Poetry

Apocalypse 32

The elite of a nation play the tune

Which all the middle and the lower class

Do dance along to, like a skeleton

Which taps its foot while lovely music plays

The dance of life, each of us, every one

We move along until the end of days;

With death as master of ceremonies

Each man enjoys himself and then he dies.

And so the British elite of my time

Made death their master. You, Philip Larkin,

I saw you panting when you tried to climb

Right there; you, poet Laureate, were undone

In those last stages. You it is I blame

For making atheism so common.

You, poet, did not make the finish line,

(I saw him fall apart there, dead and thin).

I knew him, for my guide informed me thus:

‘That’s Larkin, English murderer of God.

A wasted set of bones. He reached this place

Then failed, because he point blank hates my Dad.

And here, ahead of him, Martin Amis

And Richard Dawkins; these and others said

That they could build a state and English land

Without a Lord. And I died by their hand.

‘The State no matter how perfect it is

Kills Christ again, as Roman soldiers once

Nailed me for law’s sake to a shameful cross.

And that is what the land does to its sons.’

He stopped, and looked adown toward a corse

Which seemed to live and to be dead at once,

‘This body here lacks any kind of soul

My father loved him, but to no avail.’

It was a leathery skin stretched over bone

Whose lips receded over naked teeth.

‘It’s nobody, it’s soulless, anyone.

God loved them well beyond their actual worth

He tended them and spoke through word and sign.

But right up to their final and last breath

An entire generation turned away.

What father can constrain his son to stay?’

And now, I realised what they had meant

When I was young, when it was said that God

Is a loving father, with loving intent.

My Lord went on: ‘If the atheist State

Had let you see your son before the end,

And not rewarded madness in the maid

Who was his mother, what do you think you’d say

To him, imparting wisdom to the boy?’

‘What would I say to him, the things reserved

For age?’ I asked and he replied ‘Say on’.

Then I said: ‘I would tell him how I served

Some days and nights a suspect in prison

Locked up in gaol alone for having loved

And written to him, and for that reason.

They’ll say, they did not mean to take my son,

But that occurred, however the tale is spun.

‘So when the handcuffs of the State are off,

And you are sat alone inside your cell

Know you have seen the extent of their love.

There is a slot they use to see all’s well,

Ensuring by this means that you are alive.

They wash their hands. Hear what I have to tell:

Look inwards and rejoice, you aren’t alone

It’s what the rogue state does to everyone.

‘And call to God in quiet, he will hear.’

I paused, and then my master: ‘Do you think

Your boy would ever be a prisoner?’

And I: ‘If he was free to do his thing,

Then he would be a victim of the law.

I’d tell him of the army and my rank,

The desert where I almost lost my self

While suffering too much madness and guilt.

‘Like how the tension pulling at a man

When he is responsible for killing men

And he is the target of another’s gun;

And finally, when he has undergone

The combat deaths and murders and the strain

Of being guilty, then the burning sun

Will leave him empty, so he calls to God.

And this is right. That’s what I would have said.’

‘You wouldn’t want your boy to go without.

You’d help him, and advise him, even though

He volunteered himself, and was at fault.

A father lets his child go out and be;

But in the end, he does not hesitate

To rescue him, ensuring he pulls through.’

‘Dead right,’ I said. We stepped past bodies there,

Of sons who had denied their Father’s care.

‘If I had had more time, I'd have told him,

If people had let him hear my advice,

Of the emotions and the awful shame,’

I said, ‘Of sex, the youthful lust and vice

Which I should have avoided in my time;

The danger of unwanted pregnancies

And falling off the tracks in shameful acts

Before the time is right. They call it sex

‘In this atheist and socialist culture

And see how, nonetheless, children are rare.

I’d warn him how such things are for the future

And how though he is burning with desire

The final aim of perfect human nature

Is impassivity and inward fire.

If you submit to be the Son and prove

Your excellence, you really can survive.

‘But I will never need to tell him now.’

Then there were sirens in the silent night

The kind which rises to a crescendo

And also rises in the pitch of note

And falls in volume slowly and goes low.

The air raid siren noise. ‘And what is that?’

I said, and he: ‘The final trumpet blast

Re-echoing outside, and in the breast.

‘Your stories for your child all point one way,

To the foundation of the world, within.

I notice how the homeland and country

Were the occasion of the fall to sin,

And this is how it always used to be

And how it is. Your own crucifixion.’

The trumpet sounded louder and more near

I will explain it in the next chapter.