#339

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“A maze of drink” declares Henry’s drink, will ease one’s way through life’s complexities, which is drink’s standard lie. This pronouncement prompts an immediate mention of Hobbes and his biographer, Aubrey, all to begin a poem about the breeze in Ireland. Hobbes, who famously categorized life as nasty, brutish and short, is told by a waxing Henry that life certainly isn’t any worse than that, and it’s not even that bad. So, this appears to be record of a good day. After that it’s all about the breeze that smartly snaps a flag, ruffles the gorgeous boats on the bay, a seagull is calling, and across the water lies home in all its arrogant powerful complexity, condescending a touch to Ireland, but strife-torn Ireland was a problematic ally in those days. The sight of a waving American flag overseas stirs up a nuanced pride. There’s no helping it. But what matters more is not the flag and all it symbolizes, but that the wind is blowing through the flag.

Fresh breezes do seem to have a cleansing effect, don’t they? A friend once told me that as a Libra, an air sign, I should take periodic air baths. This is advice I take now and then, when wind and isolation conspire to provide for one. It does indeed sweep out the cobwebs. This poem begins with alcoholism and Hobbes—typical ugly shit for a Dream Song—but a breeze off the Channel blows through it and freshens things up quite nicely. It’s an air bath of a poem. Politics, alcohol and a degrading competition for resources don’t stand a chance in the face of such a freshet. Not every work of art has to shake up this planet, crowded with humans. Let a breeze blow through your poem, and the writer and reader benefit from breeze’s rejuvenating power. Tinged with salt, carrying the cries of a seagull. Clean.