A correspondence with Emerson

Five years ago I write this poem . . .

This Is Life in North Carolina

—for AWH

Mosquitoes swarm above the grass

in the front yard, in the back,

challenging us to come and try them out.

We hesitate going outside,

knowing the biting consequences

and their old discomforts.

World, we suspect, isn’t meant for us,

though we admit we don’t mean

anything of the sort.

Then, one night recently, I stumble upon this aphorism while reading Emerson:

"Do what we can, summer will have its flies.  If we walk in the woods, we must feed mosquitoes."

Can I never say or write anything original?  Why would I want to?  I belong to the general conversation, and am requited there.

Who is Brian Davis, London writer and poet?

Some friends recently shared with me poems written by Brian Davis, a British writer, wanderer, and, as far as I can tell from my friends, lifelong lost soul.  Brian, whom I never knew, or even heard of before my friends shared his poems, died mysteriously (no foul play involved, but mysterious all the same)--a fall from a window.  At least, my friends think it was a fall.  What makes his end so mysterious to me, or perhaps intriguing, is one of the poems my friends shared with me . . .

Chet Baker

A true story

Even if you were blind drunk and all strung out on speedballs,

You could sing My Funny Valentine and, guess what? I would have

close calls

With the heart surgeon. As a wise guy said, you never could

resist a pretty tune:

She Was Too Good for You. Your Future Just Passed. You

Wished on the Moon.

You had the looks, of course, ravaged maybe, but Dean-like,

magic;

Your fate was written in the stars, lucky ones, not tragic.

I got lucky myself: remember that Paris boite where you

chanced upon me

And asked: “Having a good time? You look like you need a

drink or three.”

Sure. We didn’t talk of music, to which you danced so

Beautifully,

But of places to stay in Paris. You were at a favourite and said:

“Feel free

To go there, tell them you’re a friend of mine and you’ll get

a special rate.”

You left me to resume your set, asking the barman to keep

me in drinks. Funny. Fate

Decreed that, after this terrific night, I had to leave and I

never stayed

At your hotel. Well, time’s passed and you’re all played

Out. Vain

Perhaps your exit, jumping out a window in the

Leidserpleine.

Hey ho. I’ve got a deal in Paris, so I’ll go there and lie at

your place. Bet

I love it. It may not be the Hyatt, but I can say, quite loudly,

“Bonjour, monsieur, j’etais un ami de Chet.”