By Jack Foley
the man
followed the woman
into death
hoping to bring her back.
there was a door
or something he called a door
that led to a long corridor
lit with torches.
flickering light everywhere
until, finally,
another door.
an endless
meadow appeared.
flowers he had never seen
bloomed riotously.
no one was there
but there was a table
filled with food.
something told him
not to eat
though he felt
a sudden, ravenous hunger.
“Had you eaten,”
said a voice,
“you would have joined us.”
he turned
and there was something like
a hologram speaking to him.
he felt a sudden revulsion
but answered,
“I am searching for my wife.”
“I know,” said the vision,
“you will find her there.”
he pointed to a small tree
Orpheus had not seen before.
lying there, dreaming,
was Eurydice, the wind stirring
her hair. Orpheus
took down his lute
and began to play.
all around Eurydice flowers appeared,
at once enclosing, protecting, trapping her.
she woke and seeing him, smiled.
“We have lived this story,” she said,
“thousands of times.
Each time you rescue me
and turn
and I remain
among the dead.
It will be no different
this time,
though I am ready to follow you
if you ask.”
he stopped playing and beckoned to her.
they walked slowly towards the door
that had led to the meadow.
as they walked
they began to age
gradually at first and then quickly
from youth to age to old age.
had difficulty walking
even the short space that led to the door
to the upper world.
Orpheus
could no longer sing, his breath
was so short.
Eurydice began
to lose her beauty
becoming an old, old woman.
Orpheus muttered, only half heard by his wife,
“The door is not far,
The door is not far,”
and then, without meaning to,
without wishing it,
compelled by the story,
*he turned.*
the old, old woman behind him
vanished without a sound.
…
THERE IS A MOMENT
what windy trails we follow
IN EVERY AUTHENTIC POEM OR STORY
as we age
AT WHICH THE POEM OR STORY
what enterprises hollow
TELLS THE AUTHOR
these darkening trails we follow
WHY S/HE WROTE IT
songs grow deep and hollow
WE MAY CALL THIS MOMENT
turn the page!
CLIMAX
what windy trails we follow
REVELATION
as we age
THE MOMENT AT WHICH MIND
IS MIRROR
STORY
the man
followed the woman
into death
hoping to bring her back.
there was a door
or something he called a door
that led to a long corridor
lit with torches.
flickering light everywhere
until, finally,
another door.
an endless
meadow appeared.
flowers he had never seen
bloomed riotously.
no one was there
but there was a table
filled with food.
something told him
not to eat
though he felt
a sudden, ravenous hunger.
“Had you eaten,”
said a voice,
“you would have joined us.”
he turned
and there was something like
a hologram speaking to him.
he felt a sudden revulsion
but answered,
“I am searching for my wife.”
“I know,” said the vision,
“you will find her there.”
he pointed to a small tree
Orpheus had not seen before.
lying there, dreaming,
was Eurydice, the wind stirring
her hair. Orpheus
took down his lute
and began to play.
all around Eurydice flowers appeared,
at once enclosing, protecting, trapping her.
she woke and seeing him, smiled.
“We have lived this story,” she said,
“thousands of times.
Each time you rescue me
and turn
and I remain
among the dead.
It will be no different
this time,
though I am ready to follow you
if you ask.”
he stopped playing and beckoned to her.
they walked slowly towards the door
that had led to the meadow.
as they walked
they began to age
gradually at first and then quickly
from youth to age to old age.
had difficulty walking
even the short space that led to the door
to the upper world.
Orpheus
could no longer sing, his breath
was so short.
Eurydice began
to lose her beauty
becoming an old, old woman.
Orpheus muttered, only half heard by his wife,
“The door is not far,
The door is not far,”
and then, without meaning to,
without wishing it,
compelled by the story,
he turned.
the old, old woman behind him
vanished without a sound.
…
THERE IS A MOMENT
what windy trails we follow
IN EVERY AUTHENTIC POEM OR STORY
as we age
AT WHICH THE POEM OR STORY
what enterprises hollow
TELLS THE AUTHOR
these darkening trails we follow
WHY S/HE WROTE IT
songs grow deep and hollow
WE MAY CALL THIS MOMENT
turn the page!
CLIMAX
what windy trails we follow
REVELATION
as we age
THE MOMENT AT WHICH MIND
IS MIRROR
The Importance of Arts, Culture & The Creative Process
The human mind requires reassurances from time to that it is capable of human experience. The arts supply us with such reassurance without forcing us into physical activity. Shakespeare's Hamlet tells us what it is like to be a prince in a difficult situation: we don't have to become princes ourselves. The arts move towards satisfying our interest people other than ourselves, even in other worlds. This capacity of the arts is frequently referred to as "imagination." Aristotle told us long ago that tragedy delivers pity and terror--pity for the protagonist and terror at his fate. The result of these somewhat conflicting emotions is a state he called "catharsis," a fundamental release from pity and terror and anxiety of all sorts through our experience of them in a "safe" environment. We feel them deeply but we do not have to experience them physically. "I'm not afraid of any movie," said my very young son one day. Hamlet dies, but we escape at the end of the play, enriched by what we have learned and thrilled by the heightened language in which we have learned it. Many years ago, at the age of fifteen, I had my first deep experience of poetry when, at the suggestion of a teacher, I read Thomas Gray's great poem, "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard" (1751). I have written about this experience many times. Here is one example:
GRAY’S ELEGY
I spent years
wondering
why that
particular
poem
had such
life-impacting
power
over me.
“The plowman
homeward
plods his weary way /
And leaves the world
to darkness
and to me.”
Me—Gray, myself,
situated
among the
speechless
dead.
I thought the poem’s language
the most beautiful thing
I had ever heard
but what was it
that determined me
to be a poet?
I learned about
the poet Thomas Gray
on that
strange afternoon
seventy years ago
that had the impact
of a sexual awakening,
and I learned
about myself
as well,
learned
that words
flew
from one thing
to another,
Gray in the
dark
churchyard,
me in my parents’
small apartment
half the physical
world away
could meet
because both Gray and I
*were*
this language,
these vowels
these consonants,
this “English,”
their beauty
was the beauty
of my mind
awakening
to the possible.
it was
“the resurrection
of the dead.”
*“Ecstasy
seems to be linked
to the instability
of language.”*
World
whirled
as I sat
in the throne room
of my life
imagining…
even now,
at 84–
What was the inspiration for your creative work?
The desire to *know*––to engage in the deeply problematical activity that the ancient Catholic Church and even the great poet, Dante, tells us we must not do.
Tell us something about the natural world that you love and don’t wish to lose. What are your thoughts on the kind of world we are leaving for the next generation?
The natural world, the world of things that are born (natus) is a delight, a resource, and something which can feed all our hungers. I love all of it, even the darker and more dangerous elements. The sense of wonder and awe they inspire in us is a deep resource of living. One would hope that even our sometimes deluded generation would bring its children to some appreciation of its power.
