Blog Archives

Sursum Corda

6/27/2016

“My ‘leader’ Mr Sgt. S. played me a sad trick at the end in dropping so important part of my appeal without a word of notice. You know what I always said of ‘lawyers’! I say it now again—only more so. They are a race apart—and as for their Cokes and Blackstones (what is Coke but an emasculated Blackstone?) and Flemings, God deliver me, I say, from such antiquaries as these to hang a man’s life upon a comma, and throttle him with a semi-colon.”

One hundred years have come and gone
Since on St Stephen’s Day
The Law claimed Ireland’s noblest son
And took his life away—
The British Law which has no claim
To Ireland’s fiery heart,
As now, a century of shame
Begins to break apart.

In Pentonville the gallows swung;
The soul of Roger Casement
Delivered, ere the body hung
To God without defacement,
From whose lips issued words of peace
To lately his defamers,
For he had earned well-won release,
They caught that were the framers.

So Empire and Iniquity
Do crumble to the dust,
The soul of Roger Casement free
From lies that were unjust:
Though Diaries were never forged
Time’s sea change is enough
To show that they on lust engorged,
Accusers crude and rough.

Ten decades and his fame lives on
In spotless reputation,
“We all are brothers, everyone,”
His lasting declaration;
“Unnatural, artificial wars
Propelled by greed of power
Are misery’s destructive source,
Before which traitors cower.”

He was no traitor to his kind;
They killed him as a child;
A world of stain he left behind,
One penitential, mild,
As in his wake a world of love
His history bequeathes,
Though freedom’s air, which did him move,
No scion of empire breathes.

It Happened in Orlando (El crimen fue en Orlando)

6/13/2016

After the Pulse nightclub shootings

Heavenly Lord, it happened in Orlando,
A pawn who willed himself to be commando
Through purchasing a gun—as though a weapon’s
Power to kill could be transferred. It happens.

It was, alas, an execrable attempt
To exorcise a demon—his unkempt,
That of a man embracing love of men
Which contravened his stern religious ken.

They say his father held religion strict,
Afraid to cross his fathers’ interdict—
Those of his friends, who opened up their hearts
To him, as peace confusedly departs.

He went back to the place, that he had known
In frequent visitation, a kill zone
For him as gentle peaceful loving souls
Fell to his bullets, bodies pierced with holes.

The soul of joy survives, and will live on;
The body that he feared—bodies are gone,
Wounded and injured persons, himself dead,
Left in one’s place a grievous wound instead.

Lord, let me say it loud: no weaponry
Can force a world desired to come to be—
That which we are, with wishes would conform
If wishing understood there is no norm.

Authority is the great sin. Let him,
Let them find peace eternal. Let night’s scrim
Descend on this affair, this massacre
Preempted not, that ought not to occur.

Let men and women love, and follow ever
The dictates of their heart—no rulebook clever
Can contravene the impulse of the heart
Though world religions would condemn and thwart.

So I will sing a song in praise of love,
And let the heart abide where love does move—
As arm in arm, young beautiful buff men
May love each other. Sing this praise, O pen.

Put living love before the sacred books—
Invalidate the dogma which rebukes—
For living love must over rulebooks win:
Authority itself is the great sin.

[As Krishna to Arjuna Said]

6/13/2016

In the papers of a deceased friend, I found three poems—obviously by my hand—though unable to identify to what purpose they had been written (what precipitated the "writing event" so to speak), why I had given them, nor even, though I might surmise fifteen years ago, when they had been written. Perhaps they were trials for a new book which never came to pass. Clearly they were marked as three separate poems in manuscript, though, with no follow-up, it seems germane to compile them together into one unit. They share a common style, though exactly what I may have been driving at escapes me.

I

As Krishna to Arjuna said,
“Already them you slay are dead,”

He walks in life a hollow man,
Illusory, a charlatan,

A cipher—but the outward form
Without the soul to keep it warm,

And, like the sudden spring of traps
When ground gives way, he must collapse.

Suddenly and spontaneous
The moment, when it reaches thus,

All that had been before, entire
Must scald in transformation’s fire,

And, as he takes that sudden slip,
All wealth, all joy, relationship

So alter irrevocably
That pity but remain to see.

II

When all the dreaming has been spoiled,
The false illusion sullied, soiled,

Then will the soul’s despair begin
And panic set, and roost therein.

The soul, in her surprise and haste
Will wonder how it came to waste,

So much of beauty it did find
Imagined only in its mind.

When the mirage evaporates
But leaves behind some petty hates,

Then wonderment will not suffice
To compensate for such a price.

Murder will out. The truth be told—
In her despair not be consoled

The soul that sold her truth downstream
Pretending true what did but seem.

III

Thus misalliance breeds contempt
From angels, not a soul exempt

From repercussions of the fact
Inherent in unholy act—

’Twere not a case of race or creed
In which disaster plants its seed,

But rather both in temperament
And motivation of intent.

The soul, as it commits the wrong
Itself, however weak or strong,

Yet knows where lies the heinous fault
If keeping true, be difficult.

Then, later, much beseeching God
Nor turn nor temper heaven’s rod,

As consequence of karma falls
In even stroke as it appalls.

Otho the Great by John Keats: US Premiere in Chicago

6/11/2016

"I know how the great basement of all power
Is frankness, and a true tongue to the world;
And how intriguing secrecy is proof
Of fear and weakness, and a hollow state."

Great theater sometimes happens in Chicago, but when it does, it is usually by accident. This was the case with last year's Agamemnon at Court Theater. By virtue of its mission, Charles Newell is forced into a corner of having to do something remotely (or directly) related to classical theater at Court on occasion; his current series of doing three Greek plays has proven fruitful (one each year for three), with Euripides rising to the occasion and Aeschylus surpassing anything I have seen—both under his direction. (Sophocles will be next up.)

If one follows the local press—especially the recent dustup over onstage violence and groping at Profiles Theatre —it is easy to imagine that tawdry spectacular pickins are all the fare Chicago has to offer. In the previous link a commenter remarks: "I go to hundreds of Chicago exhibits, musical performances and other arts events a year, but rarely to contemporary theatre. Descriptions of these productions explain why. I'm not interested in serial killers, trailer parks or white trash stereotypes. Good god, are Chicago audiences really this puerile?" One might think the answer was "Yes."

However, here and there, in lonely pockets, individuals are performing serious theater. One such case is the US premiere of Otho the Great by John Keats which I saw tonight. Otho cannot be considered great theater—Aeschylus has not been dislodged in my estimation—yet I feel singularly blessed to see a mounting of a play which did not appear on a stage until 1950, more than a century after its author's death. A first play must almost necessarily be faulty, and Otho was born of desperation, or born into turmoil rather, at the prodding of Keats' friend Charles Brown. "I have only acted as midwife to his plot," Keats wrote.

The drama is better than I could have guessed from reading, though at the time I had given Otho my closest attention I myself had not taken my first stab, and lacked the ability to judge properly. Today I know better—but even imperfect Keats is sacrosanct, and his words spoken aloud by the actors came as Mozart to my ears.

The driving force behind the production was Frank Farrell, a proponent of Free Shakespeare in Chicago, and a dedicated artist. The main roles were well-cast and well-acted: Douglas Bryan Bean as Otho the Great; Nick Bryant as Ludolph; and Jason Lacombe as Conrad. Actually—and one of the faults of the play—Otho's part is not so significant, and the body of the action lies with Ludolph. (I don't know if Farrell's version for the production has been cut or altered in any way.)

Keats was still learning, and it is easy to believe, once he had figured out his own method of plotting, instead of having to rely on Brown, that he would have become a great tragedian—yet the time was wrong for Shakespearean tragedies, and he would have had to evolve beyond the parameters set in Otho. Circumstances thwarted him, and he lacked time.

* * *
UPDATE 6/14/2016: A friend asked for more specifics about the performance. I wrote: "It was better than expected—very Shakespearean in outward aspect, but without the inner coherence. It played pretty well, but towards the end Ludolph (in effect the "tragic hero") felt like a mix of Hamlet, Ophelia and Othello all rolled into one but without any satisfying conclusion. And the actor was good—the fault lay in the script. But there were dramatic moments that showed (to me at least) that he had an instinct for the stage."

Of course I added, "I wish the troupe had managed to work Blake's King Edward the Third into the evening", possibly as a prologue—but that might have been too much for an audience.

A Sonnet by Cecco Angiolieri: If I Were Fire (S'i' fosse foco)

6/6/2016

If I were fire, I would set the world aflame;
If I were wind, I would storm it;
If I were water, I would drown it;
If I were God, I would send it to the abyss.
If I were Pope, then I would be happy,
For I would swindle all the Christians;
If I were Emperor, do you know what I would do?
I would chop off heads all around.
If I were death, I would go to my father;
If I were life, I would flee from him;
The same would I do with my mother.
If I were Cecco, as I am and I was,
I would take all the women who are young and lovely
And leave all the old and ugly for others.

S'i' fosse foco, arderei 'l mondo;
s'i' fosse vento, lo tempesterei;
s'i' fosse acqua, i' l'annegherei;
s'i' fosse Dio, mandereil' en profondo;
s'i' fosse Papa, allor sarei giocondo,
che` tutti cristiani 'mbrigarei;
s'i' fosse 'mperator, ben lo farei:
a tutti taglierei lo capo a tondo.
S'i' fosse morte, andarei a mi' padre;
s'i' fosse vita, non starei con lui:
similmente faria con mi' madre.
S'i' fosse Cecco, com'i' sono e fui,
torrei le donne giovani e leggiadre:
le zoppe e vecchie lasserei altrui.

Death of a Gentleman: for Ben

6/5/2016

At last the end is reached of your long road—
The dying seldom easy in this life—
Munificence as seldom is bestowed
Amidst the world of turbulence and strife:

This was your legacy and also claim,
Peer to the great ones, in living a master,
Profound success to always crown your aim
With triumphs piled, but just one last disaster.

Even with death's disaster, retrospect
Lends all your life a shining accolade,
As knowledge now is lost, your wisdom flecked
Into the hearts of others, yours to shade.

Nearly a century you graced this earth,
Consummate gentleman in word and deed,
Given to untold many festive mirth
Which did, as from an unknown source, proceed.

The time has come, to lay you in the ground;
It was expected: great longevity
Yet knows its limits. You had few profound,
Death lending life no incongruity.

Heaven's Promise

6/4/2016

A public figure died today,
A cousin lies approaching death—
Upon the end there is no way
With pleasantry to give up breath.

The end is raucous, dirty, vile,
Pathetic and undignified—
We who survive say with a smile,
"Alas, he lived, and then he died."

The crisis of the final hours,
The final days, however many,
As flesh rebelling disempowers
The will whose clinging was uncanny.

Gently we seldom ever go,
So many shocks along the way,
In thick of pain, discomfort, woe
Beneath a God that holds no sway.

Lord, I am living long enough
To witness, wonder, and endure,
As pain foretold eclipses love,
With heaven's promise never sure.