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12/6/2018 1 Comment The Second Elegy
The Second Elegy
Every Angel is terror. And yet, ah, knowing you, I invoke you, almost deadly birds of the soul. Where are the days of Tobias, when one of the most radiant of you stood at the simple threshold, disguised somewhat for the journey and already no longer awesome (Like a youth, to the youth looking out curiously). Let the Archangel now, the dangerous one, from behind the stars, take a single step down and toward us: our own heart, beating on high would beat us down. What are you? Early successes, Creation’s favourite ones, mountain-chains, ridges reddened by dawns of all origin – pollen of flowering godhead, junctions of light, corridors, stairs, thrones, spaces of being, shields of bliss, tempests of storm-filled, delighted feeling and, suddenly, solitary mirrors: gathering their own out-streamed beauty back into their faces again. For we, when we feel, evaporate: oh, we breathe ourselves out and away: from ember to ember, yielding us fainter fragrance. Then someone may say to us: ‘Yes, you are in my blood, the room, the Spring-time is filling with you’..... What use is that: they cannot hold us, we vanish inside and around them. And those who are beautiful, oh, who holds them back? Appearance, endlessly, stands up, in their face, and goes by. Like dew from the morning grass, what is ours rises from us, like the heat from a dish that is warmed. O smile: where? O upward gaze: new, warm, vanishing wave of the heart - : oh, we are that. Does the cosmic space, we dissolve into, taste of us then? Do the Angels really only take back what is theirs, what has streamed out of them, or is there sometimes, as if by an oversight, something of our being, as well? Are we as mingled with their features, as there is vagueness in the faces of pregnant women? They do not see it in the swirling return to themselves. (How should they see it?) Lovers, if they knew how, might utter strange things in night air. Since it seems everything hides us. Look, trees exist; houses, we live in, still stand. Only we pass everything by, like an exchange of air. And all is at one, in keeping us secret, half out of shame perhaps, half out of inexpressible hope. Lovers, each satisfied in the other, I ask you about us. You grasp yourselves. Have you a sign? Look, it happens to me, that at times my hands become aware of each other, or that my worn face hides itself in them. That gives me a slight sensation. But who would dare to exist only for that? You, though, who grow in the other’s delight until, overwhelmed, they beg: ‘No more’ -: you, who under your hands grow richer like vintage years of the vine: who sometimes vanish, because the other has so gained the ascendancy: I ask you of us. I know you touch so blissfully because the caress withholds, because the place you cover so tenderly does not disappear: because beneath it you feel pure duration. So that you promise eternity almost, from the embrace. And yet, when you’ve endured the first terrible glances, and the yearning at windows, and the first walk together, just once, through the garden: Lovers, are you the same? When you raise yourselves one to another’s mouth, and hang there – sip against sip: O, how strangely the drinker then escapes from their action. Weren’t you amazed by the caution of human gesture on Attic steles? Weren’t love and departure laid so lightly on shoulders, they seemed to be made of other matter than ours? Think of the hands how they rest without weight, though there is power in the torso. Those self-controlled ones know, through that: so much is ours, this is us, to touch our own selves so: the gods may bear down more heavily on us. But that is the gods’ affair. If only we too could discover a pure, contained human place, a strip of fruitful land of our own, between river and stone! For our own heart exceeds us, even as theirs did. And we can no longer gaze after it into images, that soothe it, or into godlike bodies, where it restrains itself more completely.
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12/6/2018 1 Comment The First Elegy
The First Elegy Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the Angelic Orders? And even if one were to suddenly take me to its heart, I would vanish into its stronger existence. For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror, that we are still able to bear, and we revere it so, because it calmly disdains to destroy us. Every Angel is terror. And so I hold myself back and swallow the cry of a darkened sobbing. Ah, who then can we make use of? Not Angels: not men, and the resourceful creatures see clearly that we are not really at home in the interpreted world. Perhaps there remains some tree on a slope, that we can see again each day: there remains to us yesterday’s street, and the thinned-out loyalty of a habit that liked us, and so stayed, and never departed. Oh, and the night, the night, when the wind full of space wears out our faces – whom would she not stay for, the longed-for, gentle, disappointing one, whom the solitary heart with difficulty stands before. Is she less heavy for lovers? Ah, they only hide their fate between themselves. Do you not know yet? Throw the emptiness out of your arms to add to the spaces we breathe; maybe the birds will feel the expansion of air, in more intimate flight. Yes, the Spring-times needed you deeply. Many a star must have been there for you so you might feel it. A wave lifted towards you out of the past, or, as you walked past an open window, a violin gave of itself. All this was their mission. But could you handle it? Were you not always, still, distracted by expectation, as if all you experienced, like a Beloved, came near to you? (Where could you contain her, with all the vast strange thoughts in you going in and out, and often staying the night.) But if you are yearning, then sing the lovers: for long their notorious feelings have not been immortal enough. Those, you almost envied them, the forsaken, that you found as loving as those who were satisfied. Begin, always as new, the unattainable praising: think: the hero prolongs himself, even his falling was only a pretext for being, his latest rebirth. But lovers are taken back by exhausted Nature into herself, as if there were not the power to make them again. Have you remembered Gastara Stampa sufficiently yet, that any girl, whose lover has gone, might feel from that intenser example of love: ‘Could I only become like her?’ Should not these ancient sufferings be finally fruitful for us? Isn’t it time that, loving, we freed ourselves from the beloved, and, trembling, endured as the arrow endures the bow, so as to be, in its flight, something more than itself? For staying is nowhere. Voices, voices. Hear then, my heart, as only saints have heard: so that the mighty call raised them from the earth: they, though, knelt on impossibly and paid no attention: such was their listening. Not that you could withstand God’s voice: far from it. But listen to the breath, the unbroken message that creates itself from the silence. It rushes towards you now, from those youthfully dead. Whenever you entered, didn’t their fate speak to you, quietly, in churches in Naples or Rome? Or else an inscription exaltedly impressed itself on you, as lately the tablet in Santa Maria Formosa. What do they will of me? That I should gently remove the semblance of injustice, that slightly, at times, hinders their spirits from a pure moving-on. It is truly strange to no longer inhabit the earth, to no longer practice customs barely acquired, not to give a meaning of human futurity to roses, and other expressly promising things: no longer to be what one was in endlessly anxious hands, and to set aside even one’s own proper name like a broken plaything. Strange: not to go on wishing one’s wishes. Strange to see all that was once in place, floating so loosely in space. And it’s hard being dead, and full of retrieval, before one gradually feels a little eternity. Though the living all make the error of drawing too sharp a distinction. Angels (they say) would often not know whether they moved among living or dead. The eternal current sweeps all the ages, within it, through both the spheres, forever, and resounds above them in both. Finally they have no more need of us, the early-departed, weaned gently from earthly things, as one outgrows the mother’s mild breast. But we, needing such great secrets, for whom sadness is often the source of a blessed progress, could we exist without them? Is it a meaningless story how once, in the grieving for Linos, first music ventured to penetrate arid rigidity, so that, in startled space, which an almost godlike youth suddenly left forever, the emptiness first felt the quivering that now enraptures us, and comforts, and helps. CategoriesRon StarbuckRON STARBUCK is the Publisher/CEO/Editor of Saint Julian Press, a poet and writer, an Episcopalian, and author of There Is Something About Being An Episcopalian, When Angels Are Born, and Wheels Turning Inward, three rich collections of poetry, following a poet’s mythic and spiritual journey that crosses easily onto the paths of many contemplative traditions. Archives |
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