Reynolds & Midway XXVI.

Dazed, & maybe a jot confused,

we woke from our dreamless sleep of an hour's
duration, having been undisturbd by wasp,
or locust. Push it , the androgynous Plant
waild, against the fly the guessd-at rod
of alpha male not spared for twenty-five ,
he croond, where in New York
those horsed policemen cruisd for long-haird youth,
around the Garden on the East when Bron-yr-Aur  went
belling, like golden water in a flute,
pads squeaking up the fretted wood, the four
faces mild w drink & wonder: having
the world a relish on a half shell. We
abandond hate & loosd our tongues againe
to tempt the wrath of Yahweh that raind down
havoc of rain & fire, & burnd with fire—
But what of Robert, queried Reynolds. Midway's
eyes went glazèd o'er, & thocht of Robert
whose Celtic chest, nor not that Robert neither,
he sd, & put his palm out like those kings
of Gondor, he of whom we lately spoke.
Tell us the story, the other elbowd, winkd,
& shut his hole, whereat the poet lourd
& hesitated, ruminating ruins
& pomegranates, pillars, caterpillers,
chapiters: the wrath of the Lord of Hosts,
& Zedekiah blinded, bound in chains
for whom we wept but yesternight, & Paul
who wreckd but left no handsome corpse,
the need 4 speed too hot in him. We wept
& wet the pillow for the dead, the millions
dying in pain, slaughterd in war, pusht
in shallow graves alive in Nanking, frozen
to death, butcherd in Auschwitz: tears
that Mengele shd live, children gassd,
the old stript naked, bulldozed into piles.
We wept, but questiond not the ways of God,
nor do we question here. In shuddering love
we wept, & swallowd Reason, taking hold
of SØren's despair in blinded faith,
for having made the leap & past all doubt,
nor wanting courage in our hearts to wake
from viewless slumber, barren of image,
& live another day without question,
without rebellion, Lord. O gaunt Christ,
my Lord, Thy narrow body, by whose wounds
I am refresht, awakend, by whose stripes
I am reminded of my deep corruption,
my turning away, my scarlet shame. O Lord,
Who will not come down from the Tree
to walk again on Galilee
for all my mental fight, but nine-inch-naild
remaineth, scourgd & bloody. When You thirst
I lift the sponge, & when You die I thrust
the blade into Your side, again, again,
& stand upon Your shoulders, & I laugh
& roll the dice, & gambol lyke a lambe
on greene hills in a swelling empire, easy-
peasy, Lord, in surety & safety,
leastways for now, remindeth Emmet, whom
I tolt of in a story; but the time
cometh: The words of Jeremiah blast & blare
worldwide & wheresoever eyes are open
& ears shall hear. Mine eyes are open, Lord,
mine ears shall hear.

 

 

12.9.13