by Eliot · Cluster: Swords and Weapons · Power and Corruption · Tyrant
Abstract
Two-part dramatic fragment on the Roman hero-statesman: triumphal march, militarist spectacle, hollow bureaucracy; dust, the still point, power and emptiness.
Connections
Topoi: Theatrum Mundi, Sic Transit Gloria Mundi Archetypes: Tyrant Motifs: Dust, Swords and Weapons, Crown, Horse Themes & Concepts: Power and Corruption, Spiritual Emptiness, Satire of Society, War and its Cost Forms & Genres: Verse Drama, Fragment Historical References: Ancient Rome Settings: Ancient Rome
Testo integrale / Full text
Coriolan I. Triumphal March Stone, bronze, stone, steel, stone, oakleaves, horses’ heels Over the paving. And the flags. And the trumpets. And so many eagles. How many? Count them. And such a press of people. We hardly knew ourselves that day, or knew the City. This is the way to the temple, and we so many crowding the way. So many waiting, how many waiting? what did it matter, on such a day? Are they coming? No, not yet. You can see some eagles. And hear the trumpets.
Here they come. Is he coming? The natural wakeful life of our Ego is a perceiving. We can wait with our stools and our sausages. What comes first? Can you see? Tell us. It is 5,800,000 rifles and carbines, 102,000 machine guns, 28,000 trench mortars, 53,000 field and heavy guns, I cannot tell how many projectiles, mines and fuses, 13,000 aeroplanes, 24,000 aeroplane engines, 50,000 ammunition waggons, now 55,000 army waggons, 11,000 field kitchens, 1,150 field bakeries. What a time that took. Will it be he now? No, Those are the golf club Captains, these the Scouts, And now the société gymnastique de Poissy And now come the Mayor and the Liverymen. Look There he is now, look: There is no interrogation in his eyes Or in the hands, quiet over the horse’s neck, And the eyes watchful, waiting, perceiving, indifferent. O hidden under the dove’s wing, hidden in the turtle’s breast, Under the palmtree at noon, under the running water At the still point of the turning world. O hidden. Now they go up to the temple. Then the sacrifice. Now come the virgins bearing urns, urns containing Dust Dust Dust of dust, and now Stone, bronze, stone, steel, stone, oakleaves, horses’ heels Over the paving. This is all we could see. But how many eagles! and how many trumpets! (And Easter Day, we didn’t get to the country, So we took young Cyril to church. And they rang a bell And he said right out loud, crumpets.) Don’t throw away that sausage, It’ll come in handy. He’s artful. Please, will you Give us a light? Light Light Et les soldats faisaient la haie? ILS LA FAISAIENT. II. Difficulties of a Statesman CRY what shall I cry? All flesh is grass: comprehending The Companions of the Bath, the Knights of the British Empire, the Cavaliers,
O Cavaliers! of the Legion of Honour, The Order of the Black Eagle (1st and 2nd class), And the Order of the Rising Sun. Cry cry what shall I cry? The first thing to do is to form the committees: The consultative councils, the standing committees, select committees and sub-committees.
One secretary will do for several committees. What shall I cry? Arthur Edward Cyril Parker is appointed telephone operator At a salary of one pound ten a week rising by annual increments of five shillings
To two pounds ten a week; with a bonus of thirty shillings at Christmas And one week’s leave a year. A committee has been appointed to nominate a commission of engineers
To consider the Water Supply. A commission is appointed For Public Works, chiefly the question of rebuilding the fortifications. A commission is appointed To confer with a Volscian commission About perpetual peace: the fletchers and javelin-makers and smiths Have appointed a joint committee to protest against the reduction of orders.
Meanwhile the guards shake dice on the marches And the frogs (O Mantuan) croak in the marshes. Fireflies flare against the faint sheet lightning What shall I cry? Mother mother Here is the row of family portraits, dingy busts, all looking remarkably Roman,
Remarkably like each other, lit up successively by the flare Of a sweaty torchbearer, yawning. O hidden under the … Hidden under the … Where the dove’s foot rested and locked for a moment,
A still moment, repose of noon, set under the upper branches of noon’s widest tree
Under the breast feather stirred by the small wind after noon There the cyclamen spreads its wings, there the clematis droops over the lintel
O mother (not among these busts, all correctly inscribed) I a tired head among these heads Necks strong to bear them Noses strong to break the wind Mother May we not be some time, almost now, together, If the mactations, immolations, oblations, impetrations, Are now observed May we not be O hidden Hidden in the stillness of noon, in the silent croaking night. Come with the sweep of the little bat’s wing, with the small flare of the firefly or lightning bug,
‘Rising and falling, crowned with dust’, the small creatures, The small creatures chirp thinly through the dust, through the night. O mother What shall I cry? We demand a committee, a representative committee, a committee of investigation
RESIGN RESIGN RESIGN
MINOR POEMS