Uncle Pumblechook’s Song

Some people say I haver, flop, and bumble,
But I believe what I have always said,
And I’ll believe it when I’m stiff and dead:
A man’s entitled to endeavour, stumble,
Crumble, mumble, tumble, fumble, grumble,
Answer unasked questions, tilt his head,
Insist on larger portions of white bread,
And criticize the world’s unholy jumble.

If I have claimed that small children were vicious,
It must be true. I wouldn’t tell a lie,
No, even though the very angels cry.
This meal was excellent, the food delicious,
The conversation happy and propitious.
Let go my elbow, child. This is good-bye.

Master of Tongues

He muttered something like “ogni speranza”
(Although I couldn’t hear him properly,
It didn’t sound like French, but it could be,
In which case it might be a great bonanza —
What’s French for “who comes in”? Is Sancho Panza
The guy who roamed the countryside with me?
I’m pretty sure he said “entrate qui” —
But maybe that was in another stanza).

You know those Frenchies seek me everywhere,
But I remain elusive, which I must
Because I can’t speak French. They call it crust —
Funny, since their baguettes have crust to spare.
In fact, I think it’s only right to share
The truth: my English also is a bust.

The Dreaming Cure

I wasn’t making sense, so my friends said
I should lie down and try the dreaming cure,
And that worked well, but it could not endure:
When I woke up, the daisies had turned red
And bloody, while the roses that were dead
Were marching now. I had been immature,
And filled my days with lust, hot and impure.
Dreams disarmed us. I should have stayed in bed.

My disappointed friends cried, “Give us back
The old disease!” but though I’ve tried my best
It won’t return. I must have failed the test,
I must have given up. The night was black,
And lust prevailed, sharp as a heart attack,
Thorough and final, underpinned by zest.

Obvious

“I don’t like sex,” you offered in reply
To my importunate longing, and woe.
It was the way you’d chosen to say No,
And made completely clear your reason why.
With an eternal something in my eye,
Maybe a grain of sand, I let it go,
Taking my leave. I’m silent and I’m slow,
Which isn’t how I ought to say good-bye.

At least I wasn’t silent and so fast
You didn’t understand that I’d be gone
Once the door closed. That I was moving on
Should have been obvious. It didn’t last,
But yes, I loved you. That’s all in the past:
You knew that, certainly. Is that a yawn?

A Cold Wind

I know you like to call these stories fictions,
But let’s not lie about lies. When you start,
It puts more undue pressure on my heart,
Which only adds to my other afflictions,
Including heart contractions and constrictions,
Decay and darkness, things falling apart.
Granting exceptions for truth, love, and art,
I’ve overcome the rest of my addictions.

The stories I call fiction are all true —
Not necessarily a useful choice,
But often just the best that I could do —
While not one single word of yours springs forth
To make things clear. It seems to me your voice
Is like a cold wind, blowing from the north.

I’ve Been Enchanted

I’ve been enchanted by the untamed scene
Next door: the trees, the cries. I’ve been enchanted
By my own garden, randomly replanted.
I’ve been enchanted by the new machine,
The new intensity I feel. I’ve been
Enchanted by the mercy I was granted
And the sun’s rays so casually slanted,
Flickering through the bushes, tinted green.

Unloved reality, brought home to me
By leaves and weeping in my neighbour’s yard,
Reminds me that when I’ve been on my guard
Nothing, not mercy, not intensity,
Nothing will let me live a fantasy.
I’m disenchanted now. Yes; that was hard.

Wallawalla

“Come on and sing a sweet romantic song,”
I told her, “Music’s never out of place.”
She glared at me. I’m coming on too strong,
I thought dejectedly, and hid my face.
“We’ll sing together, then, if you prefer”
(My hope, my prayer, my mischievous design).
“You liked my singing once,” I prompted her —
Too piteously, attempting not to whine.
“No, no, I do believe I’ve had my fill
Of singing, never mind your invocation,”
She answered tartly. Nothing worked until
The wallawalla-bing-bang formulation.
When I said, “Ting tang,” she at last began to sing,
And now we entertain at every gathering.

Her Presence Everywhere

Don’t argue. Didn’t do it for the praise,
Did I? Took care of her, a goddam saint —
I never claimed I toiled without complaint,
Did I? Sometimes I yelled, and on some days
I almost — no, not that. There was always
Some other way. I acted with restraint,
Always. I know you think that love is quaint,
But true love’s not just one of those clichés.

I love her even now. Although she’s dead,
Her memory’s not fading. I took care
To understand her presence everywhere
Is meaningful only inside my head,
So please don’t argue about what I said,
Not now. Not ever. It’s a lot to bear.

Beast

The wolf is slavering, aware of you
As something tasty, a fine piece of meat
Too feeble to cause trouble. What a treat!
He’ll tear you limb from limb until he’s through,
When he might kindly leave the residue
For scavengers hoping for something sweet.
I’ll watch them grinning, gnawing on your feet
And murmuring to friends, “Pull up a pew.”

Some beast is always ready, always glad
To make a meal of any easy prey,
Good food, prepared the good old fashioned way:
Raw, torn by canines driven nearly mad
By fragrant flesh, the best they’ve ever had,
I guess that’s all I really want to say.

Danger Pay

I should get danger pay for loving you.
It’s not the thunder — I’ve been hit already
By lightning, nearly pulled down in an eddy
(Love is the undertow), and I’ve come through.
I was unconscious, but now I’ve come to,
Gawking vacantly at your mani-pedi,
And sniffing your perfume (unduly heady),
Writing mean sonnets. This is what I do.

Take this one to remember who I am:
The all-heart, no-brain, it’s-a-sunny-day
Fool optimist who got no danger pay,
Only to drown myself in blood and jam.
I’ve watched you, standing in that pentagram
Like some dark wizard, in your bright array.

Adulthood

“Screw you, Buster,” she growled. I said, “Yes, please.”
A good relationship is difficult:
Not much time to take deep breaths and exult,
Too many harsh words from my enemies.
I spent a lot of time down on my knees,
And getting nothing much as a result.
It should be easy, being an adult,
But love has failed to put me at my ease.

Of course, it isn’t so much whom you love
As what you want love for. Myself, I want
The ghost of my desire, ready to haunt
Our rooms with odd sounds coming from above,
Which scare and soothe, both going hand in glove
With childhood. I have grown cold, sad, and gaunt.

Growing Merry

I’m growing merry, but it’s not the wine,
It's something else — it’s crampons in the mist,
It’s altitude, thin air but with a twist —
Sunlight, a breathlessness almost divine,
The mist a warning, weariness a sign,
One cheek the colour of an amethyst,
The other wrinkled like a prune. The schist
Skitters on past; I feel it on my spine.

I’ve done with mountains now. I will not climb
The stairs. I will no longer lift my knee.
I’m sitting down right here, determinedly
Unmoving, and until the end of time.
My happiness achieved, I am sublime,
Relieved at last of all necessity.

Going and Coming Back

My concentration came to be intense
As I examined what was written down:
“Watch for the oak leaves that are turning brown —
We say brown. Somewhere ages and ages hence
You’ll tell us they were yellow. For sixpence
We’d put on a bright yellow evening gown
To show off our tattoos and drive to town
On the road less traveled.” I was on the fence:

I could do something else, looking for grace
Along the better-travelled, tree-lined road.
Sometimes my concentration ebbed and flowed,
But now I focused. The whole human race
Was in my care. I chose my working face,
Thought of the seasons, and wrote this careful ode.

Truth, That Blunderer

I left too late to get there earlier,
As we had planned, and so I wasn’t able
To work out what was underneath the table.
She claimed it was a collie, but its fur
Was like a bear cub’s, so I offered her
A chance to change her story. “It’s a sable,”
She lied, so it was just another fable
Designed to stifle truth, that blunderer.

I left too late because I told the truth
When neighbours asked if I could spare a minute
To look over and repair a broken spinet.
One minute? Forty-five. Was it uncouth
To leave it after they’d broken my tooth?
I can’t fix anything with music in it.

Love Enduring

Back then, when you were almost pregnant, sure
Of me, though little else of us was known
To either of us — love had to endure,
But that’s the whole nut — I was almost grown.
Then you might have been just as unprepared
For three lives to emerge from what might be
The future. I had reasons to be scared,
But you were steadfast, level-headedly
Responding to my mix of heady joy
And empty promises — Oh, man! Oh, men! —
With logical assurance. Was I coy?
Only that once, just once and never again.
I’m ready now: let’s plan the future, coming
Too fast, relentless, thrilling, heartless, drumming.