The Two Friends -- Norman MacCaig

Guest poem sent in by Salima Virani

(Poem #1088) The Two Friends The last word this one spoke was my name. The last word that one spoke was my name. My two friends had never met. But when they said that last word they spoke to each other. I am proud to have given them a language of one word. A narrow space in which, without knowing it, they met each other at last. -- Norman MacCaig

I love the simplicity of narration in this poem. I also like it because I
can relate to it on a very personal level.  Some of my closest friendships
were made during my time in Bombay and, although each one was special, often
many of my friends had little or no knowledge about each other.

Now, over a decade later, I have lost contact with many of them.  Yet, many
of these people have had their paths cross and my name was mentioned and a
connection was instantly made.  They now share with each other the
friendship that I once shared with them individually.  The talks over
coffee, the walks in the park.. :)

And I feel proud too...that I was instrumental in some way, to bring them
together.  In their friendships...my own friendship has been kept alive,
nurtured and sustained.

Salima

***

[Bio on MacCaig]

Norman MacCaig (1910-1996) was one of the major Scottish poets of the
twentieth century. He's remembered with great affection not only by the
modern generation of Scottish writers whom he helped to develop, but by
thousands of people who encountered him in school, and for whom he was the
first poet they'd seen who could write in an unpretentious way about
ordinary things and make them astonishing.

Link for more poems by MacCaig:
[broken link] http://www.jacobite.org.uk/maccaig/

A Poison Tree -- William Blake

Guest poem sent in by Vivian Eden

(Poem #1087) A Poison Tree I was angry with my friend: I told my wrath, my wrath did end. I was angry with my foe: I told it not, my wrath did grow. And I water'd it in fears, Night & morning with my tears; And I sunned it with smiles, And with soft deceitful wiles. And it grew both day and night, Till it bore an apple bright; And my foe beheld it shine, And he knew that it was mine, And into my garden stole When the night had veil'd the pole: In the morning glad I see My foe outstretch'd beneath the tree. -- William Blake

           from "Songs of Experience"

Taking off from the subject of friendship, Blake goes into the nature of
enmity. There is no one like Blake for talking about the darker emotions --
anger, hatred, Schadenfreude. The "apple bright" in the garden brings to
mind the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil; Man is crueller
than  the God of Genesis and inflicts death rather than banishment from
Paradise.

Vivian

The Floor and the Ceiling -- William Jay Smith

Carrying on with our friendship and loss theme, here's a guest poem from
Sally Canzoneri

(Poem #1086) The Floor and the Ceiling Winter and summer, whatever the weather, The Floor and the Ceiling were happy together In a quaint little house on the outskirts of town With the Floor looking up and the Ceiling looking down. The Floor bought the Ceiling an ostrich-plumed hat, And they dined upon drippings of bacon fat, Diced artichoke hearts and cottage cheese And hundreds of other such delicacies. On a screen-in porch in early spring They would sit at the player piano and sing. When the Floor cried in French, "Ah, je vous adore!" The Ceiling replied, "You adorable Floor!" The years went by as the years they will, And each little thing was fine until One evening, enjoying their bacon fat, The Floor and the Ceiling had a terrible spat. The Ceiling, loftily looking down, Said, "You are the lowest Floor in this town!" The Floor, looking up with a frightening grin, Said, "Keep up your chatter, and you will cave in!" So they went off to bed: while the Floor settled down, The Ceiling packed up her gay wallflower gown; And tiptoeing out past the Chippendale chair And the gateleg table, down the stair, Took a coat from the hook and hat from the rack, And flew out the door -- farewell to the Floor! -- And flew out the door, and was seen no more, And flew out the door, and never came back! In a quaint little house on the outskirts of town, Now the shutters go bang, and the walls tumble down; And the roses in summer run wild through the room, But blooming for no one -- then why should they bloom? For what is a Floor now that brambles have grown Over window and woodwork and chimney of stone? For what is a Floor when a Floor stands alone? And what is a Ceiling when the Ceiling has flown? -- William Jay Smith

I like this poem for a lot of reasons, including the mix of whimsy and
seriousness.  I loved the poem as an adolescent, and find that children in
my classes also love it.  There is a lovely way that Smith gets you hooked
on what seems to be a whimsical story and then makes the point about the
carelessly broken friendship with such simple eloquence in the last stanzas.
The "flew out the door" stanza brings the poem to an emotional peak and
captures that almost euphoric "I don't need you! You'll see!" feeling that
people get in arguments.  Then the quiet last stanzas show the cost of that
anger.

Sally Canzoneri

Links:

  An excellent critical essay on Smith
    http://www.danagioia.net/essays/esmith.htm

  The current theme:
    [broken link] http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/collections/42.html

Death of a Friendship -- Harry Guest

Guest poem sent in by Simon Koppel

(Poem #1085) Death of a Friendship I mourn, now that your house contains such fractured shadows. This wine you’ve handed me tastes sour. I joke and you do not laugh. When you speak, assuming my approval, I stare into discoloured depths of my glass, longing to get away. Rain drives against your walls. The few shrubs you have planted shrink in the cold. Where there was amity, questions echo between us. Tufts of dark lilac branching from tall vases shed minute dry flowers like grief for a lost fragrance, leave on the smooth piano scattered omens neither of us can read. The past is empty of romance, its summers flecked with heartbreak and its negatives destroyed-. But weren’t there moments when the blue sea glittered, when the lithe curve of a diver forged another link between wave and cloud? I wonder, though, in fear were those young grinning faces always plague-marred, was the fun a lie, were dreams we’ve jettisoned mere husks about this dirt, dislike? One fiction may have replaced another for wherever I look with you I find, instead of light, a slyness. We could not name the truth. What used to brag lies in your cupboard under lock and key. You care no more for angels or the underdog, translating all the terms we used into intolerance. Your world now clusters round the emulation of the rich. I can’t feel glad about old times because I am afraid that what I see here I suspected then but shunned the knowing. The tarnish of this has rubbed off on me. The years we shared look counterfeit. If so, more than affection died today. What hurts perhaps the most is that in you as in a mirror shows not only what I could have been but what I was or am. -- Harry Guest

The last guest poem, 'Sometimes it Happens', prompts me to send in another
on the way that friendships can end. It's one of the most moving poems I've
ever come across - there's something heartbreaking about the desperation of
"But weren't there moments when the blue sea glittered...?" and the
realisation that perhaps, truthfully, there weren't. I'd like to hope that
in the end it doesn't always have to be like this.

Simon

Sometimes it Happens -- Brian Patten

Guest poem sent in by Nandini K. Moorthy

(Poem #1084) Sometimes it Happens And sometimes it happens that you are friends and then You are not friends, And friendship has passed. And whole days are lost and among them A fountain empties itself. And sometimes it happens that you are loved and then You are not loved, And love is past. And whole days are lost and among them A fountain empties itself into the grass. And sometimes you want to speak to her and then You do not want to speak, Then the opportunity has passed. Your dreams flare up, they suddenly vanish. And also it happens that there is nowhere to go and then There is somewhere to go, Then you have bypassed. And the years flare up and are gone, Quicker than a minute. So you have nothing. You wonder if these things matter and then As soon you begin to wonder if these things matter They cease to matter, And caring is past. And a fountain empties itself into the grass. -- Brian Patten

Its remarkable the way Patten has wrapped the philosophy of friendship and the
transitions that comes with it in this poem. There seems so much lightness and
rhythm in the flow of lines. So deceptively uncomplicated, yet strikingly
evocative. The capture of conflicting emotions seems plain and detached, yet
echoes the underlying  pain. The constant resonance of "A fountain empties
itself" probably marks the passage of time or feelings itself. The poem
evokes a feeling of vulnerability, a tinge of sadness and above all
uncertainty.
Patten at his best.

Nandini