Bij Mist—Poem

Eliot had his Ash Wednesday,
But I had his Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday,
And a Wednesday of my own.

Volcanic ash farted by some
Unnameable Icelandic volcano     (April 2010)
Grounds flyers

In the UK, intending no prophecy, I quote Hecuba’s words as the ash cloud drifts
South and east:

“Nunc trahor exul, inops.”

Clouds of unknowing
Reveal my deordinate self—
Anxiety quietly unmans me.

Aboard a bus, a coach
On a carriage-way,
13 hours, Manchester to Amsterdam

white tulips in a lamplit English village
stretch and harden into white cliffs at Dover

We ferry to Calais.

Conferring in Crewe
Take-away northern industrial village
Ordinary language (philosophy)
In a place consternatingly plain.

No pile of Galaxy chocolate
Can sweeten this ashy mess
Nothing colligates these loose ends.

 (“Get me off of this English Roundabout!”)

 Oh, Eliot!

“Teach us to care and not to care:
Teach us to sit still
Even among these ashes,
Our peace in his will.”

Well, not so much.

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