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| "Dry Bones" © 2016 David Prashker |
Though you have walked through wildernesses
though you have crossed whole emptinesses
though you have journeyed in the endless desert
following the clouds of smoke and fire
though ice has eaten your fingers raw
though death has stripped you to the core
though hate has robbed you of your heart
and all your heart’s desire
though you have stumbled
yea through the valley of the shadow of shadows
fearing and anticipating every evil -
still you have not yet seen what I have seen:
A man
coming from Bozrah
with his garments torn
though you have crossed whole emptinesses
though you have journeyed in the endless desert
following the clouds of smoke and fire
though ice has eaten your fingers raw
though death has stripped you to the core
though hate has robbed you of your heart
and all your heart’s desire
though you have stumbled
yea through the valley of the shadow of shadows
fearing and anticipating every evil -
still you have not yet seen what I have seen:
A man
coming from Bozrah
with his garments torn
The scorching wind that splits the seven oceans
each into seven times seven channels
so that men may pass through dry-shod
Thorns sprouting in palaces
the marmot consorting with the jackal
each into seven times seven channels
so that men may pass through dry-shod
Thorns sprouting in palaces
the marmot consorting with the jackal
Temples and treasure-houses
thrown open to the mob:
thrown open to the mob:
The red rock splattered
Have you, have you seen such things?
Have you witnessed, as I have witnessed:
The corpses lying like offal in the streets:
the stench of dying
Have you, have you seen such things?
Have you witnessed, as I have witnessed:
The corpses lying like offal in the streets:
the stench of dying
The rank putrescent odours of decay
where once the scent of perfume lingered
The red ants who have occupied the palaces:
The swarms of locusts
sweeping out of Africa
The vultures waiting
simply waiting
in the trees?
Have you, have you seen such things?
The shining gleaming radiance of power
leading to consent?
The omnipotence of majesty
leading to fear?
The thumbprint of oppression
leading to acquiescence?
The absolute corruption of supremacy
leading to resignation?
The ineffable glory of self-importance
leading to murder?
The terrifying
awe-inspiring
horrifying
wonderment of tyranny
leading to destruction?
The sheer unquestioned
and unquestioning
unspeakable devastation
of unchallenged
and unchallengeable authority
leading
- inevitably
inexorably
infernally
- to hopelessness?
*
The generations before me never witnessed it, but only read it in a poem. The apocalyptic nightmare, envisioned by Ezekiel, enscribed by T.S. Eliot. This was the world before we came along: the perpetual fear of the impossible holocaust; the permanent dream of the unattainable return. It was my generation who witnessed, who experienced them both.
*
And what, after all, is Hell, but loss of hope? What earth, if not a winding-sheet? What snow, if not a shroud? And freezing cold in forty-five below, one dreams of something better - even Hell itself, which would at least be warm.
But earth is stained red on which we lie, we who are the old dishonoured ones, the broken husks of men, each of us two vast and trunkless legs of stone languishing half-sunk beneath the desert, fragments of men clinging for dear life to fragments of civilisation, while the shadow of Ozymandias looms above:
Healthy to the left of him
Wealthy to the right of him
Into the clinic of the Angel of Death
Were marched the 10,000
But what else was there to cling to, unless nursery rhymes? What else? The silence in the mountains? The dry sterile thunder without rain? The red sullen faces sneering and snarling from the doors of mudracked houses? The murmur of maternal lamentation? The sound of water over rock? The dry grass singing? What else? What else?
“These fragments I have shored against my ruins.”
What else?
“The song of Esther, rising from the tomb of Haman.”
What else?
“Not to have fallen, like others of my lineage, cut down in battle. To be, in the fruitless night, he who counts the syllables.”
What else?
You can find David Prashker at:
http://theargamanpress.com/
http://davidprashker.com/
http://davidprashker.net/
https://www.facebook.com/TheArgamanPress
http://davidprashkersprivatecollection.blogspot.com
http://davidprashkerssongsandpoems.blogspot.com
http://davidprashkersartgallery.blogspot.com
http://davidprashkersworldhourglass.blogspot.co.uk/
http://davidprashkersbookofdays.blogspot.co.uk/
http://thebiblenet.blogspot.co.uk/
where once the scent of perfume lingered
The red ants who have occupied the palaces:
The swarms of locusts
sweeping out of Africa
The vultures waiting
simply waiting
in the trees?
Have you, have you seen such things?
The shining gleaming radiance of power
leading to consent?
The omnipotence of majesty
leading to fear?
The thumbprint of oppression
leading to acquiescence?
The absolute corruption of supremacy
leading to resignation?
The ineffable glory of self-importance
leading to murder?
The terrifying
awe-inspiring
horrifying
wonderment of tyranny
leading to destruction?
The sheer unquestioned
and unquestioning
unspeakable devastation
of unchallenged
and unchallengeable authority
leading
- inevitably
inexorably
infernally
- to hopelessness?
*
The generations before me never witnessed it, but only read it in a poem. The apocalyptic nightmare, envisioned by Ezekiel, enscribed by T.S. Eliot. This was the world before we came along: the perpetual fear of the impossible holocaust; the permanent dream of the unattainable return. It was my generation who witnessed, who experienced them both.
*
And what, after all, is Hell, but loss of hope? What earth, if not a winding-sheet? What snow, if not a shroud? And freezing cold in forty-five below, one dreams of something better - even Hell itself, which would at least be warm.
But earth is stained red on which we lie, we who are the old dishonoured ones, the broken husks of men, each of us two vast and trunkless legs of stone languishing half-sunk beneath the desert, fragments of men clinging for dear life to fragments of civilisation, while the shadow of Ozymandias looms above:
Healthy to the left of him
Wealthy to the right of him
Into the clinic of the Angel of Death
Were marched the 10,000
But what else was there to cling to, unless nursery rhymes? What else? The silence in the mountains? The dry sterile thunder without rain? The red sullen faces sneering and snarling from the doors of mudracked houses? The murmur of maternal lamentation? The sound of water over rock? The dry grass singing? What else? What else?
“These fragments I have shored against my ruins.”
What else?
“The song of Esther, rising from the tomb of Haman.”
What else?
“Not to have fallen, like others of my lineage, cut down in battle. To be, in the fruitless night, he who counts the syllables.”
What else?
You can find David Prashker at:
http://theargamanpress.com/
http://davidprashker.com/
http://davidprashker.net/
https://www.facebook.com/TheArgamanPress
http://davidprashkersprivatecollection.blogspot.com
http://davidprashkerssongsandpoems.blogspot.com
http://davidprashkersartgallery.blogspot.com
http://davidprashkersworldhourglass.blogspot.co.uk/
http://davidprashkersbookofdays.blogspot.co.uk/
http://thebiblenet.blogspot.co.uk/
Copyright © 2016 David Prashker
All rights reserved
The Argaman Press
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