The clock above the town has tallied one
more day. The tones suspend like domes
no longer than before, the hours have run
the normal pace. Gabled Rhineland homes
as ever sleep beneath the pointed church,
a crystal tree beside the wall like lace
or moonlight woven in the craftsman’s search
for all the lines that vanished with no trace.

Yet struck in brass tonight was time that made
me count thirty, ten thousand days that froze
into as many separate criss-crossed roads
with no sign of where my youth is laid.

Slender shadows stain the Gothic rose
cast from the ghost beside the chapel stones.

Ingelheim, 1963

Lost at Sea and Supposed Dead

Here’s a photo of the Zambak, a newspaper clipping (incomplete) about the episode with a picture of Mari on the cover, and some e-mail exchanges explaining more of what happened.

There is a fuller story he sent me on 25 Dec 2013 that you might enjoy.

The Zambak

Patrick wrote the following back-story:

Here is the boat I bought for 500 dollars in Izmir.  The first day out, after getting her fixed up, a storm tore up the mainsail and blew us onto a sand reef.  The captain of the fishing boat who pulled us off lost a finger in the winch.  We (bandmaster Billy Bielmeir and I) spent the night in the bar of a safe harbor, while helicopters and rescue people searched after the storm cleared. The next day we tied up what was left of the mains’l and using that and the jib, we limped back to the yacht club in Izmir.  Meanwhile the newspaper AKSAM had reported us lost at sea and supposed dead.  The photo shows Mari receiving the news.  Continue reading “Lost at Sea and Supposed Dead”

Plea (by Patrick)

My love, I know that I have been a clown,
And, bending with a rose in hand, no claim
To formal loving should I have again;
I know, who never knew before, the sound

That rain makes kissing the dark before
It tumbles to the earth and breaks in crowns,
That you are painting beauty where it’s found
Seizing images I saw but never tore from objects.
You fold the word beneath your tongue
And tast the essence of an elm: reflect and lend
And air of legend to my life. Recall
And take the bloody thorns from my hand.

Greenwich Village 1961