Festination Poem by gershon hepner

No foe of festive festination,
hurry to your destination;
speed there, do not fear a cop
may pull you up and make you stop.
The only time you should live slowly
is when you have no goal, a goalie
guarding time like empty posts
on shores of far, forgotten coasts,
where there no longer is a need
for festination at full speed.

Once I have reached this sad condition,
I plan to turn off the ignition.
Though I’ve not reached this crossroad yet,
if, doing so, I should forget
what I have written here, remind me
to make the past roll fast behind me,
and festinate towards the goal
which hopefully, like a black hole,
will make me cash out in a flash
the life in which I used to dash.

Before a black hole comes to take me,
the fog may rise. If so, please wake me,
so I may go on in a hurry
eating latkes, rice and curry,
cashew nuts and French baguettes,
and with my wife have tête-a-têtes,
discussing places where we’ve stayed,
and savored just like lemonade,
though sweetened sour, till the mist
of time makes both of us so drowsy
we think no place on earth is lousy.


Inspired by W.H. Auden's poem “Thank You Fog, ” which I heard Auden recite in the car en route to Irvine, where Linda and I celebrated the third light of Hanukkah with Absalom, Karin, Yoav, Eve and Ada:

THANK YOU, FOG

Grown used to New York weather,
all to familiar with smog,
You, Her unsullied Sister,
I'd quite forgotten and what
You bring to British winters:
now native Knowledge returns.

Sworn foe to festination,
daunter of drivers and planes,
volants, of course, will curse You,
but how delighted I am
That You've been lured to visit
Wiltshire's witching countryside
for a whole week at christmas,
that no one can scurry where
my cosmos is contracted
to an ancient manor-house
and four Selves, joined in friendship,
Jimmy, Tania, Sonia, Me.

Outdoors a shapeless silence,
for even those birds whose blood
is brisk enough to bid them
abide here all the year round,
like the merle and the mavis,
and your cajoling refrain
their jocund intersections,
no cock considers a scream,
vaguely visible, tree tops
rustle not but stay there, so
efficiently considering
your damp to definite drops.

Indoors specific spaces,
cosy, accomodate to
remminiscence and reading,
crosswords, affinities, fun:
refected by a sapid
supper and regaled by wine,
we sit in a glad circle,
each unaware of our own
nose but alert to the others,
making the most of it, for
how soon we must re-enter,
when lenient days are done,
the world of work and money;
and minding our p's and q's.

12/23/08