Gnostic Paranoia

I don’t remember writing this, except for a line here and there. And it wasn’t some late night production. I wrote it in my head on the way to work, scribbled it out on paper and then put it on the computer at my desk. But it went into a folder on october 23rd and stayed there till friday night when I clicked on it. I guess it’s an instance of ‘things recollected without tranquility’. I have been thinking of the original phrase (as all poets must sometimes do) because I am working on a long post on Jonathan Lethem’s Fortress of Solitude which at least one reviewer said was Lethem’s ‘spiritual autobiography’. Unlike Wordsworth’s it leaves a lot unsaid. It is one of my abiding obsessions that American writers leave too much unsaid. They are afraid of feeling. Feeling=cliche or feeling=sentimentality. It was TS Eliot who said poetry and drama are not about philosophy but about emotion. Yes, the guy who wanted to winnow the self out of art. And all you have to do is read him. He is an hysteric. He put on green make-up to look more corpse-like. He drank martinis. This poem goes as is onto the page. I don’t know what to make of it, or anything else for that matter. Against the feeling of imprisonment, of a world ossified in stupidity, unable to change, there is also a feeling of freedom. None of the old bullshit makes any difference at all. Set adrift, the only thing to do is take inspiration from Milton’s fallen angels and build pandemonium. I was reading Paradise Lost by the fire this weekend. Milton points out that even demons have a sense a of honor. I would think especially the fallen have a sense of honor. There is (we believe) honor among thieves. And it is in mafia movies that the old, early modern theme of the conflict between honor and the demands of Moloch and Mammon is still played out. Young Henry lies to Hotspur. Machiavelli wins.

 

i know i am not being told things

the diplomas on the wall don’t lie

letters in the mail are true

voices of different promptings

confuse the matter with desire

but the fear of true sunlight

withers in the throat and all mute protest

must bloom like a mushroom

despite the certain hints

and the full comments teased

out of epigraphic fragments

in unfamiliar dialects of dead languages

and in letters that may or may not date

to a specific subcontinental era

the messages are clear

go home and sleep

take care not to speak

for you: only care in the ward

for you: a cocaine drip

for you my friend, there is no anaesthesia

there is only synesthesia and amnesia

and clorox bleach on the needles

and ammonia splashed on the feet

and foul sponges wrung out in a bucket

and wheels on the street

no walk is done without argument

but as the time from birth increases

and the evening greens deepen into blue

there will be dispute, aloud, of hunger,

snarling at strangers and the unfounded

beliefs of youth, before blossoming into manias,

become tautological certainties

and the inchoate  nostalgia will grow terse

the past will not serve as a feeling

there will be no tradition of sanity

there will be no family curse

be at peace my gentle lie

you will not serve

the only thing worse than death

is the alternative

it is, in this, like relationship

but as dire as marriage can be

the lips and thighs

don’t lie in the dark

when they open

but this physical certainty of love

is not what i am after

it is not the girl in the white t shirt

it is not the make up in the bathroom

it is not the best bar in the world

it is not a ten minute guitar solo

these are gifts but the other gift

of voices that will not be stilled

till the last action, is slaughtered

the unforgiving look of eurydice returning

when she thought the man had a way out

when it was clear that the project was

both real and safe and the shutter came down

on a private world that looked so broad

and bright with well appointed ships of trade

and ministers of state with red coats

gold collars and sable trimmed cuffs

before the doo dads were laid out on the beach

the money all counted in the chest, so many

gold sovereigns and so many silver angels

trumpets full of confetti

expectations of profit and fine winds

not antonio and bassanio

but a venice which is real

an exchange of bubbles my dear

the diplomas don’t lie nor the letters

and the slow creeping knowledge

always the same always within reach

is undeniable, this coffee will be cold

even if you huff and you puff

even if you’re wolf or pig

even if you’re very very good

the signs do not relent

it is there for all to see but i don’t

i have been thorough in my training

i have taught my heart to see

and driven my eyes into my head

with two sharpened bones.

I have no trusted ministers

Just a priest in red satin

And spies who soak up gossip

In brothels and drink watered down wine

I have no whisper in the ear

No little bird to tell tales of dry land

The signs i seek for i don’t seek for

I have forgotten the lay of things

Forgotten where things lie

And the lies i am told by voices

That call out on long walks from bridges

And sigh within bushes, not fires

No the flames don’t lick the euonymus

And anonymous notes sent via social networking groups

Are mostly invitations to fraud and these are my true

Only friends who conspire to tell the old tales

In the old ways and the old things persist

Though death is dynamism and in division

We are rejoined. Contemplations

Of this splicing aren’t kinglike and the rex

Of this confusion wears a crown of his own devising

Though he is wordsmith not goldsmith his art is that of the syllable

And the poison fumes collecting in the garret

(Garrets are ill-lit, unventillated eaves with frosted

Alarm webbed windows and gun-turrets mounted

To discourage catapults and siege engines and unfriendly phone calls)

But any voice, whether of minister, spy or ally is suspect

And the only meaningful exchange is one done in silence

With a shift of the eyes or the raising of a finger

Even a bitten lip can convey what i have said

In these days to these people about these things

Which i took like rights to be self evident

Which by the clear light of nature i knew

Which my training and craft i had studied and pursued and anatomized

Until i was as sure as any church doctor that i had proved

The unprovable and pure and hence in the spotlight naked and voiced

I could see it all uncurl like wood shavings

And leaves fall like locks to the floor

And it isn’t like i haven’t felt good hair

Haven’t fled the voices or accepted what they denounce in me

It isn’t even like i haven’t abandoned the word I in preference

Of an astute persona, or personae

It was not for lack of study no, for few have made a greater

Study of the ancient art than i

But i discovered what i always discovers in i more i

And although this is more rain than the earth can endure

The inundation continues