A Momentary Taste of Being

Your annual reminder that Ulysses is for everyone:  Will you read it? “and yes I said yes I will Yes.” Longer excerpt: “I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.” Joyce was absolutely terrible at formal poetry, because his poetry is in his writing. ReadJoyce!

I I had a sandwich there And read the window and bronze plaque but it was not Gorgonzola. II I passed the siren's tavern which I did not see and crossed quietly over the placid Liffey. III You would have laughed to see my thrill at finding old Tommy Moore and his once-urinal. IV Out past Dun Laoghaire where the chill North Sea meets the Forty Foot--the Martello Tower. V James Joyce hopscotched every brick in Dublin to celebrate the date of his love. VI Sirens and Cyclopes and Wandering Rocks all for a beer and some cheese. VII Breakfast kidneys and chemist and Leopold leaves Molly abed. VIII he thinks fine day for a funeral even if I flee and find my father. XI A fine edifice and fancy facade for mothering maters about to bear. X Ah rejoyce and rejoyce again that we readjoyce for doubling our Dublin. XI While just inside Stephen proves by algebra he is the ghost of his own father, ...

Did you hear me when I whispered your name to the dew that had not yet formed? When I stirred the clear water of a sticky stream and found in the eddies and whirls a language only I could read? I carried you like the single breath of an ancient bird preserved in lithographic limestone, like all the salt of the sea bound and floating.

I read a poem and set the book down in front of the fan that is never off and I let it turn a few pages before I pick it up and read another poem May Sarton "Salt Lick" and it's time to go to work so I close the book and write this poem.

Their majesties--three Sandhill Cranes, parents and a chick, step out to survey their domain, and pause their stately strut to nod (noblesse oblige) at doting subjects in their stopped cars.

When you look at the beautiful things of the world, what do you see? How do they speak? What language is whispered in your ear? How do you know the loveliness of the turquoise wave, of the pebbled shore, of a marble in a vacant park relaxing her robust nakedness against the manicured green?

Like the dragonfly trapped in my car I beat against the windshield uncomprehendingly seeking the light but barred from it by some barrier I cannot see. Sometimes flying the length of the window, sometimes perched an inch from freedom, ignoring the indraft. Oh for a Hand to guide me to open air!

How we feel Is an illusion we choose