Wayward Wind - Belinda Subraman  

My patient, Paul, wrote in a poem that he belongs to the wayward wind, a restless breed, a strange and hardy class. I’ve been with him for two years and now he is dying. “Are you in pain, Paul?” I ask. “I AM pain,” he said. But he is refusing medication although his cancer has spread from his kidneys to his lungs, brain and bones. Somehow bearing this pain to the grave is his last act of defiance bravery/repentance. My hands are tied. My job now is to protect his choice and later as promised to collect his ashes, read his poems in my garden then set him free in the wind where he belongs.  💥💥

Americanisation – G. K. Chesterton

Britannia needs no Boulevards,

No spaces wide and gay:

Her march was through the crooked streets

Along the narrow way.

Nor looks she where,

New York’s seduction,

The Broadway leadeth to destruction.

Britannia needs no Cafes:

If Coffee needs must be, Its place should be the Coffee-house

Where Johnson growled for Tea;

But who can hear that human mountain

Growl for an ice-cream soda-fountain?

She needs no Russian

Theatrey Mere Father strangles Mother,

In scenes where all the characters

And colours kill each other

Her boast is freedom had by halves,

And Britons never shall be Slaves

But if not hers the Dance of Death,

Great Dostoievsky’s dance,

And if the things most finely

French Are better done in France

Might not American

Be best applied to its own nation?

Ere every shop shall be a store

And every

Trade a Trust . . .

Many men in many lands

Know when their cause is just.

There will be quite a large attendance

When we Declare our Independence.

A Song of Defeat – G. K. Chesterton

The line breaks and the guns go under, The lords and the lackeys ride the plain;

I draw deep breaths of the dawn and thunder,

And the whole of my heart grows young again.

For our chiefs said ‘Done,’ and I did not deem it;

Our seers said ‘Peace,’ and it was not peace;

Earth will grow worse till men redeem it,

And wars more evil, ere all wars cease.

But the old flags reel and the old drums rattle,

As once in my life they throbbed and reeled;

I have found my youth in the lost battle,

I have found my heart on the battlefield.

For we that fight till the world is free,

We are not easy in victory:

We have known each other too long, my brother,

And fought each other, the world and we.

And I dream of the days when work was scrappy,

And rare in our pockets the mark of the mint,

When we were angry and poor and happy,

And proud of seeing our names in print.

For so they conquered and so we scattered,

When the Devil road and his dogs smelt gold,

And the peace of a harmless folk was shattered;

When I was twenty and odd years old.

When the mongrel men that the market classes

Had slimy hands upon England’s rod,

And sword in hand upon Afric’s passes

Her last Republic cried to God.

For the men no lords can buy or sell,

They sit not easy when all goes well,

They have said to each other what naught can smother,

They have seen each other, our souls and hell.

It is all as of old, the empty clang our,

The Nothing scrawled on a five-foot page,

The huckster who, mocking holy anger,

Painfully paints his face with rage.

And the faith of the poor is faint and partial,

And the pride of the rich is all for sale, And the chosen heralds of England’s Marshal

Are the sandwich-men of the Daily Mail,

And the niggards that dare not give are glutted,

And the feeble that dare not fail are strong,

So while the City of Toil is gutted,

I sit in the saddle and sing my song.

For we that fight till the world is free,

We have no comfort in victory;

We have read each other as Cain his brother,

We know each other, these slaves and we.

The Water-Nymph – Alexander Pushkin

In lakeside leafy groves, a friar Escaped all worries; there he passed His summer days in constant prayer, Deep studies and eternal fast. Already with a humble shovel The elder dug himself a grave – As, calling saints to bless his hovel, Death – nothing other – did he crave. So once, upon a falling night, he Was bowing by his wilted shack With meekest prayer to the Almighty. The grove was turning slowly black; Above the lake a mist was lifting; Through milky clouds across the sky The ruddy moon was softly drifting, When water drew the friar’s eye… He’s looking puzzled, full of trouble, Of fear he cannot quite explain, He sees the waves begin to bubble And suddenly grow calm again. Then — white as first snow in the highlands, Light-footed as nocturnal shade, There comes ashore, and sits in silence Upon the bank, a naked maid. She eyes the monk and brushes gently Her hair, and water off her arms. He shakes with fear and looks intently At her, and at her lovely charms. With eager hand she waves and beckons, Nods quickly, smiles as from afar And shoots, within two flashing seconds, Into still water like a star. The glum old man slept not an instant; All day, not even once he prayed: Before his eyes still hung and glistened The wondrous, the relentless shade… The grove puts on its gown of nightfall; The moon walks on the cloudy floor; And there’s the maiden – pale, delightful, Reclining on the spellbound shore. She looks at him, her hair she brushes, Blows airy kisses, gestures wild, Plays with the waves – caresses, splashes – Now laughs, now whimpers like a child, Moans tenderly, calls louder, louder… “Come, monk, come, monk! To me, to me!..” Then – disappears in limpid water, And all is silent instantly… On the third day the zealous hermit Was sitting by the shore, in love, Awaiting the delightful mermaid, As shade was covering the grove… Dark ceded to the sun’s emergence; Our monk had wholly disappeared – Before a crowd of local urchins, While fishing, found his hoary beard. Translated by: Genia Gurarie, summer of 1995 Copyright retained by Genia Gurarie. email: egurarie@princeton.edu

She Walks In Beauty

She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes; Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o’er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express, How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!

Lord Byron