The more things sway, the more it might be argued they
describe arcs round some centre; but that is
an elegant, an almost Jesuitical
contention of a kind that satisfies
nobody, least of all a Jesuit like you.
What’s coming from these tremors? History says
that all upheavals leave us homo sapiens
behaving not much better than he did,
if not, indeed, much worse. Nothing at all suggests
the perfect consummation of all good
unless one sees Apocalypse impending, thus
a new and righteous order in pure chords.
Feeling our way among such imponderables,
each with his odd sense of things that even
might prove to be crucial, neither quite thinks of mere
ruin as curative, chaos as salve.
Nursing and nursed by your strict belief, nonetheless
some sense of impending radical change
though not in the scale of time must reassure you
as I am not reassured: nothing, none
for me but sheer admission of the sway, and then
somehow the effort lucidly to prove
transcendence of it perfectly by remaining
neither more nor less than my muddled self.
Some things are not on: but to know that for oneself
one has to have some sense that one is not
an isolate washed over and over by tides
swelling beyond his comprehension (who
wants to be schizophrenic except Ronald Laing?):
so one needs friends of durability.
Why I have had, and above all have, such good friends
is something I have never understood,
for which I am properly grateful, even though
I always sadly thought it showed a lack
of insight into my black nature. Oh well. Still,
thank God, whatever that means, for you, Peter.
© Evan Jones