Saturday 22 September 2012

The Mask of Agamemnon

Pale gold, thin as card, shaped to a face
Heavy-lidded eyes like cowries, and a smile.
Not the faint ironic smile of a skull,
But a grin of power; satiated;
Having laid conscience to rest.
This face, not Helen’s, launched the thousand ships,
Murdered Iphigenia, burned Troy,
To avenge an insult to the family,
To not lose face.

Then, fixed in eternal gold,
Sent out of sight of man to darkness,
Unrotted in the grave; for endless years
Only the gods could see. To them it showed its grin
And the message: “This face was not lost:
“Through heroic genocide, and towns laid waste, this face was saved”.

And now is saved indeed
Since Schliemann dug it from the earth.
Placed now behind bullet-proof glass
Stronger than stone walls and Lion Gates
Under fluorescence far brighter
Than any sun of Hellas
Agamemnon, great king
Of mighty Mycenae
Once more in state
Triumphant over death as over morality
Immortalised in story as in gold
Still grinning. We repeat: this face was saved
Though nothing else was.
Troy was lost, and soon after
Mycenae also was lost, but this face was not lost.
What more could any king desire?

Monday 17 September 2012

Crime and Punishment

On the first occasion, he saw in the distance a marvellous city. A bright sun caused its towers and pinnacles to shine like gold, and the glitter from the numberless windows was like a scattering of diamonds. Banners of all colours fluttered in the breeze, which bore to him the scent of new-mown hay. He was not close enough to glimpse the people of the city, but he felt sure they were a noble race, for who could fail to be noble amongst such beauty? He greatly desired to enter the city and walk its streets, but even as he approached the walls the vision was snatched from him and he awoke. The little bottle of opium stood beside his bed.

He never found his city again, though he saw many strange and wonderful things, most of which escaped his memory directly he awoke. But as time progressed, and his doses of the drug increased, his visions held darkness amidst the beauty. He saw a gorgeous pavilion, set in gardens above a river, but knew it was doomed to imminent destruction. He saw himself on a mountain peak, which appeared to be in the Lake District, and listened to the music of the bells ringing in the valleys below, but the songs the bells sang were songs of death. He saw a young bride entering the castle of her elderly husband, and she was very lovely, but when she turned towards him he saw her eyes were the yellow unblinking eyes of a serpent. All these things he was able to record in his poems, which helped to relieve his pain. Each time his apprehension increased, but he could not abandon his search now.

After a while, waking and dreaming seemed to merge, and he was left unsure which was which. Sometimes when he walked through the streets of London at night, plagued by the insomnia resulting from the opium, he thought he had found his wondrous city at last, only it was no longer marvellous, but sinister and haunted. Evil lurked around every corner, watching him from a distance, just out of his sight, and the people he met (but could not speak to, nor did they speak to him) were not noble heroes and ravishing beauties, but ghosts, who wore the masks of death. He realised he was being punished for his temerity. His awareness of guilt deepened, until he came to feel he had committed a crime so monstrous, so horrible, that even he could not be told what it was. I have blasphemed against the gods by my search, he thought: no, it is far worse than that: my crime somehow threatens the very basis of the universe; and my punishment will be like none that has ever existed before.

He only knew of one way which might allow him to escape from these horrors: he must set them out in a poem, which would tell of a man who is guilty of a terrible crime and justly suffers an equally terrible punishment, but is eventually redeemed by his suffering
and pardoned. Such an ending would provide him with at least some hope of release. But what precise crime would the man in his poem have committed, since he could not
explain it himself? He did not know. So he consulted his closest friend; also a poet, but more down-to-earth in his ideas. And William pondered for a while, and then said, “I was reading the other day about a sailor who was marooned on a desert island by his shipmates, who were disgusted by his wickedness. It appears that sailors regard shooting an albatross as a very wicked act, and also an extremely unlucky one”.

“Thank you”, said Samuel, “I shall take up that idea. My poem will be about a sailor who is punished for shooting an albatross. I shall call him, The Ancient Mariner."

Monday 10 September 2012

The Days

The first day was golden with the radiance of pure light, as the Sun rose. Creation began. But behind the radiance was the anti-light, the false creation, which is the greatest sin.

The second day was glittering silver beneath the Moon. It was a day of mysteries, of hidden things, and of the waters. And the sin of the second day was magic, and forbidden knowledge.

The third day was blood red, and it was the day of Mars. A day of struggle, a day of iron. The sin of the third day was violence, and blind rage.

The fourth day was black as the infinite void, but from the blackness rose swift Mercury, the Quicksilver, who made it a day of buying and selling, of coming and going, and of messages. The sin of the fourth day was greed.

On the fifth day the firmament was painted bright blue, and its lord was Jupiter. So great was he that some confused him with his Maker. And the sin of the fifth day was pride.

The sixth day was the shining green of verdigris. Here lay the naked form of Venus, who commanded it to be a day for lovemaking. And so the sin of the sixth day was lust.

The seventh day was rich imperial purple, robing ancient Saturn as he yawned on his leaden throne of unendurable weight. On this day all creatures rest from their labours. So the sin of the seventh day was idleness.

So the first week ends.

Thursday 6 September 2012

In the Gardens

I left the crowds who were milling around near the entrance, playing football, picnicking on the lawns or lying by the flowerbeds in the warm spring sunshine, and wandered off into the glades. After a while a came across a long avenue of chestnuts in bloom, all cream and white, and at the end stood the Crimson Pagoda. I walked towards it and realised it was very tall. But it was not what I had come to see.
There were fewer people in this part of the gardens, and they were scattered and solitary. A few were walking, but most were sitting alone and silent on benches under the trees. They were generally middle-aged or elderly. I approached one grey-haired man, and when he showed no sign of acknowledging my presence, coughed discreetly to attract his attention.
“Excuse me”, I ventured apologetically, “Can you tell me the way to the Queen’s House, please?”
He glanced up. His face bore an expression of annoyance. “Over there through the trees and carry straight on”, he said, making a gesture with his left hand and then closing his eyes to indicate that the interview was over. Somewhat daunted by this abrupt reception, I walked quickly away.
There was a path that seemed to run in the right direction, but after a while it began to snake back on itself and there were several junctions. Nobody had put up signposts in this part of the gardens, and after a while I lost confidence in where I was heading and tried to cut across country. The long and unmown grass was still wet from morning dew, and bluebells carpeted the shady places. Huge clumps of rhododendron and holly loomed up to block my intended route. After I had wandered for some time a caught sight of the crimson pagoda up ahead, and realised I must have walked in a circle.
I felt hot and tired as well as irritated by my mistake, but had no intention of being defeated in my plan so easily. A glance at my watch told me that it was only ten past three, and I did not need to leave the gardens for a while yet. I tried asking the way again, this time from a resolute-looking old lady who was walking with the aid of a stick. Her reply was brusque and not very helpful, and once again I set off. This time my travels took me into a thicket of willows, where I soon became disorientated, and next I found my way barred by dense hawthorn bushes all strewn with early may-blossom. There was no sign of the Queen’s House. I wished I had taken the trouble to buy a map of the gardens before setting out, and for that matter a tin of drink from the cafĂ© would also have been sensible. I was still pondering on this when the familiar outline of the Crimson Pagoda came into view again.
I lost track of how many times I must have wandered in these meaningless circles. Eventually I even began to doubt whether I was capable of finding my way back to the entrance. My feet were burning, I was very thirsty and above all I needed a rest. I found a secluded wooden bench under a gigantic beech tree. The young leaves cast dappled shadows and the air was very still. I sat down, stretched out my legs, turned my face to the sky and closed my eyes. The Queen’s House would have to wait ……

I snapped suddenly awake at looked at my watch. It still said ten past three and had clearly stopped, but this did not worry me unduly. Even if I was completely lost, the park-keeper would surely come round at closing time to shepherd everyone out. For the moment, I could stay where I was. The day was still bright, and when I was properly rested I would have time to resume my search. It was very pleasant here under the trees, letting the scents of spring waft over me. What was so special about finding the Queen’s House anyway? No doubt it would be worth seeing, but it would be empty: everyone knew it was many years since the Queen had actually lived there.
The sun hung motionless in the sky, and the warm afternoon lasted for ever …….

An unwelcome voice made itself heard. I looked up in annoyance at this unnecessary intrusion into my private reverie. It was a young fellow asking his way to the Queen’s House. His face, his voice, his whole manner irritated me.
Over there through the trees”, I said, waving my arm at random. You can’t miss it”. I was glad to be rid of him.