Another go at it then, questing after the elusive metaphor. . . .
Dancing the sine wave, sidestepping, revealing, concealing. . . .
How can I tell you about this undercover life? I try to recall
the tale from literature, but I fall short. It must be there, of course ‑‑
all such painful tales are ‑‑ but it's not the sort of book I'd ever read.
More irony. . . .Bitter brew.
Shall I speak of madness? What else could possibly remain to be said
concerning that staple subject? Staple and stale, doing injustice to
madmen everywhere. Have you read the Book of Job?
A demanding read, surely, and with a dubious moral, or worse.
You'd think I could relate, at least in a superficial way, but: no.
You cannot accept ‑‑ yet! ‑‑ that we are all mad; we just can't all
recognize madness in the mirror so long as we remain transfixed
in all the fables we weave across long years, shielding ourselves from
cyclonal juggernauts of cruel, history-wracking metamorphosis.
This morning the air was cool and clear, and outside I could feel alive.
The sun's low rays slung through the rushes painted them a luminous,
luxuriant green to shock the world to its senses, but who now heeds
these primitive omens anymore? Who even pauses to notice them?
I was myself in flight from all the evils that men do, a deluge
in close pursuit behind me. We cannot escape forever. We must be
overtaken, swept away and sucked down in the flood, and us all
waiting for time to cut us away from the herd and pick us off.
The ferryman requires his fare.
There are these matters out of history that we all must strive
to avoid. The details differ for each of us, but the overall pattern's
consistent. I've shied away; I've tried; I've sometimes succeeded,
sometimes succumbed. This morning, strolling around the
glassy-smooth lake, I fell back full into the secret universe.
I know why: it's the paradisiacal garden that fusty old Job
never knew, that fantastic time when I was extraordinarily
happy again, the hiatus in the harrowing nightmare that
swept over the Earth fifteen years ago.
But how can I tell you about it? I cannot without yielding to betrayal,
and anyway, to you it could only be judged a sin, and I could never
prove it otherwise, never dissuade you from your virtuous disapproval.
Your righteous conclusions would remain, nevertheless, false, but
wholly unassailable. I know and understand. And so this
splintering life's destined to continue, unuttered and unabated.
But I think now, as I thought this morning, some memory of joy
reviving in my heart: Regardless. Anyway. No matter. I do. I do!
My God. My God. No matter
the verdict's solemnity and weight:
I do!
20100203
The Spy
Copyright © 2010 Ernest Bloom.
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Oh, you do make me feel thick sometimes, E.B.
ReplyDelete"How can I tell you about this undercover life? I try to recall
the tale from literature, but I fall short. It must be there, of course ‑‑"
You've just made the tale, didn't you? Or is it half-done? Probably half-done, though with modern medicine...and then there's the afterlife but who knows anything, right?
I feel empathy for your empathy with the universe. I *feel* is the key word, always is with poetry of this kind. You talk of a paradise, and perhaps it is there. Unity? Peace? Death? No, no, all these matters displayed in language and technicolor just don't seem serious anymore. I recognize here a joy for being, being a part of, the universe, perhaps. You're getting very close to Whitman and the like here. Yes, yes, you've seen the door in the wall and you've been that way and this many a time. You talk all about it and it sounds like a swell place. Now, how about giving me a tour, eh? That's what I would've said to Jesus when he started talking about Paradise.
unlike many who are fond of putting words in jesus' mouth, i won't. by i think he himself said something abt paradise being within. my own opinion is we're successfully conditioned to be blind to paradise all around us at all times. that's god, too.
ReplyDeleteparadise is bad for business.
ReplyDelete