A day with many nightingales

Sunday December 12, 2004

Today was a day for noodling at several things, the weather cold and uninviting, allowing for no more than the briefest of excursions, for the purposes of breathing, mostly.

I worked on a poem which may, after several days of being pushed and nudged around on the paper, actually be finished. It’d better be, because I’m heartily sick of it now:


On a cold morning
On a cold morning, long ago,
I thought I caught the taste of Zen
deep in the tarry depths of Lapsang Souchong.
It could be I was right, had nearly found it. Perhaps
the butterfly wing of life really was in my grasp.
But the joy of bed-warm skin claimed me, and I forgot it.
Today I enjoyed another mug of the pine-smoked tea
and it could be that Zen was in there. Or maybe not.
The morning was cold enough.
John Bailey
December 2004, Lincolnshire


And I pulled out the last photograph from our Christmas Shopping trips, one that I could have left in the file of failed shots because the pencam got confused with the very contrasty light levels. The picture appealed to me, though, so I worked on it:


Boston, Dec,'04
Body shop
pencam photo


Finally, three-and-a-bit goodies from my morning surfing run:

I learned at Walt Whitman’s Wardrobe that, in fact, there was no closet in Whitman´s room at 328 Mickle Street; he was content with an armoire only. Which pleases me on several scores, not least as one of the many mickles that make a muckle.

To the Foggy Days Chronicle, where I enjoyed the photo of a mirror adjacent to a netted window.

A thought-provoker—“Where love rules, there is no will to power; and where power predominates, there love is lacking. The one is the shadow of the other.” – Carl Jung—at There and Back Again, where is also quoted the lyrics of one of my all-time most-loved songs:


A Nightingale Sang In Berkeley Square
(Eric Maschwitz/Manning Sherwin)
That certain night, the night we met,
There was magic abroad in the air.
There were angels dining at the Ritz,
And a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.
I may be right, I may be wrong,
But I’m perfectly willing to swear
That when you turned and smiled at me,
A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.
The moon that lingered over London Town
Poor puzzled moon, he wore a frown.
How could he know that we two were so in love?
The whole darn world seemed upside down.
The streets of town were paved with stars,
It was such a romantic affair.
And as we kissed and said goodnight,
A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.
When dawn came stealing up, all gold and blue
To interrupt our rendezvous,
I still remember how you smiled and said,
Was that a dream or was it true?
Our homeward step was just as light
As the dancing of Fred Astaire,
And like an echo far away
A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.



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