It Happened One Summer

 

 

 

It happened one summer long, long, ago.

I’ll tell you the tale before you must go,

A young man’s adventure, some claim it was mine,

That took place that summer, in the year ‘69.

 

We rumbled on through the Canadian Shield,

Past forest, past lakes, the occasional field,

Like a cinema show on twin lines of steel,

With music supplied by the rhythmic wheel,

As we sat on our heels or stood by the door,

The old with the young and all of us poor.

 

At the head of the train the red units strained,

To pull all the cars to which they were chained,

Boxcars and flatbeds, tankers, caboose,

“What was that there?” “Oh, that, that’s a moose,”

“Say, you from the city, boy, where’ve you been?”

“Hey, leave him alone. There’s things you ain’t seen.”

 

They all of them laughed, while some lit a smoke,

And one from the Sault offered all a short toke,

That got us all talking of life, or a love,

Or how was it that Mary got knocked-up by a dove?

And all sorts of questions you can’t ask in school,

‘Cause questions cause problems and idiots rule.

 

We slept in our jeans, our shirts and our arms,

Some dreamt of cities, some still of farms,

But all of us dreamt of Vancouver, B.C.

Where we were headed and all meant to be,

For the buzz on the street said things were cool there,

And even the fuzz would treat you real fair.

 

But few of us made it, and few of us cared,

The trip was the thing, not how we fared,

For wherever home was, was a place to avoid;

Better the rails than a wife real annoyed,

Or boredom, a bank, or a job you can’t find,

Hop a freight once, you’ll find your own kind.

 

Stars that like sequins seemed stitched to the sky,

Lit the star-mirrored lakes like rivers that die,

‘Til the morning’s new glow outshone them all,

And one boy said ‘morning’ in a down-easter’s drawl,

To which we each answered, this way and that,

Some back to snoring, some up for a chat.

 

And so the days passed, the train journeyed on,

From the Sault on to Wawa, past White River gone,

On round the lake of Chippewa fame,

The great Gitchigumi, Lightfoot sings of the same;

The wide-open skies directed our way,

“Til on the third day, we hit Thunder Bay.

 

Most of us hungry, food low in each pack,

We hoped for a shower and time in the sack,

But as the train slowed to crawl through the yards

We knew it was over, we’d played all our cards,

The tracks swarmed with bulls, with cops at their side,

So one jumped, then all, for freedom and pride.

 

Some made it, some nabbed, with ten days in jail,

Like Lennie the Loop, we couldn’t make bail,

So did our short stretch, one day at a time,

Kept ourselves laughing with tall tales of crime,

The guards were okay, at least those in the day,

The night was the problem, with those shadows in play.

 

They released us real early, and told us to go,

They didn’t care where, or even to know,

So we walked a few miles, trying the thumb,

But every one passed, why pick up a bum,

Yet onward we kept ‘til we spotted a train,

Stopped on some tracks all wet from new rain.

 

“She’s headed our way, we’ll make Winnipeg,

That’s what I reckon, come on, give it some leg”

So lowdown and fast we ran down the line,

Looking for one that seemed to us fine,

Threw our packs in through a wide open door,

Then jumped in ourselves and rolled on the straw.

 

We lay back, we laughed, we smelled the cold air,

And wondered if, maybe, this life could be fair,

For happy we were out riding the rails,

For trains on the prairie are ships without sails,

And this one would sail before the moon rose,

For we’d picked this one right, this one that we chose,

To carry us rambling through mountain and field,

Wandering sons of Canada’s Shield.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Snow On the Path

 

 

 

The snow on the path was in gentle decline,

And gentle drops fell, like dew from the vine,

As blue jays and starlings, and other such thieves,

Called out their names through branches and leaves,

Who fiercely intent on their feathery needs,

Eyed the damp ground for last summer’s seeds,

Picked out by sunbeams, dancing through reeds.

 

A tall man, an old man, on the dampened path stood,

Eyeglasses glinting, head turned to the wood,

To listen, and wonder, what language they spoke,

Or if, instead, dreamed, before they awoke,

And if, in their dreams, these times understood.

 

‘Where went you away? Did you travel so far,

As you followed  the light of this weary star?

Did you happen to fly over Reason’s sweet land?

Did you make it this year to fair Samarkand?’

 

But, before they could answer, a woman’s voice called,

‘Wait, for a moment, there’s one simple thing more,’

Waving her hand from the old cottage door,

‘Don’t forget, sweetie, that bottle of wine,’

He nodded, then smiled, in casual good-bye,

Waved a hand in salute,

Then turned back to the sky.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Breathe

 

I breathe, yet who breathes no one cares or knows,

My dreams defy me like a dark cloud the sun;

I breathe the sharp wind that through me cold flows-

For numbed am I now by things man has done,

Like an opium eater, afraid of his past, his future, his woes:-

And yet I breathe, I hope-like battles won

 

In wars long forgotten by the average mind,

In faraway places and faraway times,

Where reason is dead and love hard to find,

Where the cruel and corrupted are paid for their crimes;

Even the kindest, they please me the best,

Are strangers to me and I to the rest.

 

I yearn for things, that none ever will see,

A world where death’s vigil no longer is kept,

There to enjoy the lost nature in me,

And reflect once more on the tears I have wept,

Unburdened, unchained, free there to lie,

The green valley below, there, the sparkling sky.

 

The Escape of Prisoner 4538

Silhouette-of-head-in-front-of-blank-TV-screen1

He ran fast, so fast his lungs were seared. He ran blindly. He ran like a stag hunted by hounds. Night drew him on, tugging him with urgent hands. He tripped on a root, stumbled, fell, heard shouts, then rose again while the full moon swept his path with a searchlight’s beam.

The shouts increased, lights probed, as he weaved in and out of the grasping brush, the looming trees. His heart raced, faltered, raced faster, as he drove his body forward to escape, to reach what he could not see.

‘Prisoner 4538!’

The rattle of keys in the heavy steel door tormented his mind with abandoned hope, with expectant fear, as he covered his head with a single wool blanket and pulled tight the thin grey tunic that covered him, his body half off and half on the small cot he lay on.

‘Stand up, Prisoner 4538!’

A boot kicked him in the side, then hands dragged him up,  but he raised his hands to resist,

‘Try that again and…’

He never got to say anything else.  One of them held him by the arms while the other glared at him like a schoolboy ready to the tear the wings off a fly,  who kicked him again, then the one with the tattooed hands shouted,

‘It doesn’t pay to threaten us! Move when we tell you to move.”

Strong arms shoved him forward. The floor was cold and his feet were bare.

‘Who are you? Where am I?’ Why am I here?”

He was answered with another shove to the back, then manhandled down a long grey walled corridor, half-stumbling, half running, trying to keep ahead of the men, blinded by the arc lights that lit the way.

It seemed an eternity until the three stopped at a closed door on which was written the single word, “The Teacher,” stencilled in black on the grey paint. One of the men knocked. There was the sound of a muffled but sharp voice. The man who knocked swung the door in, then with the second guard, hustled the prisoner into the room to make him stand before a man in a dark grey suit, white shirt and black tie, seated at a black metal desk who received the salute of the two guards with a nod of his head then observed the prisoner with calm interest.

He waved his hand at a single wooden chair placed a few feet in front of the desk. The guards forced the prisoner down onto the chair, then took several steps back to stand, legs apart, arms behind their backs, looking straight ahead.

4538 tried to sit upright in the chair but the seat was oiled and slippery. He kept slipping down lower than the man in front of him. He tried to grip the armrests but they were oiled too. He gave up and rested in a state of precarious imbalance while the man across from him sat in silence, watching him squirm. The man indicated with his hand and the two guards saluted, then left to wait outside closing the door behind them. There was a silence which seemed to stretch out with no end, then, quietly, the man drew out a pack of cigarettes, took one from the pack, took a black lighter laying on tp of the desk, lit the cigarette, inhaled deeply, then, as he exhaled, asked,

‘Do you know why you are here 4538?’

The prisoner looked around the room, that was otherwise bare, and replied, “I don’t even know who you are or where “here” is. Why don’t you tell me?’

‘You can call me the Teacher, if you wish, and you are here to learn, to accept. That’s all. Are you ready to learn, are you ready to accept?”

‘Learn abut what. Accept what? And how did I get here? Who the hell are you?

‘Your condition. Your place on the road of life; bound to the wheel of things.’

‘I’m not bound to anything. I choose my own path, my own life, my own way’.

‘Your way? Is that a good life? What is this way of yours except an illusion? You’ve led yourself down the path of illusion all your life, and now a break has occurred, that’s why you’re here. You were brought in for your own safety, for the safety of the community, of society. The man leaned forward, ‘And how is a good life possible without knowledge of the way things are?’

‘Maybe I don’t like how things are, and I don’t want anything to do with your wheel of things. You’re lost in illusion, not me. What am I supposed to say? Who are you?’

‘I’m your mirror. Are you afraid to look?’

‘You’re talking in riddles.’

4538 slipped in his chair again, tried to sit back up, but only slipped further down. ‘Let me go.’

‘Oh, we can’t do that, not until you learn and accept. It would be irresponsible. The new world requires it. Everyone must learn, accept, be transformed, must abandon their illusions, face reality, and through knowledge of reality, transcend it.’

‘You sound like a priest.’

‘No, not a priest, you’re friend. I don’t offer salvation, only awareness, and transformation.’

‘Transformation into what? ‘

‘Into that happy being who is happy because he has accepted the reality of the world as it is.

‘You’re mad.’

The man stood up from the desk and walked up to the prisoner, looked him straight in the face, then stood behind him. He leaned down and whispered in his ear,

‘There is no other way.’

Prisoner 4538 moved his head away from the voice but it followed him,

‘Will you accept?’

‘Never.’

The interrogator moved away from the prisoner, then turned to look down at him. He paused then press a button on his desk and the door opened and the two guard reappeared.

‘Take him away. We will talk again tomorrow. Think about what I said. Accept and be transformed or lose yourself in your maze of illusions, each one leading inevitably to another, until your doom.’

Prisoner 4538 was hauled roughly to his feet and half carried back to his cell by the two guards who said nothing but breathed hard the entire way. The hallway seemed to stretch out in front of them forever, the end lost beyond the point of perspective, beyond the endless doors on either side.

They came to a door with his number on it, already opened. He was thrown back onto the cot without a word from the guards, who slammed the door shut as they left.

He heard the keys turn in the lock as he lay still, listening to their steps moving away, his only company the silence of the space around him. He lifted his head. The cell was bare except for the single weak bulb that cast macabre shadows on the walls, the cot on which he lay and a bucket in one corner. He lay back, puzzled, and afraid. He lay quietly but as the hours dragged by, began again to drift in and out of sleep until he was again running, breathing hard as he ran, away from the shouts, from the searching beams, towards a place he could not see but knew was there, somewhere. He ran, as only the desperate can run, until he disappeared into the night’s dark womb and the shouts became distant, faint, and confused.

The doctor ran his hand through his hair as he walked over to the window, reflecting on the question. The leaves of the trees on the hospital grounds were turning. Reds and golds glittered in the autumn sun. Late flowers still blossomed and squirrels played in the branches as nurses walked patients along tree-lined paths, enjoying the warm autumn light.

He paused as he reflected on what he was about to say. The he turned to the group seated in his office, the senior resident, his junior, the psychiatric nurse, all three looking at him, waiting for him to speak.

‘You asked my opinion of this patient. He is very interesting in many respects. I have examined him a number of times and it is clear he has suffered a deep psychotic break, but of course he cannot accept that, it would shatter his world view.’

‘Patient 4538 is still suffering the delusion that he is a prisoner. His delusion even extends to dreaming that he is escaping from a prison; that he keeps waking to be taken for interrogation. He thinks his delusion is reality, his dreams his conscious state. But without any identity it is going to be difficult to treat him. We have no history.’

The junior nodded, ‘Since he was found by the police a few days ago wandering the streets, looking for the good life, he told them, our investigations and theirs have produced no information on who he is or where he’s from; totally disoriented. Said he had to keep running until he found the way, that he won’t accept, won’t be transformed.’

The doctor looked reflective, then replied, as he sat down in his leather chair,

‘A sad case, thinking he can find the good life when he has no idea what the good life is, when he is burdened by the illusions of the modern age, confusing reality and fantasy, trying to  escape everything, refusing to examine himself. To him, his illusions are concrete reality.  It has become the pathological condition of western society these days, but in his case it has developed into an extreme case. I am not optimistic. He certainly won’t accept our treatment. His delusions could be permanent. Perhaps further interviews with him will lead us somewhere deeper into his mind so we can help him but I fear he will never recover.’

He turned to look out the window, reflecting on patient 4538, as the others looked on in quiet agreement.

The sudden buzzing of the telephone on the doctor’s desk broke the thought-filled silence. He reached for the receiver and put it to his ear. His face expressed surprise, his jaw tightened. He listened intently then said, ‘All right, you had better call the police,’ then put the receiver back, turned to the others and said,

‘He’s gone. The door to his room was locked but he’s gone. Just disappeared. Like he never existed. Well, I’ll be damned.’

And, as the doctor sat back in his chair, to ponder how the patient could have escaped, could have dematerialised, vanished, Prisoner 4538 kept running, kept stumbling in the dark, kept running from the chasing fear, running from the teacher, running from reality, searching his endless nightmare for the solace of a dream.

Mpenzi

 

The Lover

 

Yes stay, my mpenzi, the sky is so blue,

And the treasures of nature are painted all through,

The hills are all greenness, from gentle soft rain,

And the air smells of jasmine from a far Persian plain.

 

Let us quicken, my heart, to the acacia’s shade,

The sheltering roots, and the place we have laid,

Where the spirits are singing their mystery song,

And in the soft starlight my eyes for yours long.

 

And when you are dreamy I’ll make you a bed,

Of African flowers to comfort your head;

While the luminous moon caresses your face,

I’ll delight you with tales of love’s happy chase.

 

So gently I’ll speak, and so quietly sigh,

You will think that some heavenly angel does cry,

But, yet-as I speak, I shall give my heart’s key,

And then you will know that the tears come from me.

 

But why, my dark queen, does your fair image dissolve?

While round me these nightmares all swirl and revolve,

So stay with me awhile, and, again hold my hand,

As with endearing eyes, you take this gold band.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Look My Way

 

 

Look my way and touch my eyes,

Which see your sadness and your love,

Look my way and see my tears,

Which feel your sorrow and your loss,

Look my way and hear my voice,

That speaks in earnest truth,

Of many things too long unsaid,

Of love astray in a cold, cold wood,

Of chances missed, of learning lost,

Of sagas left untold,

Look my way and see the flesh,

That slept too long,

On a bleeding bed of thorns,

Which bleeds yet still on roses red,

Whose petals fall to ground,

To grow anew,

A higher love,

A love of all mankind,

The antidote to hate,

A love now shared by few.

There Is No Place

 

 

 

There is no place, no friend, no face,

That friendly to me smiles,

There is no joy, no warm embrace,

No dream of Blessed Isles,

Nor anyone to sing me songs, nor speak

Kind words to ease my day,

 

For I am far from you, my love,

And far from peace this day,

For orders came from high above,

In June, or was it May,

‘The battle’s on, the war is won,

‘Attack along the line.’

 

They said I fought for what was right,

But now I know they lied,

For those I killed that cold, cold, night,

Since hugged me as we cried,

And damned them all to hell and more,

For the wasting of our lives.

 

 

 

What Matters?

 

 

What matters the money, the glory, the fame,

When others are starving and we are to blame,

 

What matter the words of philosophers dead,

When learning is murdered while we dwell in dread,

 

What matter the clouds, the stars and the moon,

When again we can hear the Horst Wessel tune,

 

What matters the cheery talk in a bar,

When after, we know, we march off to war,

 

What matter the priests who pray for our souls,

When men cut off heads to stick them on poles,

 

What matter the teachers, the artists, the wise,

When no one has ears and no one has eyes,

 

What matter our kisses, our moaning, our breath,

When watching TV we partake of death,

 

What matter the stories, the legends, the songs,

When no one has trust and no one belongs,

 

What matters the search for the meaning of life,

When money’s so scarce some reach for a knife,

 

What matters the morrow, the future, our fate,

When we already know it’s already too late,

 

What matters, my friend, let’s drink, and find out,

Or stay as we are, in shadows and doubt,

 

For I know not the answers and fear never will,

But it’s making me crazy, and  a little bit ill.

 

 

The 9th of May

 

 

I

Laughter lingered in the cold night air,

Like snowflakes caught in crystal glass,

Hurrahs rang out as tears were wept,

For the lost, returned, for memories kept,

Of the days we feared would never pass,

Unless we burned the monster’s lair.

II

Bright flames flashed from torches high,

Like sunbeams of our victory dance,

Trumpets sang, and tunes were played,

For freedom’s joy, the reckoning made,

With courageous hearts and bloodied lance,

What choice had we, to live, or die.

III

Banners waved like a crimson sea,

Whipped by winds of a mighty gale,

Toasts were made and glasses filled,

For the struggle won, for all those killed,

By bombs, by flames, machine gun hail,

Who died for freedom, the right to be.

IV

Boots on stones shook Moscow walls,

Like drums of gods in victory songs,

Engines roared as planes swept past,

For one last time, this flight their last,

Their courage to us all belongs,

And sung will be in hallowed halls.

V

But then an old man, grey and bent,

Like a lion, old, on distant plain,

Rose slowly straight with upraised hand,

From which there poured a silent sand,

Who said, “This war is won, this fascist slain,

But cursed are we to new torment.”

VI

Then to dreadful shapes he did transform,

As silence sapped our will to speak,

First a banker, then a fiend,

Then of merchants who on death are weened,

Their vile breath of death did reek,

Who rob the world, a locust swarm.

VII

Through shifting shapes he led our eyes,

From ancient wrongs to future woes,

Then changed again, with grizzled hair,

To show us scenes of life right fair,

Where no one slaves and no one owes,

To remember Revolution’s prize.

VIII

“This,” said he, “is now all  yours,

But the fight goes on, you must stay strong,

Though by you slain, they shall return,

If you forget or never learn,

That endless greed breeds endless wrongs,

And those who worship bloody wars.”

IX

Then he turned to walk away,

And left us to our darkening night,

Our joy now tinged with future fears,

As we danced to dry our burning tears,

For all those lost, who gave their lives

For what we won the 9th of May.