Too Sacred Yeats
There is no better
example of the powers of the massive poetic
synthetic intelligence than W. B. Yeats unless it is William Blake. One of Yeats first works was the production (with Ellis) of the three volumes of Blake's Works with lithographs of the illustrated Books (1893). The existence of these two alone, not to speak of so many others, established in English the greatest literature. So much can and has been said of this, but we focus here on the deep backgrounds surrounding and involving these works of the imagination.
When
the prophet Isaiah and the poet David speak of the ground of the spirit
with their masculine daring, boldness and cutting edge intention, they say
things no one would dare to say. In this they depict the ultimate daring
of Messiah, who exceeds them in audacity. The
masculine penetrating audacious speaking of the prophets, copied by
Milton and Blake is in direct opposition to all the spiritual wisdom
offered in the (feminine) occult creeds to which they likewise are tempted to submit. He commands the sea, tells them, "you
give them to eat," nothing but audacious, and this to Paul, "we sit
together with him in heavenly places," and Peter, "rise up and walk."
It is the audacity of the Exodus, "both horse and rider he has cast
into the sea," the judgment of Balaam, obviated for a time, the
OT equivalent of NT Saul suborning the faith of the first believers in these creeds, whose outcome is seduction and magic.
It is the entire speaking of Yeshua, active and penetrating, saying Bereshith barah Elohim as audacity itself. In short, this masculine speaking is the opposite
of its imitations and subversions catcalled in the onus of the desert
religions: Jew, Christian, Muslim, but not Babylonian and pagan, a
contrast of truth against the world that styles an ultimate conflict
misunderstood in every way, so that you have to turn to Hieronymus Bosch to see the world being understood as the path of
indulgence and sensuality and the enemy. Masculine and Monotheism,
Freud did not write, but a hundred others have. Of course Freud like
Yeats had the Steinach operation to make his erectile performance Man
up!
The occult origins of
fiction, philosophy, fantasy and science fiction in all the university
faculty clubs and writers cliques makes the search for the spirit a
means of social control encouraging the feminine, but not masculine
direct apprehension. But it is ever and always our desire to see face to face. There is no better lament for the lack of this than in the great critic and fellow of this love than Geoffrey Hartman, who himself overcame the residue of the holocaust. He writes movingly of his longing unattained. But apart of his sincere honesty in this confession, many others who have not seen have pretended to in the many egregori societies of the Golden Dawn sprung up. Therein the occult imitates the real prophetic by
inversion so Isaiah would comment on Yeats' heavy involvement in this by saying, "those who
pursue their own imaginations...who sit among the graves and spend their
nights keeping secret vigil...who spread a table for Fortune and fill
bowls of mixed wine for Destiny...are too sacred" (Isaiah 65).
Paul on Mars Hill says "People of Athens! I see that in every way you
are very religious" (Acts 17.22). Being too sacred means attributing
metaphysical origins to acts by foretelling an imputed result were that
action to occur, i.e., divination. That there may be acts not sacred
enough is a possibility, but too sacred means a subversion of the human
will by its passivity and hence abrogates responsibility for choices.
Passivity
Anyone can say words. If however
there is an inward reality where communication is not physical or
spiritual, whose command is self-denial, self-sacrifice, self-surrender,
which sounds passive, we must then beware the trick of words, which
mean nothing in themselves. Direct speaking and seeing, sans trickery and
vulnerability without the opposite, indirection,
or feminizing the masculine, was a major concern of the renaissance
where love was viewed as weakening the power of will. Maybe you think they were kidding, but Sidney
complains of his weakness in writing "whining poetry." Masculine
states replaced with the feminized more socially
justified views make it impossible to consider the masculine without
compounding it with the most offensive depraved cases.
It's not the masculine mind that offends, but the facetious mouth. Be as
masculine as you want as long as you don't talk.
This passivity is a necessity underlying the attitude of magic among
leaders who practice theosophical mania. Mathers, Blavatsky, Crowley, Huysmans,
there is a long list. Their underlying premise is that to reach the
ground of the spirit the man must be passive, a stance identified with
the feminine, which it is said, more directly apprehends the face of
light. So the man says with the woman in the creed, "through me its
unfailing wisdom takes form in thought and word," "I am guided moment
by moment along the path of liberation," "I draw all things needful."
The sentences themselves are passive, "the kingdom of spirit is embodied
in my flesh. This making passive is seen when the masculine and
feminine are paired in metaphysical pics where the woman looks up, or
over, or in, and the man looks out, signifying opposites of meditation
and action, convincing in popular psychology, when the exoteric is
contemplated with the esoteric. The exoteric is the outer world of
fortune telling and divination; the esoteric is the inward state of
idea, not however necessarily as a form of divination. Turning philosophy into divination was the essence of those secret societies as they practiced. Divination consumed Yeats, who wanted to know from his sources what to do, when to do it and why he did it.
Occult mechanisms supplied his images as much
as bourbon inspired Faulkner, a quart a day, but there's no to compare to Yeats. His mass of sexual
insecurities, automatic writing, tarot, hypnotism, astrology, magic
rituals, infused with a dramatic social life and
philosophies collected in his folklore research--all reveal that after thirty years in
the Golden Dawn he had no talent of his own for the gift of
prophecy, unlike Balaam say. Divination is its own curse. It is too sacred. Drug prophecy the same.His wife George and the Stella Matutina were his graduate school
and college wrapped in images of the gyre and its surrounds. That
he turned this hodgepodge into the later immense melancholy nature of
such appealing work is his own doing. His life divides this way and that before and after his marriage, itself a studied affair, in 1917.
For all her effort Yeats' wife Georgie made to influence him in
child bearing, her prophecies of children starting with the birth of their first child, daughter Ann, couldn't be more mistaken. That child was to have been...a
boy, "the son..."the Arabic astronomer," the "avatar," "savior for
Ireland" (Brenda Maddox, Yeats's Ghosts, 127). Yeats and George
were to "reincarnate" a seer (Maddox, 123). For all that Yeats never
spent much time
with his eventual son, barrister Michael, until he was 17.
Georgie would have had their first child be a boy to
fulfill Yeats' name and her position as wife and mother of a son. That
this was foisted upon by her invented controllers of the automatic
script all the while Yeats incorporated these controls into his
poems, such as Thomas, Rose, Aymor, "the symbols he had been receiving through
the Script since his marriage' (Maddox, 131), is error. The child was a
girl. That Yeats' last poems are informed with
such philosophical weight from the whole process of this turbulence is just
another event sustained by his belief in the doctrines of fallen angels. It's not nice to say the Golden Dawn was a fallen angel auxiliary.
The celebration of war and death it brought Yeats is the glory of its
power. We hardly know anything else. War, magic and seduction are the essence of their doctrine (see Enoch I). If Yeats was an agent run by
controllers who manipulated
him to their own ends, Georgie was his controller and he a willing
occult subject.
All the energies of Yeats' secret society sought the mechanics of foretelling. The odor of it hangs over him as much as opposite states hang over Blake, without contraries is no progression. Nobody wants to blame Yeats for gnostic
stupidity, but he bought it. Sources no one would want to admit sharing with Yeats include G.R.S. Mead, Paul Foster Case, Israel Regardie, S.L.
Mathers and intrigues for and against Crowley. John Dee, Ron Hubbard, Jack Parsons, and their private
gibberings show the delusions they
suffered, but there is no formula for human existence or art. The
foundation of Yeats' philosophy abstracted from its source has been spun off a hundred ways, for instance as
the creed of the Liberal Catholic Church and BOTA, where the number series
0 to ten and the letters of the Hebrew alphabet concoct their own poetry. Yeats created a poetry out of rituals and symbols of
Irish myth, Madam Blavatsky and the Golden Dawn with "lashings of Blake
and bits of Freud, Boehme, Swedenborg and Nietzsche." (Brenda Maddox. Yeats' Ghosts, 89).
If you could know the future would you want to? This presumes it is worth, as Yeats sought, knowing the sex and destiny of his children and a thousand other questions for which he cast his hoary charts, when to get his tonsils out, on and on. Let it be said sooner rather than late that what you know you cannot unknow; so the future hung over Yeats like a sword, only countered by another cast of fate, whether Tarot, astrology or some other. Not to know the future and live in faith would be the single greatest gift. This betrayal of the inner for the outer trumps occurs dramatically in the novels of Charles Williams, another member of that society, and associate of Yeats.
So what is the nature of evil? Surprisingly it is not personal corruption notwithstanding its sins. Evil is spiritual in high places, connoting the asherahs of Palestine, the ashrams of Oregon. High places give a vista of control but themselves are a metaphor of counsels, rulers, leaders and their intrigues. Clubs. Some striking cases occur. In the case of Balaam we at least know the purpose was payback, payoff, and power, influence with the king of Midianites.
It is probably worth adding that psychic gifts are notoriously uneven and uncertain, part of the passivity routine. There are cases. A clairvoyant will have no knowledge of the effects an eclipse, that is of the seen, but may know perfectly well exactly what had occurred in someone's mind that could not be seen. A pastor of prophetic utterance may be utterly unable to discern the dissembling elder in front of him, even to the point of outright fraud. What matters most is not surety but accuracy.
The Grave of Yeats
Do not
say Picasso could do it or Dekooning didn’t consult spirits to inflame his
aerosol.
It would ruin tourism and grave worship if Yeats is not
where they say. Where he is is a whole other matter. Faith is a perquisite for burial in the church of Ireland. Since Yeats had none a face-saving remedy was found in the body of Alfred Hollis, whose steel
corset differed not much from Yeats' hernia truss, and clinched the identity
that he was Yeats, according to Yeats’ sister. Out of nature he did not take his form from any natural
thing, which a casket certainly is not, or a corset, lasting hundreds of years,
preventing decay, never returning to the soil, enabling ossieries to dig for
fear of more. The fear of one is the fear of all. Who thinks their grave will
last the five hundred thousand years a casket does? There is room for archeology.
Yeats
crowning blue-hair idiocy was to think he would rise from the grave with a fresh book of
verse. Call it Uni-verse. But his operation to improve his sex life was a
close second. It ranks with the foibles of corporate industrialists. Yeats had
the Steinach operation to cure his impotence that vexed his last decade. Steinach however had
the advantage of making him sterile.
Freud had the operation too, which brings no doubt to the unsacred thoughts we
had of poets. If it did not cure Yeats' impotence the operation did give rise
to elevated thoughts among critics of his four senescent sexual liaisons after
1934, “whether he achieved full intercourse in any of them is the subject of continued
speculation in Yeats scholarship.” (Brenda Maddox. The Secret Life of W. B.
Yeats, 279). That takes criticism to its natural morbid level. Do not say Picasso
could do it or Dekooning didn’t, consult spirits to inflame his aerosol. Wife
George had the spirits dictate to him in 1919 that he must do it “twice a
week!” After long abstinence the astrologer sought the right alignments.
No doubt
Yeats intended to be buried at Sligo after a year’s interment at Roquebrune
in France.
However the 10 year lease on that plot was up, because mistaken for a five year
lease, and it was during the war, but some mishap resulted in the body being exhumed
and stored in an ossuary, alongside an Englishman buried that same day, one Alfred Hollis. The French government certified it was Yeats
in 1948 when transfer occurred to Eire, and it
was all hushed up so don’t ask further if the case will stand. To be
mistaken for Alfred Hollis! The family of
Hollis believes the Sligo remains are their
Alfred encased in a truss, steel corset at the core.
For these reasons and more it will not ruin tourism
or grave worship to say that Yeats is not where they say he is. He is lost. Where he is is a
whole other matter. The blue-hair deserved burial with the church of Ireland,
but a prerequisite for burial there is faith. Remedy found in the
body of Alfred Hollis, whose steel corset differed not so much from Yeats'
hernia truss, determined the identity according to Yeats’ sister. Yeats
out of nature would not take his form from any natural thing, we repeat, which a casket
certainly is not, or a corset, lasting hundreds of years, preventing decay,
preventing return to the soil, enabling ossieries. The fear of one is the fear of all. But you can still move around in them.
Who thinks their grave will last the five hundred thousand years a casket does,
raise your hand, if you can! There is room for one more archeologist.
Woe to me
that I bear the news. Yeats never fit the biography of his lines, even if
he had his tubes tied, was a crypto fascist, thought like Pound and had so
many ailments before he died. These writers and their genes! Virginia and
Leonard Woolf were whispering they would commit suicide together if Hitler took
Bloomsbury! “The Black Tower”
is not about eugenics, nor is “The Death of Cuchulain”
about some lady in her robe, but his own. Yeats died and was buried in a
pauper’s grave from which they dug a simulacrum; it might as well have been
wax sent to Ireland.
He asked and became a trinket of Byzantium,
a statue of Reputation, which matters not much to the dead in the
ground, or in the ossuary or the dust and smoke of crematoriums.
It
shouldn’t be thought Yeats acted differently from his time and place. Pound
dressed in “trousers made of green billiard cloth, a pink coat, a blue shirt, a
tie hand-painted by a Japanese friend, an immense sombrero, a flaming beard cut
to a point, and a single, large blue earring.” Indeed when Yeats threw Aleister
Crowley down the stairs of the Temple Crowley
wore “a black mask, a MacGregor tartan kilt, a gilt pectoral cross, and a
dagger at his knee” (12). They gave him a Goosey Gander, took him by the left leg and threw him down the stairs. But none of them would say their prayers. This was 1900, they dressed like pimps, but it gives Yeats a point of
comparison for his blue hair. To compare with Blake, even if not so
extreme, Yeats reports Blake threw artists off their ladders at
Westminster Abbey (Poems of William Blake, ed. by Yeats, xv).
Yeats’
cure for his idiocy was to ape the lusts of the young in dirty talk and turning his wife into a divine while he
fell down at the feet of starlets and excess, all of which made it impossible
for him to pass Go. Consumed by women
and continually shifting eroticism from one ingénue to another, older or
younger, but not with wife George, his amanuensis, manager and caretaker, every
crack brain literati at his age compounds sex energies with political intrigue to make
lit or plays or money with anthologies to finance travel to the
Riviera. Remember, this was before Epstein and pedo-island. The Nobel pride at the top of the middle aged world fears his last
poem about flesh and age more than any politician and historian fears a poet, for
the lines are honest and brutal, true as he lies in pain and iniquity, save
always for another one would dare to die, which we add to balance the
perfevered Dawn, medium, vision, repeated lives and poems, as if they
were women wanting to come to know the truth. This we respect deeply, for who
comes to know truth but in age?
The Resurrection of Yeats
New York,
London : This
week Yeats revealed how in the seventy years
since his reburial he has continually revised the whole of his work for reissue
with significant new additions.
When
Yeats engagingly claimed to continue writing after death, Under Uber
Ben was the title of the first poem he proposed from the grave,
written when his blood pressure failed. It has been reprinted many times since.
Those long gyres run like a horn through the eternal poem. He said many
times man lives and dies / Between his two eternities. Poetry, now the new religion, but without canonical text,
must correct some of these revisions in which the plural in the poem is wrong
and the gender, but otherwise asks, how can a man be so deceived and make so
much beauty?
Among Yeats’ betters David says the dead don’t praise unless they get raised. All
right then the logic goes, all men are dead. Yeats is silent. Yeats is dead.
The number one poet to populate the Under Ben was buried first in France
nine years before he was reburied under Ben. In that sense he rose, but
what write, opting for short quatrains and terse couplets so multiply allusive
nobody can exactly say. Don’t you love those
ghosts who gouge their plates and call in to say they’re going to write? Will
it be new verse or old?
After
Under Uber Ben the next work to appear was in the new web journal Between
the States where he wrote that famous sonnet, ”From the Underground.” The
whole volume was to be titled Last Poems in
the uNDeRGoNe series as a pun on Maud Gonne’s
name. Maude, his lover and sometime devotee, if he has finally tamed her, is
his sometime muse. Yeats tamed women but they broke him. This was to have been
written in the third person as a transcendence equally upon the fact of
looking back on life and as an improvement of those short lines he so perfected
in that song of the clippedty clopped “White Horse.” “Clippedty clop,” it went,
or “clippie clop,” to the tune of Roundup Time. Somewhere in the afterlife
Yeats got enamored of the old west and blues.
I’m comin out
I’m comin out
there gonna be a shout.
I comin out I comin out
there gonna be a shout,
there be a mortis interrupt,
when them doggies mount up.
That
was of course one last dig at Gertrude Stein who
had queried from her death bed to forestall the dirge, otherwise he invoked all
the other famous truants of the death bed, Borges, Rimbaud, Stevens, really
anybody who had time to listen. Pass by! was the motto on
his stone, but now he says, “Not on your life, horseman, not on your
life:
There gonna be a great noise
when those boys rise,
so rise boys.
Grave
diggers of Yeats work really hard to protect him from the world. Primal tales
are read around the grave openings even when there is doubt he is there. But if
not there, where? It proves a greater need to thrust the buried
men / Back in the human mind again than we had thought. There is a
huge problem with backlog. New York
houses will not have time to publish living poets if Blake and Wordsworth rise.
Blake had easily three times the work than actually appeared. That doesn’t moot
the question about the lost cantos of Spenser, Shelly’s corpus buried at sea
and where can this business be restricted to merely first ranks? What if all
the merciful euthanasia of works blessedly silent should now speak? Soon
they’ll be driving round the atmosphere, in and out the internet, broadcast,
rebroadcast in space.
It
shows what we are. Many times men brief parting from those dear / … the
worst man has to fear. Who could know? Here he comes! There he goes!
It takes as much to believe in this as it does in the final resurrection of the
dead. If only we believe there is a fantastic long-visaged company / That
air in immortality. What would we do then?
Does
this herculean labor never end? When Yeats did his nine years in the ground the
first time, the rest remained. Nine years and then probation! Bury, rebury.
It’s going to add whole new concepts to our knowledge. Hardly were those words
out when the only one that can really save us would come and turn the system
upside down. Then the Lord himself descend from heaven with a shout, with the
voice of the trump is how the old text reads. And here we go again. We’ll
be asking about the meaning of second chances, merciful paroles, dyings at home
for tea. Eternity sightings are what we’d have to call them eve to morn. Really
it’s a conundrum, what would anybody do from the grave? Go reround reround retestify?
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all!
Aside
from a love of music and the play, this entertainment from the grave, will it complete
our partial man? A lot of questions are raised if it’s not just poets.
Won’t musicians come? I had a feeling! Yeats’ heterodox age, its eyes
long blind, who can avoid saying it long lingered like a fly when it said
it would accomplish fate, / Know his work or choose his mate. That’s the
story they give the resurrectionists who used to steal fresh graves at night
and take the bodies for research. A hundred a head was the rate. Will you have
them bring it all back? Where’s the space? That’s where nature plays a trump in
self defense. Some say there are more people alive on the earth right now than
in a previous millennium. Where will we put them? Rise up son of clay.
Is that the answer or does it just postpone the inevitable? He says
this later. We say it sooner. How many days do you plan to sleep? It’s
almost the same as those unfortunates who go to heaven on the very last day.
There they are rejoicing to have finally made it through oblivion to paradise
when about twenty minutes later they get the news that it’s back down to earth
again, that heaven’s not the final final destiny. And those living when the
event occurs, who didn’t ever really get to die, what are they going to say to
those whose eyes, ears and bodies are marked with the chalk dust from long
lines, who stood and waited, even if the wounds have healed, what will they say
when they’re all together comparing notes of death, I didn’t…actually…die? It
would be enough to kill them right there.
Why
waste time? You could raise your hands right now. Still alive? Too radical a
posture? Denies depravity and perversity. None of this is the work or
vision of an ant. But how we do it is everything. It makes the rhyme bring up
"the soul of man to God." Bring up the man, bring him up. Bring him
up before the profane perfection of mankind disembowels medieval earth
of all the "rest.” Did you know the old Yeats had it in him?
In
the midst of reevaluation we should also visit the tomb of Swift and Sterne to
see them rise. One hopes for a little pyrotechnics. Draw up a chair
but not too close. Somebody needs to make a way for Yeats to stand. By
the way Ben Bulben needs some work. What do you say to volcanic activity
appropriate for the day? We have the day, the sun shine and the rain and then
we have the night. Drops pour off stone and under an umbrella by
image with his arms folded behind his backstands. I seen him in the Lake County
pretty sure. We stand around, no need keep upright. This is an army of leaf
sprout. After long age the leaves must write if the stones cry out, ears shoot
up from the grave Listen to the blab of the pave. I hope no rabbits are
out. One poet at a time you say. Do you think they even listen to each other?
This write, wood split sky or sky like wood over that mortal caught between
his two. Allowing for amnesia and the cross, a former and an ignorance of
last, we shall vent our death in a present measure of simplicity upon Blake,
who we again learn is waiting to sprout when Hopkins bursts to flame. It’s a shame there
was no mention of this before.
Down
the barrel of a spine the seed coat scraped, covered with soil and the mind
matured as the whole thing baked. One good thing the body is, other than
wearing out. This reconstitutes science. Will you trade that coat, that
tattered coat upon a stick or wear it like a faithful sheik sidekick
one last breath? Costume takes in a dawn of wounds and blood. But old age? That’s the alternative,
one final alien conquest along with death.
What
do bodies do for entrance, exit, birth? Rebear birth like an underlayment of
cement so it won’t crack, rebar the storm that passed, the ground wet draw the
soaked grass over feet? We love the earth. There’s no repeat needed that gets
enough. We never get enough. No chill. No night. Consider what you learn.
What’s love got to do? Eternity begins when you rise, one, one, when
you lie down, one is the image of two.
So
after all you think he’ll rise? Opinion polls take a look to believe the effort
superhuman, but the belief is wrong. Here’s where all the syntax loads a
gun. The lion’s mane, the twists of fate, the figure eight, the gist that the
sinews of the men of ancient Ireland and the North made peace of for fear
and life and had a chance to walk with the Dayman didn’t wait. Consider the
urging, sea, the brooding hill, the darkness that pacified pain and
forgetfulness of the creatures’ sacrifice. They gripped the hand of their
ancestors and got progeny. Those who revisited waste and ken regot bodies and
reconstituted mind. But then, when his poem was two shapes
of the one
flight, not deep in the cosmos far reaches, no, but here in the immediate
ground from the grave, they stepped into light. Day and night that back
leg came out of darkness and body stepped into light.
The Collected Poems of W, A Review
New York, London:
This week in London,
seventy years after his reburial, Yeats released the complete revision of his
work with new additions.
Under Uber Ben that first poem from the grave was
reprinted many times. He should be glad his blood pressure failed. Such poetry
is new religion without canonical text. Long gyres interweave a horn. As he
said, many times man lives and dies / Between his two eternities. This first
version erred err in the plural, but notably among betters consider who said
that the dead don’t praise unless they’re raised, which logic proves that since
all men are dead and Yeats is silent Yeats is dead. But if dead still writes? The poet of the
Under Ben buried first in France,
nine years later was reburied under Ben. Bone quatrains, epigrams and couplets,
disembodied voice, will it be the new verse? In that sense he rose.
Under Uber Ben the next appeared in Between States, from the
Underground.The whole volume spoke, Last Poems uNDeRGoNe, a duet of Maud Gonne equally
transcendent looking back as a preview
in “Song of the White Horse” as forward in afterward.
There’ll be a mortis interrupt,
when those doggies mount up.
That was a dig at Queries from Death to Forestall the Dirge.
Otherwise truants from Socrates and Borges to Rimbaud and Stevens say. Pass
by!, the motto says on his stone.
Grave diggers of Yeats protect him from the world. Primal
tales give out he is not there. But if not, where? It proves a need to thrust
the buried men / Back in the human mind again, except for the problem with backlog. How will
living poets stand if Blake and Wordsworth rise and write? Blake alone had
three times the work than actually appeared. Add in the lost cantos of the
Faerie Queene. Then what merciful
euthanasia of history and silence should others speak? Brief parting from those
dear / … the worst man has to fear? Not quite. Here he comes! There he
goes! The fantastic long-visaged company /
airs in immortality.
Herculean labors end, but Yeats’ nine years probate in the
ground remain. Bury, rebury, add new knowledge. Hardly were those words out of
that old text when the Lord himself descended from heaven with a shout. So here
we go. What would anybody do out of the grave? Come back to tell you all, I
shall tell you all!
A lot of questions are raised if it’s not just poets but
musicians. Echo, reecho, a hundred a
head. Will you have them back? Where’s the space? Nature trumps in self
defense. Some say there are more people alive on the earth today than in all
the millenniums. Where will we put them? Rise up son of clay; that’s the
answer.
What of those unfortunates who get to heaven last, rejoicing
to have made the cut when twenty minutes later it’s back down to earth?
Heaven’s waiting for that event to come. And what about those who didn’t get to
die, what can they say to all those queues who stood and waited, wept and
prayed, even if the wounds have healed, “I didn’t actually…die?” Bring the
rhyme up soul of man. Bring up the man, bring him up before the profane
perfection of mankind.
Draw up a chair. But not too close. Care for some volcanic
dust? We have the day, and then we have the night. I seen backstands in
the Lake Country again. Drops of stone umbrella
fold arms behind heads. I seen backstands in the Lake County
again. No need keep up. There is leaf array. Stones and ears shoot up. Do not
listen them, the sky of mortals caught between his two. We vent death like Hopkins bursts into flame.
Down the barrel the seed coat scraped. Covered with soil,
mind matured. One good thing the body is, other than wearing out. Will you
trade that coat or wear it one last breath? A dawn of wounds in old age
and blood? We love the earth. No one gets enough. We never get enough. We need
eternity to chill. Rebar the storm, draw wet ground like a blanket of soaked
grass over feet. Consider what you learn.
Eternity begins to rise before you’re born and when you lie down one is
the image of two.
Opinion polls think the effort superhuman, but the belief is
wrong. The lion’s mane, the twists of fate, the gist that sinews ancient Eire with North-made peace was chance? The Dayman didn’t
wait. He gripped the hand of ancestors
and got progeny. He took the sea and urged the hill, forgot strife, creatures’
sacrifice, revisited waste, regot
bodies, reconstituted mind, and when his poem in two shapes of one flight was
in the immediate ground, he stepped from the grave into light. Day and
night that back leg came out of darkness and body stepped into light.
Memory is even trickier than occult deceit, as if there were no such
fact as a datum remembered, but merely
versions. So an event exists only in interpretations. Truth in the
relative mind is like memory, a denial of natural law. Gravity is like
Truth made weak in those who profess the coming magnetic levitation.
Memory however is the
highest fact of our existence.
This
directly contrasts the creeds above, and Yeats' experience, which are
however attractive and appealing. beautiful. How else understand can the
LCC, "hold the fatherhood of God, the brotherhood of man. We hold that
we do
serve him best when best we serve our fellow man. So shall his blessing
rest on us and peace for ever more." What more appealing statement can
there be than a subtle encouragement of passivity?
