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April 2008
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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 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 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 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 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 twas brillig and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe all mimsy were the borogoves and the mome raths outgrabe beware the jabberwock my son the jaws that bite the claws that catch beware the jubjub bird and shun the frumious bandersnatch he took his vorpal sword in hand long time the manxome foe he sought so rested he by the tumtum tree and stood awhile in thought and as in uffish thought he stood the jabberwock with eyes of flame came whiffling through the tulgey wood and burbled as it came one two one two and through and through the vorpal blade went snicker-snack he left it dead and with its head he went galumphing back and hast thou slain the jabberwock come to my arms my beamish boy o frabjous day callooh callay he chortled in his joy twas brillig and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe all mimsy were the borogoves and the mome raths outgrabe bent double like old beggars under sacks knock-kneed coughing like hags we cursed through sludge till on the haunting flares we turned our backs and towards our distant rest began to trudge men marched asleep many had lost their boots but limped on blood-shod all went lame all blind drunk with fatigue deaf even to the hoots of disappointed shells that dropped behind gas gas quick boys an ecstasy of fumbling fitting the clumsy helmets just in time but someone still was yelling out and stumbling and floundering like a man in fire or lime dim through the misty panes and thick green light as under a green sea i saw him drowning in all my dreams before my helpless sight he plunges at me guttering choking drowning if in some smothering dreams you too could pace behind the wagon that we flung him in and watch the white eyes writhing in his face his hanging face like a devil's sick of sin if you could hear at every jolt the blood come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs obscene as cancer bitter as the cud of vile incurable sores on innocent tongues my friend you would not tell with such high zest to children ardent for some desperate glory the old lie dulce et decorum est pro patria mori that hot September night we slept in a single bed naked and on our frail bodies the sweat cooled and renewed itself i reached out my arms and you hands on my breasts kissed me evening of amber our nightgowns lay on the floor where you fell to your knees and because ferocious pressed your head to my stomach your mouth to the red gold the pink shadows except i did not see it like this at the time but arched my back and squeezed water from the sultry air with my fists also i remembered hearing clearly but distantly a siren some streets away de da de da de da which mingled with my own absurd cries so that i looked up even then to see my fingers counting themselves dancing the clocks slid back an hour and stole light from my life as i walked through the wrong parts of town mourning our love and of course unmendable rain fell to the bleak streets where i felt my heart gnaw at all our mistakes if the darkening sky could lift more than one hour from this day there are words i would never have said nor have heard you say but we will be dead as we know beyond all light these are the shortened days and the endless nights between my finger and my thumb the squat pen rests snug as a gun under my window a clean rasping sound when the spade sinks into gravelly ground my father digging i look down till his straining rump among the flowerbeds bends low comes up twenty years away stooping in rhythm through potato drills where he was digging the coarse boot nestled on the lug the shaft against the inside knee was levered firmly he rooted out tall tops buried the bright edge deep to scatter new potatoes that we picked loving their cool hardness in our hands by god the old man could handle a spade just like his old man my grandfather cut more turf in a day than any other man on toner's bog once i carried him milk in a bottle corked sloppily with paper he straightened up to drink it then fell to right away nicking and slicing neatly heaving sods over his shoulder going down and down for the good turf digging the cold smell of potato mould the squelch and slap of soggy peat the curt cuts of an edge through living roots awaken in my head but i've no spade to follow men like them between my finger and my thumb the squat pen rests i'll dig with it we have no prairies to slice a big sun at evening everywhere the eye concedes to encrouching horizon is wooed into the cyclops' eye of a tarn our unfenced country is bog that keeps crusting between the sights of the sun they've taken the skeleton of the great irish elk out of the peat set it up an astounding crate full of air butter sunk under more than a hundred years was recovered salty and white the ground itself is kind black butter melting and opening underfoot missing its last definition by millions of years they'll never dig coal here only the waterlogged trunks of great firs soft as pulp our pioneers keep striking inwards and downwards every layer they strip seems camped on before the bogholes might be atlantic seepage the wet centre is bottomless the hospital smell combs my nostrils as they go bobbing along green and yellow corridors what seems a corpse is trundled into a lift and vanishes heavenward i will not feel i will not feel until i have to nurses walk lightly swiftly here and up and down and there their slender waists miraculously carrying their burden of so much pain so many deaths their eyes still clear after so many farewells ward seven she lies in a white cave of forgetfulness a withered hand trembles on its stalk eyes move behind eyelids too heavy to raise into an arm wasted of colour a glass fang is fixed not guzzling but giving and between her and me distance shrinks till there is none left but the distance of pain that neither she nor i can cross she smiles a little at this black figure in her white cave who clumsily rises in the round swimming waves of a bell and dizzily goes off growing fainter not smaller leaving behind only books that will not be read and fruitless fruits