Author: H.

On The Road, Virtually

With the addition of another Paperwhite (thanks, Nik!), we have become a two-Kindle household. One of my projects is to re-read some stuff that was important to me many years ago, along with some classics or other material from those authors. The first was the 50s work by Jack Kerouac: On The Road. Almost no sooner than I had completed the thing this past weekend, today the New York Times publishes a remembrance entitled, “Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s Enduring San Francisco“, a place that figured in Kerouac’s history, and that of other members of the “Beat Generation”.

Lawrence Ferlinghetti has had a lasting influence on the literary world, particularly on the Beat Generation, which included Jack Kerouac. Above, Jack Kerouac Alley. Photo Credit: Jason Henry for The New York Times

And in case you’re curious, I think I enjoyed On The Road more this time than upon my first acquaintance back around 1959. And certainly my appreciation of Kerouac’s writing has increased.

And as a further postscript: Now I’m taking on works of recently-deceased (2018) Philip Roth. Yes, I did read Portnoy’s Complaint in 1969, but I’m on a waiting list for it, so I’m reading Roth’s 2004 piece of historical fiction, The Plot Against America, in the meantime. And there are many other Roth books that I may have a go with.

 

Poem of the Day – March 11

Why is a mental lapse

Called a brain fart?

What does the failure

To remember someone’s name

Have in common with

A discharge of gas

From the intestines?

 

Maybe because both

Can be embarrassing.

What I’d like to know, though,

Is who first who said,

I’m sorry, I had a brain fart,

I don’t remember the

Vice-president’s name.

Or something along those lines.

And who heard it?

Did they laugh?

Did they repeat it the

First chance they got?

Or did they say,

That’s not a very nice image,

Flatulence from the brain.

I wouldn’t repeat it in polite company,

If I were you.

 

© Dennis Hathaway

 

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Poem of the Day – March 10

Some people inside my head

Are making so much noise

It’s hard to think. What’s going on?

Are they having a party?

In the middle of the day?

 

I bang my forehead

With the heel of my hand

And it stops. That was easy.

Now what was I trying

To think about?

 

Getting the car serviced?

Practicing on the piano?

Ordering a toner cartridge?

Trimming my fingernails?

Making a salad for lunch?

 

It’s far too quiet in there, now.

Are they waiting for me to think

Important thoughts? For example,

How it’s possible to feel fear

And anger at the same time.

 

How satisfaction comes from

The knowledge that the numbers

Stamped on the side of the tire

Are the width, then the height,

Finally the diameter.

 

Which leads to thoughts of the

Internal combustion engine,

Invented more than a century ago,

Before the rotary telephone,

Which young people have no idea

How to use. Just ask them.

 

Before neurology, which might explain

The people inside my head,

And the fact that they’re whispering now,

Trying not to disturb me, I assume,

But I want to know what they’re saying.

 

They could be plotting some mischief,

They could throw a switch,

Like the men used to do on the rail line,

Heave on a lever and send the idea

Intended for a familiar destination

Off to somewhere entirely foreign,

Where satisfaction will be distrust,

Where the engines smoke and rattle and the tires

Lose their air in great, noisy expirations,

And the rotary telephone is the sole

Means of communication, if only

Someone knew how to use it.

© Dennis Hathaway

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Poem of the Day – March 9

The morning sun plays in the labyrinthe

Crown of the jacaranda tree, but the trunk

Is a column of darkness untouched

By the warmth that will bring forth

Purple clusters to dangle and sway,

And drop, one by one, to the earth below.

 

Until there is a litter of purple

On the sidewalk, in the street,

Infuriating those who believe in

Clean sidewalks, unlittered streets.

But why should sidewalks be clean?

Why should streets be unlittered

By an exquisite issue of the natural world?

 

Why furiously rake and sweep,

When you can stand and look up

And give thanks for all that isn’t

Sidewalks and streets and other

Alien things we have chosen to call

Improvements? Why genuflect

Before concrete and steel when

A miracle unfolds in the crown of a tree

And lets a flutter of beauty

Descend, just steps outside the door?

 

© Dennis Hathaway

 

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Poem of the Day – March 8

Author’s Note: Thanks to my brother Lawrence for this idea.

Just be yourself, they say.

But which self?

The one who likes puns

And tries to make people laugh?

The one who becomes withdrawn,

For no obvious reason?

The one with a thin skin,

Who nurses resentments

Over insults real and imagined,

Or the one whose equanimity

Can’t be upset by trivial slights?

The one who lavishes affection

Upon those he loves,

Or the one who can’t be bothered

To say a kind word

Or squander a simple kiss.

© Dennis Hathaway

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