GENERAL PROLOGUE
A MODERN ADAPTATION OF THE GENERAL PROLOGUE FROM CHAUCER'S
CANTERBURY TALES
To read or download The General Prologue as a .pdf file, click on GeneralPrologue.pdf. To read or download the entire Cruise to Nowhere Tales as a .pdf file, click on CruisetoNowhereTales.pdf.
To buy Cruise to Nowhere Tales as a book, please visit my bookstore.
When sweet April, with its gentle
showers For she could
copy only what she saw, That were
ubiquitous before erasedBut in her mentor there was much, much more. So she became a stripped-down version of The woman who had saved her through her love. She loved her patients, too, but could not be Beyond that love a person, whole and free, As though she were an algorithm, used To debug children who were self-abused, And had no function other than that one, Leaving her, her emptiness when done. She was quite wealthy inadvertently, Having little urge to spend the fee That came along with what she did of need. Nor could she but of her disorders read, Anxious not to miss one single study That might clear up some vexing difficulty, And be of use to her in therapy. She was demure, but still she could not be Inconspicuous, for she was blessed Or cursed with beauty. And though she always dressed In modest skirts and blouses not too tight, Her body fought her clothes with all its might. Even without makeup, her thin face Drew stares attracted to its classic grace. Her eyes were cobalt blue, and her hair gold, Held in a bun to hide it, though the bold Colors said what she refused to hear. And though she told her patients not to fear Their bodies, but their urges to enjoy, She herself could never find a boy To give herself to freely without shame. Her present boyfriend gambled, and she came Reluctantly with him, she knew not why, And now sat with these random passersby Waiting like some knick-knack on a shelf As she, the doctor, fought to heal herself. There was a MERCHANT who imported wine, The finest that did ever grace a vine. He knew not only Dole from Beaujolais, But also the best vintners in Valais, And which terroir produced which subtle taste. He was full 50 inches at the waist, An epic epicurean connoisseur, As much consumer as entrepreneur, Enthusiast who loved to share his joy And looked for like élan in his employ. He made good profit on the wines he sold, And when he bought, his word was good as gold. He knew the worth of every drop divine, And paid and charged precisely for each wine. None could cheat him, none could feel shortchanged. He was a generous man, and oft arranged For tastings of the finest vintages free, Enjoying the vivacious company, Yet knowing shrewdly some in time would buy Wines that else they'd never dare to try, Educating all who came there well For pleasure and for future clientele. He was a man whose work and play were one, Who made each move for profit and for fun, Calculating both with equal verve, For each the other god ought ever serve. There was a STUDENT there, of history, Who hung his new Phi Beta Kappa key Proudly from the pocket of his vest, Displaying his achievement on his chest. Summa cum laude and valedictorian, He hoped to be a great historian, Discovering the secrets of the past, Then telling them as stories that would last As long as there were memory and time. He thought the old historians sublime And venerated Parkman and Prescott, Henry Adams, Gibbon, and the lot, And loved old letters, ledger books, and rolls Of who paid taxes, judgments, fees, and tolls, Springing most to life among the dead Although he was but thirty hours wed, His bride now gambling happily below. He loved her, yes, but couldn't wait to go To where some letter or some ledger book Might contain a clue where next to look, And next, and next, and next, as endlessly He witnessed what would else no longer be. There also was a LAWYER there, who could Turn topsy into turvy, bad to good, Convince a jury one way, then the other, And make you think your sister was your brother. He had a silver tongue that said what paid, And was worth every penny that he made, Charging by the second on the phone, So some, to say hello, took out a loan. And if you could not pay, that was too bad, For he'd take all the money that you had Or borrowed, begged, or stole from who knows where. He would save Bin Laden from the chair Or Hitler from the charge of genocide, Just so long as they could pay to ride. He said that all men had a right to him; It wasn't his place to inquire within. The law gave all the right to a defense Regardless of their guilt or innocence, As long as they could pay the lawyer's fee. And so he argued well enough to be Convinced he was not only rich, but good, And served the law, as every lawyer should. A COUNTY SHERIFF lingered at the bar, A man who knew the limits of the law, And what should be enforced, and what should not, For laws can overregulate, and ought To be applied with wisdom and restraint. When battered women filed a complaint, This sheriff would invite the husband in And match him shot for shot with scotch or gin, Allowing him to growl about his wife And how the bitch was ruining his life, Then twist his arm until he screamed with pain And tell him if he touched his wife again, He'd personally beat him till his balls Went bouncing like two ping pongs down the halls. He kept his county orderly and clean, And was by reputation fair and mean. No gambling was allowed unless he got Each Monday night his customary cut; And no construction could take place till he Made sure there was enough security Supplied by his men working on the side, Or suddenly the law would be applied So strictly that no truck could leave the site Without somehow running a red light. He was a big man, mountain-like, with hands Like melons, and a paunch above his pants That weighed a hundred pounds all by itself. Nor did he ever flaunt his well-earned wealth, But lived just like folks, who liked the way He ran things, and so each Election Day Gave him their votes, as many times before, More interested in order than in law, A FARMER who was just as big as he Sat near the back, his first time out at sea, And struggled with his nausea as the ship Just barely rolled, biting on a lip All but buried in his massive beard. It was, in fact, far worse than he had feared When wife and daughter dragged him on this boat. He was never meant to be afloat, But loved the land, its fields and wooded hills. Now he felt the emptiness that fills The heart so full it bursts with passionate pain: O never would he put to sea again! He was organic, strictly, and his farm Would never do its ecosystem harm, But balanced this with that so expertly That bounty could be gleaned eternally, The only input being sun and rain, And compost, turning garbage into gain. He grew fresh vegetables for restaurants And raised goats to make cheese for true gourmands, Had fruits and berries customers could pick, And nothing to make man or nature sick, But everything was fed with nature's food, Grown and cared for as was right and good. He talked to plants and animals all day And understood just what they had to say, Sensitive to nuances of needs Expressed through colors, textures, blooms, and seeds, And taught his interns everything he knew So they might be organic farmers, too, And help him nurse to health the sickly earth That to all living things had given birth. His farm was not a business but an art Whose beauty gave sweet comfort to his heart. The CHEF was also visiting the bar, Having finished for the day, a star Among sea-going master chefs, who could Make even cheap and frozen foods taste good. He made a single cream stock and pureed Each day a different vegetable; so made Of one soup many, and he did the same With gravies, sauces, toppings, in the name Of offering his guests variety, Though there was little to be had at sea. He was well paid and had invested well, But cared not whether markets rose or fell, For he spent all his days alone at sea And planned to leave his wealth to charity. He loved his literally rootless life, And never wished for children, home, or wife, But had good fellowship enough on board, And took his pleasure with whoever would Enjoy, in all due haste, his narrow bed, Then leave, for he was resolutely wed But to the sea, whose grip none could annul, That wrenched him from all rivals with its pull. The ENGINEER was also there, a man Who made quite different choices, and began A family when he was a boy, by chance, But then made providence of circumstance. Each day away he missed his family; However, his vocation was the sea. He loved well a well-designed machine And kept its innards oiled and wiped clean Of grit that might it prematurely wear, For he protected all within his care, Human and machine, and did his duty Not for gain or honor, but for beauty. There was a DOCTOR, skilled at fixing bones, Whose husband was among the band's trombones Playing in the club two decks below. She was young and beautiful, and so Black she shone like night among the stars, Whose voice and figure spoke of soft guitars, Yet whose intellect was sharp and bright As any operating table light. Each day she cut and sewed, screwed down and clamped, Installed new hips and knees, and wrists revamped, Carpal tunnels cleared and bone spurs shaved, For this was, yes, the life that she had craved And studied for, for ten long, lonely years, The only black and woman. But her fears Of finding no one who would share her life And love such an intimidating wife Soon met their match in Lionel, who played Trombone with all the best bands, and who made Her feel like some sweet song he had composed And now could savor any time he chose. They lived quite well, of course, but with some guilt For those on whom their consciousness was built. They served on boards and gave to charity, Spoke in schools and were exemplary, Paid their nanny and their part-time maid More than most, and oft came to the aid Of friends and family sunk in desperate need. But still they felt some vital organ bleed Within; for busy, busy all the time, That was one wound that they would never find. There was a woman, seven times a WIFE, Who traded up in husbands all her life, As some do houses, buying first a small Two bedroom with no ground around at all, Then moving up to something a bit better Until the last, whose settlement would net her Seven million, give or take ten grand. There was no better lover in the land, So good that of her husbands there were many Who still believed she was worth every penny, For they were just as cold and hard as she And had but little heart or charity. She saw no reason she should not be rich, And liked to hear herself be called a bitch, For that meant she had won, the lover's rage Merely helping her to turn the page. She made good use of surgery and gym, And kept her little body neat and trim, Her white hair blond, her wrinkles all smoothed out, Her perfume and her makeup thick. No doubt She was a good deal older than she seemed, But still her ancient eyes with avarice gleamed. A MINISTER, devoted to the Lord, Was there to wed two congregants on board, Who with their friends and families played below While he remained above, contented so. He was a liberal, and tolerant Of much that might make other preachers rant, Believing as he did that faith should be A choice one struggled with continually, Not made once and then forever closed. And so in church the questions that he posed Were those to which he had himself no answer. His wife died early on of bladder cancer, And now their son was stricken with the same, Arousing anger difficult to tame. But he was not averse to arguing With God, as Abraham once did, using His own principles against Him, thus Insisting He be ethical and just. To him God was the personality Of all that is, was, and would ever be, One with whom he laughed and wept and played And had a heart-to-heart each time he prayed, Sometimes angry, sometimes full of joy, A friendship that his doubt could not destroy. For why give up so beautiful a love For something he could not be certain of, And live a life of such diminished grace When one had but to look to see His face? This minister believed it was his duty To counter modern anomie with beauty, And find a place for faith where science reigned That would be neither backward nor constrained, But would become a choice, not wrong or right, But bountiful and sane and full of light. A BAKER and a BUYER, also there, A MAYOR, SALESMAN, and ENTREPRENEUR, And I were all the others that there were. The BAKER baked in the old-fashioned way, By hand, as did his ancestors. Gourmet Delis, grocery stores, and restaurants Paid him well to do what his paisans Used to do in rural poverty, Now become a rare commodity. How strange! he thought, that what the poor would eat Was now exclusively for the elite, The same ingredients, techniques, and taste By modern greed, that made of people things, And severed them from all that gave life wings. And so it was his pleasure to preserve What else would disappear, and thereby serve A family line of bakers stretching back Beyond the curve of memory, one speck Of ancient craft, now far more lucrative Than then, but still a life less fit to live. His sons and grandsons learned the ancient ways Precisely in the glare of his strict gaze, But he was old, though vigorous and thin, And knew quite well the moment he was gone A corner would be cut, and then another, And what was his life's purpose lost forever. The BUYER worked for a large clothing chain With stores in malls from Brooklyn to Bahrain, And though she earned a modest salary, Much depended on the choices she Might make on what to buy the coming season. Now little gifts would never be the reason She made the choice of this or that new line, But she enjoyed the choicest food and wine, And on her way to visit factories Stopped off at Waikiki and Tuileries, And got free tickets to whatever shows Or concerts, plays, sights, sports events she chose, And dressed far better than she could afford. Of course she never asked for a reward, And always chose the lines that best would sell And be most in demand and profitable. She had good business sense, an expert eye, And knew somehow what customers would buy Two years ahead, what numbers would be hot, And figured in her head right on the spot The price that should be charged and what would be The markup on whatever she might see. She thought only of her employer's good Because she knew that all her vendors would Shower her equally with gifts galore, And so she could be loyal to her store. She was past middle age, but trim and pert, And still looked pretty good in her slit skirt. With her was a SALESMAN, much younger, Who came to share her cabin out of hunger, Not for her body, but her company, That is, the one she purchased for, for he Was desperate for a lucrative commission And hoped thereby to narrow her decision With just a little romance on the side, Perhaps a bit more suasive than a bribe, While she enjoyed the sexual attention Without the slightest post-coital intention Of buying anything he sold, which was Too risk averse to generate much buzz. These lovers, then, were sitting at the bar Holding hands, as though no truth could mar Their happiness, as both parlayed their parts, Haunted in the hollows of their hearts. The MAYOR was part-time, of a tiny town Of neither interest, quaintness, nor renown, Now a bedroom of a major city. Once, long ago, some might have called it pretty, But now it was developments, the same As any town called by a different name, Just rows on rows of models ABC, Sprawling out as far as one could see. This mayor was an associate professor Of urban planning, no less, and, God bless her, Had tried hard to apply the principles That she laid out in learned articles. But, alas!, sometimes the plainest truth Cannot with real life share a leaky roof, For life is devious, while thought is clear, And what one thinks is there is often here. And so it was with her: the plans she wrought Sat like lovely toys that no one bought. Developers would maximize their profit, While citizens would do their best to stop it. To court and back, and forth and back things went Until, when funds and energy were spent, A compromise was reached, in which her plans Just barely peeked their heads above the sands, A textbook case of textbooks being wrong. She knew she should have known that all along, And turned her posture totally around, Keeping both feet firmly on the ground. Her first priority was reelection, And so she made each personnel selection Not on competence but loyalty, Rewarding those who worked most valiantly To get her votes, or gave to her campaign And got their wealthy friends to do the same. The next was keeping taxes low, and then Keeping things just barely going when Previously she would have called for change. For things that are, are hard to rearrange; The ecosystem works, and what is new May often key relationships undo. Self-interest was the only constant here, And so the mayor learned to hold it dear, Championing no sensible solution Unless it meant a campaign contribution With which she could reward her loyal friends, An army dedicated to her ends. Nor could construction in that town occur Without some agent representing her Receiving in a bag a wad of cash, Which she secreted in a good-will stash Dedicated to earning her good will As she gave freely from the common till To local clubs and charities and teams, A Robin Hood of far more certain means. It all worked well, as she well understood, And wrote it down, though of course she could Not publish it or teach it anywhere, For these were crimes, as she was well aware. Now here she was, away upon the sea, Though still in touch through Apple's wizardry, A handsome woman, smart, and single still, Whose work had withered what had been her will. The ENTREPRENEUR sat near her, on his phone, Physically, not virtually, alone, Emailing, texting, talking to someone 24/7, always on the run Even when most sitting still, as now, Supposedly vacationing. But how Could he unwire when a deal was just Unraveling, or some plan might go bust Without a well-timed word from one whose clout Alone could bring the bursting wallets out? The world moved on; one had to be connected, Else what one might miss might be perfected; One might miss the boat as it set sail, And all because one missed one freaking email! Like a little child afraid to miss Whatever lay beyond his goodnight kiss, This entrepreneur would, if he were able, Never sleep, nor slip the virtual cable Umbilical, that kept him live and well And loving every minute of his hell. For hell it was, as he well knew, and yet He was addicted to this real roulette, The kind that governed quantity and price, Just as his wife was wed to cards and dice. Money was to both of them just chips To gamble on the market or on ships. He won, she lost, both equally obsessed, Both caring only for what happened next, Both aware of their own grotesque dance Yet slaves to power and the thrill of chance. Now that I've described the company And how we came that evening to agree Each to tell a tale to pass the time, Let me tell the tales, both coarse and fine, Instructive, useless, fun, sad, gripping, true In ways no truth could tell the truth to you. The bartender was judge, who took a jar And numbered slips put in for all there were. Each took one, and so he made a list, And said that at the end, he'd choose the best. The soldier was the first to tell a tale As we to nowhere through the night did sail. "I guess it's fitting I be first," he said, "Since I was first to go where our host led, And said I'd like to tell a tale if you Would like to hear it, and it seems you do. So here it is, and may our judge judge well, For all have well-loved tales they long to tell." |
