#174 Kyrie Eleison

Complex his task: he threads the mazers daily,

sorts out from monsters saints and rewards them,

produces snow.

Blind his assistants, some in the Old Bailey,

some at the Waldorf Towers, the Pump Room,

Trying their best O.

And he shall turn the heart of the children to their fathers

and this will not be easy. The wound talks to you.

It’s light as a promise

to Rahab the spies’. Words light as feathers

fly. Wake with rage-ruined limbs. Hoarfrost is blue

at dawn on the storm-windows.

Thuds. Almost floors. In the garden I am alone

among the animals. There is shrill music

of which the less said the better.

Cold dough: is not that the one thing that might matter?

That, and the frightful fact that I am alone

while he sorts out the bloody saints.

Now this is a Dream Song! I had no idea what it’s about at first, completely cryptic and obscure. Yes! I much prefer these to the flat, obvious, wheedling ones. And with a couple clues it all heaves nicely into focus—confessional, very emotional, and in line with the motifs he has established, but a cut above many of the others.

“Kyrie Eleison” is the Greek phrase for the introductory call and response of the Roman Catholic mass (“Lord have Mercy. Lord have Mercy. Christ have mercy. Christ have mercy.” Etc.) So call and response is the guiding concept in this one. I like it because this whole project is a kind of call and response.

The poem begins with this line: “Complex his task.” So who’s “he”? A clue follows: “he threads the mazers daily, / sorts out from monsters saints and rewards them, / produces snow.” So who is it sorts monsters from saints and rewards them? Two possibilities, seems to me, either God, or could it be, to quote a line from Gravity’s Rainbow, “the idle, amused dum-de-dumming of old Mister fucking Death he self”? I’m going with that.

“The wound talks to you” can be seen at first as something to do with Christ’s wounds, but it’s not: It’s the wound of the poet, received at the death of his father, the gift that kept on giving. B. jumps around that abruptly. The others details line up: Rage-ruined limbs (his body is not in good shape). Thuds: A common experience as the raging alcoholic finds himself on the floor, again. I am in the garden, alone: A flashback, to the moment of finding his father? I think so. This poem throws us through instantaneous jerks through time and space.

Rahab was a spy, a prostitute who helped the Israelites capture Jericho. A promise to her, because of who she was, might not have a lot of heft. Because of who he is, his profession, words fly from him—light as feathers. Do they mean anything? Depends on how much gravity one attributes to feathers.

Cold dough: Money: The one thing that might matter as far as making a difference in one’s life. In the midst of his suffering, a given in his life, at least the comfort of wealth might alleviate things a bit. Not to be. So he is alone, which in its cold way does make a difference, while he imagines and waits for death to separate the sinners from the saints, each destined for his or her just reward.

It’s a cri de coeur, a cry from the heart. I find it quite moving.