dedalus Posted April 18, 2014 Share Posted April 18, 2014 Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis Vidi in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent: Σιβυλλα τι θελεις; respondebat illa: αποθανειν θελω. I have seen with my own eyes the Sibyl hanging in a jar, and when the boys asked her “What do you want?” She answered, “I want to die.” —Petronius, Satyricon Cumaean Sibyl was the most famous of the Sibyls, the prophetic old women of Greek mythology; she guided Aeneas through Hades in the Aeneid. She had been granted immortality by Apollo, but because she forgot to ask for perpetual youth, she shrank into withered old age and her authority declined. ------------*********------------ The rain, the rain lashes downas the heated car engine ticks over:I gaze through the blearing windshieldand wonder, wonder why the hell I am here.A terricic tall hulking hill of a hall,Victorian Gothic, God help us all,looms right ahead, grey and unfriendlyand I think of dear Joan, so pensive,locked voluntarily within: so why, dear girl,did you withdraw from your friends and from me?Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure, Sober, steadfast, and demure, All in a robe of darkest grain, Flowing with majestic train, And sable stole of cypress lawn 35Over thy decent shoulders drawn. Come; but keep thy wonted state, With even step, and musing gait, And looks commercing with the skies, Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:I’m afraid, I’m frightened to knock on the oaken doorsince you walked away from us, from your family,from every male and female friend you’ve ever known,and also from me, who was (I thought) more than only that.You sailed away in silence like a faery child,and only later (bye the bye) we heard you’d become a nun.And now I have tracked you downto this isolated place, this hidden nunnery,and yet I sit in the car and I feel afraid. What will I say to you?What, dear Joan, will you say to me?I sigh, stub out my non-encouraging cigarette,the very last, as I tell myself,since I am determined to quitonce these nervous days are over.I unroll my black umbrella, say an atheist prayer,then resolutely head for the doorand push the bell, Bing Bong.Bing BongThe glitter of her jewels rose to meet it, From satin cases poured in rich profusion; 85In vials of ivory and coloured glass Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes, Unguent, powdered, or liquid, troubled, confused And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air That freshened from the window, these ascended 90In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,Flung their smoke into the laquearia, Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.The tradesmen’ entrance is in the rearsaid a peremptory tinny female voice.I am no tradesman, I replied firmly,but a visitor to see … Sister Annunciata.Are you family? asked the harsh unfriendly voice.Her brother, I lied, our parents are quite concerned.Please remain where you are. Somebody will come.I shifted from foot to foot for the next ten minutes.You fled Him, down the nights and down the days;You fled Him, down the arches of the years;You fled Him, down the labyrinthine waysOf your own mind; and in the mist of tearsYou hid from Him, and under running laughter. Up vistaed hopes you sped;And shot, precipitated,Adown Titanic glooms of chasméd fears,From those strong Feet that followed, followed after.But with unhurrying chase, And unperturbéd pace,Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,They beat - and a Voice beatMore instant than the Feet -“All things betray thee, who betrayest Me.” You walk away, a bit, as you do,and I put a few shillings on the gee-geesor on the football, winning slight amountsfrom time to time, always thinking that whenever you walk,wherever you walk,you always, damn youwalk away from me.Love comes uncoiled and basically unspoiledfrom the highrise flats we have lived inwith the smell of piss in the lifts,from dogs, sometimes a couple of ponies,and then from semi-humans like your brother,who made me hold my nose and wish for a New World,and not this sad and silly thing we live in.What are days for?Days are where we live. They come, they wake us Time and time over.They are to be happy in: Where can we live but days?Ah, solving that questionBrings the priest and the doctor In their long coatsRunning over the fields.They let me inI had to wait.The next thing I know, I get led to thiscross-hatch wooden barrier,and I heard a sigh and inhaled soap, not scent.Hello, Bren. O Jesus, Joan.We don’t have much time.Are you happy, my dear?Not really. Then for God’s sake, let’s away!I cannot, she whispered. I must stay.Damn it. Goddam. The love the love, the love you love to love ... http://www.vanmorrison.com/songs-lyrics ... -live.htmlUnreal CityUnder the brown fog of a winter noonMr Eugenides, the Smyrna merchantUnshaven, with a pocket full of currantsC. i. f. London: documents at sight,Asked me in demotic FrenchTo luncheon at the Cannon Street HotelFollowed by a week-end at the Metropole.At the violet hour, when the eyes and backTurn upward from the desk, when the human engine waitsLike a taxi throbbing waiting,I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can seeAt the violet hour, the evening hour that strivesHomeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,The typist home at tea-time, clears her breakfast, lightsHer stove, and lays out food in tins.Out of the window perilously spreadHer drying combinations touched by the sun's last rays, On the divan are piled (at night her bed)’'Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugsPerceived the scene, and foretold the rest_I too awaited the expected guest.I am no Teresias, not sexually ambivalent,a rather normal person throbbing between two lives,and sometimes three or more, and the farther shoreis beyond swimming distance,and so I shall rise out of the water,snorting, and fly instead. Rest quiet, for I do so infrequentlyand seek only silence and rest, since I am not today or tomorrow’s expected guest.Et, O ces voix des enfants, chantant dans la coupole!Twit twit twitJug jug jug jug jug jugSo rudely forced.TereuWill you not come away, dear Joan,leaving all this behind, and be one with me?I think not, dear friend.On Margate Sands.I can connectNothing with nothing.The broken finger-nails of dirty hands.My people humble people who expectNothing.la la To Carthage then I came Burning burning burning burningO Lord Thou pluckest me outO Lord Thou pluckestburningI make my way to the Tube station inWalthamstow, the beginning of absolutenowhere, really, total urban desolation, where paper cupsand Maconald wrappers adorn the tracksalong with empty tinnies. I cannot, she’d said.I must get back to the river again …Yet were they bred of Somers-heat they say,In sweetest season, when each flower and weedThe earth did fresh array,So fresh they seemed as day,Even as their bridal day, which was not long:Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.O no! you horrid, greasy-greenplacid drowning snake …In this decayed hole among the mountainsIn the faint moonlight, the grass is singingOver the tumbled graves, about the chapelThere is the empty chapel, only the winds home.It has no windows, and the door swings,Dry bones can harm no one.Only a cock stood on the roof-treeCo co rico co co ricoIn a flash of lightning. Then a damp gustBringing rainGanga was sunken, and the limp leavesWaited for rain, while the black cloudsGathered far distant, over Himavant.The jungle crouched, humped in silence.Then spoke the thunder: Quote Drown your sorrows in drink, by all means, but the real sorrows can swim Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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