Hummingbird Sleep: Poems, 2009-2011

The Gift of a Comeback

107 The Gift of a Comeback for James Hillman Toward the end James said he could not tell much difference between living and dying, his collaboration with spirit so seamless. Soul is consciousness, and that is still here. Coleman, my man. What a tall crane you were there, standing long in open grassy water, taking a look around, then a fishy-language stab, eyes brightening with the catch. I am crunching celery sticks in the Delta Sky Lounge, delayed by heavy snowflakes in La Guardia, nothing sticking, replacement plane diverted to Albany. James, we are airborne, six hours late in this flying bourne where everyone but me is touching a lit field in the half-dark current fingerplay. I have my reading light on this messy unlined notebook where I begin with ballpoint poems, half-recalled dreams, reminders to-do (call Briny, call Mary), to-get (Marie-Louise On Dreams and Death). I have no device that would have given me Margot’s email telling about your burial earlier today, which I have missed. I need to remedy that, but I do claim this is an oldfashioned gift from your absence, the Morris chair that could not be fixed, the porchlight that shone every night for thirty-five years for the courtship 108 goodnight kisses on my father’s side in Birmingham’s old Woodlawn neighborhood. I might not have written down these details had I been alerted electronically in time to make my way to the cemetery in Thompson, Connecticut. So this tinge of trying to forgive myself, and at the same time to glorify me with an oldfangled gesture. That fang part is a Middle English stem, fangen, meaning just caught, newly collected, deliberately found, fanged by the heron’s quickness. May it make a comeback, that past participle, fanged, and may you too, in dream, come back, not for long, just for another laugh. To find, in Arabic, did you know, means also to be in an ecstatic state? Wajada. Also, to lose oneself and to become wealthy. January 28, 2006—a letter typed on an odd-shaped piece of green paper. “Dear Man, I miss seeing your fruzzled head and small twinkly eyes. Are you well. I’d like to hear that voice of yours, say any old thing, or something BIG from 600 years ago. I won’t be in Atlanta in June. I’m pulling back and fussing around more. I did finally read the commentary in The Drowned Book that you suggested (imposed on my Jewish obligatory conscience to read) and was overjoyed, really and truly, happy with it, from it. You’ve got a freedom of phrase or rhythm or an access to a little pile of Georgia kindling wood that is lightweight and touches off big logs burning. Lucky man. Let me know when you get North and East. We have not danced together for ten years! James” April 6, 2006—fax from Palermo, Central Palace Hotel stationery. “To my great, great regret, I must abandon the project of accompanying you to your anointment . . . (I was going to Iran with Robert Bly to get an honorary degree from the University of Tehran.) Love to the old rascal Robert and to the singing spirits of old Persia.” 109 August 7, 2006—a card with a picture of a wolf pup howling. “My man: I’m to do a thing on dogs—did your friend Rumi ever mention a dog in any way in all his jillions of inspirations? I am especially interested in BAD DOGS, evil, smelly, shit-eating fuckers, who kill babies and bite achilles tendons, and lead the soul to death. See you in April. How did Ralph Reed do in the Georgia primaries? Love & Kisses, James” October 2, 2006—a Margot email. “James is now eating a pear that is a little overripe—on the edge of mealy—but it had a beautiful shape before he bit into it! Khidr can appear anywhere.” April 10, 2007—a fax about a panel he and I were to participate in, about “poetry in times like these.” “We are always in times like these, when poetry seems vagabond and homeless. Cheerio.” January 8, 2010—a typed fax. (I had told him about a trip to Devon and how I keep going back to Plotinus, not knowing why.) “Indeed, the bleak moors, and English tea and good milk. After a certain...