An Afternoon with Emily and James*** Options

[RC James]

Shocking to those with accepted boundaries,
two writers sit, opén air, at a cafe table,
tumult and bustle inches away.
A whirlwind wasted on Emily, used to quiet rooms,
where she could muse on a concatenation of words,
leaning to dry humor and precision,
she uncovered mossy stones, ballads for breakfast,
truisms united.

Joyce is a bit rattled in her company,
knowing his scattershot perceptions suffer
before her lucid brevity.
Both stammer toward God/demon-saviour entwined.
Her queries unremitting, possible answers none,
but loving the Father in his full mystery.
Internally rambling, Joyce battled and embraced
the same mystic powers in Rome.

She examined the ordinary with the grace of denial
and spared others her intensity, her enthusiasms.
He saddled his interior with inventions no dictionary held.

Guinness and fascination propel him to question her love life.
She calms herself, he detects restraint, she detects the ploy,
shyly answers, with a deft referral to her Persian cat
being most important in her life just now.
Stout diverts him, they both cling to their muse.

[greenwich]

The measured observations and characterisation for the authors inter actions is perfect. Thank you
Ps picturing Emily Dickinson and James Joyce very nicely

[Eisa]

I always enjoy your poetry, Richard and I really love this one. A meeting of 2 great poets - great imagination and you use some great words.

Shocking to those with accepted boundaries,
two writers sit, opén air, at a cafe table,
tumult and bustle inches away.
A whirlwind wasted on Emily, used to quiet rooms,
where she could muse on a concatenation of words,
leaning to dry humor and precision,
she uncovered mossy stones, ballads for breakfast,
truisms united.

Love 'concatenation of words'
also 'uncovered mossy stones' - ballads for breakfast indeed!

Joyce is a bit rattled in her company,
knowing his scattershot perceptions suffer
before her lucid brevity.
Both stammer toward God/demon-saviour entwined.
Her queries unremitting, possible answers none,
but loving the Father in his full mystery.
Internally rambling, Joyce battled and embraced
the same mystic powers in Rome.

Another favourite - scattershot perceptions
I'm finding nothing to nit so far, just enjoying every word.

She examined the ordinary with the grace of denial
and spared others her intensity, her enthusiasms.
He saddled his interior with inventions no dictionary held.

Guinness and fascination propel him to question her love life.
She calms herself, he detects restraint, she detects the ploy,
shyly answers, with a deft referral to her Persian cat
being most important in her life just now.
Stout diverts him, they both cling to their muse.

I really have no nits, Richard. This is my favourite one you have written recently. Keep the coming!

Eira

[Luce]

And who has a crush on Emily Dickinson? You! Yes you have a crush on Emily Dickinson. Poor James,
he pales in comparison to Emily.

I'm tempted to do a "rebuttal" poem taking James' side and writing it, loosely, using his style. It would go something like this...

Dearest E,

Be not glad for your Persian cat my dear
to help you deny, deny the clamour,
the life, the racing hot blood next to you.
My bow tie salutes you for the peace
your full country skirts provide....

But I whine for the serenity of honking Fords
and shouting newsboys, a disorder
of the mind in weeds...

And a pint, I need a pint. Don't forget the pint.

Yours in poetry, if not in life.

JJ

[RC James]

jj - I think that, in repose back in her quiet room in Amherst, these sentiments of James would have titillated no end and shown, perhaps herself, a side she'd suppressed under cover of proper, but suggestive, letters to her main man at home. I love your Joyce, wonderful gaminess and outright suggestion. If I could take on Emily I'd suggest an exchange of letters between the two. Oh oh. Thanks, this was a treat and a half, R

You know I really didn't mean to shortchange James, I admire both he and Emily equally. Here's a short take-off :

Meister Joyce, Mite Eye Resume

And to the large world at last a task,
sun spun, wasted shine we have still
over Dublin, first now and ever last
shall we dance, aha, dance we will.

My love’s alight on the breeze’s brow,
combine we dreams, full let them sing,
wed gladly souls to which we all bow
full joy jump all, live streets shall ring.

[Psyche]

Hi Richard,
Highly enjoyable read, sitting these absolutely different personalities at a café table.
I've read it thru' and thru' and don't have anything to nit, except a probable typo.

Shocking to those with accepted boundaries,
two writers sit, opén air, at a cafe table, <<<<accented 'open'. Perhaps you were going to accent 'café' in the French or Spanish style?
tumult and bustle inches away.
A whirlwind wasted on Emily, used to quiet rooms,
where she could muse on a concatenation of words,
leaning to dry humor and precision,
she uncovered mossy stones, ballads for breakfast,
truisms united.

I'm amused at poor Emily sitting with 'tumult and bustle' inches away. She apparently suffered from agoraphobia, to the extent of only opening her bedroom door a small crack to speak to people.
In which case 'wasted' might not be strong enough to emphasize her panic. ToT!


Joyce is a bit rattled in her company,
knowing his scattershot perceptions suffer
before her lucid brevity.
Both stammer toward God/demon-saviour entwined.
Her queries unremitting, possible answers none,
but loving the Father in his full mystery.
Internally rambling, Joyce battled and embraced
the same mystic powers in Rome.

This stanza expresses wonderfully their eccentricities concerning faith. Emily certainly questioned the Christian Church God, but apparently spoke (or railed at) to Him in private...especially after all the deaths of family, friends and small nieces. James, being raised in Catholic Ireland, lived 'in sin' with Nora Barnacle when he roamed around Europe, though he eventually married her. I'm loving this!



She examined the ordinary with the grace of denial
and spared others her intensity, her enthusiasms.
He saddled his interior with inventions no dictionary held.

I especially like L3 of this stanza. I struggled thru' Finnegans Wake and Ulysses, probably skipping some pages. But there's chapter near the end of Ulysses which is very clear and shocking...LOL.

Guinness and fascination propel him to question her love life.
She calms herself, he detects restraint, she detects the ploy,
shyly answers, with a deft referral to her Persian cat
being most important in her life just now.
Stout diverts him, they both cling to their muse.

Wonderful! No nits, Richard. Just for laughs, didn't Emily own a dog?
Enjoyed your poem immensely. Syl

[Luce]

jj - I think that, in repose back in her quiet room in Amherst, these sentiments of James would have titillated no end and shown, perhaps herself, a side she'd suppressed under cover of proper, but suggestive, letters to her main man at home. I love your Joyce, wonderful gaminess and outright suggestion. If I could take on Emily I'd suggest an exchange of letters between the two. Oh oh. Thanks, this was a treat and a half, R

You know I really didn't mean to shortchange James, I admire both he and Emily equally. Here's a short take-off :

Meister Joyce, Mite Eye Resume

And to the large world at last a task,
sun spun, wasted shine we have still
over Dublin, first now and ever last
shall we dance, aha, dance we will.

My love’s alight on the breeze’s brow,
combine we dreams, full let them sing,
wed gladly souls to which we all bow
full joy jump all, live streets shall ring.

WOW!!!! That's a super cool response. It has left JJ with his mouth hanging open so wide, you think he was catching flies.

I think it's best then, that JJ admire Emily from a far - really far - like Mars. Each can dream of each other - in their own way - unmarred by realty.