Posted tagged ‘Alec Guinness’

Bamboo

December 29, 2013

images

Bamboo

Sometime in the second half of the twentieth century,
a little before the U.S. involvement
in Vietnam, at an age when I still ran away
from suspense
to a sofa just out of sight of the TV
to bounce till I
could bear it,
bamboo meant World War II,
someplace steamed
in the South Pacific,
Alec Guinness limping upright
from a blistered three-foot
box, surrounded by sunspots
and jointed jungle.

How strong, by comparison, were the timbers used
by his troops to span the River Kwai–
even the Allied whistle carrying
no reedy wheedle–

How we thrilled at the buttoned brittleness
of the Brit, awed by the nobility of that
conspicuous backbone, all those eon-
forged vowels–my brother wired
to the one comfy chair, me caught
upon the carpet (unable even
to flee to far sofa safety), as we stared
through the flicker of that
yellow-green wood, a genus grown only
in the land of Holly–

Of course, poor Alec was nearly bamboozled–it was our
compatriot, the surly Yank,
William Holden, engulfed in brown wade
and incipient love handles, who knew the true score–
that war was not about building bridges
or character, but about detonators, destruction, lots
of bang, boom, shrapnel.

“Madness,” says the doctor character through
the smoke, but “greatness,”
is what we thought.

************************************

Here’s a  draft poem  for Hannah Gosselin’s prompt on With Real Toads about bamboo.  Sorry for the length.  I call it a draft because the poem has gone through a million iterations and I still am not getting what I want!  I’m also afraid it may be incomprehensible to anyone who has not seen The Bridge On the River Kwai, a movie made in 1957, directed by David Lean, and starring Alec Guiness, William Holden, Jack Hawkins and Sessue Hayakawa.

The movie takes place in a WWII prison camp in Burma in which the Japanese overguards force the Allied soldiers to build a bridge for a supply route.  Guinness plays a British Colonel focused on maintaining standards (and morale).   The pic is a frame from the move, all copyrights belong to the owner (and no infringement intended.)

How To Be Cool. For Those Whose Slang (Like Their Mahtabili) Is A Little Bit Rusty.

January 24, 2010

Cool!

I am currently lying under a fleece blanket and two down comforters.    The heating unit at my side is turned off.  I could jump quickly into the cold, twist it on, then slip back into my lair, but, for some reason, I just don’t.

I’m not quite sure what this reason is.  I pay for heat in my apartment, so there’s an element of miserliness.  It’s blown hot air  (dry and noisy),  so there’s simple distaste.  There’s also, of course, my  heightened, if terribly inconsistent, environmental consciousness.  Then too, there’s the memory of my last apartment where Super-controlled heat blasts made for January sweats.

All of these combine into a perverse, hardier-than-thou, pride that keeps the heating units switched off.

I have recently found that this pride makes me part of  “Cool Crowd,” a class of people depicted in the New York Times the other day who eschew indoor heat in cold climates.

Being part of this cool crowd feels really great (despite the weight of the blankets).  I always was embarrassingly unhip as a child.  Actually, I’ve felt unhip my entire life.  I’ve rarely known the names or music of hot bands, TV shoes, movies, films.  My slang, like Alec Guiness’s “Mahtabili” in the film classic Kind Hearts and Coronets, has always been “a little bit rusty.”

Given the fact that the temperature in my apartment probably rarely dips below 50/45  (I don’t have a thermostat), I’m guessing that I’m only on the “luke” edge of the “cool crowd”.    Even so, no less than three members of my family separately asked me if I had seen the NY Times article.

These family members are extremely patient.   They don’t openly groan during my monologues about the merits of long silk underwear,  the importance of wool,  the risks of sock-removal.  They joke about the fact that I constantly tell them that they can turn on the heat, if they want, then proceed to turn it off again (if they’ve dared) after only a few minutes.

I warn them against wimpiness.  I regale them with tales about the time the water in my toilet bowl froze.   I protest that this is not about me disliking warmth, reminding them that I don’t turn on the AC in summer either.    They don’t actually need reminders of that.

Ah, Summer.  That’s when we get to be part of “who’s hot.”

P.S. – sorry for any misspelling of Mahtabili.  Please feel free to correct.