Original poem, hot off the press:



CREPUSCULAR AMBULATION

I walk into the darksome night.
The air is fresh and cool.
Though not a single soul in sight,
Strange silhouettes befool.

The silent streets are desolate,
But I see many things:
A cenotaph immaculate,
And bats with fleshy wings,

And in stately gardens, growing
Beneath the starry veil,
Phosphorescent phlowers, glowing
By rays of moon so pale.

Phlowers purple, white, and yellow;
In the breeze, how they sway!
Their exotic perfumes: mellow.
They make a fellow gay.

But then I get the faintest whiff—
An oceanic smell.
Crustaceous flesh and kelp I sniff,
And mussels from the shell.

It beckons me on gentle wind,
Swept off the salty sea,
And thus I walk unto its end,
Entranced hypnotically.

Upon the beach, I look around,
And round and round I go.
Without a skyline to be found,
The sky doth always shew.

Sky, land, and sea as one behave;
All glitter in Moon's glow.
With undulating cloud and wave,
Above is as below.

I feel myself now levitate,
Half-floating in a void.
All sense of space I extirpate.
My spirit: overjoyed.

The flow of deep time enters me—
The future, past, and now—
And in a flash eternity
Is tangible somehow.

But then I slowly start to see,
From cosmic spheres beyond,
A growing luminosity
Athwart the briny pond.

I feel myself return to earth—
My mystic vision gone—
But here another kind of mirth:
Sweet Brigid brings the Dawn!

Her violet light is soft and dim,
But growing rapidly
Where giant squid and shark both swim:
Beneath where sky meets sea.

The shadows off surroundings lift;
The colours now increase.
I feel the vibe around me shift;
I feel the twilight cease.

From Ocean's deep and fecund womb,
That orb so numinous
Is once again reborn to bloom
Its rays most luminous.

Then a feeling so euphoric,
As seagulls soar and scream,
For the scene feels prehistoric;
Like pterosaurs they seem.

For the dawn so bright and early
Is like the dawn of time;
From a cosmic pool so swirly
Evolves a sunny clime.

From waning moon to waxing sun—
A liminal display—
The transmutation now is done:
From night to brightsome day.


--Samuel Hays, 5/10/2020

A random hobby of mine is to write limericks about film directors. My latest one is for Sam Raimi, director of the seminal EVIL DEAD trilogy and the suspense masterpiece A SIMPLE PLAN...


SAM RAIMI

There once was a wiseguy named Raimi,
Who made splatstick films cockamamie,
With camera kinetic,
And comic aesthetic,
For love of which you cannot blame me.


Older limericks:


DARIO ARGENTO

Argento: the maestro of giallo.
His painterly shots I must hallow.
His use of P.O.V.
is suspenseful as can be,
and his killings will turn your face sallow.


DAVID LYNCH

"Jimmy Stewart from Mars" he's been called.
His surreal films will have you enthralled.
The Straight Story is great.
Blue Velvet first-rate.
And his lack of more films has me galled.


WERNER HERZOG

A soldier of cinema extreme.
Driven by strange fever dreams.
He looks like a sleuth,
For ecstatic truth,
And in wildest landscapes it teems.


DANNY BOYLE

He does action and drama and more,
And he uses trance music galore.
His films are eye candy,
so vibrant and dandy.
Ambitious right down to the core.


MEL GIBSON

There once was a Yank from down under,
Both onscreen and offscreen like thunder.
His films are real bloody,
But well worth a study,
His storytelling skills are a wonder.


KEN LOACH

There's a populist Brit named Ken Loach,
Well known for his realist approach.
He uses non-actors.
Rehearsals? Non-factors.
Long lenses? Used more than a skoach.

I recently visited the Mystic Seaport Museum, where I had the privilege of perambulating the contemporary Viking ship Draken Harald Hårfagre, which sailed from Norway to America, recreating the transatlantic voyage of Leif Erikson. I also examined several Norse artifacts from the Vendel Period and Viking Age.

The experience was both surreal and profound. To observe and interact with these psychically charged artifacts is a genuine form of time travel. If you concentrate hard enough, you can hear the dim echo of the past: the blacksmith's hammering; the battle-cries of gallant men; and the roaring of funeral pyres. Much like the Stone Tape theory of ghostly phenomena, these haunted objects act like metaphysical VHS tapes, waiting for us to play their fuzzy simulacra.

If you ever get a chance to visit such an exhibit, I strongly suggest that you go. It's a liminal experience which blurs the very distinction between past and present -- a truly singular thrill.