(Bear with… it is closely based on Eliot’s poem and so
goes on a bit!)
(T S Eliot, 1934
Image by Lady Ottoline Morrell;
cropped by Octave.H)
Because I do hope to turn again…
because I do hope;
because I do hope to turn,
desiring my own gift and my own scope.
I do strive to strive towards such things.
( Why shouldn’t I mount up with eagles’ wings?
Why shouldn’t I celebrate
my replenished power and the banishment of pain?)
Because I do hope to feel again
the glory of the positive hour;
because I do think;
because I am known and I shall know
the sole veritable eternal power.
Because I can drink
there, where trees flower and springs flow,
for there is something again.
Because I know that time is always time,
but place is never only place
and what is actual is actual for eternity
and not just for the here and now.
I rejoice that things will be as they will be
and I cherish the blessed face;
internalise the voice.
Because I hope to turn again-
consequently I rejoice, not having to construct something
upon which to rejoice. I have been given choice.
I pray to God to have mercy on me
and know that He will forget
those matters that with myself I too much discuss-
too much justify and explain…
because I do hope to turn again,
let these words answer
for what was done and for those things
from which I should have refrained.
Judgement need not lie heavy upon us.
Because these wings still have a capacity to fly
and will buoy me up in the air-
the air which is fresh and pure, though dry,
expansive and inspirational.
Teach me to care and not to care.
Teach me to sit still,
confident that an advocate prays for me
now and will do at the hour of death.
After the leopards fed to satiety on my heart,
my innards and the contents of my mind,
my skeletal remains shone with brightness;
your oblivion transformed what had been rejected
into something substantial and resurrected.
Now my bones live; I do not prophesy to the wind,
but am transported to a garden where torment has vanished
and I am glad to have my bones scattered under a tree
in the cool of the day, where neither unity nor division matter
and I am to have my inheritance and will not be banished.
I no longer fear the devil on the stair-
the one whose face shows hope and dark despair.
I have climbed beyond the second stair
and caught the scent of hawthorn there.
I heard the antique flute’s distracting notes
but found the shibboleth I needed in my throat.
Lord, You made me worthy.
The final stanzas tomorrow. This is a long haul poem
and I am trying to follow, but counter Eliot!