Thoughts about April on April 1, 2020

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke’s,
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
--Lines 1-18 of The Waste Land by T.S. Eliot (1888-1965)


Oh, to be in England now that April ’s there
And whoever wakes in England sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England—now!

And after April, when May follows
And the white-throat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossom’d pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray’s edge—
That ’s the wise thrush: he sings each song twice over
Lest you should think he never could re-capture
The first fine careless rapture!
And, though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children’s dower,
Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!
--Home Thoughts from Abroad by Robert Browning (1812-1889)


Life is not a highway strewn with flowers,
Still it holds a goodly share of bliss,
When the sun gives way to April showers,
Here's a thought that we should never miss:

Though April showers
May come your way,
They bring the flowers
That bloom in May;
And if it's raining,
Have no regrets;
Because, it isn't raining rain, you know,
It's raining violets.
And when you see clouds
Upon the hill,
You soon will see crowds
Of daffodils;
So keep on looking for the bluebird,
And listening for his song,
Whenever April showers come along.
--"April Showers", a 1921 song by Louis Silvers (music) and B. G. De Sylva (lyrics), made popular by singer Al Jolson


Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour
Of which vertu engendred is the flour,
Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halve cours yronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye,
That slepen al the nyght with open ye
(so priketh hem Nature in hir corages),
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,
To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;
And specially from every shires ende
Of Engelond to Caunterbury they wende,
The hooly blisful martir for to seke,
That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.
--Lines 1-14 of Prologue to The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer (1340?-1400)


Speaking of "whan that they were seeke", the statistics as of 17:20 GMT today, April 20, 2020, from the World Health Organization (WHO) about the COVID-19 coronavirus pandemic are:

No. of cases worldwide: 911,570
No. of deaths: 45,536
No. recovered: 190,921
No. of active cases: 675,113
--in mild condition (95%): 640,257
--in serious or critical condition (5%): 34,856
No. of closed cases: 236,457
--No. recovered/discharged (81%): 190,921
--No. of deaths (19%): 45,536

It is my intention to post updated figures from WHO on May 1st, June 1st, etc. so that we can keep our heads about us as the days go by. The current numbers do not seem to match what Doctors Fauci and Birx are telling the American public, that the death rate is 10 times that of the flu (which is 0.1%) or 1% -- I have been keeping track every afternoon for about a week and the death figures worldwide compared to confirmed cases worldwide seem to be running steadily at around 5%. I'm not trying to alarm anybody, I just believe that truth is better than, if not fiction, wishful thinking.

“Grow old along with me. The best is yet to be, the last of life, for which the first was made.”

After three days of the valacyclovir (Valtrex), my case of shingles continues unabated.

I thought the pain was easing and the discolorations were fading slightly, but no. It was just wishful thinking.

It’s becoming a regular pharmacy around here.

I currently take three pills in the morning prescribed by my cardiologist (Cozaar, Toprol, and 1/4-grain Aspirin), one from my family doctor (the Valtrex), and two extra-strength Tylenol. In mid-afternoon I take two more of the Tylenols and another Valtrex. Before bedtime I take three other cardiologist-prescribed pills (a Zocor and two extended-release Niacin), two more extra-strength Tylenol, and a third Valtrex. I keep Nitrostat (nitroglycerin pills) on hand “just in case” of a heart flare-up but I am happy to report that in the 17 years since my heart attack I have never had to take a single one. Oh, and I just completed a three-month tour on Omeprazole (the generic equivalent of The Purple Pill) courtesy of the gastroenterologist following my first-ever endoscopy (bleeding ulcer) and colonoscopy (polyp). Counting the Omeprazole, that’s 16 pills a day, about 14 more than I would like to be ingesting.

I’m turning into a regular Snowbrush.

Well, maybe things haven’t quite reached that point yet.

But that which I greatly fear has come may have come may be trying to come upon me.

I speak of the condition we all dread. A-G-E.

Age.

Old age.

Nah.

It’s probably just the shingles talking.

In honor of the occasion, though, I have composed a pome (translation: some doggerel verse):

Old age -- it ain’t for sissies;
Old age -- it ain’t for wimps.
Old age is full of gases
Like those they put in blimps.

Old age has come a-knocking;
Old age will get us all.
Old age makes people long for
Dear dead days beyond recall.

Old age -- the final frontier --
Into it we boldly go
Where none of us has gone before.
What’s there? You don’t want to know.

(End of pome)

If you’re the type who likes to get a second opinion, you can always go with Robert Browning up there in the title of this post.

Otherwise, take two aspirin and call me in the morning.

If a monologue can’t be dramatic, why bother?

In my last post I included a few lines from “The Waste Land” by T.S. Eliot, who wrote the poem in a form known as dramatic monologue. Another poem of Eliot’s, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”, is also a dramatic monologue.

And so is “My Last Duchess” by Robert Browning, about whom Elizabeth Barrett counted the ways.

Wouldn’t you just know it, I decided to try my hand at a dramatic monologue too.

Yes, I did. Way back in 1977. Here’s the result:


Premonition
by Robert H. Brague

A book has fallen from the highest shelf!
Or so it seems -- I see one missing there.
Did this sprawled on the floor remove itself
Of its own strength and set sail through the air
Like Icarus of old, in some great plan
To overcome the chains that kept it bound
To earth? Ridiculous! And yet, no man
Has touched this room in months. Last week I found
This bust of Mozart turned a diff’rent way
From where it faced when Charlotte was alive.
Can I be going mad? And now, today,
This volume took an unexpected dive
From where it sat so long gathering dust.
Coincidence! Coincidence, I say!
I do not hold with poltergeists. You must
Surely refute, as I do, men today
(And educated ones at that) who hold
Such superstitious views as these. And yet,
She did love hearing Mozart. Feel how cold
This room’s become! No, do not stoop. I’ll get
The fallen book and put it back. Look here,
It fell (how strange!) in such a way, as though
To point up yonder stair. The chandelier
Was one she always liked. Come, let us go.
I do not wish to stay in such a place
As this. And yet, I linger on because
In this room I recall my Charlotte’s face
Most clearly, and especially the claws
That marked her throat. They came and shot the beast,
You know. It stood across her in the door
Where you are standing now. A gruesome feast
It made of her -- an arm, a breast. The floor
Was filled with blood, and her not quite yet dead.
We watched her bleed to death from where we stood
In fear upon the stair. Let’s go to bed
Now. Put milk out for the kitten? Good.


So tell me, now that my poem has seen the light of day, how did
I do? Is it right up there with Eliot and Browning?

Naaah.

But it is in iambic pentameter and the rhyme scheme is abab cdcd efef and so forth, almost ad infinitum.

That has to count for something.

The last of life, for which the first was made

On Thursday evenings when Mrs. Rhymeswithplague and I aren’t otherwise committed, we like to eat out with a group of old friends at a local family-style (translation: cheap) restaurant. And when I say “old friends” I mean OLD friends. This started out as the senior group, as in senior citizens, from our church way back before we ourselves were included in that category. The participants have changed over the years as people have moved or died or become home-bound with the frailties of age or disease. The diners in the current group range from 62 to 90 years of age. Except for Patrick, Esther’s brain-damaged, 40-year-old son whom we all love and who always attends with his mother, I am usually the lone guy in the group now, unless Wayne comes with Sharon. Lewis and Anne are both gone. Jeanne’s Hugh died in June. Moffie is at home with Bob, who has Alzheimer’s. Audrey is at home with her Bob, who has Parkinson’s. Several ladies are widows. Face it, old age ain’t for sissies. We hope to be active as long as possible.

Anyway, Audrey has invited the group for dessert tonight, so we are planning to gather at a different restaurant to be nearer Bob’s and Audrey’s house. As we haven’t seen Bob for several months, we’re looking forward to this evening.

Robert Browning said it best in “Rabbi Ben Ezra” and I think it applies to friends no less than to husbands and wives:

Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made:
Our times are in His hand
Who saith ‘A whole I planned,
Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!’