The Ostrich
By Cian Thomas Ennis
Photography by Elizabeth Hunt
“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived”
Waldern, Henry David Thoreau
It cannot be disputed that there is a certain allure to the pastoral life that Thoreau preaches of in his magnum opus “Waldern”. Drag yourself out, he tells you, drag yourself out from the bowels of a society you view as, not only inextricably cruel, callous and malevolent, but a society that is a superstructure built upon a false premise. The old lie. It is sweet and right to die for your country.
The abdication of your own feeble toilet seat throne, and insisting on planting yourself on the mossy soil is a very tangible option for some, if one has the capital to pull off such a feat, and the necessary land on which they can construct their solipsistic utopia. These predestined few may be able to choose, with their ultimate freedom, but many of us do not have this choice. Many of us do not have the freedom to be a rural Woodsworthian poet, and therefore, those of us left in the alleyways after the esoteric exodus must come to terms with the chains placed upon us by our commitments. We extend our hands through the bars almost as if we can touch the grass of desire. Our poetry is then informed by this restriction, a medium through which we may be able to achieve some form of salvation.
To be enraptured by the sublime is a wonderful notion, to possess a beautiful consciousness that hears the streams as they whisper secret truths. This is the condition of the rebel who endures the arduous hero's journey to excavate metaphysical truths from the depths of their mind, which then shall propel them through the glass ceiling, to achieve revelatory rapture. The spirit of the poet is powered by premium gasoline, pummeling fumes, a catalytic converter, knowing they are the ancient seer, that can transcend the phenomenology of the banal object, and render it the muse of soaring verse. Letters, arranged in often arbitrary ways to construct even more arbitrary words. The arrangement of cyphers calls to you in a fashion that is almost lustful, reminiscent of how Verlaine called to Rimbaud “come, dear great soul, we await you, we desire you”.
I continuously argue with a confidante of mine about what I believe to be the virtues hedonism. I extol the drunken philosophers, critics and vagrants within the confines of the sacred pub, while he, on the other hand, understands the ephemeral nature of their words. The barman tells me to put my shoes back on, but I know the ground on which I stand is holy. In a sense I know that my friend is correct, and I must concur with his propagation that one should have the fortitude to face the absurdity of life with the righteous courage that accompanies sobriety, but I am no soldier, and they at least gave the cannon fodder rations of whiskey. Poetry is a sort of drunkenness. A recipe for a potion that alters one’s state of being. The stout the sonnet, and the lament the liquor, and they too whisper to me secret truths, beckoning me, “we desire you”.
Well, Verlaine fucking shot Rimbaud in the wrist.
Although he was not fatally wounded by the attempted behanding, the bullet quickly put an end to Rimbaud's association with the poetic vocation, retiring at the age of only twenty-one. Rimbaud transformed himself, from the beautiful comet that burns, a communist and poet, to a cog in the supply chain of destruction, taking up a job as an arms dealer in colonial Africa. When reality could no longer be understood in rhyme and metre, Rimbaud became disenfranchised. The great crime, the sorrow of recognising that one’s plight cannot be expunged onto the page. Rimbaud abandoned the pen, instead replacing it with the pistol.
I have come to understand Rimbaud in his disillusionment, but only to that end. I am haunted by the bodies you see. It plagues me each day, and sleeping is not what it once was. I do not say this to evoke sympathy for myself in any manner dear reader, it is a privilege to be haunted, because ghosts are simply apparitions that dissipate upon waking, the nightmare concludes, and unlike the bodies, I am afforded the liberty to wake each day and greet the sun with neither smile or grimace.
How can we, the poets, reconcile the destruction that exists in reality with our drive to document the beauty of life with all its tragedy, comedy and spirituality? Is there a path of reasoning available to provide merit to our writings while mutilation exists that is essentially antithetical to the prerogative of art itself? Can our craft be somehow utilised to amend the ways of man, so that we can, in a collective metamorphosis, emerge from the cave with ideas that emphasise empathy, and good faith, rather than retaliatory anger? Is the right action to immortalise a suffering that us failsons can only imagine vicariously? I do not know, and I cannot extinguish the fire in my belly that provokes me to ask these questions of myself. Poetry is futile in this regard. The images speak for themselves, and we must look at these images, and examine them meticulously, staring into the abyss of violence that to us, in our safety, will always exist in the realm of the unknown.
Not Thoreau, nor poetry, nor alcohol provides any answer to these questions, they are simply means in which we can bury our heads in the sand. Like the Ostrich, we ignore the tsunami coming hurtling towards us, creating a paradise by arranging the grains of sand. Ignoring that we too shall be desecrated. In ignorance, we become complicit in the actions of the malevolent, and in understanding these actions, we merely recognise our complicity, and the lack of opportunities available, to rectify the wrongs of the superstructure.
And with that, how can we return to poetry?
I went to the Oxfam bookshop off Dame street two weeks ago, and held two books in my hands, one in the left and one in the right. I had a choice to make. One book was a collection of essays on political philosophy, while the other was a collection of poems. Two Herculean authors, neither of whom chose paths that are well trodden. Both books would benefit me in some way, yet the coins in my pocket were few, and this necessitated a choice. Not only a practical one, but a philosophical one. My eyes darted between the two manuscripts, and I considered, and compared, and contrasted, and ultimately knew what was the correct moral decision to make, yet I did not make the moral decision. I bought the book of poems, and as I returned home on a bus that meandered through suburbia, I was unable to concentrate on the prose. My only focus was the dizziness of freedom, and the putrid guilt that swims in its wake, and I once again was blinded by eternity’s void.
How can I reconcile myself with that choice, when there are people who cannot choose? They are handed the pistol, never provided with the opportunity to choose the pen. I never finished reading Waldern, I have no interest in being The Ostrich, and I am not Rimbaud, I will not abandon my post thus all that is left for me to do, is compose a litany of eulogies, in the darkest of silence.
