least

Bill, sending you love and hugs.

wpainterw

Dear dear Mera! I hardly know what to say. Thanks. A Trillion Thanks! It is shortly before midnight here on the East Coast. What you done for me by this thread I shall never forget! Suffice it to say that aging has been a challenge for my wife and me, she with her underlying fear of cancer and numerous other health concerns, such as hernia, the ever present risk of falling. I with continuing heart and prostate issues, depression, loneliness. Thinking too much of death. Displacing too much affection on the dog. But we live in house, all on one level and have planted so many trees and flowers. White Casa Blanca lilies about to come out, A weeping Chinese Blue Wisteria tree, a Japanese Lilac bush.
We have all this, and on sunny days the blue sky. and the tall trees outlined against it. I am still writing poetry and will send some in a message that you and everyone else can read. As you know I am very fond of Shelley and even fonder of Keats and early Wordsworth and Coleridge. And, earlier, Thomas Gray. Some poetry that is not merely great but, sublime. The concluding stanzas of Shelley's elegy on Keats ("Adonais"), nearly all of Keats' work in the last year and a half of his life, Coleridge's "Kubla Khan" and the 'Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner", Wordsworth's 'Tintern Abbey"
I'm feeling better now. So careful not to fall,. Such a gift that I never think of alcohol. I guess that 29 years have changed my body and my brain but as we all know the AV is a clever tiger. I am fond of cats, even tigers. They combine get beauty with incredible ferocity (Blake captures this so well in his poem about "Tyger! Tyger! Burning Bright!")
My wife is far too frail to travel, even by ship since it might well make her fall. If I should survive her I might make one last flight to Italy to have dinner with you in that little cafe!
More later. Again, thanks so much.

Fondly

Bill and Boswell (my canine Sponsor and Furry Higher Power)

P. S. All you can check Mera's "Non Private" message inbox for poetry

wpainterw

P.P.S. Thanks also for the mouth watering description of the dinner with the Belgians and your kind offer to be their designated driver. This has made me so hungry that I must race to the kitchen to have a croissant from our nearby French bakery called the "Happy Fish".
A final word of wisdom: All is illusion. The only thing "real" is the Tau but no one can say or write what it is. To hear it is to hear the sound of one hand clapping. Yet those who can sense the Tau learn to Go With the Flow. By doing a single thing everything gets done.

Bill (I too am an illusion. Yet I am hungry now. Must have an illusory croissant!)

CaptainHaddock

Mera, thank you very much for this thread.

Bill, I have not shared anything with you directly, but now want to say that you are a true inspiration! I have seen that you have supported so many people - relentlessly - such as Mera and Aiko. Thank you so much for that.

One would have thought that with so much sobriety under your belt, you might simply have gone on with your life and considered your job done, but no, you keep giving! That is wonderful!

I wish you, your wife and dog all the best and hope to be seeing many more of your posts.

Ps: I see that you are a retired legal practitioner. I am still in the game and sometimes looking forward to retirement (in a bit over 20 years though!)

Dee74

Illusion or not, it's good to hear from you Bill

D

wpainterw

Speaking of illusions, there was a funny cartoon in the New Yorker Magazine quite recently about Descartes' wife. Monsieur Descartes. you will recall, was struggling with the time honored philosophical question of what was "real", whether there is anything "out there' in what the philosophers call the "phenomenal world" and the Daoists call the"ten thousand things". Descartes suggested that he had resolved the problem, at least as far as his own identity was concerned, stating that "I think therefore I am". If there is "thinking" then there must be a "thinker".
The New Yorker Cartoon depicted Descartes' wife standing in the doorway with rolled up sleeves and saying, "That's all very well for you, Dear, but what about me?

Meraviglioso

Oh Bill, I am so happy to hear from you. It's not so nice to say such things, but honesty is always best, I worry about you. Your recent trip to the hospital and yes, your age, all things to consider. Death is not something nice to think about but of course inevitable. You seem sharp mentally and from what I can tell relatively active so I hope that there are many happy years ahead of you.

Your garden sounds wonderful, I love wisteria trees. And lilacs and lilies. I tired to grow lilies here but with no success, my roses have come along nicely though. I'll send you some pictures of my garden- after I mow the grass!

I have a wonderful story about my children's great-grandparents. They lived at the villa where my children stay with their father. Nonno Lorenzo had a bad ear infection when he was young, this was before it was common to treat such things and as a result he became permanately and completely deaf at the age of 12. We all communicated with him in sign language. Nonna Mariangela was an amazing lady, so interesting in so many ways, but the one thing that stood out the most was her steadfast love for her husband. I have never seen a couple so in love. She didn't speak any English, just a little German from the years when the German army took over the villa as a base and forced them into their basement to make wood coffins. In any case, she did know this one poem by heart and would look lovingly at her husband and recite it often. It is Coleridge's "Answer to a Child's Question"
Do you ask what the birds say? The Sparrow, the Dove,
The Linnet and Thrush say, “I love and I love!”
In the winter they’re silent—the wind is so strong;
What it says, I don’t know, but it sings a loud song.
But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather,
And singing, and loving—all come back together.
But the Lark is so brimful of gladness and love,
The green fields below him, the blue sky above,
That he sings, and he sings; and for ever sings he—
“I love my Love, and my Love loves me!”

She would sign the last lines and her husband would laugh and smile.

They both believed in God and Heaven but wanted to cover all their bases, so they requested that when they die they both be cremated and then have their ashes mixed together and then stored in the chapel that is on their property. I remember the day of her death well. My young sons, ages 4 and 5 at the time, wouldn't leave her side, they didn't really understand what was happening, but still felt the need to stay there with her. My youngest, who is not so fond of physical affection generally, just climbed up on the bed with her and kissed her on her face over and over. She was unresponsive but I know she felt his love. It was very tender.

After she passed we pulled out nonno's ashes and mixed them together with kitchen spoons and our hands, what a great mess that was. But her final and greatest wish was complete, it was our honour to do so.

All this talk about death and existence has made me think of a book that I think you would love- it might be nice summer reading for you while Boswell sits on your lap and you pet him. It is called "Love's Executioner and Other Stories of Psychotherapy" written by a famous psychologist who is now almost exactly your age. It is a beautiful book, very well written, easy to read and really makes you think. It is happy, sad, funny... all kinds of emotions.

Here is a description:
"Love's Executioner is Yalom's wise, humane, stirring and utterly absorbing account of how 10 of his patients try to cope with what he calls 'existence pain'--the knowledge that death is inevitable, that each of us is ultimately alone, that life has no clear meaning, but that we nonetheless have the freedom 'to make our lives as we will'..... Irvin Yalom's book is charged with hope and generosity of spirit."

https://www.amazon.com/Loves-Executi...+psychotherapy


I thank you again for your steadfast support of me and others. I remember your wonderful messages while I was in rehab, so lonely and scared, you always had the right thing to say. I also loved your request for photos. They gave me something to concentrate on and think about on the few days I was given permission to leave the facility and was still feeling scared that I would be overwhelmed by all the bars and restaurant and wine surrounding me.

Lastly, you have a permanent dinner invitation, any time you want to come! We can have dinner at the little cafe in Piazza Shelley one night and then one night I'll treat you to something really spectacular, dinner at a Michelin starred restaurant at the Hotel Byron located just 10 km North on the seaside. If you make the trip over it's the least I can do! And don't forget out wonderful healthcare here, should you fall- god forbid- we'll get you taken care of with the very best doctors and little to no charge.

Meraviglioso

Here is some of Bill's poetry that he sent me. He wanted to post it on my visitor's page for all to see but it was too long so he asked I post it somewhere for all to see. These are really amazing poems, very good. Bill, like I said I think you should look into having them published somewhere. They are lovely for many reasons but I think animal lovers in particular would take great comfort in your beautiful words.


Animalia Marginalia and Other Poems
Wpainterw

Know’st thou the land?
(Kennst du das Land?)*
Know’st thou the land?
The land where the dogs go?
There! There! Up in the sunlit meadows
Where it’s always a late Spring afternoon.

There they lie, by pools of tears we shed for them,
Their feathered tails thumping the warm grass
Eying the furtive rabbit and the darting squirrel
Giving at times a joyful chase but never kill.

For none can kill these creatures, long since dead,
Home now at last, with the dogs, lying there in the warm grass
Home, free from hurt and old age pain,
Free to rest there in the warm sun

For they will rest, patiently, and wait for you
Always their love, remembering you
And, in the midnight hours, you will feel them watching,
Guarding you from harm, as all good dogs do.

And suddenly, when you least expect it,
You will be with them
And, glimpsing you afar off, they will come
Wagging their tails in greeting

Saying “It has been too long”
But then again, “It has not been long at all!”

Know’st thou the land?
The land where the dogs go?
There! There! Up in the sunlit meadows
Where it’s always a late Spring afternoon.
_______
* Goethe, The Sorrows of Young Werther



The Last Spring

Old dog- Sitting there in the sun...
Old dog- Spring again, early Spring
Returning sun, warming my old bones
Easing the winter’s hurt.

I remember once, I a puppy then.
She would not let me in the house.
Sitting there, and barking, snapping at me.
Would bite me if she could.
But later she, relenting, let me in
But always the old lingering
Anger that I, a puppy, would dare to interfere


But then she left, taken off to the vet
That day, never to return,
I missed her sorely and now
I sit in the Spring, alone in the returning sun.

Dreaming, now, I remember one day in Autumn
Out in the aging fields,
One October afternoon, the slanting sun
Lighting up the drifting leaves.
And she, another she, out there
Hotly pursuing some scent in the lingering air
Her feathers flying, head held high
Waving her glorious tail,
And then, suddenly, triumphantly,
All at once, freezing, electrically alive,
Fastening upon a point, and
Trembling, advancing inch by inch
Upon the covert bird
Which, all at once, escaped upon a flutter.

Oh how I loved her then!
And, when we two met,
I sniffed her as all dogs do
In those appropriate places
Which dogs, only dogs, know so well.

She seemed to welcome me
And wagged her tail
But I was on a leash and so
The possibilities were rather limited.

Will Autumn come again for me?
Autumn with its falling leaves
And scent of smoke in the fast chilling air?
Or shall I too be gone,
Gone to those sunlit grasslands
Where, spirit laden, I shall rest and wait,
Wait for my master
Because, you know, he said he’d come.

And I shall wait, perhaps, for her,
The one I saw that Autumn day,
Out in the slanting sun,
Lighting up the drifting leaves.
Her feathers flying, head held high,
Flushing the fluttering bird
There in the aging fields,
That one October afternoon,
So long ago, so very long ago...
Old dog, old dog
Sleeping there- in the warm sun...

Mist on the Hill
(Written inconsolaion to S.B.on the
death of a favorite setter dog, also beloved
by her daughter, previously killed in a
traffic accident. The poem opens with the dog, climbing up the hill and, glimpsing the daughter, runs to meet her and the two patiently wait for S.B., sitting alone in her little garden, sleepless in
the midnight hours.

On glimpsing the girl and before running to
meet her the dog speaks recalling his final hours before having been put to sleep:

Early morning- mist on the hill,
Mist, streaming through birch and aspen
Long lines of shimmering sunlight.
And, mid patches of lingering snow,
Crocuses spring from the thawing land.

Dim memories linger, distant pain,
Confusion of old age,
Hearing and sight, all gone
I am but a shadow of my former self.

The day we said goodbye-
Drifting, sadly, into such soft sleep.
Dreaming of my younger days
When. triumphant, circling the ring
Clapping, they cheered me on.

Climbing, now, the hill
Through the sunlit forest
Aspen and birch in the lifting mist
To enter now a clearing in the wood

Then, like a vision from the past,
You come, my long lost friend,
Companion of my puppy years.
You, beloved by horse and dog,
Laughing and smiling, now you run to greet me.

“Oh how I’ve waited here, expecting you
And now you’re here, home at last!
Come and sit quietly by me, just we two
And we shall wait for her.”

She whom we left behind, still grieving
There, in the garden by the little fountain
White lilies, the rest in purple, my favorite color.
We two shall wait and she shall come
And all her tears shall end
End here, in the sunny forest mist
And snowy crocuses of early Spring.

wpainterw

Hi Mera!
An invitation to the Hotel Byron! Rather odd fellow. His books were so popular that even first editions are not rare. Keats' first volume is on the other hand very rare since nearly everyone hated it, even the publisher who offered to buy all the copies back. To me, Byron is interesting primarily because of his eccentric relatives. One is said to have reclined on the floor to conduct cockroach races on his bare chest, Another in a rage killed his coachman and drove the carriage back home, perhaps with the corpse sitting beside him. Rather histrionic one might say! Overdoing it.Strange family. Even my family seems conventional compared to his. Have little fondness for cockroaches no matter how fast they travel.

Bill.

Gilmer

Bill, your poems made me cry they were so lovely (especially Mist on the Hill).

StartAnew68

Nice to 'meet' you Bill x

MidnightRider

Mera - how lovely you are to reach out

Bill - enjoyed reading your poems ..
Mist on the hill ...Thinking of my long gone Retriever boy.

Carpathia

I've enjoyed reading this thread. Thank you, Mera and Bill. Poetry, sunlight and Italy; they all seem to go together.

saoutchik

Wonderful thread and wonderful poetry, thank you Meraviglioso and Bill.

SoberLeigh

What outstanding poetry, Bill. Thank you.

SoberLeigh

I cried through Mist On The Hill, sobbed actually.

wpainterw

You must have lost a dog or had to put one to sleep. My friend, S.B., to whom the poem was dedicated, has had a sad life. Health and marital issues, problems with one of her children and the tragic loss of her beloved daughter, I attended the latter's funeral and there was not a dry eye in the church. Up near the altar were her paintings of horses, her western saddle and cowgirl hat. Her mother tattooed her daughter's portrait on her own back. If she awakens at night she goes out in the little garden planted in her daughter's memory and mourns for her.

SoberLeigh

So very tragic, indeed.

I have never had a pet but I dread the loss of my grand pups and the effect it will have on my grown child - I love them all dearly.

Croutie

What beautiful poetry! It hits very close to home, as I have two little Jack Russell sisters who turned 18 (!) April 1st. I know sad days for me are not too far away..
Thank you Mera and Bill.

SoberLeigh

Hugs to you, Croutie!!!!!