Imposition on Dr. Lantry II

AUTUMN, by William Lantry, 1995.02
"...we come by love, and not by sail..." -Augustine

Whether the evening stopped what little wind
had driven me, or if a sudden change
in pressure slowed the bow, as, smooth, it made
its way around the cap d'ail, towards
the esterel, with its red peaks suffused
beneath the red dust of siroccos, I

will not attempt to say, but I do know
progress was slowly ended, and the drift
of that small boat became the same as waves'
slow movement toward the shore, where I could see
her skirt, at least, grown luminescent in
final reflections, blue, the slender words

inaudible, I voiced then, seemed to fill
slack canvas, only seemed, since the land breeze
recirculates in autumn, still, the bow
was moving, and I heard before my own
her voice, and knew that song from memory
but changed now, as I drifted to the shore.

IMPOSITION ON DR. LANTRY II

Years ago
Imogen

Autumn

Saint Cuthbert and I were at the edge of consubstantiation.
She left me teetering there.
But she kept writing me letters and sending her love.

"...we come by love,"

and laude, laude, cum laude, we love to come

"and not by sail..."

as much as by sale.
It's all prostitution, one way or another, said

Augustine

the Hippo to Anselm the Giraffe.
Yeah, yeah, I'm a ho, you a ho, everyone a ho, ho, ho, Mr. Santa fey indemnity clause.
But was my price too high for Imogen Autumn, or hers too high for me?

Then, as philosopher's apprentice with Willard Quine, I kneaded the status of sentences as,
"The morning star is the evening star."
(The question: just how to characterize the difference between that sentence and "The morning star is the morning star.")
Venus is both, thus dawn and dusk are female.

Last night the latter visited me.

Whether the evening stopped

by for a beer so the two of us could keep each other company
or because she meant to stir

what little wind

of sentiment

had driven me

before to my defective Volkswagen to go in vain search of Imogen

or if a sudden change

of plan just happened to bring her my way, the increase

in pressure

was just enough to send me packing, though I was

slowed

by

the bow

ties, polka-dotted, paisley. Which to take?
Running my hand over a fuchsia and gold striped one,

as, smooth, it made

my hand describe the arc of Imogen's dimly recalled rump.
Such a tie as this could wrap

its way around the cap d'ail, towards

sundown at a cocktail party for elderly Republicans. I discard it.

The esterel, with its red peaks suffused

--despite the best efforts of the good people Playtex.

Beneath the

tires, the red clay dirt roads of Butts County, Georgia.
I drive this Volkswagen toward the coast, trailing behind me that

red dust of Sciroccos, I
will not attempt to say

to what this embarassing passion amounts.

But I do know
progress was slowly ended.

Five years have gone by now since my brother Benjamin died.
A letter last year told me Geoffrey, friend and colleague of Imogen's, was dead.
Are there any but insulated morons whom AIDS has not by now left bereft?
Beautiful Mapplethorpe lies cold, and twisted Helms glows on, incendiary bright.
Too many Gramms of Newt spoiled all affirming witches' brew everywhere.
In the spaces between the funeral parlors and the ballot boxes,
belief in progress ebbed away.

and the drift
of that small boat

the ship of state

became the same as waves

of despair on sands of negation.

Yet I drive on.

Ten hours, and right onto the night beach, where I walk.
A mile or so north. Nothing.
Making my way back, the tide's

slow movement toward the shore, where I could see
her skirt

not far from the parked Scirocco, hidden in the dune shadows.
The skirt lies abandoned next to her blouse,

at least, grown luminescent

as my radio dial was at 2:00 AM midway between Macon and Savannah;
luminescent as my bowtie, which I pull off and drop beside the signs of her.

In
final reflections,

love is

blue,

but so is failure, so is decrepitude.
A little further on, I find Imogen Autumn for the first time in twelve years.
She is not ashamed in moonlight and surf and underwear;
she's just nervous about seeing me again.

the slender words
inaudible,

and the broad inarticulate noises

I voiced then, seemed to fill
slack canvas

pants with newly erected hopes

only seemed, since the land breeze

billows even where flaccidity reigns. An hour we are there. Two.
I get no clue about how much of the emotion washing over me

recirculates in Autumn, still, the bow

tie's smiling garish dotted arms reach out, one toward blouse, one toward skirt,
while mine hang limply, awkwardly, mutely at my side.

Whether the morning stopped by for a cappuccino so the three of us
could keep each other company,
or because she meant to climb into the Scirocco with me and leave Imogen, I

was moving,

driving away

and I heard before my own
her voice

the morning, telling me I'd forgotten to get my bowtie

and knew that song from memory

because the landscape over which I have traversed my life
is fairly littered with bowties announcing
"Meredith committed another fashion violation here."

but changed now, as I drifted

down inland back roads

to

points far from

the shore

and farther from the sure.

Nashville, 1995.07

* * * * * * *
Lantry's poem was written in February 1995. It was July when I imposed and interposed upon it, and then sent it back to him with this note:

Dear Bill,
'E me,' you said. Oh, very well. Here's my try.
What follows may seem to get a little Dover-Beach-ish at points, but it's also SUPPOSED to be funny -- which I rather fancy puts me one up on Arnold (though not in the sheer craftsmanship department, of course).

What you wrote in February may not be fresh in memory now, so here's your unadulterated work -- followed by my adulteration. Let me know if you like it, OK?

I don't have any record or memory of hearing from him in response. I did, however, get this from his spouse, Virginia Moran:

I found it absolutely, probably overly, hilarious. Your poem is in and of itself very funny but it reaches new heights when interposed with Bill's what even he will refer to as right-wing romanticism. As I readily confess, I find it probably too funny to see my spouse's high-flying versifying brought down to earth with such a clever thud.