(no subject)

[stephantom]

I wrote a poem for a class recently about Lewis (and Tolkien) and I thought maybe people here would be interested. I also wanted to ask if anyone's read this New Yorker article about Lewis? It's from a few years back but I still remember it. It had quite a sting. I was wondering what other people's thoughts on it were.


Inklings

Jack was a boy with a wagon,
a toy garden, a gray suit;
Jack was a rotund chimney stack with a world
and a world of listeners.

They followed him in pushing walls,
fingers crossed for secret doors,
weak spots in the structure,
ready to sing the whole thing down
like Jericho. They thumped on hard rocks
doggedly, for that hollow ring.
They watched as snow fell, silent,
sifting whiteness in their minds.

Ronald was a sapling oak, with quills
and made-up words.
Ronald roamed in ancient times
barrovian, barbaric.

In Ronald's land, great leitmotifs
of history met and lived.
Calligraphies were symphonies
were mirrors of the truth.
Branches off of branches,
leaves born anew each spring.
Infinite regressions
of Creation.

Jack and Ronald walked in woods,
mythologizing trails.
In classrooms, they boom-hroomed
their dragon-breathing scholarship,
their aurora-skimming joy.
Cataloging ages, wings,
lanterns, caverns, echoes,
pale skies, horizons endless.

At world's end, a little boat
parts lily pads and waits.
A fiery-haired immortal roams,
and sings grief to the sea.
Gulls cry and stones crack.
Further up, and further in!
And rising with
the new
dawn --
swallow, clench, dream.