Rolling back the years.
The chickenhawks of the kulturkampf continue their war on truth, health, life, science, trust; the very fabric of the commonweal. —I’m running out of curses. Japanese is a geat language for getting up a righteously angry dudgeon. Maybe I should learn some Japanese.
Happier thoughts: Ampersand’s blog, which I don’t link to nearly so often as I ought, because a) I assume most of you reading this read him already, and b) I’m a lazy, disreputable bastard, is about to go group: housemates Charles and Bean (who guest-hosted while Barry I mean Amp was off telling his relatives once again why this night is different than other nights) will be joining as regular co-bloggers, fingers flying over keyboards to fight the power and whatnot. A round of applause, please, ladies and gentlemen.
And: the Polyphonic Spree is one small way I’ve just discovered for dealing somewhat with the current surfeit of Weltschmerz: “When you’re dealing with 25 Texans in white robes, it’s pretty impossible not to mention you’re dealing with 25 Texans in white robes.” —After which, you’ll be needing a bracing tonic; management humbly suggests rather than spinning Godspeed You! Black Emperor once more, you instead pluck up this poem by George Faludy, nicked from a Making Light comments thread:
Learn by Heart This Poem of Mine
Learn by heart this poem of mine;
books only last a little time
and this one will be borrowed, scarred,
burned by Hungarian border guards,
lost by the library, broken-backed,
its paper dried up, crisped and cracked,
worm-eaten, crumbling into dust,
or slowly brown and self-combust
when climbing Fahrenheit has got
to 451, for that’s how hot
your town will be when it burns down.
Learn by heart this poem of mine.
Learn by heart this poem of mine.
Soon books will vanish and you’ll find
there won’t be any poets or verse
or gas for car or bus—or hearse—
no beer to cheer you till you’re crocked,
the liquor stores torn down or locked,
cash only fit to throw away,
as you come closer to that day
when TV steadily transmits
death-rays instead of movie hits
and not a soul to lend a hand
and everything is at an end
but what you hold within your mind,
so find a space there for these lines
and learn by heart this poem of mine.
Learn by heart this poem of mine;
recite it when the putrid tides
that stink of lye break from their beds,
when industry’s rank vomit spreads
and covers every patch of ground,
when they’ve killed every lake and pond,
Destruction humped upon its crutch,
black rotting leaves on every branch;
when gargling plague chokes Springtime’s throat
and twilight’s breeze is poison, put
your rubber gasmask on and line
by line declaim this poem of mine.
Learn by heart this poem of mine
so, dead, I still will share the time
when you cannot endure a house
deprived of water, light, or gas,
and, stumbling out to find a cave,
roots, berries, nuts to stay alive,
get you a cudgel, find a well,
a bit of land, and, if it’s held,
kill the owner, eat the corpse.
I’ll trudge beside your faltering steps
between the ruins’ broken stones,
whispering “You are dead; you’re done!
Where would you go? That soul you own
froze solid when you left your town.”
Learn by heart this poem of mine.
Maybe above you, on the earth,
there’s nothing left and you, beneath,
deep in your bunker, ask how soon
before the poisoned air leaks down
through layers of lead and concrete. Can
there have been any point to Man
if this is how the thing must end?
What words of comfort can I send?
Shall I admit you’ve filled my mind
for countless years, through the blind
oppressive dark, the bitter light,
and, though long dead and gone, my hurt
and ancient eyes observe you still?
What else is there for me to tell
to you, who, facing time’s design,
will find no use for life or time?
You must forget this poem of mine.
Chin-chin.
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