Holding To My Place...

Every Thought...

Week 42: The Chapel Of The Wind

12:30 is a late night poem, perhaps my darkest:“My heart is heavy, ...my soul is sad, ...my mind is numb...,” but it alludes to a gospel commandment, called our greatest instruction, to give it all to God.

10/14:

  TWL, lines 386-395: The Chapel Of The Wind

  386 In this decayed hole among the mountains
  387 In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing
  388 Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel
  389 There is the empty chapel, only the wind's home.
  390 It has no windows, and the door swings,
  391 Dry bones can harm no one.
  392 Only a cock stood on the rooftree
  393 Co co rico    co co rico
  394 In a flash of lightning.  Then a damp gust
  395 Bringing rain

  388. THE CHAPEL PERILOUS , a term first used in Thomas Malory, Le Morte d’Arthur (1485) 6.14-15, is where a weeping Hellawes the Sorceress sends Sir Lancelot to retrieve a magical sword and cloth that will heal her brother.  Her ulterior motive is to seduce Lancelot, but when he refuses to kiss her upon his return then rides off to heal the wounded soldier, she despairs and kills herself.  Compare the story of Queen Dido and Aeneas (note 92).

  The chapel itself, meanwhile, is a legend unto itself.  See Weston, From Ritual to Romance 13:

  “Students of the Grail romances will remember that in many of the versions the hero--sometimes it is a heroine--meets with a strange and terrifying adventure in a mysterious Chapel, an adventure which, we are given to understand, is fraught with  extreme peril to life. The details vary: sometimes there is a Dead Body laid on the altar; sometimes a Black Hand extinguishes the tapers; there are strange and threatening voices, and the general impression is that this is an adventure in which supernatural, and evil, forces are engaged. Such an adventure befalls Gawain on his way to the Grail Castle. He is overtaken by a terrible storm, and coming to a Chapel, standing at a crossways in the middle of a forest, enters for shelter. The altar is bare, with no cloth, or covering, nothing is thereon but a great golden candlestick with a tall taper burning within it. Behind the altar is a window, and as Gawain looks a Hand, black and hideous, comes through the window, and extinguishes the taper, while a voice makes lamentation loud and dire, beneath which the very building rocks. Gawain's horse shies for terror, and the knight, making the sign of the Cross, rides out of the Chapel, to find the storm abated, and the great wind fallen. Thereafter the night was calm and clear.”

  389. THE WIND’S HOME: See the “wind under the door” at line 118.  The chapel in this passage is empty and windowless; likewise the bones, not yet brought to life (see line 186), are dry and harmless. The chapel remains the wind’s home, however, and the scene quickly changes: the door swings, a damp gust brings rain (see lines 394-395) and what was once a dry, sterile thunder (see line 342) will become full of meaning (see line 399 and following).

  PUTTING OFF SENSE AND NOTION: Compare the allegorical English chapel of Eliot, Little Gidding (1943):

  “...If you came this way,
  Taking any route, starting from anywhere,
  At any time or at any season,
  It would always be the same: you would have to put off
  Sense and notion. You are not here to verify,
  Instruct yourself, or inform curiosity
  Or carry report. You are here to kneel
  Where prayer has been valid. And prayer is more  Than an order of words, the conscious occupation
  Of the praying mind, or the sound of the voice praying...”

  For a list of other church references in The Waste Land, see note 67.

  393. THE COCK CROWS: Co co rico is the rooster’s cry in French, the language of Leman (see line 182) and, demotically, of Mr Eugenides (see line 212).

  The cock also crows in Shakespeare, The Tempest 1.2.385-387, as part of Ariel’s song (note 26):

  “Hark, hark! I hear
  The strain of strutting chanticleer
  Cry, Cock a diddle dow”

  See also Shakespeare, Hamlet 1.1.156, as the ghost of Hamlet’s father, just about to speak, suddenly departs at dawn:

  “BARNARDO

  It was about to speak when the cock crew.

  HORATIO

  And then it started like a guilty thing
  Upon a fearful summons. I have heard
  The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn,
  Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat
  Awake the god of day, and, at his warning,
  Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air,
  Th' extravagant and erring spirit hies
  To his confine, and of the truth herein
  This present object made probation.

 MARCELUS

  It faded on the crowing of the cock.”

  See also Matthew 26: 31-35, 69-75:

  “Then saith Jesus unto them, All ye shall be offended because of me this night: for it is written, I will smite the shepherd, and the sheep of the flock shall be scattered abroad. But after I am risen again, I will go before you into Galilee. Peter answered and said unto him, Though all men shall be offended because of thee, yet will I never be offended. Jesus said unto him, Verily I say unto thee, That this night, before the cock crow, thou shalt deny me thrice. Peter said unto him, Though I should die with thee, yet will I not deny thee. ...Now Peter sat without in the palace: and a damsel came unto him, saying, Thou also wast with Jesus of Galilee. But he denied before them all, saying, I know not what thou sayest. And when he was gone out into the porch, another maid saw him, and said unto them that were there, This fellow was also with Jesus of Nazareth. And again he denied with an oath, I do not know the man. And after a while came unto him they that stood by, and said to Peter, Surely thou also art one of them; for thy speech betrayeth thee. Then began he to curse and to swear, saying, I know not the man. And immediately the cock crew. And Peter remembered the word of Jesus, which said unto him, Before the cock crow, thou shalt deny me thrice. And he went out, and wept bitterly.”

  395. BRINGING RAIN: See Conrad*, An Outcast of the Islands 4.5:

  “Then the heavy air round him was pierced by a sharp gust of wind, bringing with it the fresh, damp feel of the falling rain...”


10/15:

  12:30

   “...and with all your strength...”

  My heart is heavy: if heaviness were
  a bundle I would set it down and leave
  it on the roadside bloody there to throb
  and die alone.  Then newly spirited I
  by the substitute beat of wings would learn to fly
  and rise to heaven all heaviness defied,
    by invisible will of winds sustained
  and carried, no more burdens to abide.
  But let my heart beat on inseparable, strong
  against the grievous push of reality,
    steady as the ground on which I stand,
  constantly attending, the sergeant’s song
  at the center of my march to victory
  and the core of my pain.
 
  My soul is sad: and if it were a rope
  around my neck I would struggle to untie
  the knots of my existence, to escape
  the tangles of my personhood, to be
  unfettered from my sorrows, free at last:
  viva la dolce vita joie de vivre
    translated to the gates of God
  and welcomed in, all weariness relieved.
  But let my soul run certainty within
  the intricate schematic of my veins,
    cause of all effect, the unseen force
  of every muscle’s movement, every wind
  and spark and charge, the rattle in my chains
    and the source of my sadness.

 My mind is numb: if heaven is a dream
  unproven, laughable, a fool’s goal I
    must dream it and believe it anyway:
  upon these wings imagined life becomes
  more bearable, the suffering recedes;
  but prove there is no heaven, clip my dreams
    and pain abounds and weighs me down;
  my heart becomes a heavy ticking bomb;
  my soul starts strangling me.
      But let it be:
       let my heart beat on, my soul remain within
  to stubbornly endure; let time instruct
       the vital weave of heaviness and heaven
  and let me learn how pain is not a parcel
                 to reject or a cord to be cut.


10/16:

  Zenaida, born of Zeus

  Killdeers call with perpetual fear,
  Nothing but fear, fear, fear, look here, look here!

  Owls stand guard with the moods of moonlight,
  Calling who, who, who casts their shadows at night?

  Each bird sings with a different style,
  And somehow the mourning dove lost its smile.

  Nobody knows their trouble and strain:
    Woe is woe, woe, woe.
    Pain is pain, pain, pain.
 

  Nuthatches ha-ha-ha nervous as clowns
  Dancing on branches and making their rounds;

  Gulls have a child-like exuberant noise,
  A playground of high-pitched girls and boys;
 
  A distant hawk telegraphs its fairest warning,
  And then there’s the dove, quietly mourning.
 
  I cannot explain the mourning dove’s pain.
    Can’t explain pain, pain.
    Can’t explain pain, pain.


  Crows are all arrogance, breaking the law,
  Disturbing the peace with their caw, caw, caw;
 
  Jays cop an attitude, ringing their name
  From the tops of trees, all jay and no shame;

  Cardinals share their clear cheer cheer
  But the doves keep it personal, muted, austere
 
  With hints of a story that nobody knows:
    No one feels their pain.
    No one knows their woes.
 

  Sparrows are whistling Dixie, with calls
  Of teakettles, peabodies, bounced rubber balls;
 
  Thrushes are pipers that play heaven for us,
  Ethereally luring us into the forest;  

  Most birds are easy to characterize,
  But who is to say why the mourning dove cries?
 
  I cannot explain the mourning dove’s pain.
    Can’t explain pain, pain.
    Can’t explain pain, pain.


10/17:

  Creed and Confession

  from Walled Gardens

  I have been bound to imagery and form,
  without regard to their source and eternity;

  I have taken scripture at its word,
  and found God’s essence in chapter and verse; and yet

  I have bowed down to devils wearing the rings of kings.
  “He sat upon the throne” was all I needed.

  I have praised the images in my church,
  never thinking of God as the artist;

  I have followed the form of the worship service
  never considering the contingencies.

  I have come to believe that God will send
  the devils on their way, but

  I have never dared to move beyond
  “He sat” to “He has no place.”


  I have been bound to the image of a throne
  and the form of one who wears a fitting crown;

  I have let the scriptures tell me what is true,
  as even “he that sat upon the throne revealed...”

  I have proudly worn my Christianity
  and celebrated God’s descendancy;

 I have put this at the center of my creed,
  believing that my God will come again, even as

  I have known my God’s been with me all along,
  every time, forever everywhere, even as

  I have looked and still I look for a direction
  to bow down to, traditions to cling to, even as

  I have needed, always needed, something new,
  something certain, something true.


10/18:

  The Grand Design

  from Walled Gardens

  This is how you are to bless....
   - Numbers 6:23 (NIV)

  The grand design of the universe proceeds
  regardless of apologies and creeds,
  no matter what’s believed or not believed:
  that God exists precedes how God’s perceived
  and all the universe thus far perfected
  is God’s reality on us reflected.
  What good, then, if we separate the light
  into a thousand rays of wrong and right
  when there is truth in each ray we receive?
  I may not always know what to believe,
  but I believe that God’s expecting me
  to keep reflecting everything I see
  without distortion, judgment or rejection
  and faithful to the source of my reflection.

  God bless thee, wolf or Joseph, small or great,
  and keep thee all the same by wrath or mercy
  unbiased by thy aid or opposition,
  no matter what thy rank or reputation;
  God shine His face upon thee for thy favor
  and turn His face toward thee for thy peace
  regardless of thy service or rebellion,
  uncolored by thy honor or thy shame.
  By grace thy soul is given understanding
  just as by God the sky is given lightning
  and as the force that first did cause the heavens
  is still creating every force within:
  so bless thee, as the miller turns the millstone,
  and keep thee, as the tender feeds the flame.

 The grand design of the universe is carved
  and I am but a sliver in the carving:
  all I know is shaped by the designer
  and all I am, a part of the design.
  I am an ant with perpetual movement
  around me, earth and heaven ever moving
  like a mindless dragon: I am but a mote
  within its mouth, and yet for all the motion
  I am never swallowed as the dragon
  sleeps and stirs. And even this great dragon
  is given its own task upon the millwheel,
  unmindful of the fires and misfortunes
  of time, and I’m an atom on this millwheel,
  holding to my place in the design.


10/19:

  What Brings Us Here

  from Walled Gardens
  
  “Lose thyself...”

  We do not come to the doors of God
  nor stir the dust of the chapel road
  assured that we should feel proud
  of what the journey was

  It wasn’t strength of will that brought
  us here, or that our debts were paid
  ahead of time and left behind:
  this is no place for cause

  And we may think ourselves well dressed
  and breakfasted with our own houses
  put in order, as if by this
  we’re ready to be blessed,

  But this is not a place where we are sought;
  we are the seekers, here for what we’re not.


10/20:

  Moleskin 5.5: Sweet Maple River


  I have to recognize what rivers I’ve been given, though. Chicago, I barely knew your green river, but I liked that nameless creek full of crayfish and that make-do hockey pond down the street, and as I got older I enjoyed discovering the sweet maple river of Des Plaines, groomed with urban forest preserves just a bike ride away. When we were young Dad would drive us to a nature preserve just off of Milwaukee Avenue, with caged raccoons and animal prints cast in clay and miles of trails with markers describing the different trees. Eventually I would find my own way to the Des Plaines riverbanks, and even now, and I am still here, too —that river gives me peace. I did not —do not —need to contemplate its continuum to be a part of it, and I am a part of it and one with every river I have ever known.