8 (As Above, So Below)

In this Waste Land the trees have eyes
but cannot see nor recount the days floating by.
Eight years have passed – Hermes reminds me
on Mother’s Day those around me – hands filled
with joy and armed with Wonder and hope
blessed with a boy – born eight years ago.

In this Waste Land time moves ahead quickly
memories linger, ruthlessly biting their tail.
No octagonal church nor plinth of shame
can carry the weight of abstracted reasoning
put to the pillory – irresponsible consumers
– stigmata of a broken dream.

In the Waste Land – April was the cruelest month.
Tiresias had seen the ship sailing – heading
our way – no death by water but by concern.
One desperate body – the womb already gave up
no female knight – courageously slayed dragon
miraculously washed ashore.

Above the Waste Land – life flourishes
until the inevitable end – Symmetry is not abstraction
Leaves may be carved in the most regular order
Or they may be thrown wild and loose
Highly architectural in their separate treatment[1].

Below the Waste Land – life lingers on
awaits being born, again – Symmetry is not abstraction
Roots may be craved in the most irregular order
Or they may have grown wild and loose
Highly architectural in their unified achievement.

Text: published in Wim Wauman: (Blauwhaus) GetijdenBoek/BookofTides, december 2019 (p.8)

[1] John Ruskin: The Seven Lamps of Architecture, 1849