Plague Journal, Endgame
Monday morning, early, before sunrise. Waking on account of “who knows what” I got up knowing that I would sort through the contents of my mind with words. What is bothering me? Perhaps it is the craziness of these times, the absolutely “wigged out,” insane behavior of too many of my contemporaries!? Today I read this bit of news in the NY Times, The Morning update which I receive by email:
New York’s Sheriff’s office shut down a party in Manhattan over the weekend that had more than 400 people inside. Only a few were wearing masks.
The insistence that the music play on, for just one more dance as the deck of the Titanic continues to tilt ever more precipitously… It is well known that the 1.7 is the percentage of deaths from corona virus infection. On average almost two die for every one hundred who contract the virus. The Manhattan party is another positive proof that humans are an irrational species. One grand evening in exchange for your life, and that of unnamed others who you will infect! And the bonus, — it’s not going to be a “good death.” You’ll expire of organ failure, or perhaps asphyxiation in a hospital ICU, isolated for everyone that you love.
One day you’ll be blind like me. You’ll
be sitting here, a speck in the void,
in the dark, forever, like me.
One day you’ll say to yourself, I’m tired,
I’ll sit down, and you’ll go and sit down. Then
you’ll say, I’m hungry, I’ll get up and get
something to eat. But you won’t get up. You’ll
say, I shouldn’t have sat down. But since I have
I’ll sit on a little longer, then I’ll get up
and get something to eat. But you won’t get up
and you won’t get anything to eat.
You’ll look at a wall a while, then you’ll
say. I’ll close my eyes, perhaps have a little
sleep, after that I’ll feel better, and you’ll
close them. And when you open them again
there’ll be no wall any more.
Infinite emptiness will be all around you, all
the resurrected dead of all the ages wouldn’t
fill it, and there you’ll be like a little bit
of grit in the middle of the steppe.
Yes, one day you’ll know what it is, you’ll
be like me, except that you won’t have anyone
with you, because you won’t have had pity on
anyone and because there won’t be anyone left
to have pity on you.
— excerpt, Endgame by Samuel Beckett
Ok, if ever there was a time when the best tune in our quiver can be called up to provide a lifeline to sanity, this is it! This Moody Blues tune from 1967 gets the job done. Mindfully attend to the lyric…
Late Lament
Breathe deep the gathering gloom,
Watch lights fade from every room.
Bedsitter people look back and lament,
Another day’s useless energy spent.
Impassioned lovers wrestle as one,
Lonely man cries for love and has none.
New mother picks up and suckles her son,
Senior citizens wish they were young.
Cold hearted orb that rules the night,
Removes the colours from our sight.
Red is grey and yellow white.
But we decide which is right,
And which is an illusion.
NIGHTS IN WHITE SATIN
Nights in white satin,
Never reaching the end,
Letters I’ve written,
Never meaning to send.
Beauty I’d always missed
With these eyes before,
Just what the truth is
I can’t say anymore.
‘Cause I love you,
Yes, I love you,
Oh, how I love you.
Gazing at people,
Some hand in hand,
Just what I’m going through
They can’t understand.
Some try to tell me
Thoughts they cannot defend,
Just what you want to be
You will be in the end,
And I love you,
Yes, I love you,
Oh, how I love you.
Oh, how I love you.
Nights in white satin,
Never reaching the end,
Letters I’ve written,
Never meaning to send.
Beauty I’d always missed
With these eyes before,
Just what the truth is
I can’t say anymore.
‘Cause I love you,
Yes, I love you,
Oh, how I love you.
Oh, how I love you.
‘Cause I love you,
Yes, I love you,
Oh, how I love you.
Oh, how I love you.
,
One thought on “Plague Journal, Endgame”
Another in my series of relatively connected poems:
the i in pity #36
what is it about self-pity we despise in others, embrace in ourselves. in whispers we taunt those who indulge, so unbecoming. we hate it in ones who manipulate, yet spurn the weak who whimper in silence.
we take pity, we pity fools, we pity the dead as they’d pity us, if they could. we immerse ourselves in our own pool of life’s disappointments. even the wealthy, as richard cory’s tale is told.
we cast shame on those who see themselves in the day’s hot blue light, for admitting fault, for knowing defects, for expressing doubts. what if everyone felt the humility of defeat but would not try again?
yet we do. we rise and sink, to rise then sink again. sometimes too far and darkness wins. this is not self-pity and cursing will not bring us back. sympathy and empathy becoming words too late.
when self-pity ends a life we cry out why. we thump our collective chests in pain, shake our fists in anger. some might shout how selfish, how thoughtless, what a damn waste, perhaps out of fear.
as for me, i am worn out. i will not tell you my thoughts, pity-filled as they are, your judgment only drives me deeper, so instead i’ll sing a song of swans on a winter’s day.
ha, now i’ve got you guessing. is this some plea for help, some muffled cry in verse? no, not at all. neither am i playing. just sour ruminations of voices calling me back into the night.