Poetry

Judgement 9

The door to work and public office was

The straight bat, being good at rugby, or

The art of boxing. By such means as these

An Englishman was schooled for the Empire.

And if he couldn’t shoot or ride or race,

He was not on the team. Let us be clear:

Samson was hard and handy with his hands

But he explained his skill had higher ends.

We ran all day, going fast toward St Paul’s

Where London used to be. We stopped and spoke.

He said: “Each trial, each of these festivals

Judges and punishes you for the sake

Of stillness, hesychasm, above all else.

Notice, you saw the sinners back their, stuck,

Because in life they could not aim their mind

At God and stillness of the highest kind.

“The hardest thing, the highest, greatest sport,

Is the athleticism of stillness

And concentration. In the last resort

It is God’s friendship.” Now I must confess

That for a while now, I was distressed at heart

And while he talked, then, it was hurting worse

Because I found it hard without my wife,

A thing more beautiful than thy first love.

She was more beautiful than your first love

And now was dead, or somewhere up ahead

A ghost, someone more or less than alive.

Whatever time passed, all I saw and heard,

I had been grieving. The most obvious proof

That men are not complete when not married,

Is seen in this: life clones itself by splitting;

The simplest things do not rely on mating

But simple things like cells can reproduce

By making purely identical children

When they reach full maturity of size

By mere division; but for men and women

To be complete, they need to live in pairs.

And the unhappiness of being barren

Is never ending uncircumventable

And deepest failure and the deepest sorrow.

“She was more beautiful than everyone,”

I said to Samson, “and I feel the loss.

And so it’s certain that I cannot win

And won’t attain perfection and stillness.”

And he: “Sure, you will have to face this sin.

Despite what you think of life’s true purpose,

The still life and the love of God alone

Make you complete.” Then I asked this question.

“It’s said that loving others, loving neighbours,

Is what it’s all about in God’s kingdom.

So, how are withdrawal and ascetic labours

What you advise?” And he: “Don’t give a damn

For other people. What? You should love robbers,

And foreigners, and muslims? That is shame.

O, love them only when you love God first

And love yourself, and once more love God best.

“This is achieved by silence and vision

And secrecy and stillness of your soul.

And then the Spirit comes, to make you one.”

We started jogging forward. All the while

Were other people, judged as I had been.

They had left the Temple as if freed from gaol

But hurried to the next feast and torment.

Then Samson went ahead, that great giant.

So I spoke to myself: “What group is this?

Samson was recently released and freed,

And there are others. That’s Themistokles,

And Alcibiades, I know it, O Spirit

What sin or what distraction weighed down these?”

And so I talked and thought of things, inside.

I heard words comforting me from within

“These were all outcasts and ambitious men.”

That’s what my conscience or prophetic voice

Was saying, and: “These two Athenians

Were both exasperated in their ways

To find the Spartan and the Persian tents.

For, burning with affection for their Greece,

They suffered exile and were driven thence.

That’s him who would have led the Athenian fleet

Except, he was arrested on the boat

“He died much later, ambition and fame

Had done their worst with him, and he was finished.

In later years, when he had made his home

On that promontory where sea waves crashed

He died from friendly arrows shot at him

While he escaped a fire.” I could have wished

To speak to Alcibiades, student

Of Socrates, but I was well content

To hear my conscience and my mind speak thus

The Spirit comforting me in my grief

With words and help God sent to me by grace.

I did not try to speak, it was enough

To see those men. Rather I thought of this:

“So politics will make you lose your life,

And no one thanks you in your native land

If you have saved it, from a foreign hand.

“Then, what are countries, and what is the nation?”

Now, I asked this, walking alone in thought.

And at my side, dressed as if in the fashion

Of Morris dancers, with grass in his hat,

And flowers and signs of harvest and fruition,

Which fell from him as he got to his feet,

Having been resting at the cold roadside,

There was a famous man who I admired.

“You do not know me,” I said, “But I know

Who you are, for in these days after death,

You look like you did seventy years ago.

You’re Enoch Powell, the brilliant polymath

Who rose from private soldier all the way

To brigadier, and aimed to rule the earth

Retaining India, ruling England,

Ambitious and defeated in the end.”

And he, with his pale eyes which looked like mine

But very distantly a relative

Answered the question that I asked within:

“Your country is you, you are its native.

Its rulers, and its constitution

Can change and will betray you, as I prove.

All patriotic men become outcasts

As Europeans today hate the Pitts.”

We walked or marched, and he brushed off the grass.

“I could have been the one prime minister

To keep Egypt and India colonies.

Our armoured cars, our bombers from the air

Our regiments and bureaucrats and gas,

As methods of control made me despair.

It needed more than that. But it is all

Nothing compared to the health of the still soul.

“The entire world is just a great distraction,”

He stopped. The atmosphere feels heavier

On England’s plains. The centripetal action

Of gravity pulls all the heavy air;

The nitrogen, and oxygen come crushing

To squash you like the red stone of Chester

Was crushed two hundred million years ago

To turn the muck and sand hard as can be.

Crust over crust of rock and hard strata

Are lying under feet. As we two went

And time regressed, the rock turned to mere matter.

And pressure lifted from the firmament.

“I’m going to where there used to be the city

And to St Paul’s, to face my next torment,”

He said. And I: “What festivals are there,

Which teach us stillness and hesychia?”