Raphael: Le cheval qui rire*
Horse: 'Nice one Georgie lad, now let's go for a drink'.
Apart from all the red crosses in the windows - and I am glad to see them triumphantly struggling to be reborn as celebration (as they should be) rather than as resentment - it is, I have been kindly reminded twice, my name / Saints day.
Saint's days always remind me of the scene in Chekhov's The Three Sisters where the old doctor, Schebutykin, presents Irina, the youngest of the three sisters, with an expensive samovar on her saint's day, whereupon her older sister, Olga, covers her face with her hands and cries: A samovar! This is dreadful!
I feel a bit of a fake for the following reasons:
Born as Gábor, meaning Gabriel
With György as George, a dubious second,
Adding on Miklós as Nick for third,
An archangel may well be reckoned
Something above the average Ariel
Or any fierce heraldic bird.
But, in transit George took over
And angel became dragon slayer,
A Palestinian Christian saint,
A slightly dubious second layer
Of self, less name than failsafe cover,
Aged like craquelure on paint.
There’s still a name left, one unnoted
On my passport, yet provided
As initial on my credit card.
How come this name has been elided,
So fundamentally demoted?
Old Nick’s not gone, just 'en retard'.
Poet greets himself with a verse.
I held this over from yesterday because of Peter's death. Even now it seems all too frivolous and light, but the sun is out. There should be some frivolity and lightness. It's good for the spirit.
*(Thanks to Nell, who sent it the picture.)