Platypus of Truth

The last few posts can be explained as the results of two weeks spent teaching T.S. Eliot.  I wanted to try and write my own five part Wasteland/Quartet for kicks and giggles (and apparently to inflict it on the rest of you).  As with "The Wasteland," there is a literary key to the work, John Demos' The Unredeemed Captive .  Individual incidents that inspired the work include: a trip to an exhibit of Eastern Orthodox icons, finding out that my favorite tea company had moved from Connecticut to New York, meditations on the California Freeways, The Oresteia , studying at Oxford as an undergraduate, and, of course, growing up in rural southern Connecticut (that pernicious habit).  So, until next time: Weiweilalala.

Latimer and Ridley Stand in stone pomposity More presumptuous Than anything a Jesuit Could create. Merciful necessity, the citizens agreed to wrap them In scaffold, planks, and signs clearly marked: Refurbishing. Burning, burning, burning. God help me, I cannot burn! The Falcon raised the stones of Salisbury by art magical and built the ship yards, and the castle. Men call him The Devil’s son. Now, for a few infested sheep, or a worm within the brain, the megaliths are ringed With hay and signs (strange designs), and certain warding Chemicals. Burning, burning, burning. God help me, I cannot burn! There is a fire in the eye That catches on the blade And peaked hats like Church steeples rise Amidst the iron glade. The daughters all lie bleeding, By the children that they loved And stopped the bullet with The breast As did those mothers Long ago Who fell amidst the fire light and snow. ...

Shall I tell you what these things mean? Kassandra, captive, stands beside the altar, in Argos, Kanawake, in Babylon or wherever you may please. Her wasted face, tear-marked cheek, shines Pre-Raphaelite, almost maudlin, but, but her eyes are shining star light in the summer of the soul. Traveler, will you stop to listen? Do so quickly, for her time is nearly out. There is a hope that sits upon your shoulder like a little bird, the pastor’s daughter. She’s singing (you can’t hear it), but she and I forgive you. I will go to die (for I must die) singing like that little bird because she and I know what you can’t believe, or don’t have strength to believe. What? Believe what? Courage, good master Ridley: All will be well, and all manner of things shall be well, And in the End, even the fall will be made Well. That is all she ever says, poor girl. If your travels lead you, stranger, by way of Holy Ida, th...

  I am a stranger here Here Where there is no water We have water. We hear the sound of it Night and day, night and day We hear I am a Pilgrim here In this waste Where there are no trees We have trees. We hear them rustling in the breezes Night and day, night and day We here And all the voices of the waste places cried: Too Whoow Who Too Whoow Who Dryness, dust and bones Dryness, dust and bones Praise to the Serpents of the Wilderness Glistening scales of concrete and steel Holocausts of victims Smoking in the sun Shining in the moon Drying to dust and bones Whoow Too Whoow Too Moloch and Hecate dance Master of finance and Mistress of Changes Praise and prosperity for A hundred Cuylers and A hundred wandering Phlebases Children of desolate lands Too Who Too Come and join us Come and join us Where the powers all are seated Mistress Cathy’s on the organ Brother John will pre...

Silent, stand the stones of Salisbury Watching upon the plain Joined by arteries and veins of stone That pass by hidden channels in the sea Down to Taconic and Washinee At the bottom of the cup the leaves lie Patterning things past and yet to be Black and white monotony There to scry I think I think I will go out today and stand upon the Rock With the Valley all below me: Burning leaves of red and yellow, purple maple smoke I will go and see Eternity The eschatological moment wrapped in a snow globe on the mantlepiece or a post card off the rack Little brother, little brother, When Hesiod the shepherd sang Then the nymphs of Helicon came and danced The rivers lapped their banks as that bard sang The Works and Days and ways of men Who know the time for planting and the way to make a wheel and how to sing a song for poor Athamas Dead and gone He is dead and gone, good lady, He is dead and gone, At his head a grass green turf And at his heels a stone W...

Son of Man, You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images -T.S. Eliot, The Wasteland Staring out of eyes Phoenician brown, old Phlebas looks At you, Speaking of the profit and the loss of Holy things Bequeathed and unbequeathed by patriarchs and kings. "Smell this one.  I will open the case for you.  You see?  The smell of myrrh and frankincense.  This one here is very special.  They were selling it for five rubles. I bought it for two-thousand dollars -now, it is priceless." Priceless pearls that were his eyes Priceless pearls that were his eyes These were "Now this one is of the Theotokos.  -an example of the Moscow school.  See how alive she looks, as if she is staring right into your soul.  Do you have any questions for me?  Ask a hard one." Boniface is that you? So soon So soon I cannot tell you; his face is too beneficent. I would not judge. Thank you for your time.  So generous, so...