last words - the exegetes

Over the holiday, I’ve compiled an eschatological list of triadic words from some of my favourite novels. It makes uninteresting reading, so I reproduce the litany here in no particular, but reverse, order:

10.on the shore - The Waves, Virginia Woolf

 9. lost for ever - The Rings of Saturn, W. G. Sebald

 8. of the future - Threads, Julia Blackburn

 7. England I said - In Search of England, H. V. Morton

 6. tales the Bible - Wild Wales, George Borrow

 5. from the mountain - The Living Mountain, Nan Shepherd

 4. one spring day - Under Milk Wood, Dylan Thomas

 3. and twenty eight - Orlando, Virginia Woolf

 2. forever he said - Love in the Time of Cholera, Gabriel Garcia Marquez

 1, and he slept - East of Eden, John Steinbeck

From these ten triads come this poem, an unwitting collaboration between authors, only one of which is not a posthumous contribution, nevertheless involuntary:

And twenty eight tales the Bible

Of the future lost for ever

From the mountain on the shore –

England I said; forever he said.

And he slept one spring day.

Poetry is not simple or precise. It demands effort from the reader. It matters little what the author intended, because the essence is not in what is intended to be said, but how the reader, the poetry lover, interprets the message. Therein lies the craft of the skilled poet.

Here is my interpretation of what the authors mean in the poem above:

Twenty tales, could imply one told per day, therefore = February (assuming not a leap year) The Bible of the future is an allegory for apostasy and atheism.

Lost for ever = once we lose faith it can never be reclaimed because gods will vanish.

The mountain = reaches up to the Heavens and is there to be climbed, but is rooted on:

The shore = the mountain starts at the shore but never quite reaches the sky.

England = another allegory, this time for a nation looking backwards to an age of elitism – or

                             England could be conflation of Heaven and the nation state.

Forever = an axiom, nothing lasting for ever, and therefore is probably an allegory for hubris.

And he slept one spring day = just when he should be awakening, he falls asleep. Mistiming.

I = the guilty party.

He = the metaphorical he, the central epitome of humanity which really only wants to sleep.

Sleep = head buried in the sand (or up his own arse if he or she is a politician).

In a nutshell, the poem forecasts that in February 2018, religion will die because gods have turned their backs on humanity, preferring not to exist rather than be accountable for the hopeless mess which priests and arch-bishops blame on them. Even the highest aspiration is rooted in the soil, (mountain on the shore) hence grounded, so humanity will be culpable for the loss of those things which hitherto have met our inherent need to find things to worship. And all “the man” can do is pin his (or her) hopes in a futile dream of little proportion in comparison with the vastness of the universe – England the tiny puddle against the immensity of universal oceans. So at the end of February, the beginning of spring, “he” falls asleep.

In short, we’re doomed and it’s all our own fault. Considering nine out of ten of these authors are long dead, their abilities at prophetic poetry is astounding. If they’re right, fasten your extra-terrestrial seat belts because we’re in for a bumpy ride.

Happy New Year.