Precipitate, determined, absolute
In bending all around him to his will,
Inflammable and volatile
And furiously driven,
Prone to pity and self-pity,
Oblivious yet acute,
Cruel to his wife, kind to the destitute,
A man of style
And skill
And fueled propensity
To slog on mile by soggy mile
Crackling with charged intensity,
And all the while
Keen eyes fixed on the goals toward which he’d striven,
Fame and its fortunes, charity, Gad’s Hill,
Dickens was steadied, somewhat, by routine
Keeping his reckless energy on track,
A morning shower, quick, ice-cold,
Then breakfast, then ascending
To wrestle at his writing desk
With how to set the scene
For tension, sentiment, an unforeseen
And manifold
Attack
Of twists and turns, grotesque
Incinerations, crimes of old,
Kind quirks that verge on the burlesque
Just as they’re told
To move the heart, and move it toward an ending,
To keep the pages turning to the back
(Not to imply his urgent fluency
Spared him the chosen trials of the trade,
The fundamental restlessness,
Dead hours, dead days, dead weeks,
The sharp downspirals of depression
And pained uncertainty,
The getting up then coming back to see
What little mess
We’ve made
Or haven’t, the obsession
Guttering till our dark distress
Snuffs out another fruitless session
Where more is less,
When skies clear, from the valleys rise the peaks,
The dam breaks and the images cascade),
Then stop for lunch, done writing for the day
At two or three, and after a hearty feed
Launch vigorous activity,
A long and fast-paced walk
Through fields and lanes, or streets and parks,
Then home to, fiercely, play
At cricket, pocket billiards, or croquet,
And after tea
Proceed
With more communal larks,
As brisk conviviality
Strikes brilliant conversational sparks,
Civility
Brings drink and food and funny games and talk
All wreathed in smoke, according to his need,
Or, if he had the numbers, organize
His family and friends into a troupe
To take a part and break a leg
For dramaturgic purpose,
Staging whatever he’d select
While he would scrutinize
And drill the children, prompt and tyrannize
(But never beg)
The group
To quickening effect,
As he, both fuse and powder keg,
Would blaze away, and thus infect
Augustus Egg
And Forster and Frank Stone and Uncle Porpoise
Till they would conquer, since they must not stoop,
Or drop by places where he’d find his friends,
The Athenaeum, or the Parthenon,
The Garrick, where the smoke was thick
And he could have his say
Among the clubby tight connections
Frank bonhomie extends,
Denounce what someone mindlessly defends
Or parry Sic
Et Non,
Discuss the next elections,
The latest play, the lunatic
Love-muddled slapstick indirections
Of some sidekick
As, effervescent, wired, on bright display,
The Sparkler sparkled evenings, on and on,
Or supervise a testimonial
Dinner to benefit some pressing cause,
Old actors or the Ragged Schools,
Reforming prostitutes,
Clean water and less filthy air
(His ceremonial
Issues were native, not colonial),
To torch the fools’
Dumb laws
(Sunday restrictions) where
Flammable, drain the worst cesspools,
Build decent housing (Columbia Square),
Rhetorical tools
Full bore, “Thanks to you all, thanks to Miss Coutts,”
A last drumroll, the punchline, the applause,
Though for long stretches he would spend his days
On one consuming project (still in his prime,
Or so he thought, strength could be found,
Plus he had many bills),
Like editing a magazine
For fiction, reviews of plays,
Opinionated letters, brave essays
To clear the ground,
The grime,
The soot, to fix the scene,
So Household Words, then All the Year Round
Would flash together, burnished clean
And market-bound,
With help from his assistant, W. H. Wills,
Another number, ship-shape, out on time,
Or dragging his Dramatic Company
On tour again (no other thrill would suffice—
He missed the stage lights, burned to go,
And tickets always sold
For amateur theatricals
Where a happy few could see
A cast of odd, esteemed celebrity
Braving the snow
And ice
To not turn cannibals
Despite The Frozen Deep), just so
Feeling would fill the meeting halls
And only grow
To warm his Wardour, dying in the cold,
Rapt with the ardors of self-sacrifice,
And then there were the constant public readings
That drove and drained him in his latter years,
So lucrative, he would insist
He must go on despite
Exhaustion, bravely take the stage
For ritual proceedings
(Doctors objected, he ignored their pleadings,
Proudly dismissed
Their fears),
The great man of the age
A spectacle (as he’d persist
The characters leapt off the page)
Not to be missed,
The desk, the hat, the gloves, the even light,
The sure crescendo, the held breath, the cheers,
All so addictive, apple of every eye,
Charley was their darling, he was adored,
They found it riveting, sublime,
Loved the trial in Pickwick,
Loved to pity the little tykes
Like Copperfield, whose “I”
Was him, and Tiny Tim, “who did not die”
This Christmastime
(They roared),
Shuddered in fear when Sikes
Would finish Nancy one more time
(She pleads, he lifts the club, he strikes,
He flees the crime)
As, murderer and murdered, he felt sick,
His body suffered as their spirits soared,
Then, too, because of or despite it all,
The man was always moving, in nervous flight
From boredom or mortality,
To witness, sundry-wise,
The elemental earthly show,
Summoned by the call
Of roaring water to watch Niagara fall
All majesty
And might
Shimmer-spanned by rainbow
After rainbow, ceaselessly
Crashing a hundred feet below,
Where he could see
Tremendous ghosts of spray and mist arise,
Veils of the first things, darkness, depth, God, light,
Or drawn to clamber, one sharp winter night,
Accompanied by guides, his pregnant wife,
Georgina, “Pickle,” a fat stranger,
Up Mount Vesuvius,
Intentionally starting late
To climb in fading light
(He timed it to the moonrise, it was tight)
Despite all danger
To life
And limb, as if dumb fate
Were some benevolent arranger,
Though told they really shouldn’t wait
He wouldn’t change or
Waver, pressed on (“Good Lord deliver us,”
The sherpas prayed) as wind cut like a knife,
The litters with the women in them veered,
The porters stumbled, cursing, shrieked advice,
The fat man’s litter wobbled, hovered,
While, creeping, up they went
(Descent posed the real risk of falling,
When Pickle disappeared,
Slipping right down a slope that, as he feared,
Was slickly covered
In ice,
Wildly cannonballing
Out of sight, to be recovered),
To where a smoke-filled, sulfurous, appalling
Plain discovered
Gigantic cinders, with flakes of fire, hell-sent,
Rained down to scorch an anti-paradise,
And where great sheets of flame streamed forth he must,
True to his own wild way, rashly ascend
To see the molten crater churning,
Must crawl right to the brim
And, singeing, linger there (although
He found having to trust
His weight to the thinness of the trembling crust
A touch concerning),
Suspend-
ed, boiling gulf below,
Then, giddy, roll back down, returning
Blackened, smoking from head to toe,
His clothes still burning,
But all in every moment, being him,
Dickens on fire, as always, right to the end.