The Resonance of Solitude; Still in the Neighbourhood, by Kevin McCarthy

The Resonance of Solitude; Still in the Neighbourhood

When I am twenty yards from my destination I feel like you, Quinton.
I see you walking with your stick to your house.
There are a million ghosts in Salem,
Yours is a silent gentleman going home.

Meeting you, Quinton, was not planned.

Salem sidewalks still require walking
Sticks, much like the New Hampshire whites
And as I rock hop down Essex Street,
Careful winter walking, I feel
The public library off my port rear
Quarter and spy the Athenaeum
At one o’clock starboard.
      Tonight’s snow will swirl, slo-mo
      Then real time, to slo-mo
      Magnetic magic in this same
      Quadrant I walk in. I can
      See it now, though it will be then.

I always see the air I live in. Always.
From cut crystal to jazz lines to
Slapping puffs, kissing muffs and 
Sometimes, just sometimes, jack knife
Blades shot from cannons manned by
Angels. You must know what I’m 
talking about, Quinton:
I saw your painting, The Resonance of Solitude
It was six feet away from the wall,
Not hanging, it was floating
The Holy Ghost maybe, to visit you
And cast his glow, grace in the room,
A spirit glow, he specializes in
Creativity, you know?

I see shading clouds enfolding
The perfect butter sun clouds and
Holding them inside for the night,
A warm, creamy centre.
Look again. Clouds?
Banderoles snap snap flying
Streaming from the stand of virgin pines.

Gonfalons, pennlons, guidons
PINSELS, PINIONS
It’s there, look. Quinton flies his flag at the
Last of the day, the gloaming taking
Over, bringing quiet to the winter scene,
Letting the snow be snow and
Show its glow, the night light
To hold the resonance, wrap the
resonance in the little valley, letting
the little pond lap, lap, lap melting
the soft softly gentley melty lapping
tongue touches of the lakey lake
deep deep blue black iron insistent
prodding the edges to melt, soften
what is soft, delivering offering allowing
a sweet deliquescence in the lap
of the valley.

Oh my God, you just showed up. 
While looking I didn’t see you, while
Staring I did. Your visage paid me
A visit. You are the resonance most
Surely and squarely.
It is a shroud, the painting is
A shroud. The Shroud of Salem!
Hi, Hi, Hi, Quinton!
Each resonant facial line is painted
Drawn and painted, no cheating brush dabs,
No splatter, no splish, each picture making a 
Picture, see the tongue tip on the 
Hill behind the house, noses and eyes
And cheeks and hairs, maybe a wink,
Each was painted to mean. With love
And sadness and everywhere you moved
Your brush I see/feel desire way
Down deep deep deep deep desire.
A man who once thought of loving
Like the cumulation of clouds, nearly
Cirrus but more serious.

​Kevin McCarthy

View The Resonance of Solitude, by Quinton Oliver Jones (USA) 1977, here:
https://www.quintonoliverjones.com/art/resonance-of-solitude/

​A shorter version of this poem appeared in Soundings East, published by Salem State University.

​Kevin McCarthy, a retired actor and member of SAG-AFTRA, has performed in over 40 plays, including four productions at the Apollinaire Theatre Company in Chelsea, Massachusetts. He is also a writer and painter....of houses. He lives in Marblehead, Massachusetts.