On Going South In Winter
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
I settle into the words of T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land poem. The lines are layered so the reader must linger.
In my imagination I’d enjoy going south in winter. Florida is out of the running due to the Trumpism fever that ravages many who live there. I’d settle for the Rivera Maya, further south, perhaps a room not far from the ocean. I confess wintering in Mexico will stay in my imagination. I am satisfied to have books to read.
The poet invites me to have a look around. How does life present itself to me, branch to root? Life, raw energy transformed into meaningful form, grows out of stony rubbish. Life does. I am reminded every time I peruse my internet news feed, or view a ABC newscast.
The writer addresses you and I, the reader as Son of man a term of address rising from the book of Ezekiel, which was later associated with Jesus the coming liberator. This uncanny form of address is a sign that I the reader bear responsibility for interpreting, tracking the links of meaning, of life, no matter the desolate, stony surroundings. I represent many. I am to observe, to think, to write for others.
I just cannot ‘read on.’ Such a title demands reflection. WTF. This is not what I expected. Here I am a retired old white guy, living in Batavia, noticing little more than my own shadow in the slant of the morning sun, and at days end, stretching behind me. I go about my business.
The poet insists: I will show you something different…
Could ‘this’ be fear in a handful of dust?
