Troubles My Sight

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I hear we got a presidential election come the first week of November. I hope you’ve heard, too.

So’s I thought to check in on what the so-called polls of who-knows-who have to say here in mid-June less than five months out from your ballot casting, provided the Republicans haven’t come up with another uber new/old-fangled schmutz to prevent Americans from ballot-casting unless you be a Republican.

For wagering purposes only, here’s some polling info from the other day as the White House horse-race is halfway ’round the bend. From newsweek.com:

A quote:

Former President Donald Trump has been stung by a number of polls in recent days, including those suggesting his hush money felony conviction may be harming his 2024 election chances.

With less than five months to go, Trump and President Joe Biden still appear to be neck-and-neck in the race, although results of recent polls suggest that Biden may be ahead.

Newsweek has compiled at least four results from recent surveys that may be concerning for Trump, the presumptive Republican nominee. Trump spokesperson Steven Cheung told Newsweek in reaction to some of the polls: “President Trump continues to lead Crooked Joe Biden across polling averages nationally and in battleground states.”

Whoa, Nellie! Double-check that last sentence from “Trump spokesperson” Steven Cheung (Cheung?! I wonder if the Trumpel-thinskin knows that a surname like “Cheung” don’t sound exactly American to his MAGA maniacs). 

And last I checked, FYI, “Crooked” Joe Biden is not a convicted felon such as a significant other has legally proven to be, so what the fock.

And now we’re here to June, a month so much for anniversaries, remembrance and rightfully so. 

For yours truly, singing  a personal note, this happens to be the week of the day when I sit in my chair, wrap myself in solitude and pray to be warmed by a sentimental mood for reveries of memories that never die—our young man Mr. B, forever to be rejoiced and blessed in the legendary land known as Kloveria. 

Too many young men and women. Black, white and of all the rainbow, “a moment’s sunlight, fading in the grass.” Way, way, too soon. 

I could toss my own two-cents worth into the platter about these days and month of remembrance, but what the heck, I’m going to throw someone else’s two-cents worth into the pot ’cause his two-cents’ worth is way the fock better than mine own, you betcha.

The following two-cents belong to the Irish guy named William Butler Yeats and they were spent pre-1900—1899 to be exact. Odd that a lot of people seem to wonder how come Irish guys are so good with the words. I do not, ’cause I know.

This word-smithing prowess of the Irish was borne of a habit of always either being late for work or just plain not showing up, god bless ’em, and then having to concoct the most elaborate of excuses day after day, year after year, century after century—an ass-saving practice that over the course of time evolved into a native genius for cranking out a greatly portion of this world’s poetry, literature and limericks.

The poem by the great man that follows belongs right at the top of. And so, for you’s mortals who may turn to this essay on occasion for some kind of savvy succulent or what-not, I present to you the following transcribing that’s been seemingly absent from the public arena for too long: 

The Stolen Child

Where dips the rocky highland

Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,

There lies a leafy island

Where flapping herons wake

The drowsy water rats;

There we've hid our faery vats,

Full of berries

And of reddest stolen cherries.

Come away, O human child!

To the waters and the wild

With a faery, hand in hand.

For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses

The dim grey sands with light,

Far off by furthest Rosses

We foot it all the night,

Weaving olden dances

Mingling hands and mingling glances

Till the moon has taken flight;

To and fro we leap

And chase the frothy bubbles,

While the world is full of troubles

And is anxious in its sleep.

Come away, O human child!

To the waters and the wild

With a faery, hand in hand,

For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes

From the hills above Glen-Car,

In pools among the rushes

That scarce could bathe a star,

We seek for slumbering trout

And whispering in their ears

Give them unquiet dreams;

Leaning softly out

From ferns that drop their tears

Over the young streams.

Come away, O human child!

To the waters and the wild

With a faery, hand in hand,

For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Away with us he's going,

The solemn-eyed:

He'll hear no more the lowing

Of the calves on the warm hillside

Or the kettle on the hob

Sing peace into his breast,

Or see the brown mice bob

Round and round the oatmeal chest.

For he comes, the human child,

To the waters and the wild

With a faery, hand in hand,

For the world’s more full of weeping than he can understand.

Okey-doke, as I search through my stack of CDs for Rahsaan Roland Kirk’s “The Inflated Tear” so’s for musical accompaniment, I got to tell you’s that I’ve got nothing to finish this essay with. Instead, I ought to deploy myself to a front where the objective requires I be locked and loaded with the faith to quietly keep a personal a day of memorial observance—“a distant bell, and stars that fell like rain, out of the blue,” like the treasured song says.

“In all the old, familiar places; that this heart of mine embraces,” I plan to spend the rest of this day to cultivate my garden, such as it is, through kind words and good deeds. That’s right—kind words and good deeds. Hey, no one ever said observance and remembrance was easy, and I believe it. But if that’s what it takes, then done is done, for this week at least, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.