( F OR ALBERT AND ANGELYN STEVENS )
Kicking his mother until she let go of his soul Has given him a healthy appetite: clearly, her role
In the New Order must be To supply and deliver his raw materials free;
Should there be any shortage, She will be held responsible; she also promises To show him all such attentions as befit his age. Having dictated peace,With one fist clenched behind his head, heel drawn up to thigh, The cocky little ogre dozes off, ready,
Though, to take on the rest l
Of the world at the drop of a hat or the mildest
Nudge of the impossible, Resolved, cost what it may, to seize supreme power and Sworn to resist tyranny to the death with all Forces at his command.
A pantheist not a solipsist, he co-operates With a universe of large and noisy feeling-states
Without troubling to place Them anywhere special, for, to his eyes, Funnyface
Or Elephant as yet Mean nothing. His distinction between Me and Us Is a matter of taste; his seasons are Dry and Wet; He thinks as his mouth does. j
Still his loud iniquity is still what only the
Greatest of saints become—someone who does not lie: ,
He because he cannot Stop the vivid present to think, they by having got
Past reflection into A passionate obedience in time. We have our Boy- Meets-Girl era of mirrors and muddle to work through, Without rest, without joy.
Therefore we love him because his judgements are so Frankly subjective that his abuse carries no
Personal sting. We should Never dare offer our helplessness as a good
Bargain, without at least Promising to overcome a misfortune we blame History or Banks or the Weather for: but this beast Dares to exist without shame.
Let him praise our Creator with the top of his voice, Then, and the motions of his bowels; let us rejoice
That he lets us hope, for He may never become a fashionable or
Important personage: However bad he may be, he has not yet gone mad; Whoever we are now, we were no worse at his age; So of course we ought to be glad
When he bawls the house down. Has he not a perfect right To remind us at every moment how we quite
Rightly expect each other To go upstairs or for a walk if we must cry over
Spilt milk, such as our wish That, since, apparently, we shall never be above Either or both, we had never learned to distinguish Between hunger and love?
? August 1942
59
The Lesson
The first time that I dreamed, we were in flight, And fagged with running; there was civil war, A valley full of thieves and wounded bears.
Farms blazed behind us; turning to the right. We came at once to a tall house, its door Wide open, waiting for its long-lost heirs.
An elderly clerk sat on the bedroom stairs Writing; but we had tiptoed past him when He raised his head and stuttered—"Go away." We wept and begged to stay:
m
i
He wiped his pince-nez, hesitated, then Said no, he had no power to give us leave;
Our lives were not in order; we must leave. •
* * *
The second dream began in a May wood; We had been laughing; your blue eyes were kind, Your excellent nakedness without disdain.
Our lips met, wishing universal good;
But on their impact sudden flame and wind
Fetched you away and turned me loose again
To make a focus for a wide wild plain,
Dead level and dead silent and bone dry,
Where nothing could have suffered, sinned, or grown. ,
On a high chair alone
I sat, a little master, asking why
The cold and solid object in my hands
Should be a human hand, one of your hands. * * *
And the last dream was this: we were to go j
To a great banquet and a Victory Ball After some tournament or dangerous test.
Only our seats had velvet cushions, so
We must have won; though there were crowns for all,
Ours were of gold, of paper all the rest.
O fair or funny was each famous guest. Love smiled at Courage over priceless glass, And rockets died in hundreds to express Our learned carelessness. A band struck up; all over the green grass A sea of paper crowns rose up to dance: Ours were too heavy; we did not dance.
I woke. You were not there. But as I dressed Anxiety turned to shame, feeling all three Intended one rebuke. For had not each In its own way tried to teach My will to love you that it cannot be, As I think, of such consequence to want What anyone is given, if they want?
October 1942
60
The Sea and the Mirror
A Commentary on Shakespeare's The Tempest
(TO JAMES AND TANIA STERN)
And am I wrong to worship where Faith cannot doubt nor Hope despair Since my own soul can grant my prayer? Speak, God of Visions, plead for me And tell why I have chosen thee.
Emily Bronte
Preface
(The Stage Manager to the Critics)
The aged catch their breath, For the nonchalant couple go Waltzing across the tightrope As if there were no death Or hope of falling down;
u
The wounded cry as the clown j
Doubles his meaning, and O j
How the dear little children laugh When the drums roll and the lovely Lady is sawn in half.
i
O what authority gives
Existence its surprise?
Science is happy to answer
That the ghosts who haunt our lives
Are handy with mirrors and wire,
That song and sugar and fire,
Courage and come-hither eyes
Have a genius for taking pains.
But how does one think up a habit?
Our wonder, our terror remains. '
Art opens the fishiest eye J
To the Flesh and the Devil who heat j
The Chamber of Temptation Where heroes roar and die. We are wet with sympathy now;
Thanks for the evening; but how |
Shall we satisfy when we meet,
Between Shall-I and I-Will,
The lion's mouth whose hunger
No metaphors can fill?
Well, who in his own backyard
Has not opened his heart to the smiling
Secret he cannot quote?
Which goes to show that the Bard
Was sober when he wrote
That this world of fact we love
Is unsubstantial stuff:
.Ml the rest is silence
On the other side of the wall;
And the silence ripeness,
And the ripeness all.
I Prospero to Ariel
Stay with me, Ariel, while I pack, and with your first free act
Delight my leaving; share my resigning thoughts As you have served my revelling wishes: then, brave spirit,
Ages to you of song and daring, and to me Briefly Milan, then earth. In all, things have turned out better
Than I once expected or ever deserved; I am glad that I did not recover my dukedom till
I do not want it; I am glad that Miranda No longer pays me any attention; I am glad I have freed you,
So at last I can really believe I shall die. For under your influence death is inconceivable:
On walks through winter woods, a bird's dry carcass Agitates the retina with novel images,
A stranger's quiet collapse in a noisy street Is the beginning of much lively speculation,
And every time some dear flesh disappears What is real is the arriving grief; thanks to your service,
The lonely and unhappy are very much alive. But now all these heavy books are no use to me any more, for
Where I go, words carry no weight: it is best, Then, I surrender their fascinating counsel