A New Year’s Dream

 

 

Late New Year’s eve, in fitful pains,

   I fell into a dream

Whilst mincemeat tarts surfed through my veins

   On crests of white-whipt cream.

As if to praise this metaphor

   (Oh, fearful sight to me!)

A spectre rowed a gravy boat

   Upon a gravey sea.

Two drumstick-arms, to blood in debt,

   Beat out a reckless time;

And how that wretch did row—and sweat!—

   To ferry through the chyme.

 

The sea’s face bubbled rendered oil

   (So ghostly blue and green!)

No witch-stirred cauldron once did boil

   With such a ghastly sheen!

How rowed that wretch, and moaned—and sweat!—

   Beneath no chastening moon;

How sickening oft the foul sea wet

   Each oar-locked gravy spoon.

And—oh, alack!—the void was black,

   As black as black could be;

Yet horrid-luminous were the…things

   Did float upon that sea!

 

On and on the spectre came;

   Anon he drew apace;

He turned—I knew the spectre’s name!—

   God save me!—knew…my face!

And, oh, alack! my sky was black,

   As black as black could be;

Yet horrid-luminous was the wrack

   Did float upon that sea!…

 

And, like the wretch, I knew them—all!

   Had loved them all so late!

All they that were (now bitterest gall) 

   Up-lusted from my plate!:

Plump candied yams, rich-spiced mincemeats;

   Sweet ham sliced warm and thick;

Smooth gravies smothering sin-laced sweets

   —Dear God! my soul was sick!

A flood of pies unmeet did rise,

   And surge about my bark,

So reeking, all, of sour demise

   —I dashed them from the ark.

 

Just then the ghastly, gravey sea,

   Inflamed with gastric juice,

Revolted up and heaved up me,

   Whilst all life’s hells broke loose!

 

Uprose the hellish steaming bog,

   As if to Heaven’s gate!

Then down did sink—could Hell more stink?—

   I swooned to contemplate.

How high it rose, how deep it fell,

   How oft, I fathomed not;

Dear God! if not some nightmare-spell,

   All sense was cannon-shot!

 

Uplashed the storm—how was I stung!

   With hot and bilious hail,

That all eve long cold-passed my tongue

   As egg-nogs, wine, and ale!

—As I did ail to ride that swell,

   Pray, how shall I invoke?

With what archfiendish decibel

   Those hideous bowels bespoke!

 

Then, all at once, the sea convulsed

   (Dear God!) I, sea, and boat,

Fast up did rush as if expulsed 

   Right up the Devil’s throat!

The boat, the sea, and I—all Hell,

   In one Satanic roar,

Shot stinking up, and reeking fell,

   Upon a…moonlit shore!

 

 

Oh, sure, it’s sure! no silver moon

   Did ever shine so fair,

Upon a more God-blest lagoon,

   Nor ever knelt in prayer

More chastened wretch, for all his ills,

   Beneath such lunar light;

Nor flowed such tears, in joyous rills,

   Beneath such orb of night.

Dear Lord…the lake! my heart did ache;

   I wept, for days of yore;

What wretch’s tides bade me forsake

   This dear, this civil shore?

 

Anon, Fear’s wave swept over me

   And I grew wondrous cold!

So ghoulish was the fantasy

   Before me did unfold!

The gravy boat stood…end for end

   —And floated in the air!

In homage to this mystic trend,

   So, too, my whitened hair!

 

The boat, it grew, and loomed into

   A hooded wraith (so dark)

No leap of faith could once construe

   It gravy’s erstwhile bark.

Up-clutched, the wraith, a gravy spoon

   (Oh, how that spoon did writhe!)

As turned it then, beneath the moon,

   Into a…bloody scythe!

 

How blanched my skin as Hell’s own troll,

   The second oar/spoon, claimed;

Which crashed to earth—a blood-writ scroll—

   So heavily was it named!

Espying me, he rasping-spake,

   Full ill I caught his breath;

Yet iller grew for his name’s sake:

   (God save me!) I knew…Death!

                   

“They’re coming, now, the blue and grey,

   Yea, I can smell their fear!

They’re marching on this cold, young day,

   The dawning of the year.

They’re coming, now, with musket bored,

   And whetted bayonet;

With which their flesh will soon be gored,

   Their brother’s blood be let.

 

“They’re coming, now, in dead of night,

   With sabres, erelong drawn;

They’re marching, now, in dreadful fright,

   That, like, they’ll  fall upon.

They’re coming, now, with cannon-fare,

   Fear twists their mouths awry

(Some sagely keep their powder there,

   And never kept more dry!)

 

“They’re coming, fast, from Gettysburg,

   From Shiloh, and Bull Run;

They’re marching, quick, from Vicksburg,

   Neath the Mississippi sun;

They’re coming, under U.S. Grant,

   They’re marching, under Lee;

They’re champing, under Lincoln’s cant,

   To vanquish slavery.

 

“They’re coming, wet, from Charleston,

   On the Carolina shore;

From Shenandoah, Richmond,

   And Savannah, by the score.

They’re coming, under Sherman’s gaze,

   And under his command;

They’re marching over mountain ways,

   And over sacred land.

 

“They’re coming, now, with dying breath,

   To rot upon thy shore;

They’re marching, to relive the death,

   They wrought so long before.

Wretch, smell! the powder—feel! death-cuts

   —Oh, hear! the cannons roar.

See! brothers—spilling brothers’ guts—

   Upon thy ‘civil’ shore!

 

“They’re coming, n—” to damn his quote,

   In anguish, I did cry;

Great volumes lept into my throat;

   All that choked out was…“Why?”

 

“Thou foolish wretch, unto thy death,

   Thou hold unto this dream:

That Goodness, Truth, and Freedom’s breath,

   Shall ever rise—like cream.

The United States of A—” but no more;

   A cannon drowned the rest.

“The United States of A—” with a roar,

   The ball ripped through his chest!

 

I chattered  “M-m-mary, full of grace!”

   My blood froze, pole to pole;

From where I knelt, the moon’s cold face,

   Shone through that ragged hole!

                   

“They’re coming, now, in marching might,

   Unto thy ‘civil’ shore;

To fight the great uncivil fight,

   The Great Uncivil War.

They’re coming, now, from south and north

   Great ranks of blue and grey;

To march with Death…I must go forth;

   I must, to guide their way.”                  

                   

Two hacked-off limbs the wraith then tossed

   Into his holey chest,

Then hid the whole with shrouding cloths

   To ‘heal’ his ravaged breast!

Dear Christ! it was a knavery,

   What Death did with war’s bane;

In fear, and mirth, I howled to see

   That even Death was vain!

 

Then he, with gruesome gory scythe,

   Raised up his bloody scroll:

“I go, now, to collect my tithe;

   From each, I’ll wrest one soul!

 Fain would I take thee with me, wretch,

   But we shall talk, again;

For one day soon, your soul, I’ll fetch;

   ’Til then, wretch, dream…in pain

 

“—Yea, thou, wretch, who do ever prate

   Of the miracle of birth,

As if, of all things on thy plate,

   ’Tis dearest on the earth;

Despite that there is one more chaste

   Than drawing thy first breath,

Which thou shalt know when soon thou taste

   The miracle of death.

 

“And when cease mountains standing still,

   March all into the sea;

When desert-fishes through each gill

   Breathe sand’s aridity;

When brothers no more brothers kill,

   I, Death, shall christen thee

‘The United States of Amiracle!’”

 

   …And that was all Death spoke.

His tone was so empirical,

   I trembled; and awoke.