These are the facts, nothing here but the facts. I was on the road to Damascus via a street in the West Village in New York City, when, in an instant, barometric pressure had dropped 100 MB. Darkness enveloped an eleven-o’clock-morning sun. It may have been a trick of the mind, or some kind of serious panic disorder. Although I could no longer see, I pictured myself a child on a visit to my great grandmother's house in La Salle, Illinois. In my head I felt as though a tornado was approaching...
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SWEDISH INTERMENT, Illinois Enchantment, edited version You know it's all a whole lot of hokum, honey, This talk of visionary moment and prophetic feat, No more than ploy, A guise I use to hide the real intent of my too-hot ferver, Oh let’s just say I want to eat alive. Yet loving you no quick turn of verse, I consider it a serious task, and put forth a dedicated effort. At prognostication I am gifted. I have always been able to see around corners. On our first night, the first night we had slept together, You may recall, I told you that I saw our future, I knew what was going to happen. Allow me this declaration. Once you actually experience, Live an event which I prefigure, You recognize about it uncanny familiarity, Déjà vu, you feel the situation, As if it were previously known, Or may have been already played. The notion strikes you That you have been here once before, That current moment eerily reflects prior encounter. Once you sense this power, it causes tremble, And it bestows pleasant excitement; It makes life expectant. With me you will learn to swoon and shudder. You will know warm and be hot all over, Yet others freeze in midwinter. Oh baby I am in love with you. I told you that your grandfather has spoken to me. His voice emerged from a dream, Though the setting was familiar, my own bedroom, The light came from afar, Suffusing the space and me within it, I dwelled in delicious, excellent hues of yellow and blue. He announced, said that I am the man of the house, And he then assured me, (He spoke with unmistakable clarity) That happiness the product of our life together. I have another secret; I want to share it with you. I envision major experience, Not unlike Leda's when she learned; It was a god who had entered her. You should know that from you will issue -- Yes, marvelous to relate! -- Being supreme, a mortal whose Life and renown, belongs to that golden, Regal realm, where Homer rules king. I slip, revealing more than I intend. I knew it. I knew it early on in life, Years before your birth, As I walked the truck farm fields, Along the rows of cabbage and corn, My love for you was growing strong, I had sight then, ears to catch the sounds, And nose to whiff out the dreams, Conferred on me, oracular, from on high. I stepped out from the Hitching Post Diner. I saw you! It was you. On the packed-mud, bridal path, just ahead, By a yard or two, you were down the trail, Your form preceded me, walking apace. This last August, eleventh, Before we had begun to date, Between bed sheets wet from too much sweat, Your heat wakened me. I knew the smell of you! Up from the threads of woven cotton -- They were your odors bursting up my nostrils, While I in my bed that summer's night alone. I had instantly recognized your fragrance, Once I slept with you.
Your presence already there, Beneath my skin years before I had known you. And now, again, the moment commands, It plays out now from the keyboard to the screen. I realize that before I had met you, I recognize that I had heard it, your name! I heard your name, It came to me from earlier time, at a time, prior, Yes, actually previous to your birth! I assure you, although I was not yet an adolescent, As a child, no more than ten or eleven years old, I had witnessed destiny from landscape in Illinois. From the backyard lawn of my childhood home, I looked up into the evening sky and saw The refocusing veils of shimmer of light, the aurora borealis, The phantasmagoric curtains of shifting color, Which all at once so utterly present, then, in a feint, As if by trick of hand, gone, Held me captive; I had fallen to trance, bewitched, And in the midst of this awesome, display, From the far North, your name, I heard it. I heard! I heard your name; it was pronounced, While the green and red flames of light crackled Along the vault of the universe. I possessed it. I learned your name from a storm in the heavens. And that very self-same night, I was no more than ten or eleven years old, Out upon the backyard lawn of my childhood home, With my Face toward the north and up into nighttime colors, I looked, and I now know that, I had glimpse into the future. I had witnessed destiny from landscape in Illinois. I pictured oak trees growing outside an iron fence, And there, above a low earthen mound, a cemetery marker, My name, it was struck upon a gravestone. I knew it. I knew the certainty; The scene, the ground I saw was in Sweden. The green and red flames crackled your name. I learned your name from a storm in the heavens. I was a child, no more than ten or eleven years old, I stood upon the lawn at home, entranced, captive, Gazing up into the aurora borealis, bewitched, I saw a Swedish interment.
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DASH IT! Dash it, Baby! Is this the best we can manage. Don't tell me! Have neither of us the sense, Reason enough to know which way is up, or down? Here's the key, there's my desk, You already have my heart, You can come and go, Whatever pleases you, no problem. Should you find a spare penny, Lying anywhere about the house, Keep it, and whenever you have found the opportunity, Use it, toss it into a fountain and wish us well. Don't be hard on me old girl; I take my hat off to you. We have had a run of bad luck. Let's hope that things are bound to get better. Well, are you happy? I did say? I promised you, did I not, that I would make you queen of my poetry. Truth, haven't I? Who of us is happier? You take pleasure in your business, You have your list of details, All the very many, important things “to do”, And now with your father gone, You have the legal consequence, and its paper work, Plus the obligation of those household matters, All those little things, which once he had used to handle . How you must miss him! I shall change the topic. You seem to love your car and lengthy driving about. I sometimes wonder where you go, Yet I figure you run to your usual haunts: The regular flea market along side the Delaware River, And to those giant strip malls dotting the landscape, The same geographic stretch between Princeton and Trenton, Where once General Washington Had fought and suffered for years, Freeing countryside from foreign domination, those lands Which today are parking lots And lines of concrete block architecture Housing big-box and other discount merchandise. You disappear for days seemingly involved with your labors. Not a word about your travels, not a single line, No Internet connection, you claim. And when I ask about your goings, Why the haste? You answer, "Antique show on Saturday." Of course, I have heard that one before. Then I ask you, where? You say, “Pennsylvania.” The dialogue becomes tedious, Or is it me? Have I grown ridiculous? Yet I remind you, Pennsylvania is a very large state! As I query, I see your thinking plainly roll in your eyes. Weird, right? Can you believe it? Doesn't it look silly? Maybe you practice some form of entitlement. Might you genuinely feel you have no need to elaborate, Or provide information about your whereabouts? Still would you admit that when you read this verse, And hear me repeat your response, After all, what's the big deal to an honest question? Strange, isn't it? You deign a one word answer, “Allentown.” I imagine you understand what I mean, not that it matters. Hello. Is there anybody out there? Remember the colors of our dreams, When the magic of delicious blue and yellow hues Filled our bedroom, and the times that A voice from some other world demanded we harken, And in its ghostly-visage guise Spun out tales of high romance and telling prophecy. Come on now, the stars, the stars were shinning for us. Forgive me, let me return, again, back to this planet. Years ago I learned the reality -- Buying and selling no easy enterprise. I know that you take very special delight in the scouring Rack after rack, then picking through shelves, Rummaging with a practiced eye the goods Set for sale upon the tables. And, to be sure, you have that ability for concentration, And at level required to be successful at your shopping. Seems, too, you have that lucky touch, Procure gold when others see brass, Buy silver at the spot price of base, white metal. Lord knows, you love a good deal. I have never known anyone, who enjoys a low price, A markdown or a discount more than you. Even your dessert, it appears, tastes better When it comes at half-price. Not to mention that you, my dear, have ever-ready A discount coupon at point of sale, Or in your wallet a glossy ticket with its boxed numbers Whose final punch means a reward in kind for your patronage. The lyric overcomes me, little hope of any resolve. Actually whatever the hard inventory I conspire, No matter my tellingly, strict observations and remarks, My heart says how lovely you are. And so it goes, I succumb to the trying to figure. I try to figure the source of it all, Then I lapse from an ordinary confidence and come to believe That I might be ordained and my voice allowed to carry A radical theme first heard in the plain churches, Now five centuries ago, my feelings fall backward to the faith, By God, which held our course predestined in Heaven, How else to describe these events? I had to find you, and those inklings of our Destiny Still remain and animate our hearts. Wasn't it written? Yet here is something that causes me consternation; You appear to truly enjoy my company When you know that I pay for your dinner. Lately, that hour, or two, a quick repast, seems, The only time you have to fit me in your schedule. I realize that you are accustomed to international travel. You stuff your backpack to the point your movement stiffens, Yet heavy baggage means little to you, Except, of course, should the airline catch Your true luggage weight And you must pay up for the extra kilos. Then there is the situation with your mother, (All kinds of complexities there!) A topic I shall have to postpone, A subject to tackle in another poem, or two. And as for me, for me, I sit up half the night writing poetry; You must know I am lonely. I seek company, Your combination of intelligence, beauty and thrift You, the solace I desire. I fill the wee small hours of the morning. Believing that the two pillows I see on the bed Mean that, though now you travel, You soon return to sleep and make a home with me. Dare I say it? Must I resort to cliché. Tears are streaming down my face. Forget about it! I shall survive. No need for undue concern, or worry, I am probably naturally disposed to being The gloomier of us two, Yet I wonder how you push through the day, How you bring a smile to your face, or roam open and free. Dash it, Darling! I am still caught up in the happy bondage; Then, I wonder if either of us will escape it, What I have called this thing of ours, We are tied to it. You know it; People in some future time and place will think of us. “In the wee small hours of the morning,” So the old song goes, While whole, wide-world, deep asleep, I'd be yours, if only you would stay, Be in our bed and home with me. My love, I drew a line for you. I have difficulty believing that you remain remote. Can it be? Who resists the hand of Fate? Have you now and forever gone your separate way, Can it be true? How may I come to accept that You are no longer available to me?
