MATTER: IS IT POSSIBLE, LORD GABRIEL,
TO PUSH OUT THROUGH THAT WINDOW? OR IS THAT THE
DEATH BEYOND DEATH, THE VAST SABLE EMPTY
HALL OF THE GOD, YOUR MASTER?
Gabr.
DOCTOR, I WILL EXPLAIN.
GK.
JAMES, MARIA,
WYSTAN & DAVID, WE MORTALS MUST PERSIST!
Mich.
CHILDREN, AND WE GODS AWAY!
BRINGING GREATER POWERS ANOTHER DAY.
They leave. The carpet’s ground, revived, now glows
A dark rose—at whose center, black on white,
What is that thornscript firman or mandala
Teasingly sharp? On George’s brow still wet
A mirror gleams drilled by a black eye-hole:
Diagnostic emblem of the soul.
Congratulations, George! AH NOW YOU PRAISE,
POOR FELLOWS, WHO MUST SOON MAKE SENSE OF IT.
& IF THAT SENSE COMES THRU AS DEVASTATING?
A FORCE AFRAID OF OR AN ENEMY
OF BOTH MY SCIENCE & YOUR POETRY
JIMMY, IS I NOW SUSPECT DICTATING
THE WORK IN HAND. From out past that blank window?
I THINK NOW I HEARD GABRIEL BACK THERE.
WHEN THEY ASSIGNED ME ‘MATTER’ (I WHOSE SUBJECT
WOULD IN THE COURSE OF THINGS BE HUMAN LIFE)
I FELT…WHAT? AN INEFFABLE ‘PERSUASION’
WORKING AT THE BALANCE OF THE SCALE
Upsetting? Tampering? LIKE YOU I LOVE
FAIR PLAY THE WHITE STUFF I RESIST BLACKMAIL
Back to your speech. See if we’ve understood:
Even immobilized by powerful chains
Of molecules, our very table strains
Obscurely toward oblivion—or would,
Save that the switch of Matter stays at Good.
Now, does your question also touch that spin
Of antiparticles our Lord of Light
Darts promptly forward to annihilate
—But which keep coming, don’t they? and are kin
Both to the Monitor and the insane
Presence beyond our furthest greenhouse pane?
JIMMY I THINK YOU KNOW AS MUCH AS I
—Whatever that means.
ENFANTS WHAT A GUY
OUR GEORGE! A FIGHTER! WYSTAN & MAMAN
THRILLED FOR ALAS WE 3 HAVE HAD OUR SAY.
NOW U ALONE MUST SPEAK ANOTHER DAY
JM: Tomorrow? WHY NOT? 4 JULY
SHOW SOME INDEPENDENCE But I’ll fall
Flat on my face, I—
IN THE POEM, FOOL!
Oh. Oh yes. The ambiguities…
Resolve them? Wear them on a ring, like keys
The heroine in James how seldom dares
Use, on the last page, to open doors?
MORE: FOR YR JUDGMENT LENDS WEIGHT TO THE SCALE
WORDS LIGHT AS ‘IRON’ OR ‘FEATHERS’ MERELY FILL.
ONE’S NOT MY BOY BRUSHED BY SUCH WINGS TO BE
STILL OF TWO MINDS Deep down, you know I’m not
—Or am I? Change the subject! DJ: What
Is Gabriel’s relation to the Monitor?
A TRIPPING RHYME FOR JM, MAZE TO MINOTAUR?
(One frame’s-length vision: writhing manikins
Gnawed by a black Archon for their sins)
ONE FEELS G IS IN RANK THE OTHER 3’S
VAST SUPERIOR And honest? YES
Not acting? NO. AN AGENT NONETHELESS
(ELA, GEORGAKI, TO THE WINDOW SEAT)
(NAI, MARIA MOU) What’s all this? SWEET
NOTHINGS I SHD THINK NOW GET YR PHONE
REPAIRED MY DEARS & HAVE AN EVENING’S FUN
*
UNICE, SIRS WAITING WITH YOU
DJ: Uni, I don’t know. We’re frightened.
THEY LEAVE A GOOD & GREEN AIR
& SO ARE KINDLY Well, let’s hope you’re right.
THEY COME THE LIGHT! (The scurry for the gate.)
The Middle Lessons: 4
Mich.
FOURTH WE HAVE COME IN GLAD ARRAY.
TO CELEBRATE YOUR NATIONAL DAY
I AND MY THREE BROTHERS MINE
PRESENT YOU WITH OUR DAUGHTERS NINE!
—Spoken from darkness. Fourfold brightenings
Descend upon the Muses in a pose
Held until Michael finishes. Each does
Her own thing after that—her countless things.
SPEAK, PRETTIES, THESE ARE POETS AND SCIENTISTS EAGER TO KNOW THE MYSTERIES IN THEIR MINDS.
A radium glance outflashing, the clear bell
Tolls of an icy voice: ONE I KNOW WELL!
GK.
PANAGHIA MOU, MY PHOENIX!
Mich.
DAUGHTER URANIA, COLD & UNIVERSAL CREATURE, SO…?
Uran.
YES, I PUT THOUGHTS SO POWERFUL INSIDE
THIS POOR GREEK’S HEAD, HE DIED.
TELL ME, FATHER GABRIEL,
DID I DO WELL OR ILL?
Gabr.
YOU DID WELL, DAUGHTER. IS HE NOT HERE?
Mich.
NOW, IN RANK, INTRODUCE YOURSELVES, AND MIND YOUR MANNERS!
Each in turn steps lightly forward, her
Image left to the imaginer.
MY DAILY WORK IS A CHAIN I WEAVE OF EVENTS
ENSLAVING MAN BY THE DECEPTIVE SENSE
OF HISTORY
I THALIA MAKE MY SISTER NORN
CLIO’S CHAIN INTO DRAMA, A WEB WORN
UPON THE BROW OF
ME, MNEMOSYNE
OR RECOLLECTION, WHO TAKE HISTORY
INTO MAN’S DREAMS, ENCHANTING, FRIGHTENING
HIS LIFELONG SLEEP. I WORK CLOSE BY
OUR MOTHER
IN WHOSE TANGLED GARDEN I
TERPSICHORE DANCE
AND I EVTERPE SING!
OUR YOUNGER SISTERS? EROTA?
IN MY TURN
I GO THROUGH SUCH ROUTINES AS BURN
THE POOR FORKED ANIMALS AWAY.
FROM THAT SPENT ASH URANIA RISES: COLD
REASON, THOUGHTS OF A LATE WINTER DAY
WHICH I CALYPSO WITH EURYDIKE
HAND IN HAND PLUCK OUT OF MEMORY,
WEEDING MOTHER’S GARDEN OF THE OLD,
THE ROTTED BY DISEASE, THE OVERBOLD,
THE YOUNG & CHARMING TOO, BUT THESE
WE SET ASIDE TO OFFER AS A BRIEF
BOUQUET, I AND MY SISTER: LAUGHING GRIEF
Clio.
AND SO WE NINE,
I ELDEST, ROAM THE DIMLY VAULTED BRINE-
ENCRUSTED CHAMBERS MAN CALLS BRAIN.
WE CLEAN AND WATER, MAKE THE POEM’S BED
WITH DIRTY SHEETS, AS BID.
GOD, SAY OUR FATHERS, WANTED SERVING MAIDS…
WE CATER FURTHER TO OUR MOTHER’S MOODS.
Mich.
YES, PRETTILY SAID. BUT SWEET & BITTER CLIO, THESE MORTALS ARE OF A SPECIAL KIND:
THE POETS WANT FACT, THE SCIENTIST (THOUGH HE KNOW IT NOT) POETICS.
THEREFORE, DAUGHTERS, NOW EXPLAIN YOUR BAG OF TRICKS.
From nimble hands the woven garland drops,
Is kicked aside by Clio. No more props
Beyond what pours from that collective bag—
Cries, convulsions, music, movement, paint,
Aspects of matron, maiden, bacchant, hag,
As needed, to drive home the fleeting point.
Clio.
LORDS, WHAT IS HISTORY?
NOT MUCH.
>
YESTERDAY’S BLANK PAGE HAPHAZARDLY
COLORED IN. PUTTING THE FINISHING TOUCH
ON MAN’S LONG FAILURE,
MY CRAYONS OF CREDULITY & DOUBT
CROSS OUT, CROSS OUT
THE PAINFUL TRUTH. MY SISTER THALIA?
Thal.
LORDS & STRANGERS, I MAKE MARZIPAN
OF CLIO’S LEAVINGS. THUS: TSU WUNG
POISONER OF THE SUNG EMPRESS FAN.
HE IS NO LONGER A NEARSIGHTED COOK
UNABLE TO TELL APART MUSHROOMS. MADE TO LOOK
TALL, HANDSOME, YOUNG,
YEARS YOUNGER, FIERYEYED
(EFFECTS SUPPLIED
BY EROTA’S BOX OF COSTUMES) MUST
KILL THE AGED BUT NO LESS
ROUGED INTO FLAMING PRETTINESS
DOWAGER DEAD OF UNREQUITED LUST!
Mich.
SO THE HISTORY WATERED DOWN IS HEATED UP BY THIS SECOND ONE.
YET, MINX MEMORY, SURELY YOU ALLOW A GLANCE AT THINGS AS THEY WERE?
Mnem.
HAH, MICHAEL, YOU JEST!
I AM SORCERY
& CHANGE YOUR OWN FACE AT ITS SUNNY BEST:
DIDN’T IT RAIN FOR OUR OUTING? WHY, MYRTLE BROWN,
WHERE’S YOUR MIND?
BRIGHT AS BRIGHT COULD BE!
AND SO ON UP, OR DOWN:
ALEXANDER’S MARCH? HE WENT
NORTH THAT 7TH DAY OF JUNE?
OR JUST SAT PLAYING CHECKERS IN HIS TENT?
YES LORDS, I SCATTER
SALT IN THE BLIND
WOUNDS OF ART: DID ALBERTINE
LOVE ME? SHE DID NOT.
Evt.
CHEER UP, SISTERS, WHAT A GLOOMY LOT!
COME, THE COMPOSER NEEDS A TUNE!
IF HE IS MODERN, SHRIEK & CLATTER,
HE BRIGHTENS WHEN A TRAIN GOES BY.
IF OLD, IF SULKY BEETHOVEN OR HIGH
SPIRITED MOZART, HE WILL FIND ME HUMMING
DEEP IN THE LAB: COME IN,
PACK UP THESE SWEETMEATS, BOYS, FOR YOUR HOMECOMING!
THE WHILE MY TWIN
WHIRLS
Terps.
WITH REASON: I
AM FORMALIZED DISTRACTION, STEP
DAUGHTER OF CHAOS. I STEEP
THE NERVE ENDS IN A VAT OF BUOYANT DYE
TILL LEADEN HEARTS ARE SOARING PLUME,
ARE MOTES OF FLUFF
IN MIRROR CEILINGS OF MAN’S LOUD RED GLOOM.
THEN PUFF! I BLOW HIM OFF
Uran.
TO ME.
MY SPHERE IS ICY RATIONALITY.
TO WORK, TO WORK! ENOUGH!
COME DOCTOR, SHAKE YOUR DRUG. DNA TO
THE OTH POWER EQUALS…
GK.
HER VOICE! MY THEOREM!
Uran.
YES.
FOR SUCH AS YOU, GREEK, I AM MERCILESS.
OTHERS I DRIVE MAD, NOT OUT OF SPITE
BUT THAT TOO OFTEN WITH DEFICIENT GEAR
THEY STUMBLE UP TO SOME GREAT HEIGHT
& I APPEAR:
OUT! OUT, DIM MIND! THESE REALMS ARE NOT FOR YOU!
EROTA HELPS ME.
Ero.
THE THINGS I SEE!
CELL CALLS TO CELL & FROM ON HIGH
GOD B HAS ORDERED: PROPAGATE OR DIE!
YET MAN WANTS LOVE—NOT BLITHELY LOOSENED CLOTHES
BUT AH, LE ROMAN DE LA ROSE
WHOSE POET ARM IN ARM WITH FANCY NEXT
STROLLS OFF TO CLIO AND A MOVING TEXT
OR TO URANIA & THE LOONY BIN.
CALYPSO? EURYDIKE?
Cal.
TWIN
STARS ARE WE, OF THALIA’S THEATRES,
OFTEN MISTAKEN FOR EACH OTHER.
PSYCHE-CHAOS OUR IMMORTAL MOTHER
USES MY LAUGHTER
Eury.
& MY TEARS.
Tableau. They strike a nine-fold attitude,
Provocatively, innocently crude.
Mich.
NOW HOME! GO STRAIGHT TO BED!
NO MEETINGS WITH DARK DESTINY, HOWLING SINGING & DANCING HALF THE NIGHT, LYING TO YOUR OLD FATHERS IN THE MORNING, CLAIMING YOU CAN’T REMEMBER! OFF!
AND WE SHALL, HAVING CAUGHT A GRACIOUS RAY,
MEET THEIR MOTHER ON ANOTHER DAY.
Exeunt.
Ouf! That rollercoaster ride
At least is over. We sit petrified.
CINDERELLA’S SISTERS? volunteers
Wystan & WHAT WILL MAW BE LIKE MY DEARS!
Psyche as Chaos…MIGHTN’T ONE HAVE GUESSED
THE BOX OF HORRORS WAS HER OWN HOPE CHEST?
Now George: I HAD A SHOCK LET ME TELL YOU,
ZERO’D IN ON BY THOSE EMBER EYES
Maria: & MAMAN’S HELPER, MEMORY?
FEEDING ME WHOLE TRUMPED-UP HISTORIES
OF PREVIOUS LIVES WHILE SLAVING IN AG’S GARDEN
Hag’s garden—they’re the same? Is “Agatha”—
The breastless martyr simpering in her plot
Of widow-weed and blue beget-me-not—
Nothing more or less than a code name
For tomorrow’s holy terror? Is the cast
Much smaller than we’d thought? Does our quick-change
Michael double as— DJ: Ephraim? Strange,
Both have golden eyes and look like Greek
Statues. WHAT TO SAY? MUCH GIVE & TAKE.
I GEORGE WHO FIRST WAS RAPH’S AM GABRIEL’S:
NOT NOW A ‘MONTEZUMA ELEMENT’
AFTER RADIATION But he knelt
To the Water Angel. Montezuma’d been
Noah, Moses…IT’S BEYOND ME OR
WAS I ALL OF THEIRS?
OUR JIGSAW GEORGIE!
Be serious, Maman. The Muses, too,
Have changed since classical times. RELENTLESSLY
RESTYLING FUNCTIONS & NAMES LIKE A COIFFURE!
DARLINGS MY BOY OF THEIR DADS’ INCESTUOUS
CROWD ALL RAMPANT ‘CREATIVITY’ PLUS
THAT SAVING TOUCH OF ACID CARICATURE.
VERY KURT WEILL AT ONE POINT THALIA
‘DID’ THE GRACES, SPLITTING INTO 3!
O IT’S A NASTY BRILLIANT FAMILY
We see the nastiness, all right. To think
Where it’s all leading—well, we simply shrink.
In spite of broad hints liberally strewn
Throughout, as to tomorrow afternoon,
Crescendo and confusion leave unheard
—By us at least—the clarifying word.
It’s like those 18th century finales
(Which might have lasted well into our age
Had not Rossini laughed them off the stage):
A thousand whirling thoughts confuse the head.
Blindly we cling to blindness, don’t reread
The transcripts any longer—far too grim.
ENFANTS, TOMORROW NOON A NICE COOL SWIM?
*
Noon. The rocks at Várkiza. Two figures
Perch on Raphael’s marble forearm, hawks
Hooded by reflection. DJ talks;
Out of the blue propounds that it takes all
One’s skill and patience to describe, oh, say
A chair without alluding to its use.
No words like “seat” or “arm-rest”—just deduce
As best one can the abstract entity.
The mind on hunkers, squinting not to see,
Gives up. Who needs this hypothetical
Instrument of torture anyway?
/>
JM: The marvel is that, once you give
The simple clue and say “a place to sit”,
Images flock, homely or exquisite—
Shaker or Sheraton, Jacob or Eames,
The Peacock Throne, chairs not created yet!
Plumped cushions, where sunlight or lamplight streams
Onto the open book— DJ: Forget
Those chairs. Look! This whole world’s a place to live!
—Plunging with a rusty rebel yell
Into the blue depths of Emmanuel.
Sensible Maria. Much restored
By afternoon, we sit down to the Board.
SIRS? IS THIS A GREAT OCCASION?
Why, Uni? Do you feel a difference?
I AM ACCOMPANIED BY 13 OTHERS
ALL MY HIERARCHY WE SECURE THIS SPACE!
DO NOT FEAR I AM UNICE YOUR FRIEND
The Middle Lessons: 5
Mich.
BROTHERS, CHILDREN,
THESE OUR FOUR MEETINGS MET WITH SOME DECAY.
NOW IN THE FIFTH ONE LET US STAY
THE FALL, AND SAVE THE DAY!
Facing the open door expectantly.
WE BROTHERS, SHADES & MORTALS AWAIT YOU, MAJESTY. COME ADDRESS US.
AS TWIN SISTER TO OUR GOD BIOLOGY, YOUR RADIANT MIND HUMBLES AND DOES HONOR.
At a light footstep all profoundly bow.
Enter—in a smart white summer dress,
Ca. 1900, discreetly bustled,
Trimmed if at all with a fluttering black bow;
Black ribbon round her throat; a cameo;
Gloved but hatless, almost hurrying
—At last! the chatelaine of Sandover—
A woman instantly adorable.
Wystan, peeking, does a double take:
Somewhere on Earth he fancies he has seen
A face so witty, loving, and serene
—But where? Some starry likeness drawn by Blake
Perhaps for ‘Comus’? or the one from Dante
Of Heavenly Wisdom? This, then, is the third
And fairest face of Nature (whom he’ll come
To call, behind Her back of course, Queen Mum).
Glance lively with amusement, speaks. Each word,
Though sociable and mild, sounds used to being heard:
MICHAEL, YOU RASCAL GABRIEL! RAPHAEL & DEAR TWIN EMMANUEL, ALL HERE? AND ON SUCH CEREMONY?
GIVE IT OVER. WE ARE A CLASSROOM, A FORUM. HERE WE MEET TO STUDY THE MIND OF MAN.
The schoolroom, having dressed for the occasion
In something too grown-up, too sheer—the sense,
Through walls, of a concentric audience,
Rank upon blazing petaled rank arisen—
Quickly corrects its blunder, reassumes
Childhood’s unruly gleams and chalk-dust glooms.
The Changing Light at Sandover Page 41