October 2015

nostalgic turns

it means sweet pain a poet told me and I don’t feel it often because life looking back is not with pleasure but with pain yes pain without the poet’s claim of sweetness since so many things happened or were endured that were hard like parts of a Dickens story but without the craft the beauty and the characters or character in fact I’d have to say that life too often failed me back then and you and now is no great joy and though I fight for it the harsh challenges of life still remain and are not still because when some challenges go to rest the others awake

friends of mine I’ve had who truly helped and they are gone not all gone but too many gone and gone will be my mentor soon it took years to be given one to have him presented like Merlin in a cave though it was my spiritual director in an office in a retreat house and I didn’t know much except I needed help and yes I can articulate the situation some and even share my feeling in a way another can understand but with my counselor my friend it all came out better in exchange with prompts and insights in my director’s leading of our time together

I have danced with death too much by now and if there’s a dance card I don’t know how many lines I have left for death to fill in which makes me wonder why it gets them all anyway for shouldn’t we give permission for an intimacy such as dance that even death should maybe have to ask allowance it is not God after all but perhaps an agent with God’s job which we must respect and to which we might have to relent at least but why does that mean our will no longer matters even in the para-cosmic time after mortal existence has stopped

so I look back and the sweetness of sweet pain is absent with only the reminder of pain remaining which is why when poets or players can evoke a time maybe with a phrase or some other piece’s part maybe of an image or a bit of texture or slice of emotion that brings out positive a feeling from whenever and might be entertainment or inspiration or fondness of heart or gratitude well am I not glad for that artist’s craft in giving me invoking in me memory and the benevolence of memory’s angel that has given me remembrance without regret or other stinging re-discovery

nostalgia then meaning nothing to me except when it surprises me well positively and sometimes pretty wholly that is holistically

and I don’t care how it happens or how splintered I must be to enjoy the moment of the past living again in the present in at all a celebratory way for if I must be divided into thousands of parts so that one one-thousandth part is taken out for us to see and see that it is good well then I am in a primally pre-lapsarian way

in a happy moment that is mine before the fall

interstitial 2

the old coffeemaker sings

the old coffeemaker sings
by gurgling
I have an extra light on
because the day is grim with
clouds of diffuse grey

the air is thick with pressure
which means my headache’s bad

it’s morning so the rest of the day
must proceed
and I with it

maybe it’s not good but
it is what there is
this or nothing

and so
I take this

October 25, 2015 0

interstitial

while drinking tepid stuff

the coffee-maker just beeped
it’s an old machine, the spouse of
Missus Coffee, I suppose

I don’t know how that relationship
is holding up, since missus doesn’t live
in, though I look for her now and
then on eBay

the timer on the machine failed first, and
the coffee made isn’t all that great, since
I can’t seem to get it hot enough

but we’ve been through much, old Mister
and me—and I suppose I’ll keep him
round ‘til the machinery of one of us
fails for good

(I often write about morning and coffee, since for me they often go together. It’s an exercise, ritual, I don’t know what. But while I’m working on something more involved, I thought I’d share one of these pieces with you.)

October 24, 2015 7

restraint, a response to horror

Restraint

(1)

We will not kill today
That’s what we say

No brave promise for tomorrow
We simply will not kill today

Yes, I paraphrase two ships’ narratives
One account affirming a mission of

Exploration without agenda
The other a mission to rescue

One who had lost the title virtue
In the self-destruction of temptation

And, when discovered, he was lost and gone
Trust, spirit, spark all gone

Of what was self-surrendered in exploitation
Of what mattered, of what might have been

And owned without the costs
And for life and the length of days

(if you know these references, fine
if not, no matter, please read on)

We will not kill
Not simply the body

We will not kill the spirit
We will not damn another soul

Which is the cost of wanton
Killing now of body or will

(2)

Whatever the source of final justice
Nature, truth, us—or God of all

We must do better. we must rein in, we
Must place our stronger arms upon

The arm that thieves, that takes, that
Destroys, at last, the hope of all

And we must say, Enough
For the betterment of our days

Enough to stop, let live—so that we might openly gain
From the qualities and quantities of what we have and are

In safety, love, and life
For all

Enough so that we might have
Enough

(this is a piece to accompany yesterday’s poem about human horror; because someone wrote about what matters, I have written both works in response and written in tribute, because victims must be rescued and perpetrators caught—all that must change; how much better could it be if we would change ourselves)

October 23, 2015 3

not Hallowe’en horror

The Horror

What we do to each other:

Rape each other–
our bodies, our lives
and what each other has

Steal from each other
not because we think stealing’s wrong
but because we hope to get away with it

Lie about what we do
because statements and documentation
matter more than promises

We matter more than hiding wrong
And speaking right when face to face

We matter more
Than promises made false by
what we do

Practice makes perfect goes
the cliché;

how about making our practices righteous
in the better way
that maybe no one sees
but me?

The space of our lives is limited:
must we waste each other’s and
so our own life, too?

The cycle is changed when one standing in the line of wrong
turns round, refusing to pass on the hit

The problem, of course, is the hit one takes in turning

But as turning is repentance
So must we change

We must change

Our lives, our world

(I wrote heavy today, because someone else wrote first and wrote it better. There are indents I could not get WordPress to take, but I think the content gets across, anyway.)

October 22, 2015 5

Haiku for Fall

Haiku (hard to?)

Autumn romance starts.
It’s called fall, after all.
Descend into hope.

Haiku (I wake)

These devices give:
Assonance, consonance help
Home and tide; we rhyme.

Haiku (one more for us, too)

one for you, then me
orange, yellow, brown, and red
autumn’s time-keepers

Haiku in the five-seven-five way. (There are variations.) With a reference to nature in each one. As is often the tradition. Though no longer the law. I continue with my rhapsody of fall, this time using this form from Japanese and eastern Asian culture.

I like haiku. They’re fun to craft, and they mean something too. As Buffy said, they’re “the ones that sound like a sneeze.” They are that. And more. And that.

October 21, 2015 3

autumnal surprise

surprise

eating caramel
is like eating fall
I don’t try the sweet stuff often
and so had forgotten
its tie to the season

but there it was; I had a
bite—first bite—and fall came
pushing through the taste

I am thankful for the bond
of taste with remembrance
that brought a whole time of
year into the small place here

where I nibble while waiting
for the next thing, after
this, to write or say

October 21, 2015 11

Christopher (Robin)

My name is Christopher. I was named by my mother who really liked the Winnie the Pooh stories. I use “C L Couch” for writing because that form is easier (I have awful writer’s cramp) and gender-less. I think “clcouch123” is a gift from WordPress.

And who are you? Or, as Owl might say, Hoo are you?

October 20, 2015 8

Hallowe’en, a note

Hallowe’en is a celebration of the evening before All Hallows’ or All Saints Day. It coincides with the old autumnal celebration of Samhain (the m is pronounced like a w—hey, I said it was old) practiced by those who lived in England before the Romans and then the Christians came. When the Scots and Irish came to America, they brought many Hallowe’en traditions with them—dressing in masks to scare off (by resembling) demons, the carving of the Jack-O-Lantern (though the Irish carved many vegetables such as turnips). Now the celebration is celebrated—or can be—by everyone. For us, Hallowe’en is a safe way to enjoy being scared. We enjoy being scared, just enough. And we have dressing up as who we’re not. And, oh yeah, there’s candy.

Have a Happy!

October 19, 2015 0