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Dealing with Dragons free
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VERSE a grand allusion
The Typist and
the Carbuncular
Youth
Who the hell was
this Phlebas bloke anyway?
The worth of a
moment’s surrender
This piece resulted from several months of reading T.S. Eliot. Clearly it follows a path through The Waste Land - sometimes trying to put into my own words an interpretation of Eliot’s vision, sometimes trying to marry something of the style of the poem to my own inner rhythms. This approach to The Waste Land is highly subjective: the range of allusions Eliot employs is wide, while my comprehension is limited - mostly by a determination not to read any critical analysis of the poem.
This five part poem is in itself a grand allusion to one of the greatest works of literature I know. You may think it almost insolent of me to perpetrate such a pastiche, but it was enormous fun to put together and I think the result is interesting enough in its own right.
I hope the great man will be smiling in an avuncular manner rather than spinning in his grave!
In April spring returns
An insult to the dead,
The hanging tree bursts into bloom,
On blood and tears is fed.
The snow at least made smooth the mounds,
Allowed the fields their rolling charm
- lost for seven summers past -
Everything is jumbled now:
In summer pain, in winter calm,
Those lost are not lamented;
Cannot be lamented.
Marie, Marie, where is your home?
And do you take your mother's name?
The Munich days,
Vienna days,
When all was young romance,
When arms were warm that held you tight,
Before the bombs began,
They’re gone, all gone forever
And cannot be lamented.
Do you recall the laughter
When down you went,
Just for the thrill,
And down we went soon after?
From on that tree
All he could see:
The wasted works of man.
From Calgary
Down to the sea,
His end where it began.
All becomes one desert
- a grinding of the soul -
- a graveyard/charnel from the start:
No city here, no mausolea,
No science here, no art.
Only sand and scorpions
and under stone beginnings.
Make your journey East my heart:
A poison may be a promise,
And Truth a part of Fear.
Do you want answers?
Do you need a future,
Now that the past has shackled
You, and me,
And all?
Pull the curtains, light the wicks!
The cards will dance
And tell the tale,
A part of it,
Not all,
Before the crossing of the Styx.
Before it falls,
They cross the bridge
And populate the town,
All emptied by the same black night,
Black night that took them down.
Here in the City of the Dead
I live with those that died;
Those are not here that should be here:
The mirror windows lied.
Here all are ghosts
whose only task:
To walk and keep on walking.
They'll never want
nor need for love,
For seeing or for talking.
Yet out of such dull flesh
Will mushroom
Another generation
To fill the streets,
the trenches deep;
To add more stony rubbish,
To fill tomorrows beds.
You plant the crop,
Keep off the frost,
And will that it will grow.
Stetson! Confederate! Myself!
Listen:
The dog's a better friend to man
Than you can ever know.
Dig it up and dig it out
I say!
And let him come to dust.
Why let him sprout
Another corpse
To lie -
so soon undone,
so soon removed -
Beneath this four years tortured crust
Then buried under snow.
COMMENT?
Rat’s Alley
These
words
sweat
war,
breathe annihilation;
cold, brutal rigor grips
"My nerves are bad tonight."
Shell shocked, seeks comfort,
warmth in conversation,
but everything is soured now;
his cratered face is turned away,
haunted by the broken years
and blinded by the sight.
"Do you know nothing?
Do you see - nothing?"
In self defence, defeated,
her eyes turn in,
but all of England's shaking now
beneath this iron rain:
the shrapnel cuts through all we know
and all we knew before,
and bleeding eyes,
and souls in fright
shiver, naked in the night.
And on the town
the flapper flaps,
the drinks are drunk,
the pension books are burned;
survivor mad,
the party swings,
the laughter rings,
yet life -
life is unaffirmed.
And:
“Death is what remains, my friends;
my sinking, shrinking, drinking friends.
Yes, death is what remains.
I have been to Hell!"
the compere cries,
"That is all I see.
I brought it back;
he brought it back;
together brought it back;
yes, we!"
Look:
mile on mile,
the frightful miles
of mud and blood and bone.
Entrenched there still,
still there, now here:
"We brought it back,
We brought it back!"
Each brought it back alone.
"They never told us spoils of war
could spoil the peace.
They never told us anything
and that was just as well
for nothing did we ever know,
before the game or after,
just what is real behind this haze
of beer and cheer and laughter.
For Nothing did we go!"
"So what now shall I do,
My butty,
What now can I do?"
I looked for answers firm and true,
He looked at me askance:
Strike up the band,"
My butty said,
"There's nowt to do but dance!"
Dance and sing!
and dance unhinged,
and dance and not remember.
The Time has come,
so dance, my son,
then grip her tight and bend her!"
The pounding rhythm
sounded out
across the wasted land;
he took her,
shattered teeth and all,
then pushed a note
into her hand.
"Dance faster! Dance faster!
The Time is come: dance faster!"
Soon, so soon, the midnight bell,
the magic bell, will chime,
and bring an end
to Lil and Bert,
will bring an end to time.
At last! The hour we've waited for:
the end of time,
the end of war.
We're throwing in the towel.
At last the end we're dying for;
a last gasp then:
"Goodnight.
Goonight my butty,
goonight my lovelies.
We had a time, we had some fun,
it was grand while it lasted.
I sometimes wish...
but no:
no sense worrying now,
it's done, all done forever.
But
we never really got to know each other,
did we?
Oh well, too late, too late;
we'll leave it there. So:
goonight goonight.
Goodnight.
COMMENT?
the Typist and the Carbuncular Youth
“O typist,
you deserve a kiss:
a kiss that's more than this
fumbling selfish need.
Ignore the way he's dressed,
dismiss that bold stare:
his want is all.
A silk hat? It is care
that sits so ill
and is a lie.”
But how will he understand?
that generations
and not just war -
have left him dead
to any notion
of Life's grandeur,
and the beauty -
real warmth, not heat -
of a tender,
touching hand.
Wary of rejection,
he awaits supine acceptance,
for bored and tired is safer:
she will offer no defence.
“Oh carbuncular youth,
even you deserve a kiss:
a kiss that's more than this
rutting, heartless deed.”
But how can he know
what is missing?
Our typist reviews,
As he stumbles upstairs:
“I’m glad it’s over.”
She fixes her hair.
There’s a lifetime of loss
born of his omission,
a dying of souls
in this hapless permission.
Oh if they only knew
true kisses to seek,
they'd settle on a word
and a whisper,
cheek on cheek:
"You fill me."
COMMENT?
Who the hell was this Phlebas bloke anyway?
It don't matter what a man you've been;
it don't matter much what you've seen.
It don't count much what you've done;
it don't count, son, what you've won.
Doesn't really matter what town you’re from;
doesn't really matter who was your mum.
Your dad don't really matter much at all;
doesn't even matter which god you call:
whoever you are,
whatever you were,
whatever you did,
the jewels you hid
for a rainy day
can't light your way
from port to port
for ever more.
Sooner or later,
whatever you be,
you still get got
- eventually.
By what?
Well, there's emotion,
and there's death,
and there's the fear of both.
And denial will not stop you drowning.
COMMENT?
The Worth of a Moment’s Surrender
Now that religion is dead
and order and right daily dying,
vigour seeps away
through cracks in the earth
leaving us parched
leaving us dry and
what now shall we do?
Our withered seed, rootless,
lying in dust,
begs answer.
"Now is the time for the sky to turn black."
Overhead: heavy cloud;
far ahead, the long road seems longer;
I turn my head but cannot catch,
I analyse but cannot nail down meaning.
Dearest companion, a vexed question
begs answer: Do you tell
who is there that walks by your side,
who does not walk by me,
who maybe once there walked?
Whoever it is, escapes my cold, keen eye.
He said:
"This other we travel with
transformed is,
to fool the eye;
you made him dead, but no:
transformed is
and death now life is;
he has walked on both sides,
a Tiresias of font and scythe;
he calls the names
of those ready for the blade,
wanting release,
an end in admission.
Close that eye!
The gorgon stare
can only destroy.
Close
and feel:
Now is the time for the mountains to shake."
But how will I see with my eyes firm shut?
Will I understand those who make journey
to this place or that place,
pulled only by faith?
I have seen Hell!
Such a sight, such reality,
has destroyed all I thought I knew:
all that stood above,
and all that stood beyond.
Earth shakes to stony rubbish,
towers fall;
now this place and that place
make one and the same,
no use to me now,
nor nothing to blame,
no memory left,
no future in sight:
these 'cradles' are emptied of promise.
Now that the game is up
I welcome the night.
But even in the dark something stirs
when softly chimes the midnight bell:
then the dead man
long man
kicking up dust
rattles his hat
pricks up lust
and the night cock
black cock
fierce red eye
crows from the rooftop
greets the sky
three times;
he calls the dance to judgement
then cries:
"Now is the time for the Thunder
to Speak
and Tell
and save us from this dream."
Da Datta!
spoke the God of Rain.
"Give," said he,
"though hard wrenched from the soul,
(whatever may be left of that)
one last seed of your self make free,
and temper all your pain.
And though it seeks, yearns, needs
it is not need
and need not be demand.
And though not written
of life when dead,
cut in stone
or inked in red,
better this testament
than to be
listed lost among the brave,
listed great among the free,
and those deceived."
Da Dayadhvam!
spoke the God of the ground Rain fell on.
"Sympathize," said he,
"know your fellow traveller;
be him, share his earth.
Others live, as he lives,
others suffer.
I could speak of a bold warrior,
a statesman unmoved by his people's worth.
You have enough before you of yourself:
do not be locked inside.
He makes better the lesson
if not revived."
Da Damyata!
spoke the God of that which grew.
"Control," said he,
"to exert and to accept,
we must know both
but accept not
what is false to the heart,
though swathed in logical glamour.
Exert control,
not on any other,
but on yourself.
We have all this, deep,
At root.
All this torture and pain,
greed lust denial
fear fear fear;
and in the trunk and branch and flower
grinding non-belief.
All this to learn
to Control.
Keep tight the rein!"
This is what I have learned:
that all we have is ourselves
and a time here,
and the will to use it
well or ill.
We may seek something more,
or settle for earthly pleasure.
We are in such fear,
such fear of loss
we lose it:
those things that we hold dear.
Give
sympathize
and so control.
Do not bow to chaos
but surrender to Truth,
let the water flow,
let seed grow.
Neither did I need make this journey,
a journey to discover truth:
there is only one desert.
In the desert there is memory of water;
in the barren land implication of growth;
in the waste all that was and could ever be.
I now see
the cup was here from the start,
if I had only seen it right.
Will I dare blind trust,
that the desert will bloom,
under a firm hand?
There will be fruit
If I make it so.
This image from a Laotian monastary depicts Devadatta attacking Gautama Buddha
COMMENT?