Eyes I Met in Dreams

Early this morning, I was in the midst of a dream where I sat on a European hilltop, ruffling through large posters imprinted with poetry. I looked for just the right one, lamenting loudly that people should memorize poems, that we need to sit across tables and take turns reciting poems animatedly, relishing the rhythm of beautiful words.

And then I woke up to the brightest day of the week, the relief of Saturday morning, when we can all stay in pajamas and lounge around, reading and watching cartoons.

Holding mugs of coffee in the kitchen, Husband said, “It’s an awfully nice day for the rapture.”

And so it is, if it is. Everyone has been making fun of Harold Camping and his congregation for days, but I have a wicked imagination for doom and destruction. (I’ve read too much dystopic literature.) The littlest piece of me wonders what it would look like if the world were to end suddenly, on a beautiful day in May. Thunder? Zombies? Trees loudly stretching into the sky?

So, true to my dream, I’m going to sit at my table and share with you some poetry. Dark poetry. Awesome doomsday dream-like visions.

The Hollow Men (T.S. Eliot)

A penny for the Old Guy

I

We are the hollow men

We are the stuffed men

Leaning together

Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!

Our dried voices, when

We whisper together

Are quiet and meaningless

As wind in dry grass

Or rats’ feet over broken glass

In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,

Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed

With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom

Remember us – if at all – not as lost

Violent souls, but only

As the hollow men

The stuffed men.

II

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams

In death’s dream kingdom

These do not appear:

There, the eyes are

Sunlight on a broken column

There, is a tree swinging

And voices are

In the wind’s singing

More distant and more solemn

Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer

In death’s dream kingdom

Let me also wear

Such deliberate disguises

Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves

In a field

Behaving as the wind behaves

No nearer -

Not that final meeting

In the twilight kingdom

III

This is the dead land

This is cactus land

Here the stone images

Are raised, here they receive

The supplication of a dead man’s hand

Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this

In death’s other kingdom

Waking alone

At the hour when we are

Trembling with tenderness

Lips that would kiss

Form prayers to broken stone.

IV

The eyes are not here

There are no eyes here

In this valley of dying stars

In this hollow valley

This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places

We grope together

And avoid speech

Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless

The eyes reappear

As the perpetual star

Multifoliate rose

Of death’s twilight kingdom

The hope only

Of empty men.

V

Here we go round the prickly pear

Prickly pear prickly pear

Here we go round the prickly pear

At five o’clock in the morning.

Between the idea

And the reality

Between the motion

And the act

Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception

And the creation

Between the emotion

And the response

Falls the Shadow

Life is very long

Between the desire

And the spasm

Between the potency

And the existence

Between the essence

And the descent

Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is

Life is

For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang but a whimper.

Image: “Scary Tree” by BIG Slow via Flickr using a Creative Commons license.

Tagged as: Doomsday, Judgement Day, Rapture, T.S. Eliot. Hollow Men