In Memory of Harold Bloom
written by: Jake Sheff
I. The Green Man’s Dispatch from the Furthest Reaches of Human Nature’s Vineyard
“Men more frequently require to be reminded than informed.”
Dr. Samuel Johnson, The Rambler
“All the great words, it seemed to Connie, were cancelled for her generation.”
D.H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley’s Lover
Violent plants! Like flytraps on vinyl, Harold.
Music is the mother of images: bass
Fellows; William Morris wallpaper’s bower,
Fighting its urges.
Colors rot, unless there is music playing.
I’m not G-d, and neither are you, but singing
Means our hunger’s upright. This hairy hour’s
Idler with money
Talks about the weather…a lot! Against its
Will, the weather – painting with time’s erection –
Pierced my nose. Meanwhile, with vehicular vehemence,
Cheeses and cherries
Hate what’s dumb and obvious, just like we do,
Harold. Asking who is a hero? That’s for
Heroes to sort out! Not our ideal hands, but
Naked applauding.
Seeking friendship, never say never’s real name.
When reality’s royalty, it’s human nature’s
Teatime. Footsteps’ voices are coming for us,
Counting their blessings
Like they’re ketchup packets. Us men are only
Gods outside of nature, when no one’s watching.
Digging, Harold, digging’s our stairway, greening
Grandeur degraded!
Revolutionaries on sober vistas
Shut the frontier. Suckers for fads and fashion,
Doctors wear the grayest sombreros, making
Menacing flowers.
Sallow silence, in the beginning’s image,
Marks our limits, Harold. Celestial partners,
Digging digging, wrestle with what they’re not: moods:
Quotable and naughty;
Wooded. Minutes soaking dry seconds, shaving
History’s beard and legs, must needs disappoint us,
Buddy, lionizing the loins of upwards.
Falling like razors,
Quests like ours need holier bridges. There you
Have it, riding sympathy’s hunchback: science,
Sanctifying love’s insecurities; critics,
Acting devoted.
II. The Jahwist Speaks of Human Nature’s Land and Exile
“[T]his is such an odd and incomprehensible world! The more I look at it, the more it puzzles me; and I begin to suspect that a man’s bewilderment is the measure of his wisdom.”
Nathaniel Hawthorne, The House of the Seven Gables
“Twins born under the same star
vary in temperament.”
Persius, Satire 6
People lie, except for the poets, Plato.
Boundary crossing, listen: the land is talking
In its sleep and language. Syncretic; vaguely
Purposeful: sunlight’s
Logic, born of woman, likes telling others
What to do. Two places at once, it banished
Atoms of atonement. Belief in perfect,
Linking traditions,
Used a fractured happiness, Plato. Power’s
Powerful insider’s enucleated
Daydreams humble or they have failed, like learning.
Home is a conflict,
Plain and simple. Married, reductionism
Prays for wisdom just to seduce our girlfriends.
All our truths are lies when they’re born; our native,
Manic depressive
Land is always new. The outsider’s power
Powers inexpressibly sad relations.
Gone the way of rightful, now spring cleans nightfall’s
Pieces of nature.
Life is hard, and people repeat themselves be-
Cause, man, life is hard. In exile, the spirit’s
Craquelure mines persistence; a foreign good life’s
Finishing touches.
Pride oppresses prudence, bewilders wilder-
Ness, my friend. Let envy’s environment be
Exclamation points. But a flag’s the road to
Civilization,
Plato, and its candle, its tragic candle.
Nature, green and bloody, repeats its changing
Teardrops; makes eternity’s water better.
Land will not matter
When exile is pleasant. The master wasters
Time cast out are blind to a pretty singer.
Unpredictability’s visions build on
Quarrels like charcoal.
III. The Wife of Bath Imbibing Human Nature’s Chastity with a Friend
“Chastity is the most unpopular of the Christian virtues. There is no getting away from it… [Y]ou may find good fellowship and jokes and friendliness among drunken people or unchaste people.”
C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity
“The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit: a broken and a contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise.”
Psalm 51:17
Sacrifice is beauty and truth, John, every
Sacrifice is beauty and truth. Disorder’s
Lifelong thrill is fond of another world; art’s
Dearly beloved.
Poetry and fortitude tempt me. Deadly
Rhythms cross out death, which is sexy, sir, it’s
Deadly sexy. Tasting the counteroffer’s
Pleasurable hatred
Straightens nothing out in me. If it did, I’d
Drink it; not today though! You know, dear Falstaff,
Time is too bloodstained. We indulge it though, like
Dogs to their vomit,
Don’t we? Beauty’s never corrupted. If it
Is, it’s beautifully, and not wrong! Don’t blame me,
John, if, on occasion, compassion crushes
Justice; I’m horny.
Read this list of casualties to me. Now you’re
Not in a position to love me, Fall-staff.
Age makes pious women, and war tells old men,
“Be of good humor.”
- In Memory of Harold Bloom - May 7, 2024
