Notes In The Margin

While in the Newark airport, we walked past the Sam Adams restaurant, and the following was inspired:

John and Sam
July 15, 2007

While John Adams was off busy
forging a nation, and all that,
Sam, his brother, or cousin, or something -
who can remember? -
was pursuing a more practical trade.
Men will always need Sam's trade -
indeed, John's product will often
drive a man to Sam's, even as
Sam's will make a man think
he knows something of John's

Upon arriving at the Jardins du Luxembourg, we immediately noticed that nobody was sitting on the grass. Strangely, we didn't assume, from this, that it was forbidden, but that they ... um ... didn't want to? I'm not sure I gave it much thought. Perhaps I chose not to believe the obvious.

Anyways, we found a delightful manicured spot of grass, threw down our scarves as blankets, and lay down to read "The Silver Chair."

We got through about a chapter when the gendarme came up and yelled at us about being on the grass, and how it was strictly forbidden. We reluctantly joined the other refugees perched on hard iron chairs on the walkways between the spots of beautiful welcoming grass to continue our reading. It seems a great shame to have such a gorgeous park and not allow it to be used in the obvious manner.

And apparently this was his whole job, for the rest of the time that we were there, we watched him chase off perhaps a dozen other people who were misled by the beauty into thinking that it was there for them to enjoy.

The Killjoy
July 13, 2007
Jardins du Luxembourg, Paris

Do you remember what it was like
to be young and in love,
to feel the soft grass on your bare feet,
to lie in the cool shade
and read to your lover
about another time and place?

Do you ever wish to kick off
your iron-soled boots,
and, with a quick glance about
for your fellow gendarmes,
toss aside your official hat
and coat, and sit, for a moment,
beneath the poplars you
so jealously guard?

I thought I had posted this quite some time back. Apparently not. These are some observations while floating down the canals in Amsterdam, getting brief glimpses into the lives of people with their homes tied up to the banks, and them getting brief glimpses into mine.

Windows (or ‘Anchored’)
May 4, 2007
Amsterdam

We drift slowly past
a thousand lives
tied up to the river bank.
A peek in the window,
nothing more,
and then the boat moves on.

They sit at dinner
and argue about the bills.
She yells at him, then
looks out at me,
and I move on.

He sits before the bookcase,
books to the ceiling
All his friends there on the shelves
Dickens and Balzac and Tolstoy
to keep him company
on lonely nights.

She stares out the window
and the strangers in her front yard,
wishing she could go
where they have been
see what they have seen
longing to be far away
while I long only to be home.
She waves, timidly, sadly,
and we float past.

Here sits only a cat
always at home
for all places are alike to him.

A hundred faces from
and hundred windows
on their way to Nasau
and sun and sand.
Are they going to, or from?

A thousand lives
tied up to the river bank
and we,
we float past
wishing, perhaps, to be
anchored.

Important men
having important conversations
determined that we all know
how important.

Calling to encourage you
to focus on what works,
rather than doing what doesn't work.

And that this eleventh hour deal
was big enough for me to
interrupt my busy schedule
of waiting for my delayed flight.

09-May-2007

A postcard of the sunflowers,
rather like a Chick tract,
a blasphemy, in the hands of too many people.
Like CliffsNotes of the Brothers Karamazov,
condensing into ninety-six pages
two years of Fyodor's tears.

One can almost, but not quite, imagine,
concealed far beneath the half of a half of a half-truth,
the great Truth, waiting patiently to be discovered
but waiting in vain, for we don't even know
that there's something to be discovered.

And then, picture Vincent, at the same time
amused and flattered, depressed and enraged,
that everyone in the world
has an imperfect copy
of this gift to a friend.