It is getting louder again The sound of onrushing waters Drowning out the sound of drowning Masking water rising to sweep away The very fountain from which it upwells Swallow it into sinking depths Into which no sun can shine Into which the shit of luckier creatures far above falls Unceasing snow in every season
Bubble, bubble… Photo by Gabriel Peter on Pexels.com
Maybe something will fall from on high that is worth having But if it does It will do so ungently And find the forehead’s center Splattering messily or Thudding soddenly
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Because they fear what they do not control
Because they fear what they do control
Because they know what bows to them today
May stand taller than they tomorrow
And they fear to be looked down upon for more reasons than
Shame at growing bald
Because they know what kneels before them tonight
Might suddenly bite down
Take a small mouthful away instead of
A tablespoon of lukewarm soup
Because they know that they do not know
And they do not want others to know as much
Because they know that they are not enough
They do as they do
Reaching out one hand to grip a bar they think was
Planted long before and not realizing that
It has never stood as straight as they see it, that
It is bent and curved and knurled
As any can find who bestir themselves to seek
And go a bit from where they began
Some need no cutting down to size… Photo by Nishant Aneja on Pexels.com
They do not want to be so moved
Clearly
And so they keep their hands upon that bar
Clinging to it as the world will move them up and down
Their palms sliding
As they must
Which would not be so bad if they did not force so many
Not only to observe
But to take part in their little shows
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Around this time last year, I posted a translation I did of The Dream of the Rood. It’s been on my mind again in recent weeks, partly because it is the time of year that it is, and partly because of some other things going on about which I might comment at some point or another; I am not yet certain. Today, I have some leisure to attend to it, having been given an unexpected day off from my regular job, something for which I am grateful; I rather enjoy writing, however good or otherwise I might be at the task, and the thinking that undergirds it has its charms, so that the opportunity to engage in both is a welcome thing.
For many, especially in this part of the world, the day serves as a reminder of sacrifice and the necessary costs of salvation, prepaid for those who, like the dreamer in the poem, are aftercomers “stained with sins, / badly wounded with sins.” (I think I could polish the translation more, but that is another project for another time, one of many that might be imagined.) Much is made of the magnitude of the sacrifice, of the agony that was endured by those crucified in the Roman style, and better theologians and historians than I can speak more eloquently and accurately to the same.
For my own part, as often, I find myself coming up with questions that I expect would be heterodoxies to voice–if not more. Ideas about their answers abound for me, offering other projects that might be undertaken; there is never a shortage of them, although there are shortages of my time and talents to attend to them all. (I would seem to have internalized humilitas to some extent, both sincerely and otherwise.) But if I were to voice one idea, one that might not be so divergent as all that: the story so widely celebrated today, the self-sacrificial sin-taking for others’ redemption, speaks to many to say that there is some hope, and that even amid those who would abuse laws to persecute those whom they perceive as threats to their power, there is some sympathy to be found.
I am not sure, certainly, how far to follow that idea, how far it can be followed. That there are limits to any such thing, I am well aware; indeed, one of the standard questions I pose in the lesson plans I still write is to find the point of failure and interrogate it. But I am no longer at the front of the classroom, so it is not for me to push others to such contemplations. It is for me, however, to conduct them myself, and a solemn observance–even in advance of a joyous occasion–offers opportunity for such things.
I remain grateful for such things.
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Something about sitting under a springtime sun Staring into the open blue sky In advance of the evening’s enjoyment Prompts pondering on what has passed to this point How many such days Or sultry summer afternoons and their languid evenings Or autumn nights warmed by flickering flames and fragrant smoke Or winter mornings spent snuggled beneath blankets Have been lost to labor for others’ gain For no better reasons than another’s profit, And the scraps from their table Copper crumbs falling from crackling lips That grimace as any other’s gain
The most benign…
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Gone out and partied instead of
Staying in and studying
Slacked off and coasted instead of
Showing up and working hard
Made friends and talked to people instead of
Sitting alone in the room with books
Played outside or lounged about instead of
Taking the job and
Showing up for every holiday
…and never was. Photo by cottonbro studio on Pexels.com
But I did not
They told me not to
Said doing as I did would lead to success
And it might be called success to be
Working in a field for which I never trained
Working to pay off the debts that cluster in my name
Working so that others may profit all the more
Working day and night each day and night
But if this is success
What must failure be?
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The jewels upon her dress are losing their luster And the dyes of its fabric begin to fade Its warp and weave fraying and growing ragged On her chalk-like rolling swellings as He lays his castings out longer and harder daily
Picture not related Photo by Alex Conchillos on Pexels.com
Worse Of course Are the clinging things Bloating up with blood on which they feast Clamoring for more And turning away from the sight of the sky as they beset her
Still She is beloved Deeply and by many And the thought of leaving her Though such parting might be needed Is no easy thing
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They show up in patches on the roadside Stains upon the carpet stretching wide Spilled by passers-by and thickest nearest traffic Crowding where the sludge and slime run off Color springing from the filth
The old song sings Of bulls that leap and bucks that fart Ascribing thus to the old hart The effects of a high-fiber diet And as the spring Prompts buds to bloom and fruits to start And birds to take flight and to dart I think that I may try it
The years have passed since we went on our adventure Passing from the hills into the high plains Packing into a tent that huddled against the wind As dark clouds blew in and disease And we returned to fear and hiding away Coming back to find that everything had stopped
No, this ain’t it. Photo by Aru0131n Turkay on Pexels.com
Things have long since started again The sickness pervading the world And the one chance there might have been to start again Gone like so many who Drowned within themselves Choking on their own sputum as others swore It’s no big deal People die every day anyway
Still Still Still Still We have to wonder if it will happen again
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Ever do I seek to simply Sit with pen in hand and page In front of me Using the former to fill the latter And get the things out of my head that well up within
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It is not water that comes from that spring Dripping sometimes but flooding in season Nor yet does it leach away whence it flows Or, at least, it does not so in a way anyone knows For who remarks on one more hole in A thing already spongelike?
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Elliott RWI 