Tuesday, June 19, 2012

THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN


I walked down a long, tiled corridor.
There were notices on the walls.
WHITE TIES PLEASE. NO NIGGERS. PLAY THE GAME.
DO NOT SPIT.
THIS WAS TO THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN.
I went down the long tiled corridor
And at the end someone clattered lift gates.
GOING UP!
I preferred to walk and went up the stairs.
I rapped on the office door and asked for God.
The manager was bald and apologetic.
The manager told me God was out.
I walked back down the stairs, down the corridor.
There are offices it seems across the way.
He may be in there.
PLEASE USE THE SUBWAY.
I used the subway. I am still walking.
I have met many of my friends. Some of them are dead.
The place is well-organised. The commissionaires
Are civil, and put their harps aside
When one speaks to them.
Once there were animals here; insects even;
But they grew tired. They went out to play.
The curiosity of men seems endless.
Even I am too curious to blow my brains out.
I will go on walking although I know it is useless .-
I heard the manager muttering in his sleep.
."If they find God the place will have to close.
That is why I tell them God is only Out.
Don't tell the boys God'll never be In.."

                                      - Christopher Caudwell

Friday, June 8, 2012

The Guitar


   The weeping of the guitar begins.
The goblets of dawn
      are smashed.
   The weeping of the guitar begins.


Useless to silence it.
Impossible to silence it.
It weeps monotonously
as water weeps
as the wind weeps
over snowfields.

Impossible to silence it.
It weeps for distant things.
Hot southern sands
yearning for white camellias.
Weeps arrow without target
evening without morning
and the first dead bird
on the branch.

Oh, guitar!
Heart mortally wounded
by five swords.

Lorca

(Painting by Picasso, The Old Guitarist)