1 poem
Eudaimonia
for A.T.
Did you see this morning -
A bite out of the biscuit
on cue to the second,
alto-stratus gracefully parting
and a pause in the day.
Did the birds go off-song,
our blackbird given pause?
Then all resumed, how anciently
strange it must have been.
This has been a May of may,
White now rusting, going over.
Lovely transiences,
Lovely because fleeting.
Wind shadows grace the waters.
I have seen the uncreated light.
O my good lord,
Insearch the writings of thy self,
The world is but a word.
There is almost nothing left
Of nowhere
Money mules ply trade.
White-powder bags stashed deep
Evade bio-security audits.
All books haunted by lost readers.
Book death – random showy shelves
Of pub books, condemned to signage.
Opposite us, on such a shelf,
Charity-shop rejects, and The Zohar,
Seeking refuge from book-burnings.
I was of a mind to rescue it,
Then it was gone, to a better place.
And Stalin was haunted by
spectral nationalities. Rightly so.
This year of discarded masks
Littering gutters, Fuze scooters
Weave around pavements
At speed headed for
wellness group hygge.
When we were A Thing.
Meanwhile, webly supervised Dweebs
Oversee representational harms,
Low-resolution biohackers. Carceral outcomes.
We sought clustered regularly interspaced
Short palindromic repeats. Or else
Download the happiness app
Like unpardonably thoroughgoing Spinoza,
Driven to conclude Reality undiscoverable,
Go off-grid with quarantine puppy.
We are conscious only
Of an unceasing stream
Of more or less vivid feelings,
Generally cohering in
Certain groups.
Human heartedness, a continual struggle
To the end of life. Empath fortitude.
Airs, waters, and places.
A spine of loess above a river valley,
Char, stranded in black tarns
Since the Ice Age withdrew.
Invisible drift of words over long time.
Now, flames of viral shedding.
I do thinke my self obliged
To thinke my self happy,
& do look upon my self
at this time
in the happiest occasion
a man can be,
& whereas we take pains
in expectation of future
comfort & ease,
I have taught my self
To reflect upon my self
At present as happy,
& enjoy my self
in that consideration,
& not only please my self
with thoughts of future wealth,
& forget the pleasure
we at present enjoy
{However, musique & women
I cannot but give way to,
Whatever my business is}
(For just two years he reflected,
At end of day, then put it by,
Though all continued, now
Lost to us, as the case is.)
There are cases where language
Does not allow us
To express our thoughts.
Ockeghem, passim,
In these malls of need,
Depthless as the mirror-lined shop
Called ‘You’.
Always, the One beyond the One.
I’ve lost my scrunchie. Copy that.
Don’t flatline on me.
Hackgold.
Nigel Wheale is a poet/scholar in Cambridge UK. Raw Skies. New and Selected Poems, (Shearsman 2005), Writing and Society. Literacy, Print and Politics in Britain 1590-1660 (Routledge 1999).