want the rainbows and the bluebirds here and now.

You picked out the crucial line from "Waiting for the First Day of Spring", as should be expected. You are good at making a close read.

Yes, there is a sense of cheer in "Time for Wine", one could say a sense of Solidarity for the human condition across ideologies, countries, and time.

More to come!

BrianIs AtYou

[BrianIsSmilingAtYou]

I Had a Thought (Looping American Sentence = American Flag)


---

BrianIs AtYou

[BrianIsSmilingAtYou]

XV. To Clear the Air



Venus is highly visible
this April in the night sky—
on the East Coast of America,
at this latitude and longitude—
but your attitude
must be receptive,
or else we’ll need
to clear the air.
 
In the spirit of Venus,
(which is Love, of course),
I have noticed a change.
All the women are beautiful.
I have memories of a time
when maybe this was not so,
or it might have been poor vision,
or a moral failing on my part,
not to see it before,
so I need
to clear the air.

Or it might have been that their faces
flew by too fast, just a month ago—
scowling on their way to somewhere
that they needed to get to—
foot on the gas, hand on the horn—
definitely not
clearing the air.

It was always somewhere
to which they did not want to go—
overtime at a shit job,
where a man is paid more—
late for a soccer game—
a parent-teacher conference.
It mattered not if I smiled back
or scowled in return.
I doubt that I was any better.
Maybe this explanation helps
to clear the air.

Wouldn’t that be marvelous, though?
To breathe air, clean and pure
of that deadly miasma,
that has masked their beautiful smiles.
I am talking about the women, of course,
whose eyes are now no longer scowling—
one cannot see much more—
the women and their beauty—
and the need
to clear the air.

Their eyes above their protective masks
are limpid pools of almonds
on the head of a doe,
mirroring the soul,
and reflecting the Moon and Stars [capitalized, of course]
How did I not see this before?
Let me clear the air.

Yes, the air that is so much between us,
six feet or more, out in the street,
where even to willingly touch
the tip of a finger, much less a kiss,
is a mortal violation
of new customs and norms—
a new eleventh commandment
has come down from Mount Sinai,
or Johns Hopkins, or the CDC.
The news of it
is in the air.

I’ve heard rumors
that the men have changed, too.
They’ve begun to ask for directions,
and to help fold the laundry.
Their sight has improved so much
that they can find anything in the fridge,
even to the extent of throwing out
the old sandwich that had stenched up
the place, and by happenstance,
clearing the air.

Some have gone so far
as to enhance their Dad bods by snacking,
or to cultivate their bad-boy look,
their quarantine stubble—
and some (just a rumor)
have even begun
to put the seat down—
just to clear the air.

---

BrianIs AtYou

[BrianIsSmilingAtYou]

Limerick Mania

Chickarick

The rooster had started to crow
for reasons that no one could know.
The hen pecked his head—
“Now, get back to bed,
and wait for the dawn’s morning glow!”

Vulturick

Giraffe is a bit of a twat,
and tiger's a bit of a twit—
but vulture is smart
(though all do their part),
but none of them stand for your shit.

Pangolick

I once had a newfangled pangolin.
The Pango-boys* knew how to wrangle him.
At the pang rodeo—
a bang of a show—
they rustled, and tied him, and tangled him.

*pango-boy = like a cowboy, but with pangolins instead of cows.

---

BrianIs AtYou

[BrianIsSmilingAtYou]

XVI. Mea Culpa



Mom says she was dreaming the other night,
terrible dreams, she said,
I must tell you!

But she never speaks of what happened,
all she says is that troublesome memories
between my father and her

rose again in ways more frightful than any virus.
She wanted to speak to her psychiatrist,
to whom she has confessed many fears—

as many, if not more, than
the confessions she has made
to the priest—

who, at least, could give her absolution.
Father had believed that the idea of a God
who would sacrifice his Son was contrary

to sense and reason. Mother believes in Grace.
The only absolution that she needs
is what she is unwilling to give herself.

Mea culpa should never leave her lips.

---

BrianIs AtYou

[BrianIsSmilingAtYou]

Eye Deaf (Ear Blind)

Imagining—

I am blind,
reading poetry.
Read to me aloud.
My eyes are deaf.
My ears can’t see.

Listening,

I cannot tell
If you wrote
“your” or “you’re”.

Seeing,

I could criticize,
yet be blind
to so much else.

Hearing

“your love”
sounds sweet
either way.

Realizing

that “your” and “you’re”
sound the same.

Blaming

is pointless
in the New Utopia.

Sounding

out the words—
they are correct
in the speaker’s mind.

Equating

“your” love
with
“you’re” love.
Your love = you are love.

Subtracting

“love” from the equation
leaves nothing
but that what you are possessive of
is what you are.

Affirming

your love
restores
what you are. Love.

Touching,

I read this,
hear this--

Holding

your love—
the love that you are—
your love/you’re love
against my heart.

---

BrianIs AtYou

[BrianIsSmilingAtYou]

XVII. Piety



The Sister from St. Francis writes
a diatribe in detailed words—
The Bishop was brash—it bordered on sin—
relieving the flock of Lenten proscriptions!
Much better, she wrote (quite bold in her wrath),
to burden the faithful with five hundred more!
These deaths are a sign, damning the world.
The sick now must fast, not feast on red meat.

I see her foul screed as a serious matter,
but not in the way that the nun would have wished.
I speak of forgiveness—Christ’s Spirit and Faith—
His conquest of sin should count against all.
The burden for COVID was borne by His death—
the Bishop was wise to ward off these burdens
for those of his flock in fear for their lives.
What more would you ask? I ask of the Sister.

She comes back again: I’d curse them to suffer!
The virus is God’s—He’s vowed no more floods,
a promise to Noah—but pain and disease
was the lot of poor Job; the least we can do
is to suffer like him. I say not a word,
but pity the soul of the pious who sin.

---

BrianIs AtYou

https://www.nj.com/coronavirus/2020/...ronavirus.html

PS

I am not an overly religious person, but seeing this Sister from the Bishop's own Cathedral attempt to counter his action (which was valid under Canon Law [see Canon 87, quoted below]) and to ask that he instead impose harsher penances on the whole diocese was--there is no other word--evil. I put off the idea of writing about it until Lent was over, but now the time had come. And I chose alliterative accentual verse to help restrain my anger, or I might have written harsher words.

----

Can. 87 §1. A diocesan bishop, whenever he judges that it contributes to their spiritual good, is able to dispense the faithful from universal and particular disciplinary laws issued for his territory or his subjects by the supreme authority of the Church. He is not able to dispense, however, from procedural or penal laws nor from those whose dispensation is specially reserved to the Apostolic See or some other authority.

[Dunc]

Brian

I had a thought that is as dinky (and well-dressed) an AS as I can recall. (It brings to mind those drinking songs in my intervarsity days that could be endlessly looped ─ 'You may think this the end of my song / But it ain't 'cos it goes on forever. / They still live alone in the swamp ...')

To Clear the Air Thoughtful, attractive vibe, nicely assembled and presented; but yes, that's only a rumour ─ though it goes well alongside the Clear the Air motif.

Limericks and though the Chickarick has its moments, the Vulturick has that authentic air of truth ─ sorry, TRUTH ─ to it. However I trust you'll accept service of this injunction to put an immediate end to Pangorodeos.

Mea Culpa makes a kind of negative sense ─ perhaps the corollary of the T-shirt, If you don't sin, Jesus died for nothing. There seem to be active encouragements to guilt built into some forms of Christianity, more's the pity.

Deaf Ear ─ That's a meditation with a certain charm to it (though maybe not including the sense of smell was an opportunity lost).

Ah, Brian, old droog, keep bending that oar! There must be land just over the horizon!

Regards / Dunc

[Sorella]

Hi Brian,
Back in the New Utopia!

Dorothy Remade! Love that over the rainbow schmainbow poem!
Angel – great lyrics! You are talented in that respect too, wow.
Fateful Mistake – autocorrect is a good intro. Overtones of Brave New World here, of course.
Loop – Very cool as you read and get it!
Limericks for every challenge here and some that are not here! You rock!
Eye Deaf – very interesting synesthesia! I see a point with it, but bing such a reader (I compulsively
read subtitles in any language) I would never give up the visual text for a voice.

Great NaPo you are having!

Sorella

[BrianIsSmilingAtYou]

Thanks, Dunc, Sorella.

---------------

Just few minutes after posting last night, I learned that my Uncle Ed, mentioned (along with his brother Larry and Larry's wife Barbara, and Ed's deceased wife, my Aunt Mary Ann) in some of the earlier Plague Diaries, passed away.

He had been in and out of the hospital, and went back in the other day after a stroke. He was getting treatment for prostate cancer.

In the hospital, he was unable to have any visitors due to COVID restrictions, so he died alone, without family.

I had just told Mom last night that he was back in the hospital, and she was very shaken, and I had to sit with her for hours, holding her hand.

She is still troubled this morning. She is speaking of her own death. Her birthday was last week, and she was glad to make that milestone.

I have not told her yet. I am waiting for my brother Ken to come over. He is already part of our little quarantine, as he knows how to change her colostomy and has to come by a couple times a week anyway.

Right now in New Jersey, funeral gatherings and memorials are prohibited and he had a large family. Just his sons and daughters would break the limit allowed.

We are all waiting to see how things will be handled.

We've been struggling through this, and it has been very difficult with Mom, who turned 87 last week, and has so many medical problems of her own.

[Sorella]

Sorry for your loss, and your mother's, Brian.
She is lucky to have you with her.

Sorella

[BrianIsSmilingAtYou]

XVIII. Silence (for Uncle Ed, RIP, 1934-2020)

We must learn to die
alone, and to mourn afar.
We are not blossoms
to shrivel and brown, to fall
to earth, windblown, as trees shake.

We must learn to live
despite distancing. I'm here
for you in the stars.
We are wet and cold, for snow
is still falling in springtime.

The planets align,
but it's not a sign, merely
Newton's mind at play.
The sun rises—its light shines
on the living and the dead.

A final phone call
celebrates a fragile life.
I must hold your hand
after the words that we know
will be followed by silence.

[PClem]

I didn't realize I hadn't been back since the very start of NaPo. Trying to catch up on this excellence. My favorites:
What Would Andy Warhol Do? Beautifully thorough and comprehensively Warhol.
To Paint a Blue Umbrella - I didn't discover Prine until a few months ago when his songs mysteriously started appearing on my Spotify playlists and I fell in love, so I don't get the reference to the umbrella but love the poem.
Jesus Visits the Cafe - well this hit home in so many ways.
Time for Wine, I Don't Want to Use an Angel, To Fight the Wind, Your Limericks, Mea Culpa and, especially, the thought provoking Eye Deaf.

[drumpf]

The Fateful mistake

The butterfly's waft can affect the incoming tornado's vector. In essence, it begins as a vote. But, as your poem has stated, it's the average voter's psychology. It is not the politicans, because they will say wants needed, from their heart and from the masses...it's the plebes, as you put it, who vary across the world. The daunting task of providing a stanza to many of these countries, from Brazil to Japan, is commendable. The new utopia was founded by mass ignorance at the voting booth. Lack of prudence. Lack of meadows.

[drumpf]

Limerick mania

Hulk hogan ran wild on this one. My favorite bit of humor was Vulturick's end rhyme of twat, twit, & shit. I thoroughly enjoy poems that use naughty words tactfully.