notes: VIII.
I
Poetry as she lay dying whispered, "all of this a ruse for fools!" but i saw her brave mask leaking bloodstained tears; i sighed with her fading soul. "where shall she go?" i asked the raucus crowd; but no one knew, for no one cared, and that at last was how she died.
despite his wars, History had never lost so much before, nor ever any better; beside his drooping frame i dripped my gloomy legs into her earthless grave. shallow sympathy: i with so few years will never comprehend such grief.
perambulating shores i thought of depths so far as nothing: "where has she gone?" i asked again and then, momentous as such pastel sky, the Sea! took up my dirge within his birds: in haunting, salty cries, and beady eyes.
i awoke to find such partial men who live whole lives without all Three. they never know! lost is the further life, within: as triune silhouettes are these dreams deep within the forest's shade where trees are thoughts! but oft forgot these Three, whence all the ancient seedlings sprang.
II
well: since the death of Poetry, History has stayed inside his books and shelves, eking solace from the complex carpet shadows. i sat with him today and heard how we have built such boxes for ourselves; the shadows creeping on the walls seemed to agree.
i took a walk to ask the Sea such things: he moves oh, ceaselessly and as we surged along he said it's true! the saddest thing he ever sees (and i think he must see everything) are shores--made not all of sand and time, but marble stone glass porcelain and plastic metal, or convenience: we bottle him and everyone.
then still-standing in their absence, i thought of you, o departed Poetry. you would have had such answers and behind them and around them you would write such slim smiles in your sparkling cavernous eyes. yesterday the world, i'd tell you, it smelled such of bright fall and the deepest joyful death. ah, how the leaves depart this world! but i had wished you would not do the same.
III
"i would have wept with her," i told the Sea for she was dead! but he unsmiling showed me shores where men learn not to weep.
IV
i lingered by the fog-damped rocks pulling on sweet thick Spring. oh, content & numb; little seeing, little feeling, sleep-thinking, but aware!--and yet, of whom? not the Sea far off, laughing to shore with such momentum, echoing thinly through the thickening wood (how it strains now to bloom!--most splendid of the Aches); nor History in his dusty libraries and war-sodden battlefields (they were similar fields and forests before, as they shall be ever more: only days, weeks of battle-blight excepted). not them.
but Poetry? not she that died! this, too: there was no Muse, no wordish stem blossoming in so much Spring--dead, was gentle Poetry. yet as i languid lay, dazed, intervening between such forested cathedral sunlight and moistened cool of living stone, some ghost-apparent beauty swept her frigid vacant hair under my breath. no words had she! who was Death's finest charge--but i can no more mistake than Hellenistic warriors miss Athene; shape-shifting goddesses both, sweet Poetry in mute spirit-skin i knew.
V
and i knew places: under her, protected by her, owned with quiet jealousy, where rest great living rocks on velvet floors man's feet have never touched--ah, but even i cannot comprehend! stupefying monolith, palatial jewel, one solid Titan stone: built when Earth herself wrinkles forth green land. we snorkel past their tips like molecules, and they--stone clouds entrapped!--themselves mere pebbles, skipped across the wide, wide, terrifying Mother Sea. how could we understand?
but i've heard too of days when he was cruel Poseidon: heartless Sea-god, as unsilenced survivors, tale-tellers, whisper terrified, long ashore. i've seen violence done the Sea as well: fierce motors rend his harsh, terrific hide, forcing great ship-beasts forward; the churning wake a scar across his great momentous peace.
shadow-man, i stand as magistrate: distant ocean stones tell with silent honesty of Mother-Sea's sweet tranquility; yet nearby birds betray their biased witness with the passion of their telling--all is not always warm and bright and well with great Sea-god! i weigh the matter carefully, but in the end abstain: who could judge, sweet Poetry, absent your distant joy?
i only know i've seen tall sister-sails glide upon the Sea's clear shimmer-skin; pass in grace and slip along her body, held by his wind and buoyancy. who could say, who could say? surely we cannot understand.
VI
in dismal grey i wandered back, along the aimless cobblestones, breathing shallow thoughts. days stretched into weeks, months: my slow soul slept. i took up drinking, which made me hunger; took up smoking, which made me thirst. the drab brick walls closed in around, and City growled low and menacing, chasing me toward gloomy hills.
i met History in a cemetery, pause-walking in unkempt grass; he stooped to right a heavy-fallen headstone. we pondered on along, stride for step, and i asked him how long, dear friend, how long--have we lost forever Poetry? he told me gently Death is jealous of his own, and always has.
we came to a river, dark and rushing, and found the Sea quite weak within; he told us of a partial man who'd leapt to Death upon his bulk. i listened quietly and walked apart, leaving two silent forms behind: shattered triune, sharing grief to keep mere memories alive.i met History in a cemetery, pause-walking in unkempt grass; he stooped to right a heavy-fallen headstone. we pondered on along, stride for step, and i asked him how long, dear friend, how long--have we lost forever Poetry? he told me gently Death is jealous of his own, and always has.
if only had the Sea's poor partial man been whole!--but ah, cruel Death is jealous of his own.
and i thought of you, o departed poetry: how you would have wept and come to joy, in your cavernous gentle eyes.
VII
History had fallen far behind, standing with the Sea; i was alone. and then:
brilliance! a sudden spear-splash of bright, deep orange! Olympian color-cascade throbbing life and energy: i stood below, i stood aside, i cringed against the splendid weight upon my awe-struck retinas. such, such familiar thrill, deep-moving and alive!--too like my own lost Poetry. i turned away, marked by this. but ah! greater luminance beyond, beside, below!: pure blue, indomitable strength; velvet purple, transcendent royalty. great beauty, beauty, in raw nudity of light and form--i could neither stand, nor fall; neither look nor turn away.
at that i knew what words could not. this was--beauty of sight, Unnamed, unknown to me. then from its surging elegance strode a mortal shade, one like me, grey and unwhole. we paused, eye-locked in examination; question; mutual intrusion. it came to me that here, these overwhelming visions quite surrounding, were to this shadow form what poetry had been to me: and more, and greater, throughout and far within. she spoke, sweet light upon her voice: "traveler, sorrow surrounds you; visit here; draw comfort from Beauty visible."
sitting, we marveled silent together for days or years; all the while, Beauty visible swept great color-flames around us and within. eventually i slept, & woke alone.
VIII
the day before she died Poetry set her meager house in order; i was there and said to her, "you need not do this terrible thing! you may yet live tomorrow, as today!--" and she with eye-flash silenced me. we emptied waste bins, locked the cabinets and set dust-cloths over furniture. quickly, quickly: sweeping floor-boards, folding shirts and collars, pressing sheets into deep drawers, tugging basemented knobs to stop the running water. i'd never seen her move before so somber, silent, sentient, so wrought with nervous energy. and at the end she stood quite still, centered in the largest room, looking carefully around. this was Time unlike all other--despaired of Mercy, jealous Death pacing without. "i cannot wait," she said, yet dared not rush ahead.
after her death i self-discovered this as Poetry's parting gift to us: she had left behind for us no need to sear our hearts with going through these earthy things.
