PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

In every previous year of that part of my life during which I was conscious of times and dates, a Wednesday---December or otherwise---would have been just an ordinary weekday.  But not now, not this December, because of its twin, joyous aspects:  escape from that miserable college campus to which, under compulsion I had been sent in September (and to which, also under compulsion, I must return on Sunday, January 2nd, after church), and, even more wonderful, still a full month of evenings and weekends I could spend with Cerulean.

On this memorable Wedneday, at about six or six thirty pm, I was preparing to spend the evening (until about ten p.m. as curfew for us both, who had unavoidable, and separate, committments the next day) with Cerulean.  On my bed, rather than my already cluttered desk, was a copy of an edition of T. S. Eliot's poems, a selection entitled The Waste Land And Other Poems (which contained that great major poems, and several others from his collections Prufrock And Other Observations. 1917, and Poems, 1920); beside it, a copy of Robert Sencourt's biography of the great Poet; and beside them both, the first partial draft of a long poem I had provisionally entitled, "Flowerchild" (far different than the sequence of Tanka I had published here about the date rape of a beautiful young woman, in 1977, on that college campus I have learned to despise).  On the cover sheet of "Flowerchild" I had typed, below the title:

                                                                                                 by

                                                                                          Starwatcher

Cerulean had helped me to find that appellation, which began as a c.b. handle (and would later evolve to Starward, which is signed below this essay), not quite five months before, on Saturday, July 10th of that year, during our wondrous and spectacular summer together.  Perhaps, because I had been exposed to seven and a half days of the endless criticism and questioning of Lloyd and Betty (doing their parental duty, as they saw it), certain doubts arose suddenly.  I loved the name, the handle, the appellation:  it had said me free from my mundane first name, often, in the past, jeered as "Fairy Jerry" by bullies (although that had ceased, here locally, in about 1975); it had swept away my sense of unworthiness (a legitimate unworthiness, which I still feel) to be the bearer of my adoptive ancestors' illustrious surname; and it had given me a confidence and boldness, on the c.b., which I had never enjoyed in any venue or place, or previous time.  But was it affixable to my poetry, and, at the moment, to "Flowerchild"?  For some reason, I picked up the book of Eliot's poems, and not the manuscript of my own, poor effort.  Immediately, a flood of reassurance seemed to sweep through me.  Perhaps, from Heaven, in a metaphysical way, the soul of great Poet had reached down to the soul of the least of his readers (then and now) to grant, on behalf of our Savior, the blessing of this encouragement.

Did I remain faithful to that encouragement?  No, not always; and I am ashamed to admit it, but honesty requires this.  But, again, I received another blessing when, some years ago, I saw (for the first time that I could remember) the word "starward" in a sonnet about Saint Benedict (eponymously titled) by the great Christian Poet in America, Thomas S. Jones, Jr. (1880-1930).  (On a necklace chain around my neck, I wear two items, both metallic blue:  a crucifix, with my screen name/appellation/handle inscribed on the reverse of the crossbeam, and a Celtic Cross, in honor of the Poet, on whose grave, in Booneville, New York, a Celtic Cross stands atop a pillar.  I had hoped to visit, in pilgrimage someday, the resting place of the Poet's remains, and to there express my admiration and gratitude; but my medical affliction and other circumstances will, unaltered, prevent this; thus, I wear the Celtic Cross in lieu of that pilgrimage; and I wholeheartedly retain the lively hope---as the Apostle Saint Peter describes it in his First Epistle, 1:3---of expressing these sentiments to him in person in Heaven.)

But none of that would have happened, I think, had not the events here recounted---all of them, from July 10th forward---taken place in my life as it was then.  Now, in my old age, I cherish the memories of these facts; now, in my old age, I am more qualified to appreciate and enjoy them.

Starward