Kairos And Logos

I Around them boomed the rhetoric of time, The smells and furniture of the known world Where conscience worshipped an aesthetic order And what was unsuccessful was condemned; And, at the centre of its vast self-love, The emperor and his pleasures, dreading death. In lovely verse that military order, Transferring its obsession onto time, Besieged the body and cuckolded love; Puzzling the boys of an athletic world, These only feared another kind of Death To which the time-obsessed are all condemned. Night and the rivers sang a cationic love, Destroyer of cities and the daylight order, But seemed to them weak arguments for death; The apple tree that cannot measure time Might taste the apple yet not be condemned; They, to enjoy it, must renounce the world. Friendly to what the sensual call death, Placing their lives below the dogs who love Their fallen masters and are not condemned, They came to life within a dying order; Outside the sunshine of its civil world The savage waited their appointed time. Its brilliant self-assertions were condemned To interest the forest and draw death On aqueducts and learning; yet the world, Through them, had witnessed, when predestined love Fell like a daring meteor into time, The condescension of eternal order. So, sown in little clumps about the world, The fair, the faithful and the uncondemned Broke out spontaneously all over time, Setting against the random facts of death A ground and possibility of order, Against defeat the certainty of love. And never, like its own, condemned the world Or hated time, but sang until their death: "O Thou who lovest, set its love in order." II Quite suddenly her dream became a word: There stood the unicorn, declaring - "Child"; She kissed her dolls good-bye and one by one Embraced the faithful roses in the garden, Waved for the last time to her mother's home, And tiptoed out into the silent forest. And seemed the lucky, the predestined one For whom the stones made way without a word; And sparrows fought to make her feel at home, And winds restrained their storms before the child; And all the children of that mother-forest Were told to let her treat it as her garden. Till she forgot that she was not at home Where she was loved, of course, by everyone, Could always tell the rose-bush - "Be a forest." Or make dolls guess when she had thought a word, Or play at being Mother in the garden And have importance as her only child. So, scampering like a sparrow through the forest, She piled up stones, pretending they were Home, Called the wild roses that she picked "My Garden," Made any wind she chose the Naughty One, Talked to herself as to a doll, a child Whose mother-magic knew the Magic Word. And took the earth for granted as her garden: Till the day came the children of the forest Ceased to regard or treat her as a child; The roses frowned at her untidy home, The sparrows laughed when she misspelt a word, Winds cried:"A mother should behave like one." Frightened and cruel like a guilty child, She shouted all the roses from her garden, And threw stones at the winds: without a word The unicorn slipped off into the forest Like an offended doll, and one by one The sparrows flew back to her mother's home. Of course the forest overran her garden, Yet, though, like everyone, she lost her home, The Word still nursed Its motherhood, Its child. III If one could name the father of these things, They would not happen to decide one's fate: He woke one morning and the verbal truth He went to bed with was no longer there; The years of reading fell away; his eyes Beheld the weights and contours of the earth. One must be passive to conceive the truth: The bright and brutal surfaces of things Awaited the decision of his eyes, These pretty girls, to be embraced by fate And mother all the objects of the earth; The fatherhood of knowledge stood out there. One notices, if one will trust one's eyes, The shadow cast by language upon truth: He saw his role as father to an earth Whose speechless, separate, and ambiguous things Married at his decision; he was there To show a lucid passion for their fate. One has good reason to award the earth The dog-like dumb devotion of the eyes; Death, love, dishonour are predicted there, Her arbitrary moments are the truth; No, he was not the father of his fate; The power of decision lay with things. To know, one must decide what is not there, Where sickness is, and nothing: all that earth Presented was a challenge to his fate To father dreams of talking oaks, of eyes In walls, catastrophes, sins, poems, things Whose possibilities excluded truth. What one expects is not, of course, one's fate: When he had finished looking at them, there Were helpless images instead of things That had looked so decided; instead of earth His fatherless creation; instead of truth The luckiest convention of his eyes: That saw himself there with an exile's eyes Missing his Father, a thing of earth On whose decision hung the fate of truth. IV Castle and crown are faded clean away, The fountain sinks into a level silence; What kingdom can be reached by the occasions That climb the broken ladders of our lives? We are imprisoned in unbounded spaces, Defined by an indefinite confusion. We should have wept before these occasions, We should have given what is snatched away; O columns, acrobats of cheering spaces, O songs that were the royal wives of silence, Now you are art and part of our confusion; We are at loggerheads with our own lives. The order of the macrocosmic spaces, The outward calm of their remote occasions, Has lost all interest in our confusion; Our inner regimen has given way; The subatomic gulfs confront our lives With the cold stare of their eternal silence. Where are the kings who routed all confusion, The bearded gods who shepherded the spaces, The merchants who poured gold into our lives? Where the historic routes, the great occasions? Laurel and language wither into silence; The nymphs and oracles have fled away. And cold and absence echo on our lives: "We are your conscience of your own confusion That made a stricken widow of the silence And weeping orphans of the unarmed spaces, That laid time waste behind you, stole away The birthright of innumerable occasions." O blessing of reproach. O proof that silence And condemnation presuppose our lives: We are not lost but only run away, The authors and the powers of confusion; We are the promise of unborn occasions; Our presence is required by all the spaces. The flora of our lives could guide occasions Without confusion on their frisking way Through all the silences and all the spaces.