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As a Perfectly Foolish Young Man I Wanted 20

By: Carl Halling

Page 1, As a perfectly Foolish Young jman I Wanted - Book Six - Beachcombings from the Halling Valley Riverbank - 1

First (Versified) Beachcombings

Some Sun Drunk Day He Said

Emotions war against sense
And his mind remains
A pot pourri,
And thoughts in his head
When he lies in his bed
Would make Dorian Gray
Appear pristine.
He wishes to moralize
On a corrupt example
Yet from the wicked cup
He hath supped a sample.
He appears to think in extremes;
He is beau-laid and realist
Whose inspiration stems from his dreams.
"Life is a beautiful strain for me,"
One sun-drunk day he said,
"But I pray I say what my soul needs to
Before the heavens decide me dead."
But his mind is a disorderly drawer
Full of confused categorizations;
He has that Scott Fitzgerald illness
For dates, times, rhymes and quotations.
"I have a clear flowing mind
But I cannot foretell
When the clogging black clouds will arrive,
For they will arrive.
Live with the love, then bear the pain
Recurrent like the monsoon rain."
He is afraid of happiness
For the inevitable despair that must follow it;
Afraid of happiness
For its cruel impermanence.
Like Zola, the seasons in life, for him
Are inevitable.
"All artists," he says, "are at once alike and unique
One day, it's clear,
The next, hazy, like a beery vision
The fulfilment that they seek."
Misty dreams of sweet-smelling roses
And swaying streams
Bring him chills and pains in his soul and being;
He lives his life through a melancholy tragedy
And has an ever-yearning mind.

Bouzingo: The Gathering of the Poets

The boy was aged about eighteen,
Pale and pensive,
Weary and frail in appearance.
He could have been
Goethe's Werther,
Senancour's Obermann
Or Chateaubriand's melancholy hero,
Embraced by a generation,
And about whom Sainte-Beuve said:
"René, c'est moi."
Tortured by a new mal du siècle,
He sought refuge
In the Club Bouzingo.
Two young poets,
One dark, the other fair,
Drifted past. The first,
Whose black hair
Hung in ringlets over his shoulders,
Wore a small pointed beard,
Black velvet tails,
A white linen shirt
Loosely fastened at the neck
By a thin pink taffeta tie;
The second wore a tight coat
That opened onto a silk crimson waistcoat
And a lace jabot, white trousers
With blue seams,
And a wide-brimmed black hat, and
In one of his hands
He carried a long thin pink-coloured pipe.
They were soon joined
By some of their dandified companions.
The music had stopped playing, and
The poet-leader in cape and gloves,
Dark and pomaded
With a Théophile Gautier moustache,
Took to the stage,
Where he proceeded to declaim
Selections from his subversive verses
To delirious cheers,
As if sedition was imminent;
Only the boy-poet remained silent,
His pale cheeks
Soaked by the freshest tears.
"Après nous, le déluge,"
He said under his breath,
"Our leader preaches revolution
But provides no solution
As to the fate of coming generations,
Should the infant be cast out
With the bath water that is so filthy
In his sight
That, intent on doing right,
Gives no thought to the future,
Nor to what might supplant
The society he claims to despise."
The boy was aged about eighteen
Pale and pensive
Weary and frail in appearance.
He could have been
Goethe's Werther,
Senancour's Obermann
Or Chateaubriand's melancholy hero,
Embraced by a generation,
And about whom Sainte-Beuve said:
"René, c'est moi."
Tortured by a new mal du siècle,
He sought refuge
From the Club Bouzingo.

Gallant Festivities

It was my evening, that's
For sure -
"Its your aura"
For sure -
At last I'm good
At something.
"Spot the Equity card!"
"When are you going
To be a superstar?"
Said Sarah.
That seemed to be
The question
On everyone's lips.
At last, at last, at last
I'm good at something.

And so the party...Zoe
called me...I listened
To her problems;
References
To my "innocent face"
Linda said:
"Sally seems elusive
But is in fact,
Accessible;
You're the opposite -
You give to everyone
But are incapable
Of giving in particular.

Madeleine was comparing me
To June Miller;
Descriptions by Nin:
"She does not dare
To be herself..."
Everything I'd always
Wanted to be, I now am.
"...She lives
On the reflections
Of herself in the eyes
Of others...
There is no June
To grasp and know."

I kept getting up to dance
Sally said: "I'm afraid;
You're inscrutable;
You're not just
Blasé
Are you?"
I spoke
Of the spells of calm,
And the hysterical
Reactions,
Psychic Exhaustion,
Then anxious elation.

© Copyright 2014Carl Halling All rights reserved. Carl Halling has granted theNextBigWriter, LLC non-exclusive rights to display this work on Booksie.com.

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