SKAIOS SOPHOS
for Ben
—
He named the Earth on the right "The Earth of Light,"
and the Earth on the left "The Earth of Darkness"
—
Among the acolytes the temple held
There was one quiet women not compelled
To twist her face with fear—or hide the tears
That swelled her red-rimmed eyes—or plug her ears
Against the heated words the Papas preached—
Her hard-set face, alone, could not be breached.
While others let that outside force affect
Them like their heart, Sophia Sophos checked
Each muscle, froze each limb, and calmed her soul
To offer up the only show of cool control.
—
The brilliance of the altar's fire, though,
Exposed a flaw which acted as a blow
To her composure: Worry worked in lines
Around her eyes and down her cheeks. These signs
Of age transformed her youth into the traits
Of one who's crushed beneath the weights
Which smother first her flesh, then smother, too,
Her flesh's flesh: The Grieving Mother. Through
And through, her face was let of blood—it paled—
Her native island's crop, the olive, failed,
Which was the color of her normal, healthy hue.
—
For her to seem to only have a few
Good years remaining was a dreadful wrong.
She smiled in youthful gladness, not that long
Ago—it was her decaversary—
Her third. Yet now that recent revelry
She thought of as a time belonging to
Another life. All thought was now askew
Due to the war, in fact. And no one had
Her thinking more distressed—from sane to mad,
From cheerfulness to melancholy—than
Sophia had. She used to closely scan
The beauties, every one, which caught her eye—
No matter what coercions tried to pry
Her faithful gaze away. She studied them,
Despite the time it took, from leaf to stem—
Then change her stance to study them once more.
Each image found was brought into a store,
Where each could be re-lived, -loved, at a thought.
Yet even these indulgences, which ought
To have contented her, were not enough—
She had to, too, develop, from the rough
Vocabulary men have thus far built,
A modern language—beauty's tongue—a lilt
Unheard of previous—a tenor all
Together new—imparting, thus, the thrall
These stirrings-of-the-soul had over her.
This was her genuine way to deter
Time's bleeding out—she was the gauze, she held
The life-pulse.
—
War, though, was a pressure which propelled
Her life along expressly through the speed
Of suffering—too quickly for her need
To be fulfilled, her vital need for beauty,
For beauty's thoughts and words. She was abruptly
Swept from the rains which fed her blooming mind.
In war's oppressive winds, she was resigned
To only speculate and grieve. She stooped
To thinking: Has the Papas' new sway duped
Us into bringing back the old reigme?
Have we been led into our own cruel past?
What prejudices will he resurrect?
Who'll be alive when peace, at last, returns?
And: Do we have the means within ourselves
To conjure worthier tomorrows? How,
Then, do we vaccinate our weary world
With beauties, lost without but born within?
The war then flashed another gristly grin,
Inciting further questions, burning doubt—
Another numbing, thoughtless, silent drought
Of comfort and of answers followed as before.
At other times, more harried by the war
And its mad rush, she found herself estranged
From wisdom, crying plainly: Everything has changed!
—
For one, the temple looked abandoned from
The high, sand pews—where the Elected, dumb
But writhing, sat—than from the pulpit where
The congregation used to dance its prayer.
In that remembered time, the moon's cool gleam
Would float, as effortlessly as a dream,
In through the temple's lack of roof, and paint
The craggy walls. The air was clean—the faint
Illumination charming—every heart
As open as a lover's arms. The start
Of their communal perturbations came
When, overhead—as if to hide their shame—
A plaster roof was built one afternoon—
The Papas bellowing the orders. Soon
The world recoiled, abandoned—hearts, parched, shrank
Back from the altar's smoke—the fire drank
The charm, disfiguring the living rock—
All stared: from sadness, outrage, terror, horror, shock.
—
And for another: In each inmate's face
An alteration could be seen. In place
Of cheerfulness, which she recalled to be
The norm, she now discerned complacency
And gravity and nausea and fear
When at its ebb, when at its least severe,
The altar's fire merely madly glowed.
When at its raging flood, its brightness showed
The graphic overexposure of these
Perversions, each a mask of some disease—
Anxiety and Hypochondria,
And Dysthymia, Melancholia—
From which her thriving eyes shrank back in hope
Of fighting off infection. Hard to cope
With seeing friends transfigured into fiends—
Yet it was harder still to find the means
To keep the reins of her composer taut.
Her eyes performed the deed her body fought
Against—they searched the temple for a trace
Of the familiar—none was found in that cramped space.
—
The lightning march of twisted faces made
Sophia's mind a dizzy mess, which preyed
Upon her sober thought, removing it
Beyond her grasped, which forced her to submit
To black unthinking. Yet this proved to be
A cure for reason's vertigo. A spree
Of feeling, cleansed of bothered thinking's tinge,
Produced, from somewhere far—the outer fringe,
Perhaps the bottom of her soul—a calm,
The coolest yet, which acted as a balm
To soothe her hurting, overheated brain.
Her faculty discharged against war's pain—
Like sight renewed, accustomed to the dark,
Her thinking-beauty shot and struck its mark:
To lay out beauty's bloodless victory;
Display love's final triumph over war;
Exhibit what our fluid minds create—
To sing it! Draw it! Share it! Act it out!
O World—These are the words to our duet,
The means to give to you in giving's wake,
The disinfectant cleaning war's offense!
It is a reoccurring birth from scores
Of mothers: Beauty, naked, coming on
And on, sublimely, glorious, from minds—
From everywhere—from we the living, we
Together—our community is all!
She found, at last, her shelter from the squall
That disarrayed all life, beneath the waves
Of a fluidity of thought where raves
Desire and caring in one growing corps,
And where no war could move its currents, for
That image of a hardy, human world
Was fixed within her mind. Her sight still swirled
When, next, she opened wide her eyes to seek
Those fellow lovers who could scorn their bleak
Reality and help her catch the mists
Of better fates, wherein love coexists
With tolerance and beauty, filling in
Tomorrow's sea in which all human kin
Could deluge war. While inspiration stirred
Her blood, she battered passed the masks incurred
Through the conformity the others backed—
She scoured for the sense their faces lacked,
Examining their spirits through their eyes.
In vain. She sought but failed to find the prize
Of someone, like her, bodily acute
Yet willing given proper care, like fruit
Prepared to ripen with the coming rain.
Those aired grotesqueries did not contain,
However, injured people underneath,
They were the bloodless faces blanched beneath
An unrelenting sun—the living dead!
Defeated—twice!—her eyes stilled in her head—
They lowered to a plot of ground and stared,
Reflecting, neutrally, the fire as it flared.
—
Her fortified imagination eased
Its barricades—the Papas' preaching seized
This opportunity to infiltrate.
And as his words began to dominate
Her heart, his sparks like duty, faith, and law
Ignited her into a blaze. To draw
Another calm and douse these flames seemed too
Laborious a chore for her to do
With all the burning she now suffered from.
She weakly fought so as not to succumb
To the febrility assured with such
A fire's kindling. This goal, with much
Anticipation, too, could not be gained—
For now the Papas solemnly explained
His next offensive. It was as she feared—
He uttered …human sacrifice—hope disappeared.
—
—These words have made you jump, my children? Why?
Why should a word, for instance human, make
You jump? It's true that being human is
A low and woeful way of life—but it's
A limitation which we deal with day
To day. I know you feel the heaviness
Of flesh, its weight upon you, crushing you.
I know you feel its seeming transience.
I know you, too, my children, even you—
Yes, even the Elected—feel the need,
The urge, the pressure to anesthetize
Yourselves in order to escape life's gloom.
You drink intoxicants. You swallow rich
Cuisine. You search out sensuous delights
To fool the human brain that glooms like death
Will not be what awaits you at the end
Of life. My children, death is not your end.
You're spirits. That is who you are, your true
Identity, your proper form. And when
You listen to our Lord, our Father, the
Elector, hear what he is telling you—
Each day, each minute, every second—then
You know you are not what you have on loan—
You're not your human bodies. When you fool
Yourselves into believing that you are,
Then you, my children, are not listening
To Him—you're minding your own ego. Shame!
The ego? Ego understands what's trite,
What's human—yet knows nothing of the truth.
Then why should you believe his lies? It is
The ego's lie that there is only one
World! It's the ego's lie that happiness
Is found on earth! It is the ego's lie
That you are mortal, worthless, human! If
You're listening to what the Lord has said,
And what He keeps on saying to you, then
You'd know that all that's human is a trap.
It is a coffin. It's a millstone tied
Around your neck. It is an obstacle
Between you and the Lord's Elysium!
And who has set it there to frustrate you?
The ego has! Who doesn't want to be
Relieved of such a weight? Who's ready to
Submit his weight, his weighty human flesh,
Into this fire? You would do so—you,
My children, the Elected—you would do
So just like that—without a selfish thought!
—
—If human shouldn't make you jump, then is
It sacrifice that scares you? How could such
A word be frightening? The fact that you
Are the Elected is a sacrifice—
It is a cutting out of all that is
Conflicting with the standards of your class.
Or is there something you are clinging to—
A certain something you're not ready yet
To cast into the flames? You want to keep
Your goods, perhaps? What earthly thing will you
Require in the Lord Elector's bliss?
Those things that make you happy now are toys,
Which you will gladly leave behind, as when
You left behind your toys of childhood
When you became adults. You want to keep
Your family, perhaps? What disciplined
Person won't follow you when you sojourn
To the Elector's home? If there is one
Such person you're familiar with, who, like
A willing patient, welcomes his disease—
Who welcomes his humanity!—then how
Is he a member of your family?
No brother will remain in his sickbed
When the Elector calls! You want to keep
Your consciousness, perhaps? Is that your wish—
To hold onto the self? You'll gain much less,
My children, by retaining something so
Imperfect, so inconsequential, than
You will receive by sacrificing self
To the Elector. If eternal bliss
Is what's at stake, why not do all you can?
Why not give up your time as sacrifice?
Why not give up your strength as sacrifice?
Why not give up your wealth as sacrifice?
Why not give up your self as sacrifice?
—
—Perhaps it's not the words themselves, but the
Idea that makes you jump—is that it? Does
The concept human sacrifice
Disturb you? Silly children! It's a rite
Amongst our oldest. Do you really fear
Our laws—the Lord's donation to mankind?
Our laws—the pulse which keeps our faith alive!
Our laws—the cure that treats this sickly world!
Our laws—the shield and sword to fight the Lord's
Ignoble foes and manifest his cause!
You jump at this, my children? If that's so,
Then all the sadder—all the more profane!
Your fear betrays a fault within your hearts—
For there has never been a fault in laws
So hallowed, so divine, as those the Lord
Has given us. You do not know the law
In its entirety. You do not know
The oldest rituals. You do not know
That better epoch which was closer to
The Lord. You do not know that golden age
Now over, which once spread throughout all space.
My shameful children—you are ignorant!
No wonder prophets called this age the Age
Of Combat! You are plagued with who knows what
Abominations! And you only have
Your ignorance to thank! You've brought this war
Upon yourselves! It is a test of faith
Our Lord has sent to you who are so far
Removed from his ideal—a test which you
Are failing! But, you're wrong to think that all
Is lost. My children, you are far from lost.
You only have your squeamishness to best,
Which keeps you from embracing sacrifice—
You only have to learn those ancient rites,
Now more important than they've ever been—
You only have to learn again our laws
If any part of them have slipped your mind—
You only have to learn to loose your grip
On life, and when you know the hopelessness
Of holding on to something not your own,
You'll give up to the Lord what's His, and He
Will shine His light on your benighted state!
—
—The time to act is now. If you still need
To contemplate the plight at hand, you've lost
Your opportunity! The shadow of
Our enemy has fallen over us.
Will this mean our faith's end? Or will we bring
About another golden age? The choice
Is yours to make. You must be ready. No—
You're ready now! You're poised to do your part,
To undertake your obligated tasks.
For those who shirk their tasks, there's Tartarus!
You know this—it is none of your concern,
For you will act now that the time has come.
The sons of darkness, likewise, lay in wait
To kill your bodies and corrupt your souls!
You know this, too—and you're indifferent!
You are prepared to fight and die! Let good
Or awful consequences come! You have
No thought for either one, because you are
Performing what the Lord has ordered you
To carry out. Since you are working with
The Lord Elector as your model—with
His home your only craving—with
Achieving the Elector as your goal,
You never can do wrong! You're free of fear,
Of ego, selfishness, of ignorance—
You've sacrificed to the Elector, and
He will repay you in his other world!
—
—My children, leave me now to implement
My last command: This recompense the Lord
Has planned for you must be the focus of
Your nightly meditation. You will dream
Of it tonight, no doubt—but watch as with
The dawn, this dreamt-of rapture will become
Reality! For then the human war—
Not simply man against his foes, or one
Idea against another, but the soul
Against its earthly prison!—will be, one
Way or another, over in a flash!
—
No other voice replied, as if the ash
The altar spewed had choked the faithful mute.
The Papas turned devoutly to salute
The fire and the god within. The sound
Of rustling from the grasses worn around
His middle as he knelt and calmly prayed—
The gentle sighs his feathered headdress made
With every bow—the fire's scornful roar—
All marked the time to rise up from the floor
And exit, which the congregation did.
They lumbered out, spaced well apart. They hid
Their devastation by diverting—there,
Abruptly here—their faces, looking where
They knew they'd never see the built-up fear
And towering despair they could not clear
Which showed beneath the bloodless features of their friends.
—
Sophia trembled. Having reached the ends
Of, first, her tolerance to withstand pain—
Her muscles ached from her attempts to feign
Command—and, secondly, of her once great
Capacity for turning woe and hate
Around until these system's flaws were plain,
Then harnessed and reworked them into gain.
But one more ounce of sorrow's pressure or
One potent, wounding disappointment more
And she'd have perished. As it was, she stood
With difficulty, swaying as a wood
Tormented by a gale. Had there been
A real-life storm, she would have wished her skin,
Her muscles, fibers, nerves, her bones, her heart,
her soul and self to break up and depart
With such insistent winds. She did not think
That she could freely move, pulled from the brink
Of action—ever farther from that verge—
By what the Papas said, which dammed the urge
To hope and bring about hope's genius acts.
She drew a drink—with energy that lacks
The liquid foresight into consequence—
Of memory, which cured the negligence
Of self-defeat. Before her now: (A grace
Imagination blessed her with!) the face
Of Skaios sleeping in his crib. Her son
Imposed upon the Papas' fire won
Her motivation of too great a force—
Unable to meander from her course,
She ran and crashed, as one without her sight,
Into her former friends, to reach, with sighs, the night.