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Dover: photo by Remi Jouan, 2006
I...Dover Beach, or the Futility of Thought
The sea is calm to-night,
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the Straits; -- on the French
Toast, the light
Syrup gleams but a moment,
And is gone
Down the hatch; for it is the light of France.
The cliffs of England stand
Made all of cardboard; a hand
Claps by itself. It gives itself a standing ovation.
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought
Into a his mind
A state of crashing ignorance.
Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought
Into a his mind
A state of crashing ignorance.
Strait of Dover: satellite photo by NASA, 2004
Cape Gris Nez, French coast: photo by Rolf Süssbrich, 2006
II...French Toast
I have not eaten French toast
In this century, but I remember
Eating French toast.
I get the idea
I am remembering
From a theory.
No, not a theory, a feeling.
A feeling
I experienced long,
Long ago, by the Aegean perhaps, or beneath
The white cliffs of Dover
As the moon
Lay fair.
When I remember reading Dover Beach,
By which I mean when I read
Dover Beach
In my mind, these days,
Which I sometimes do,
It's like that itch you can't scratch,
A memory passes across my mind like a shadow
And is gone, taking
Matthew Arnold,
His poem,
The history of English poetry,
England,
The English language,
Greek tragedy,
Sophocles,
The Aegean,
The Straits of Dover,
All the water
Between Cap Gris Nez
And Cap Finisterre
And me
And you, sleeping
In the room next to me
Along with it.
On second thought,
No, not taking you.
I wish you were here.
I have lit incense.
The moon lies fair.
It is almost time for breakfast.
Pain perdu, French toast French style with fruit, syrup and crème anglais: photo by Rolf Süssbrich, 2006
White cliffs of Dover: photo by Fanny, 2004