“It takes so little to make me happy tonight!
Four hours of singing will do it, if we remember
How much of our life is a ruin, and agree to that.”
Excerpt From: Robert Bly. “The Night Abraham Called to the Stars.”
Listen pal, don’t bother me. I’m trying to remember how much of my life is a ruin. I think I’ve got it right. 65 per cent. I’m agreeing to that.
So it’s love among the ruins; dancing in the fallen temple of Hermes; waving my skinny arms at the moon and shouting “what have you done with Lorca?” 35 per cent…
Factor in my age. At 65 I’ve got actuarial creep. Is my 35 per cent still solid?
“Just agree your life is a ruin and you’re alright,” I say.
I write a poem:
Ode to the World
I am at my best when writing
And the Devil take the hindmost.
You know, I was a worm
Before I was a man
And the Devil take the hindmost.
Sunset at the shore
Feeling the pulse
In my wrists
And so forth
All for the Devil.
Of the worm
Call him an accountant—
Shuffling zeros.
Such a steep hill
We’re climbing.
I can’t love you all
Any more than this.
Planet of the Blind 