ATHWART MEN’S NOSES AS THEY LIE ASLEEP

6 Nov

VanEyk

In this shape she gallops night by night, her chariot an empty hazelnut. I listen to Edward Elgar’s cello concerto, recommended for hearts pained from suspiration for that that has underwritten the meaning of life since first those words were writ. Listen to this autumnal romantic work.

Since Shakespeare was with King James’ most favoured players this life’s meaning has shot skyward like a firecracker. And like same has burst against the stars in a multitudinous combustion falling downward. Perhaps Elgar’s lugubrious romance was the last flicker of one of these cascading embers. And then American brass fucked the brilliant froth on the migrant stew and with typical economy Sinatra expressed every facet of love.

From a man’s point of view.

The view of women were roses too, markedly more tainted. ‘Tis true, men lie when they woo. Or they don’t tell you the whole truth. What man would tell you right away, seeing you and knowing, that he suspected he had a tumour. Seeing you and merely wanting? Well that’s a line that separates one style of man from the other, yes? Yet, it’s part of the literature on the subject: the man’s initial approach, his first flirtation, is crucial. Lie to me, my lover. Dazzle me with your… glamour. But that doesn’t guarantee success for the flash and glib casual guys who read books like this. Nothing does.

Sigh no more ladies, men were deceivers ever. What can you do? Listen to the Italians, to the Persians, to the Chinese, to the Jews: these people have managed to keep it together for thousands of years: they know. They know, they’ll say things like: he’s a priest, but he’s a man, so he needs a woman. So what?. Somehow that doesn’t mean they’ve managed to do things better than we ‘barbarians’:

Iranstoning

In so many places, and still here women are forbidden to dream the impossible dream. And finally, those that are, do not so much. In our modern world, with it’s modern love, we find, wandering amongst the fragments of our broken culture, that we must stand again and cultivate in the face of nature. Women and men, Two hundred-thousand years of grief and pain and joy. Of meaning.

Marcus Aurelius was the pagan master of an empire that illustrates the cruelty of the past most, for those of us who might contemplate it. He said it: making love, hitting the skins, fucking: ’tis as prayer. Oh what well meaning in a barefoot piss after a rigorous and proper screw (Don Delillo). Again the man’s point of view. What other view is there for me? Men and women, ’tis the same as before in this glittering and trash-shrouded brave new world that has such people in it. The same and yet very different. Industrial capitalism sets women free of the bondage their bodies have placed them in; that men, consequence of our bodies, have built upon for our own convenience. But now longer helpless baby-producing machines they;  no more the obligatory comfort for male apes. They have choices and power. Raise a glass I say, but…

But what? What am I doing? This post is about love and tradition. S’posedly… Today I selected the categories before I started writing. Love? She gallops by night, this Mab, thru lovers’ brains, and then they dream. Of love. Well I can’t help it it’s the way I feel. My feelings are a deep plundered stewpot of fear and desire. There’s turbulence down there this minute. It seems a permanent condition to me this time in life.  I won’t go into it I’m a man.

I’ll only say that McCartney knew how I felt sometime (while he was screwing around on Jane Asher). I’ll say Mercutio speaks for me, today. But tomorrow? The measure will be done and I’ll watch her place stand and touching hers make blessed my rude hand. Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne’er saw true beauty till this night.

What else is there?

RichardsPallenberg

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One Response to “ATHWART MEN’S NOSES AS THEY LIE ASLEEP”

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  1. WORDS « STILL CHAOS - June 5, 2011

    […] bigger than an agate-stone On the fore-finger of an alderman, Drawn with a team of little atomies Athwart men’s noses as they lie asleep; Her wagon-spokes made of long spinners’ legs, The cover of the wings of grasshoppers, The traces […]

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