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I am as guilty as many. No one speaks of David Ignatow anymore. No one speaks of  your lonesome time in the New York boonies, those outer reaches of Jamaica, where the Z & J Lines go no more. No one speaks of your sparsely furnished rooms, the low-slung Danish sofa where you sit and muse and daydream out the grimed window on rainy days. Even in the warmth of spring, there is no spring. You don’t go out much, I would imagine. I imagine much for the both of us. All those darknesses at noon. Those woodlands filled with songbirds twittering. Even scribblings on the morning Times are but a momentary respite. Words we’ve been blessed with, still blessed, even in our nightly dreams unfinished. Where art thou now, dear David? Where is the love for my desperation that I may fight your fears?

Suppose it is nothing but the hive: That there are drones and workers And queens, and nothing but storing honey — (Material things as well as culture and wisdom) — For the next generation, this generation never living, Except as it swarms in the sun-light of youth, Strengthening its wings on what has been gathered, And tasting, on the way to the hive From the clover field, the delicate spoil. Suppose all this, and suppose the truth: That the nature of man is greater Than nature's need in the hive; And you must bear the burden of life, As well as the urge from your spirit's excess — Well, I say to live it out like a god Sure of immortal life, though you are in doubt, Is the way to live it. If that doesn't make God proud of you, Then God is nothing but gravitation, Or sleep is the golden goal.

A Chant for Boys with Manly Voices (Every line sung one step deeper than the line preceding) Any sky-bird sings, Ring, ring! Any church-chime rings, Dong ding! Any cannon says, Boom bang! Any whirlwind says, Whing whang! The bell-buoy hums and roars, Ding dong! And way down deep, Where fishes throng, By Davy Jones' big deep?sea door, Shaking the ocean's flowery floor, His door-bell booms Dong dong, Dong dong, Deep, deep down, Clang boom, Boom dong.

1 Child waking up in a dark room screaming I want my duck back, I want my duck back in a language nobody understands in the least — There is no duck. But the dog, all upholstered in white plush — the dog is right there in the crib next to him. Years and years — that’s how much time passes. All in a dream. But the duck — no one knows what happened to that. 2 They’ve  just met, now they’re sleeping near an open window. Partly to wake them, to assure them that what they remember of  the night is correct, now light needs to enter the room, also to show them the context in which this occurred: socks half  hidden under a dirty mat, quilt decorated with green leaves — the sunlight specifying these but not other objects, setting boundaries, sure of  itself, not arbitrary, then lingering, describing each thing in detail, fastidious, like a composition in English, even a little blood on the sheets — 3 Afterward, they separate for the day. Even later, at a desk, in the market, the manager not satisfied with the figures he’s given, the berries moldy under the topmost layer — so that one withdraws from the world even as one continues to take action in it — You get home, that’s when you notice the mold. Too late, in other words. As though the sun blinded you for a moment.

5 am : the frogs ask what is it, what is it? It is what it is.

The soft-toned clock upon the stair chimed three— Too sweet for sleep, too early yet to rise. In restful peace I lay with half-closed eyes, Watching the tender hours go dreamily; The tide was flowing in; I heard the sea Shivering along the sands; while yet the skies Were dim, uncertain, as the light that lies Beneath the fretwork of some wild-rose tree Within the thicket gray. The chanticleer Sent drowsy calls across the slumbrous air; In solemn silence sweet it was to hear My own heart beat . . . Then broad and deep and fair— Trembling in its new birth from heaven’s womb— One crimson shaft of dawn sank thro’ my room.

Agion Oros, 2006 The air is cool and is right thick with birdsong as our bleary crew files out, of a sudden disinterred from three sepulchral hours of prayer into an amber brilliance rioting outside the cemetery chapel. With bits of   Greek and English intermixed, the monks invite us to the portico for coffee, παξιμάδια, a shot of cold ρακί. As I say, the air is cool, animate and lit, and in such light the road already beckons, so I skip the coffee, pound the shot, and pocket two hard biscuits. And yes, the way is broad at first, but narrows soon enough. παξιμάδια — pahximáthia — Greek biscotti; ρακί — rahkeé — Greek grappa

There is an old statue in the courtyard that weeps, like Niobe, its sorrow in stone. The griefs of the ages she has made her own. Her eyes are rain-washed but not hard, her body is covered in mould, the garden overgrown. One by one the first lights come on, those that haven’t been on all night. Christmas, the harshly festive, has come and gone. No snow, but the rain pours down in the first hour before dawn, before daylight. Swift’s home for ‘fools and mad’ has become the administrative block. Much there has remained unchanged for many a long year — stairs, chairs, Georgian widows shafting light and dust, of the satirist; but the real hospital is a cheerful modern extension at the back hung with restful reproductions of Dufy, Klee and Braque. Television, Russian fiction, snooker with the staff, a sifter of Lucozade, a paragraph of Newsweek or the Daily Mail are my daily routine during the festive season. They don’t lock the razors here as in Bowditch Hall. We have remained upright — though, to be frank, the Christmas dinner scene, with grown men in their festive gear, was a sobering sight. I watch the last planes of the year go past, silently climbing a cloud-lit sky. Earth-bound, soon I’ll be taking a train to Cork and trying to get back to work at my sea-lit, fort-view desk in the turf-smoky dusk. Meanwhile, next door, a visiting priest intones to a faithful dormitory. I sit on my Protestant bed, a make-believe existentialist, and stare the clouds of unknowing. We style, as best we may, our private destiny; or so it seems to me as I chew my thumb and try to figure out what brought me to my present state — an ‘educated man’, a man of consequence, no bum but one who has hardly grasped what life is about, if anything. My children, far away, don’t know where I am today, in a Dublin asylum with a paper whistle and a mince pie, my bits and pieces making a home from home. I pray to the rain-clouds that they never come where their lost father lies; that their mother thrives; and that I may measure up to them before I die. Soon a new year will be here demanding, as before, modest proposals, resolute resolutions, a new leaf, new leaves. This is the story of my life, the story of all lives everywhere, mad fools whatever we are, in here or out there. Light and sane I shall walk down to the train, into that world whose sanity we know, like Swift to be a fiction and a show. The clouds part, the rain ceases, the sun casts now upon everyone its ancient shadow.

After the cocoon I was in a human body instead of a butterfly’s. All along my back there was great pain — I groped to my feet where I felt wings behind me, trying to tilt me back. They succeeded in doing so after a day of exertion. I called that time, overwhelmed with the ghosts of my wings, sleep. My thoughts remained those of a caterpillar — I took pleasure in climbing trees. I snuck food into all my pains. My mouth produced language which I attempted to spin over myself and rip through happier and healthier. I’d do this every few minutes. I’d think to myself What made me such a failure? It’s all a little touchingly pathetic. To live like this, a grown creature telling ghost stories, staring at pictures, paralyzed for hours. And even over dinner or in bed — still hearing the stories, seeing the pictures — an undertow sucking me back into myself. I’m told to set myself goals. But my mind doesn’t work that way. I, instead, have wishes for myself. Wishes aren’t afraid to take on their own color and life — like a boy who takes a razor from a high cabinet puffs out his cheeks and strips them bloody.

Last night rain fell over the scarred plateau And now from the dark horizon, dazzling, flies Arrow on fire-plumed arrow to the skies Shot from the bright arc of Apollo's bow; And from the wild and writhen waste below, From flashing pools and mounds lit one by one, O is it mist or are these companies Of morning heroes who arise, arise With thrusting arms, with limbs and hair aglow Toward the risen god, upon whose brow Burns the gold laurel of all victories, Hero and hero's god, th' invincible Sun?