Wednesday, May 4, 2016

What Rough Beast Indeed



                    The Fetid Coming

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned.


A shape with bulging body and orangutan head,
A gaze blank and uncomprehending as a newt's,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of bewildered citizens.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That ten months of incredulous sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a scornful bully,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Cleveland to be crowned?


(I beg for forgiveness from the ghost of William Butler Yeats.)