Tony Grist (poliphilo) wrote,
Tony Grist

A Maze

I wrote this in 1986. It sums up how I felt shortly after leaving the Church. Apart from being rather more down in the mouth than I am these days, it still speaks for me. 

                                    A  MAZE


                                    The charm of a maze

                                    Depends on the fear

                                    Of getting lost.

                                    You turn and turn

                                    As the lengths of path

                                    Fill up with shadow

                                    And panic mounts.

                                    If you reach the centre

                                    There's nothing there

                                    Of any importance-

                                    Maybe a statue

                                    Or garden bench

                                    And the satisfaction

                                    Of crossword solving.

                                    You have got to "there"

                                    When "there" is only

                                    A shape of sodden

                                    Seedy grass,

                                    Out of sorts,

                                    Its meaning wholly

                                    Contained in the pattern

                                    You've traced to find it.


                                    This is an image

                                    For metaphysics

                                    Or any kind

                                    Of system building.

                                    Nothing is nothing

                                    However you dress it.


                                    Yeats at the end

                                    Of his life acknowledged

                                    There's only the heart.

                                    Our loves, our hates

                                    Generate patterns;

                                    The mind pursues them,

                                    Thinking it has

                                    An object and

                                    Ariadne's counsel.

                                    There's nothing there.

                                    Now I have spent

                                    A half a lifetime

                                    Fussing with questions

                                    I'll never answer.

                                    Time to call quits.

                                    I am ready at last

                                    To ask of life

                                    No more that simple

                                    Human friendships,

                                    Human loves,

                                    And like Candide

                                    To work the garden.


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