THE DRIVE TO COMPOSE DRIVEL DIES LAST
This next shot slows down the perception of Time = MÉ FÉIN .It will ( – aha! now sneaks in tense ? ) brake my féin-tempore , mo fhéin-am, the fine self as 1500 x 997 pixels .
I was nine and not well. In our pre-Famine school-lavatory, little “I” was wandering up from the nethers to the little treble voice, pet.” Do thy milking ” it sang. ( Years later, she was my cow )
The next but one shot slows the keening of chronological time down . July 11 will be the Limerick premiere of new orchestral work, right beside the glistening Shannon. While she ( it´s Irish, silly ) awaits this event , this brazen river is asking blithely why I appear more future-dependent , look you, than I was ever gone on the idea the world couldn´t possible dare to have existed prior, say, to my beginning to exist ?
The Shannon Estuary is wide. Good image here, never soiled by bad or virtual poets.The River Jordan is chilly and cold – and it was thus as I came up for breath, nethers and torso well-oiled for the day´s acquatic struggle. ( A change of river for an unusual shot , gaffers – from Shannon to Jordan to Lethe, sorry, no, make it Styx. )In the shock of hitting the surface I had´nt time for usual Augustinian speculations about infantile wanderings on, about the I-pains , not even time for a quick thought about that cold, old, gray river portending great cosmic cold. ( Is the infinite great ? )
What about diving under again, blue boy, axel-grease a thin protection for the nethers and your little treble voice, pet, and the wandering self-chill, pet, and a partially developed “mé feÃn pain” and the pet´s song-pain that my young treble fluted through the class-room to prop a nine-year-old´s wobbly enough féin-ghrá, little sagging ” I” and the cosmos indifferent. Pan
then from Styx to Jordan, back to Shannon . My guardian- archangel´s pig-slurried left foot ( they, too, have two ) sharply shoved my surfacing anew junior swimming ” ringletted youth of my love ” back down into his riverly The Heavenly Anaesthetician´s Song . ( She was my cow years later )
Slurried he , a real churl archangelic, soiled the lovely ringlets with otherworldly pig-slurry – yet without converting me one whit from wandering child´s I-pain , nor yet from a ( – hey ! – totally justifiable, – I have argued several ” Musings ” earlier, perched on the West Face of Skellig Mhichil , was it September 2005 or a balmy, autumnal thereabouts ? ) – or my – perfect right to whinge A Cold Shannon Song .
Under those mutinous Shannon Estuary waves , for that oiled, greased moment, cold little I had the cold peace to argue the toss: was it true ” I = Time ? ” Would it hold water, my watery equation, that ” the Present Tense = Mé Féin ” ? And, if yes, does it also entail ” My Future = Only Me ? ” i.e. my final cadence will be the pet´s ringlets and my treble lay fluting in our Pre-Famine school´s ruined toilets , singing of post-birth : ” mé-féin = mé-pains ” ? Or: ” Nethers and their wandering ” I” ? ” But if yes, yes, yes, does this, why this, wherefore this Shannon – Euclidian turn, how entail that: ” the past before my lived past = the lie of my ” I ” ?
More succinctly versed: ” Supposin´, supposin´ / The Shannon was frozen . / – I am Time . / So´s THAT just fine ? ”
T´was full fathoms five down I fluted The Young Shannon Estuary Lay Of The Ringletted Youth :
” Winter-time is bleak ! / Small me ´s not well. / – Swam up , nethers meek, / My infant I-pain leaked / Its féin- ghrá wild ! / Oh cold Shannon-child ! / My sub-Shannon drivel ! / Like which nether evil , / Like what temporal weevil – / Nerves now me ? / Nerves also it ? / A child´s cold it / Which longs to be born again ? / – Like life after a life ? / – My Shannon- or my Styx- life ? / Is that more IT ? / More archangels´ shit ? / Maybe It = You ? / Time , bist DU ? / Spoiled water-pet, / Philo-monster , let / Shannon´s gluttonous waves / Roll over knaves, / And archangelic pig-slurry, / Over all selfish hurry / To peek, to slobber , / To flute treble verse / With its end-rhyme, ” HEARSE! ”
Then ´twas a sharp second slurried archangelic foot-feint sent this youthful, greased diver down under I -chilling waves. I was now under in Jordan. ( – he and He. She figured later as a cow. ) . River-doves fugued my fluminal I-ruin, my fluvial, doomed baptism. Duck deadly the slurried foot-puck, cold my Raphael, bold my Gabriel, a bit slurried my Michael. Thus was I Jordan- and Shannon-besoiled, say be-Styxed . A submarine pet´s only chance now: DO NOT be always goin´ on with the Shannon- Question! – cease your Jordan-Query ! Leave Lethe alone !
Bold Raphael, slurried Michael, strong-kick Archipatel , side-kick Gabriel, how can ye bisect my temporality ? how on earth mingle with my present ( or future) tense under this Estuary ? Beats me. I drown.