IN THE MADNESS OF MARCH
first stories, Edenic & Promethean
unite find, fiend & friend
living before the fall.
©2015 Good Friday stephaniepope
mythopoetry.com
#poetheme #poetry #prompt #vss #mpy #3lines #mythopoetics
notes
1. For one turning on hubris and humility in science see Carl Pope’s blog, http://incharacter.org/observation/the-promethean-and-copernican-traditions-in-science/
2. For the longer form of the phrase and to examine in detail the poetic image
in the phrase, “Pride goeth before the fall” see Proverbs 16:18 which reads as
follows: “Pride goes before destruction,
and a haughty spirit before a fall.”
3. For a turning of Ananke, necessary mythic inversions of the edenic see David
J. Thomas, D.H. Lawrence’s “Snake: The
Edenic Myth Inverted
4. For the poem, “Snake” by D. H. Lawrence provided below see http://unix.cc.wmich.edu/~cooneys/poems/dhl.snake.html
Snake
D.H. Lawrence
A snake came to my
water-trough
On a hot, hot day, and I in pyjamas for the heat,
To drink there.
In the deep, strange-scented shade of the great dark carob tree
I came down the steps with my pitcher
And must wait, must stand and wait, for there he was at the trough before me.
7
He
reached down from a fissure in the earth-wall in the gloom
And trailed his yellow-brown slackness soft-bellied down, over the edge of the
stone trough*
And rested his throat upon the stone bottom,
And where the water had dripped from the tap, in a small clearness,
He sipped with his straight mouth,
Softly drank through his straight gums, into his slack long body,
Silently.
Someone
was before me at my water-trough,
And I, like a second-comer, waiting.
16
He
lifted his head from his drinking, as cattle do,
And looked at me vaguely, as drinking cattle do,
And flickered his two-forked tongue from his lips, and mused a moment,
And stooped and drank a little more,
Being earth-brown, earth-golden from the burning bowels of the earth
On the day of Sicilian July, with Etna smoking.
22
The
voice of my education said to me
He must be killed,
For in Sicily the black, black snakes are innocent, the gold are venomous.
And voices in me said, If you were a man
You would take a stick and break him now, and finish him off.
But
must I confess how I liked him,
How glad I was he had come like a guest in quiet, to drink at my water-trough
And depart peaceful, pacified, and thankless,
Into the burning bowels of this earth?
32
Was
it cowardice, that I dared not kill him?
Was it perversity, that I longed to talk to him?
Was it humility, to feel so honoured?
I felt so honoured.
And
yet those voices:
If you were not afraid, you would kill him!
And
truly I was afraid, I was most afraid,
But even so, honoured still more
That he should seek my hospitality
From out the dark door of the secret earth.
41
He
drank enough
And lifted his head, dreamily, as one who has drunken,
And flickered his tongue like a forked night on the air, so black,
Seeming to lick his lips,
And looked around like a god, unseeing, into the air,
And slowly turned his head,
And slowly, very slowly, as if thrice adream,
Proceeded to draw his slow length curving round
And climb again the broken bank of my wall-face.
50
And
as he put his head into that dreadful hole,
And as he slowly drew up, snake-easing his shoulders, and entered farther,
A sort of horror, a sort of protest against his withdrawing into that horrid
black hole,
Deliberately going into the blackness, and slowly drawing himself after,
Overcame me now his back was turned.
I
looked round, I put down my pitcher,
I picked up a clumsy log
And threw it at the water-trough with a clatter.
58
I
think it did not hit him,
But suddenly that part of him that was left behind convulsed in undignified
haste,
Writhed like lightning, and was gone
Into the black hole, the earth-lipped fissure in the wall-front,
At which, in the intense still noon, I stared with fascination.
And
immediately I regretted it.
I thought how paltry, how vulgar, what a mean act!
I despised myself and the voices of my accursed human education.
66
And
I thought of the albatross,
And I wished he would come back, my snake.
For
he seemed to me again like a king,
Like a king in exile, uncrowned in the underworld,
Now due to be crowned again.
71
And
so, I missed my chance with one of the lords
Of life.
And I have something to expiate:
A pettiness.
Taormina, 1923
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