The poems of this thesis attempt to follow a structural framework based on the legends of the city of Babylon. The majority of the symbols of this work are, however, dated by the mind of a twentieth-century male and the images of postmodern culture, but through this framework I attempt to mythologize and raise the events and symbols of my life to both an archetypal and epic level. As a child I was fascinated by the idea of Babylon: the romantic notion of a king who commissioned the building of the Hanging Gardens for his bride, who felt homesick for the mountains in the vast deserts of Assyria. The idea of one man attempting to create a perfect world attracted me. The theme of manês search for his own paradise is vastly archetypal. Whether an actual search for a geographic region or the creation of a Magnum Opus, this theme seems one of the greatest ideas in literature.
The Utopian search for El Dorado, Eden, or even the Land of the Houyhnhnms is perhaps one of the most archetypal searches in the life of man. The search for Paradise is ultimately the search for understanding and contentment. But the creation or attainment of happiness never comes without a price. The way to Babylon is a path iii littered with obstacles and filled with sacrifice. Each section of this thesis attempts to show the difficulty in attaining any dream. All heroes who eventually make their way into paradise face some sort of loss or hardship and are changed by their journey.
Each poem in my thesis can be taken as a meditation, and
each speaker is on some type of search, whether it is a search for understanding
or some goal. The sections are laid out as a symbolic journey. The first
section, "Legends and Heroes," attempts to
create the wisdom to prepare for the journey. Only through the knowledge
of other stories or gods can the main hero walk the path of attainment.
The second section, "The Way To Babylon,"
is primarily centered on rites of passage. The third section, "Life
in Babylon," is filled with the intrigues, mysteries, and tests
that are the hallmark of those who choose to live in Babylon. The fourth
section, "Genealogy," is meant to symbolize
every heroês descent into the underworld. This section contains poems
about my family and its history; it was the hardest section to write and
the most difficult to face. The final section is entitled "MENE
TEKEL." These words were written on the wall of the kingês
chamber by a ghostly hand and are the judgment of God.
It represents the final understanding that all life, regardless of place,
consists of measuring both good and bad and finding the path between the
two. To dwell in the city of Babylon is to dwell in the real world, yet
to be ever conscious of the impending fall.
Meanwhile, Cane searches a new town
each day,
often fighting with gunmen, their
jaws hard and square.
He will count the long hours by
shadows and sun
and think as he closes his eyes
to envision
his master who sits drawing words
from his mouth,
who warmly invites him back into
the circle.
Elsewhere, an old ranch hand leads
his horse in circle,
while Little Joe and Hoss head
inside for the day,
Already the eldest brother has
left, his mouth
much to vocal for Ben Cartright's
taste. In the square
Hop Sing works, preparing a meal
as his vision
of home stays clouded by a harsh
western sun.
At the same time, Kimball sweats
under the noon sun,
chased by a big gang that pursues
to encircle
his trail.As he runs his mind fills
with a vision
of monks telling stories near the
end of the day.
Just then, Kimball runs stumbling
into the monk's square.
Confused, he stands there, his
hand to his mouth.
Gerard interrogates the monks, watching
their mouths,
"Why must you seek of him, this
fugitive, my son?"
Master Po asks, but then Gerard
prepares to square
off against Po. Both move to duel
in a circle,
as the Fugitive flees off to safety
this day,
and Cane steps into Hop Sing's
failing vision.
These heroes and villains remain
in our vision,
their only wisdom cliches that
fall from each mouth,
and their lessons stale syntax
left to linger each day
as their cloned, constructed worlds
close down when their sun
sets in the West, to rise in the
East. The same circle
repeats and like monks we return
to wait in the square.
We live with dimmed vision, under
a dim sun
Where dumb words tumble from dumb
mouths.
We circle the set and stare towards
the blinding vacuum of the square.
In the frigid light that leans in
with the dawn,
I change and watch you sleeping,
unaware
that paper boys are peddling over
lawns
while early milkmen shuffle up
the stairs.
They plant their work and quickly
slip away
to work which starts before the
start of day,
already coping with the jobs they
fear
will never end or never quite be
done.
Their job still follows everywhere
they run;
each place they walk, the empty
bottles stare.
Sometimes I think of truckers in
the rain,
who must wake up before the sun
can wake,
to lumber down those drenching,
horrid lanes
where only trash and bitter faces
wait
to greet them when they open forth
their doors,
those lanes and rural routes their
constant chores.
I think about the sweeper who must
laugh
and clean the filthy, rat-infested
lanes
where trash collects in holes and
sewage drains,
to dredge away the refuse of our
paths.
Each day I wake and dress and watch
you sleep,
caught in this crazy, strong diurnal
dance
which loops and loops back on itself
each week,
but I would stay this way given
the chance
to run or hide or even change my
ways,
for I find passion hiding in my
days
where groaning pipes stretch deeply
underground,
where every screw I turn obeys
my hand.
I know some men could never understand.
The knowledge of the world is what
I've found.
I know the cosmic sense my hands
unfurl
each time I bang my wrench against
a pipe.
That knock will travel out and
through the world
to places still untouched and growing
ripe:
past playgrounds where each boy
and girl must play,
along the bridge near Brooklyn
and its bay
where ships arise in colors dawned
by sun,
where seabirds mist their stringent
wings to air,
where shrimpers strain the ocean
for their wares,
where tugboats whistle up and down
their runs.
And when the sun descends each building's
frame,
I will slip home through alleys
in this night
where every nut or bolt calls out
my name,
past evening doorways framed in
fading light
where hungry husbands take their
hungry wives,
still troubled by their all too
troubling lives
The seabirds slip into their salty
nests;
above each
stoop the pigeons nestle down.
Withdrawing
light retracts from all around
as early
milkmen settle down to rest.
Our lives
forgive the damage we repair:
we trust
to hearts and hands to make things well,
for things
will last forever given care
and skill
to see the heaven of life's hell.
The chores
like cherubs multiply and bless,
awaiting
each man's curing, kind caress.
And though
I leave each morning to the light,
I hold you
harder each day I return
from pipes
and screws; and every cent I earn,
I earn so
I can come back home each night.
Copyright (C) James T. Enelow
P.S. These poems have been well documented in my Graduate Thesis and my undergraduate thesis, so don't even get the idea of trying to copy and publish them!
Each day we loaf about the same
old spots
in dirty alcoves and demolished
lots
while man, content, to beat his
brains
gains but stress and migraines
for his pains.
But too many a time we've seen them
break
under the strain of jobs. The dull
dense ache
builds up to make their hearts
give way,
till white coats come and wheel
'em all away.
But as we wish and wait for our
few crumbs
there is one thing to which each
toad succumbs--
a faint, ambitious urge we rue,
for something mannish waits within
us too.
Waits in those moments when we hop
in Spring,
waits when we crack our croaky
throats to sing
a simple love song to our mate
or fight the looming fear our days
grow late.
That ache we feel to be much more
than blobs
of toady flesh, kindles in us the
need for jobs,
the urge to stuff our mounds and
fronds,
the worlds our lives are slowly
built upon.
But all too well we know our mark
and place,
we sit the sidelines at man's clumsy
race
and watch him struggle as he goes
as buildings, banks, and condos
seem to grow,
still stretching toward some distant,
nameless spot
where man himself might find a
place to squat
to watch his offspring spring and
grow
and touch the wisdom only toads
can know.
So let your silver towers rise above
until you find that peace amphibians
love.
Come on, old man, dissolve those
ties,
and arm in arm we'll walk the road
of flies.
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