Inventing Hell
By William Dennis
A WASP, Crush His Bones(fragment from a forty-line poem)
“…the magician went away to the forest’s edge, and uttered there the spell that he had made. And the spell was a compulsive, terrible thing, having a power over evil dreams and over spirits of ill; for it was a verse of forty lines in many languages, both living and dead, and had in it the word wherewith the people of the plains are wont to curse their camels, and the shout wherewith the whalers of the north lure the whales shoreward to be killed, and a word that causes elephants to trumpet; and every one of the forty lines closed with a rhyme for ‘wasp’.” * Curse Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale for a WASP— crush his bones!
Damned Roger Chillingworth was more a wasp— crush his bones! New Amsterdam’s first clergyman was one real Krank-besoecker, a Zuiderzee Anabaptist Songful Protestant— a ZASP— crush his bones! And Daddy Warbucks had no friends or servants, only henchmen lacking names, called Punjab and the Asp— crush his bones! His sailors wanted to subdue, each, his part of nature; Ahab struck to get God in his grasp— crush his bones! Jang Bahadur Kunwar killed hundreds of princes and the queen to establish the Rana line. And that I trust—crush his bones!** Bill, fastened on the teat of poesy, spews back spoiled lines; proud plagiarist, his leach exceeds his gasp— crush his bones! *from “The Fortress Unvanquishable, Save For Sacnoth,” by Lord Dunsany, the Oxford Book of Fantasy Stories, selected by Tom Shippey, Oxford University Press, 1994, page 9.
** Jaṅga Bahādura Kunwar rājakumāra sayauṁ ra rānī hatyā; Rāṇā lā'ina sthāpita garna. Thiyō bhanēra viśvasta— crush his bones! जंग बहादुर कुँवर राजकुमार सयौं र रानी हत्या राणा लाइन स्थापित गर्न। यो भरोसा थियो |
Foolish Long-Term Hurting us to help
yourself, you're selfish short-term and childish long-term—or simply self-indulgent, pleasing yourself now, though foolish long-term. You feast at mini-mart and crush the bathroom scale with irony; less lion-like than mammoth, you'll view such fressing with less relish long-term. Your casually sophisticated cigarette at age sixteen--post-surgical perspective shows a dope smoking rubbish, long-term. A solitary piper or the philharmonic— both want pay; you'll bid them strike the major tonic up with less embellish long-term. Will it be pregnancy, disease or jealousy..., perhaps all three--what it costs to be divinely, madly boyish-and-girlish long-term? Fists of iron suit ill for piecing broken china back together; although with rage you blanch dead-white, your face trends toward the reddish long-term. You treat that person who will live tomorrow as a worthless stranger, one whom, instead of cheating, you should get to know and cherish long-term. So, feed the seed corn to the goose that lays the golden eggs, then kill it; no problem there, if you are sure the world will really perish long-term. Advising youth, try Kant’s Imperative; but browsing the buffet, aperitif in hand, it’s eggs and bacon short-term, cheese danish long-term. Near-term, Bill, you'll grab the sweetest treat, without regard for wisdom; the wiser course put safely off, you're loudly, proudly priggish long-term. |
One Thing You Can Never Do, More’s PitySelf-discipline--
no one can do it for you, more’s the pity; for others it’s the one thing you can never do, more’s pity. Muscle simply serves as metaphor for self-control, not substitute, and fails to serve me well in lieu, more’s pity. My self-control, such as it is, alas, builds inner worth, but my temptations all appeal to others, too, more’s pity. Old hippies reasoned well—sometimes one ought to do one’s thing; right now, as in the 60s, but not the whole way through, more’s pity. Bill, reason is the stuff to think for chaps it hurts to wink, like you, at others' right to paddle their canoe, more’s pity. |
Yes, From Me To YouTādhā bārtha bolaeko, thimi-lai nai ho mai-le.
From a distance there was calling, yes, to you from me. Tara Devi (1945—2006) This line opens a ghazal that dominated Nepali airwaves when I was in Peace Corps/Nepal, in the late sixties.
The words were composed by Shyam Prasaad Upadhaya while the music was composed by Natikaji, but the singer was “the nightengale of Nepal,” Tara Devi, renowned everywhere for her talent and revered all over Nepal for being a Nepali who sang in the national tongue, then a rarity. At the time, I did not know ghazal even existed, but I was so impressed that when I later came to attempt the ghazal form, I took the refrain for my own in tribute to Tara Devi, Nepal and youth. From a distance you hear calling— yes, from me to you.
Spring blows love while rain is falling—yes, from me to you. Such obstacles to our true love I lightly brush aside with oaths I’d find elsewhere appalling— yes, from me to you. Two lovers pulled apart by airplanes over tossing seas, can still give kisses by recalling—yes, from me to you. Fixed upon each other, lovers’ eyes flash bright and blind, between submitting and enthralling— yes, from me to you. Love gives until all worlds must end, but should you take alarm? No risk’s so small, but worth forestalling— yes, from me to you. Spring blows love while rain is falling—yes, from me to you. Such obstacles to our true love I lightly brush aside with oaths I’d find elsewhere appalling— yes, from me to you. Two lovers pulled apart by airplanes over tossing seas, can still give kisses by recalling—yes, from me to you. Fixed upon each other, lovers’ eyes flash bright and blind, between submitting and enthralling— yes, from me to you. Love gives until all worlds must end, but should you take alarm? No risk’s so small, but worth forestalling— yes, from me to you. |
***Note from Milan Lamshal, of Nepal via Facebook:
The original song was written by Shyam Prasad Upadhaya and composed by Natikaji and of course the singer was Tara Devi. William Dennis: Thanks very much for the information, Milanji. When you say "written by Shyam Prasad Upadhaya," you mean he wrote the words? And then Natikaji composed the music? Another question, does not "nai ho maile" suggest a negative? "Nai" is "No," I thought. An alternative to "hoina" but with a better fit to the metrics of the ghazal. Thus my interpertation of "...nai ho maile," would be "not by me." Please correct me if I am wrong here. Milan Lamshal: Yes, the lyricist was Shyam P Upadhaya and the musician was Natikaji. Nepali word naai or nai (नाइँ) basically means "No" in English. nai (नै) is a different nepali word and has a different meaning but similarly written in roman alphabet. nai (नै) is a expression to add emphasis. |
Little Things Loom LargeI shake my head when,
plain as houses, little things loom large, when from life’s weedy lawn the dandy-lions of kings loom large. Tomorrow, simply put, is what awaits my dealing with it; at my back hope’s perfectly transparent wings loom large. Like birds, we build wood houses in the air, compulsively, until home truths we find in what the cat-bird sings loom large. Envy their material, those poets of the war; before which, is it possible our still-life things loom large? Perspective stands for declaration, and shows how Bill’s grown wise. Clearly, not his answers, but his questionings loom large. |
I Hardly Knew I loved YouYour hair as straight
as summer rain—I hardly knew I loved you; I thought to kiss and leave again—I hardly knew I loved you. Lipstick’s red wiped right away, but kissing left its trace, a mark indelible as plain—I hardly knew I loved you. My arms encircled as you leaned, my hands, almost, your waist— there slender as a stem of grain—I hardly knew I loved you. Aback..., by rights I never knew existed, dispossessed! You claimed my heart by eminent domain—I hardly knew I loved you. For all the years of coo-and-bill, of you and me, I see how pleasure only comes with pain—I hardly knew I loved you. |
And Not Because of You
Happy me, before
we met, and not because of you; then happy, love, when our ways split, and not because of you. That’s me there--happy with the spring, its calling birds and flowers, though April's showers never quit, and not because of you. Post hoc, now, after so long ebbing, tides begin to fill; though needful, not by cause of it, and not because of you. And after endless waning, the moon creeps palely round to full; my crescent hope has grown its whit, and not because of you. Star-crossed and cross incline the same, when speaking of our love; old age is where I’ll find peace yet, and not because of you. Long and often I’ve been sad— some day, though, I’ll be happy; I'll look back then without regret, and not because of you. Now, I’ve been needy…, been dirt poor, but someday I’ll be richer; your un-paid bill's absolved from debt, and not because of you. |
Strong Enough for ThemReligion, race--they don't
make poles half-long enough for them; your salted lips-- there are no praises strong enough for them. Political opinion--more strongly propped the less well founded; few comparisons to wisdom ring wrong enough for them. Some people feel great pressure from a crowd of un-born souls; dear children can not jam this stifling throng enough for them. We’ve seen straight sex provoke anxiety and strange behavior; but glimpse one gay seaside parade-- the lash is thong enough for them! I wish they’d take on faith what seems the obvious conclusion; but climate change will never be forgone enough for them. So stretch yourself, embrace mankind, that will not grasp you back; Bill, leastways go along, you’ll get along enough for them. |
A Clear Mistake“Ha!” Pericles after Pinker, The Better Angles of our Nature, Pg. 623
"To know the good is to do the good.” Socrates
Make no mistake, we’re moral, but
mistaken—a clear mistake; this misstep in our moral justification—a clear mistake. Their ash—the Hebrew tailor, his slight son: we judged them wicked, dangerous, embodying corruption—a clear mistake. Supposing man must be the boss, rape’s better than a knife; too long we’ve made that easy supposition—a clear mistake. Integrity of my beliefs would be called into question, I thought, if I were not to kill that man—a clear mistake. If torture equals teaching, visa versa, I am sure; that we can punish our way into to heaven—a clear mistake. The logic of your good and bad is more than just bad taste, Bill; it doesn’t take you where you wish you’d been—a clear mistake. |
Right, But Don’t Know Whyafter “The Better Angels of our Nature” by Steven Pinker p. 628
St. Valentine, I fell
at love's first sight, but don't know why. I’m morally dumbfounded-- I know I’m right, but don’t know why. On Valentine’s Day you wantonly accepted chocolate hearts, and I taste bitter-sweet in your delight, but don’t know why. What toxins you had stored have poisoned our ground water; in one betraying burst I learned what depth, what height, but don’t know why. Aide me, St. Valentine—I love her and the President; I’m sure she ought to love us both, not hate, but don’t know why. If I deserved the blame, I would not mind the punishment; to please you, I would love to feel contrite, but don’t know why. You won’t bestir yourself to vote, but want good government; I trust you'll prosper in your own despite, but don’t know why. You think that you can peculate with love; you’ve heard me cry, Do not abuse prerogatives, all right, but don’t know why. If this should be your birthday, St. Valentine’s your patron saint; you’re well aware the thought gives you a fright, but don’t know why. |
Drawn, But Not To YouI have to feel
for family, pro and con, but not for you; and friendship’s where I really cotton on, but not to you. Big pigs resemble all of us, some more than others, though; to pink and wiggly piglets I am drawn, but not to you. Like to like and opposite to opposite attracts; and each direction tugs my heart by turns, but not toward you. My empathy may stretch but even here, there are some limits; a spendthrift eye may leave my heart in pawn, but not to you. My sympathies are easily dismissed as mawkish…, maudlin; my splashing tears reach nearly everyone, but not to you. Bright logic brings its beam to bear on love's dim limits, Bill; and reason’s maps expand where love may dawn, but not to you. |
The Thought That It DeservesShe's given the unthinkable
the thought that it deserves, bright outrage is the right response, fair bought, that it deserves. Felon soils the merchandizing hand that buys high office; she'd strike it off, still clutching at the naught that it deserves. Women and children are bought and sold or sometimes just controlled; that price set on the free receives the curse it ought…, that it deserves. Should she withdraw allegiance from her friend or spouse or country, she'll give your talk of pay the fatal shot that it deserves. Although as lover, wife and child, she’s learned to play the role, she’s cut her costs to less than she was taught that it deserves, Bill. |
At Least With YouA moral man
am I, at least with you; my appetite appears love’s feast with you. Old age—it sounds pathetic, and it is—I’m just a sympathetic beast with you. With what we share, it’s safe to lose to you; I’ll never want revenge released with you Although I’m bigger, stronger and vindictive, I’m spared my worst-- rapport's increased with you. No..., sympathy has circular effects; so I share both the bread and yeast with you. Bill, how is love conceived? Love, by your side I stand each morning looking east with you. |
The World Is With YouFeelings are
quite catching: yawn in print, the world is with you; tear-up and many an eye's cast down and blurred with you Parsing tears at weddings, births and funerals calls for taste; discernment comes with practice, something I have learned with you. With throw-away lines wags need a freshly opened can of laughter; thrown away..., when I think of what I've hurled with you... Passion's vicar holds the stage; I...hold half a ticket; I pay to feel how we might be, if me were swirled with you. A finger down some volume’s spine can make you shiver, Bill, but truth's embroidered flag can't seem to get unfurled with you. |
Read Your MindGod’s gift
or Devil’s busy-work, I can read your mind. Why, I perceive a worried thought that I'd mislead your mind. Whoops! Sorry. Did I clip your bumper there? Your face is red. To translate your emotions Swami doesn't need your mind. You should feel bad you lost your home, your job, your lady-love. Before you pounce, first ponder, neighbor—you should heed your mind. A child cries-- you smack it, since it makes you want to cry. You can't solve many problems, but at least you’ve freed your mind. Bill, yes, Somalis suffer, Afghans suffer—they all suffer; but what, you ask, is that to you, your heart or, indeed, your mind? |
More Than YouWhen he coughed out,
Black bitch! then I grew vengeful more than you; un-practiced in your place, I found it stressful more than you. Family planning is a form of love, isn't it? Struggling toward the clinic, I can't feel dreadful more than you. Intimidated when you vote, still, after all these years, I realize I must find the effort futile more than you. The consequence of empathy is vegetarianism; sweet cannibal queen, of that no one’s distrustful more than you. Those massive blocks of Maya stone, dry-laid, still face down time and my caressing coldly—granted, not still more than you. To put myself in your position, Willy, I believe I might enjoy your silly life—I’m grateful more than you. |
Apropos Your FeelingsSo, your folk theory holds,
I just pretend to know your feelings; beating make-believe, not heart, to undergo your feelings? The tides of fashion even sweep the caves where virtues dwell; submerging poise and will, anointing in its under-tow your feelings. The paradox of kindness was resolved long-since by science; biologists now dare to warm their hands where glow your feelings. Mutualism, kinship, reciprocity are love in rubber gloves for souls on whom you don't bestow your feelings. Then can ten billion years of evolution lead to peace? Whatever good may come of this, I guess we owe your feelings. Hume feels, Bill, persiflage, not fiddling, supports the view of virtue, that it must exist, though weak, as apropos your feelings. |
Taller Beside Them, Swifter Astride ThemPines—straight, old pine trees--
I stand taller beside them; horses—brave, galloping horses—I feel swifter astride them. While traveling without faith or hope..., nor much of charity—cathedrals, I feel ancient and protected once inside them. Cool as I am to obscure wisdom and ascetic virtue, philosophers and saints, though—I feel wiser to abide them. Poets..., poets’ lines would catch the heart and free the mind, though paraphrase nets few bright truths—howbeit they implied them. They’ve told you, Bill, they’d love to feel their way into your life, but they can’t love one scared that he would know them and deride them. |