This Month of Poetry and Fools
The Old French fol follows
as words do, dragging their metric feet,
from Latin’s follis, “bellows, windbag”—
becoming by extension (following
the logarithmic outward spiral
of nautilus shells)
an empty-headed person, windbag—
so eventually the sort of fool I am.
Carrying with me,
everywhere I go, my bag of winds—
the eight winds I have learned
from dictionaries,
in the windmill where I sleep:
mestral, xalac, migjorn, and then
the wind across the mountains,
coming from the north.
The winds found on that other island
years ago, while looking for temples,
fish traps, the old sugar cane shipping port.
A sign along the road, lettered by hand,
welcomed the winds of Kona to Kohala,
across boundary crossings
kapu (quite forbidden) in ancient times.
And here? The kitesurfers
carried by wind and waves,
by curls of eyebright silk.
That sure, that light!
Why not a bag of woodwinds, too?
Then I will be a holy fool,
wholly a fool, a fool of holes
if they can be
the holes in flutes, holes in
those lovely basset horns
akin by chance (the bas
of low-slung sheep, perhaps,
perhaps the Ouessant)
to amiable long-eared hounds.
The holes in
holy wooden cellos
through which
the light comes, curling,
slow sea salt caramel.
The holes
breath enters
and grace
courses from.
I am a fool indeed
for Mozart’s
sort of foolery.
And for the music
of the bells, i bronzi sacri
ringing changes, sounding
stroke by stroke by stroke
the inspiriting call.
Back in the 15th century the meaning of windbag
was “bellows for an organ,” and I follow on
into the church, up to the organ in the loft
played by Puccini, who composed so many
divine operas about so many fools for love—
until his brothers stole the organ pipes
to sell to ironmongers for some cigarette money.
Better an empty head, I say, to fill with daydreams
and the motley wares of spice-traders, word-tinkers,
peddlers of extracts (vanilla, eucalyptus, bitter orange),
elixers, pigments. Cardamom tea, in a bone china cup.
Fragrances. Tulip oil. A small tube of crimson lake.
No book learning, no wisdom of the head.
Instead, these other miracles. (From the Old French:
objects of wonder.) My object, to go on wondering.
Wandering off, feet painted with henna.
And what do I remember of it all?
The color yellow symbolized joy for medieval Arabs.
Both frankincense and myrrh are aromatic resins,
derived from tree sap. (Sap3: a foolish person
with an empty head, smelling of pine, smiling wonderingly.)
Fools rush in, we are told, where angels fear to tread.
And so sometimes I drag my feet, sometimes I rush,
fool speed ahead, often I fool around, fool to the gills
with this silly delight that comes of having no great purpose
but to go on as I do—most happily in April, month of fools.
image: Italian Old World Exploration Angel & Cherub Map by Paolo Forlani circa 1565