THE LOVE SONG OF CHARLES MARLOW*

When did the world become so hostile
To everyone but the chosen few -
The princesses and the princes
Who, either unwittingly or cunningly,
Serve the father of lies?
It seems to degrade with every passing day,
As I grow old and stoop
To roll the bottoms of my white flannel trousers
And stretch my arms upwards,
Guiding my brush and comb
To part my hair behind,
Before I walk upon the beach
To search for silent mermaids
Who always swim just out of reach,
Eluding the ragged claws
And fang-ridden maws
That lurk beneath the water,
Wind-blown, white and black.

Although I am present,
I am, seemingly, invisible.
And, yet, dogs bark at me,
Baring their teeth and growling
As if they’ve perceived a ghost.
Perhaps they can see me
As I was at my top, my biggest, my most,
But, then, I would have banished them,
Craven curs that they always were,
Their harangues would end with a whimper.
Or maybe they can see the black mutt
That yaps at my heels.
Are they dogging me with howling
Aimed at my best fiend?
For it seems I have no friends
To fill my evenings, mornings, afternoons,
Beside porcelain and coffee spoons.
They have gone, dispersed
Like a fog that once lingered by pools,
For there is no more time for them and me,
No more ancient kindnesses from each to each.
So I spend my days inventing scenarios
That might approximate the real,
Inhabiting a fictional realm as its king,
Or, more literally,
Its omniscient third person,
Fearful that I will be read
As a fool, and ridiculed for it,
Or, much worse,
Derided as a mere attendant lord.

Some days I raise my eyes
And look beyond the window sash,
Wondering whether I dare
To reach for that fleece again.
But usually the view is fouled by clouds,
Gathering just above the marshes
That fester in the waste land where I live.
So, I consider the case for oblivion
And often find it compelling,
Until I ponder how it might turn out
For a suicidal heart of darkness.
When Kurtz, with his last pant,
His ivory face intense with despair,
Gasped ‘the horror, the horror’,
Was he looking back
On his vicious existence?
Or was he looking ahead
At the misery and mistreatment
That awaited him in hell?

* With acknowledgements to TS Eliot and Joseph Conrad.