|Fig. 6 The Poet Wonders How|
Thursday, 3 April 2014
88. Adjustments to Be Made
It is true that our origins lie with the bears, whose dance welcomes us to play outside this cave, where fixity erodes & dissipates. Hullo bears! The lions will tell us what a fine day it is, that useful animal the red lion, glad to help us with our stories, our unending stories. Hullo, red lion – top of the morning to you, sir! And then, you too, little elf fluttering so bravely & briefly, your dear little dance through space & time a perfect improvisation – oh, we salute you & your butterflies, little one. Notice then obtrudes: pus is seen & warned against – all that decay suddenly not part of life’s great cycle, Brother Rot Our Friend – but what is ruled against & banned. Goodbye, innocence. Hullo, gullibility. Here comes Thomas, welcoming fluid & unprovisional actuality’s replacement by sheer eternal dogma. The man with the organ can carry on grinding it for ever, now he knows his place – he is lost. Somehow, ignore him. And that little wandering poet, like all poets looking the wrong way & choosing non-existence – please! Hatless. Saladin’s horse’s hoof adjusts his head for him, reforms it nicely, but can’t maintain any more momentum. Back into the bone-pit.
Only the jolly tumbler knows enough to fade into the light itself, & drift warily out of Old Sawney’s reach. Let, too, the funny little red fairy bless him, as she kicks up to choose rebirth & idiocy amongst the bears again.
In sacrificing herself, knowingly & unknowingly, she restarts the process. There are adjustments to be made. They will be made on us.