A Journey is Imminent

Colm decamped to his sanctuary in upstate New York many months ago—the home he refers to as Chateau De Bris—and the only contact I’ve had with him has been the poems that arrive in my inbox. Calls go unanswered and the College contacted me last week asking about both his whereabouts and his well being. Also the interim Chair—a whole other story—asked me if Colm now fancies himself a poet:

Chair

Is this something he’s pursuing to the exclusion of everything else?

Turdling

Right now it is.

Chair

Is that what he told you?

Turdling

I haven’t spoken to him in months.

Chair

I thought you two were close.

Turdling

We are, that’s why I’m leaving him alone.

Chair

I need to know how committed he is to his roster of fall classes.

Turdling

That’s something you should ask him.

Chair

You’re not offering up much in the way of help here.

Turdling

I noticed that immediately.

I do not like the interim Chair; the prospect of him ripping out what’s left of his hair in frustration delights me and Colm’s vanishing act will further reinforce the growing perception of the Chair’s ineptitude. While Colm has disappeared in the past, and I know better than to track him down before he’s ready to re-emerge, this does seem like a situation that requires intervention. One last string of lighthearted texts failed and his phone now cuts right to a full inbox. Desperate times, desperate measures, and so I have decided, with a certain amount of trepidation, to pack up and make a trip to the upper Hudson valley.

Colm Sends a Poem (2)

Copse 1

chopped out of the old forest

the uncut hair in the upper field remains an oasis

for crows that hop from branch to branch

barking like foremen

at the grouse living in the low cover

beneath two birch trees

jackknifed

with greenstick fractures

from a late winter storm.

My brother-in-law tended to the trees

splinting them with lengths of old decking

lashed with rope

hoping

they’d fuse and grow, through the splintered joints,

that kept them from being trees.

Colm Sends a Poem

After his adventures in Vermont, Colm decided to fuck off to upstate New York.  He had a standing offer to decamp to my place in the Hudson valley; I’d rented the joint a few years back and the owner, eager to find a stooge to unload it on, offered it to me at a price even I could afford.  So Colm decided he could Zoom in from Herkimer county, an area replete with NYC refugees and scheming Mennonites, to meet his teaching obligations and do some long avoided writing.  He’s gone back to poetry, and every few days I get some verse from him that is clearly the result of his isolation in a decaying house on a north facing hill.  I received the following last week, the first of many:

The Old House

I would like to nurse my father back to health

though he’s been dead for six years

His summer place sits empty now

waiting for my arrival

his chair still crooked towards the window

where hummingbirds looked in on him

an old man, at home in an old house

set in a field daubed purple with thyme

I held his grandson there

through the shakes of withdrawal

drying him out after drink took hold of him

Most mornings he’d sit cocooned in the old man’s chair

hummingbirds looking in

their wings beating fifty times per second

while he longed for flight

his feet up on an inherited table

scarred with the rings of afternoon scotch

The Poet Dribbles, Shoots

The Poet placed his hands to his mouth, fingers extended towards the almighty, a gesture long favored by mystics and defendants buying time. He had taken us on a meandering tour of his thoughts on higher education and now, pinned down by a question about where he’d like to see the department in five years, he opted to strike a pose, to vogue. He also returned to his earlier tactic of sitting in prolonged silence.

Current Chair: I’m going to start using this.

Turdling: Posing?

Current Chair: No, the silence thing, it’s a good tactic.

Turdling: It does make him a bit suspect, I mean, he’s supposed to be answering questions, not showing us what a coma looks like.

Suddenly, almost violently, The Poet came to life and began speaking:

“Your question brings to mind the parable of the Stone Wall and the Raven. As you all remember, the raven came to rest on a stone wall after a period of much labor. The stone was covered with green, flaky lichen. The lichen made it difficult for the raven to get solid footing. After several attempts to secure himself the bird grew frustrated, gave up, and flew off in search of a wall unburdened by lichen. Off he flew, soaring to great heights. . . .”

Current Chair: What the fuck is he talking about?

Turdling: Hold on, this is getting good.

The parable of the Raven and the Stone Wall, which went on for just under twelve minutes, left a roomful of academics utterly mystified.  This seemed to please The Poet, and he sat back at the end of his tale with a congratulatory, self-satisfied smirk.

Current Chair: Jesus, he thinks this is going well.

Turdling: In a way it is.

Current Chair: And this is the stronger candidate.

Turdling: We could see if Colm would reconsider, jump back in.

Current Chair: Fuck me, my sabbatical can’t come fast enough.

Colm on the half shell (cont.)

I slurped back an oyster. Colm cracked a beer and pushed it across his desk in a meaningful gesture of friendship.

Colm: Semester gone pretty well?

Turdling: Yea, not bad. You?

Colm: OK for the most part. Haven’t attacked any of the little fuckers.  At least not yet.

Turdling: You know that shit shows up on campus crimes stats, it upsets parents.

Colm: Not the way I do it.  Psychological waterboarding doesn’t leave any marks. Not physically anyway.

I slid back another oyster.

Turdling: Hey, do you know a guy named Gelber?

Colm: The Poet?

Turdling: Yea.

Colm: We don’t talk.

Turdling: Why’s that?

Turdling’s Remembrance of Things Past: A Year in Review (Part 1)

The year started on a poetic note, with Turdling moved to compose his thoughts on Leo Papadakis, faculty meetings and Declan O’Toole, as well as his occasional stabs at legitimate verse here, and here. Student work was shared, and shared again, as were his thoughts on Vermont and the disturbing proclivities of his colleague William Bedford.

And then there was Colm. And a fistfight with Colm. And Colm off to rehab. And Colm Back from rehab.

There was a note from the Registrar. And we met the Vice President for Institutional Inclusion, the pointless Vestibule Plowden-Wardlow.

And that’s just Part 1.

Before Class Announcements

Classroom announcements scrawled at the top of my lecture notes:

Next Thursday in the Broadhurst room an actor that I’ve never heard of will entertain those of you confused enough to show up thinking that proximity to minor celebrity somehow translates to accomplishment. Enjoy the desperation and the deli platter.

And on the 28th you can listen to my old friend Santiago de la Rosa read from his latest collection of poetry. Santi was a graduate school classmate of mine, is a Jackson Prize winner, Cuban, very handsome and omni sexual. He’s also become a toxic sperm dump of STDs so the sexually adventurous among you might want to think twice before accepting his offer of a drink after the reading.