Poetry

Judgement 7

A man goes to a pub, orders a pint,

Another starts to talk about the weather,

“It’s hot outside, or is there rain and wind?”

“Or is it cloudy?” so men talk together.

Nobles and royalty of a damp land. neither,”

I used to talk out loud to myself then,

The long dark night which just went on and on.

I do not know if hours or days or weeks

Were spent on walking to my destination.

The pack was heavy. Sometimes there were shrieks

Like those that foxes bark in their coition,

And like the screaming noises of some hawks;

But these were human sounds of desolation.

So when I came across another person,

My heart leaped, I struck up a conversation.

“Who are you, stranger? What’s your family,

And where is the place where you first saw the sun?”

Sometimes I liked to speak Homericly,

Instead of speaking like a gentleman.

“I’m Kleitos; I was Phillip’s close ally

And soldier to the king, Alex, his son.”

And I said: “It surprises me a lot

That Greeks like you are here, revived by God.

“You would have thought that only Christians

Survived the world’s end.” He replied, “My king

Was like a god. Ecstatic transcendence

Is typical of human natural being.

We rise from time and spatial conditions.

We rise above. With mind, with everything

Men do exceed the world, the world they exceed

Because God drags them, dragging from outside.

“King Alexander, he was close enough,

A man dragged out and up from world by God.

For good, or evil reasons, with a knife

He killed me. His, the kingdom of this world.

But we were conscious of another life

And of another Kingdom.” Then we heard

That wailing shriek, and I asked: “What is that?”

And he: “Ah, those who never could do right.”

The dawn was breaking. In the disfigured street

I saw far off a scuffle and I heard

The noise of shouting. We took to our feet

And ran to see close up what had occurred.

It was quite easy then, by morning light,

To see an angel, like a massive bird

Pick up and drop a person to the ground,

Which I discerned was water, all around.

Those angels and their violence troubled me

Uncertain if I was not next in line

Or if I would not suffer. “Rest easy,”

One of their number said. “These women and men

Are being punished. From the USA

They planned to take Iraq and Palestine,

And Afghan, Egypt, Libya, for Empire;

That’s why these creatures started to conspire.

“These are those black and rotten souls who blew

The World Trade Centre Complex into dust

In New York in September. No one knew

Who they were, or how many. To their cost

God knows them well and punishes. Although

They made it here, they never will get past.”

Another winged angel flew above

And hovering in the air, forced them to dive.

He forced them to breathe water, those black souls,

And drown, or feel the pains of drowning as

In life their prisoners, those held in cells,

Were water boarded, tortured without cause.

And as sometimes around the coast Grey Seals

Come up for air, these nameless criminals

Sometimes came up, but angels beat them down.

“Go on, now, you two, onward; now get on.”

The angel pointed where we had to walk.

I know the white stone of Salisbury plane

And looking at the ground I saw that chalk

So I assumed that I was there again,

In southern England; if you take a pick

And shovel, and you make a team of men

Dig at that stone for hours and hours on end

The sparks fly as they dig at that hard ground.

Both Constable and Turner painted there,

The Temple there in all it loveliness.

“That’s Salisbury Cathedral, I am sure,”

I said to Kleitos. His response was: “Yes.

But we should not approach it as a pair.”

He shook my hand and made toward that place.

Although the water washed against its walls

It was not deep, but high as my ankles.

That noble beauty, hard and intricate,

White in the morning, brought tears to my eyes,

And as I entered through the arched gate,

I crossed myself, and fell down on my knees.

A stone was taken from the load I brought.

And at the altar, to my great surprise,

The Lady was, again, holding her boy

The first occasion, since my death, for joy.

A dove was flapping round the arched windows

And then, that voice, of mine or someone else

Was talking: “This was once a slaughterhouse.

The Temple was for killing animals.

A man, looking inside himself with eyes,

Focused inside, avoided what was false

And what was worldly. So that he was pure.

Until pure nothing is what you see and hear.

“To ensure that he is pure enough for God

While spilling all the blood of sacrifice

Unthinking while he cuts and burns the meat.

To find the kingdom of God’s throne room thus.”

Now, I believed it was the Holy Spirit,

Who stood before me, taking my own face

And using it to look back at my mind.

And I said: “What is this?” and He explained:

“Here see the Presentation of the boy,

Within the Temple. As the Hebrews burned

The animals, and as the Greeks at Troy

And Indians in the Vedas put their hand

To sacrifice on the altar, so today

The Christ child comes, and he will put an end

To all of that blood offering, and yet

Just so that God can still communicate.

“The priest, he used to concentrate desire

Outside the world, to where the Father is.

He used to look for omens in the air

In signs and voices, entrails, and advice!

To do this, they learned mental composure;

They raised the knife, empty of all ideas.

There was intimate union of the priest

With God the Father and the Holy Ghost.

“The spotless mind, composed in prayer perceives

The voice and signs of God as priests did once

When they were burning animals and leaves

Imploring God for help and for guidance.

This union is what the heart most craves,

And since the boy came to the Temple once

Now anyone who sits and calls his name,

With broken spirit, will be close to him.”

The ghostly form concluded talking then.

I was complete with my immortal soul.

“The man who wakes up, puts his clothing on,

And sits down for his breakfast is not whole.

Each day he has to make himself again,

Falling apart and dying all the while.

But Christ makes him unique, single, one pointed.”

The spirit was gone, leaving me lost and haunted.