1.
All the kinds of things that
run in my head—
real meditation impossible—
always reflecting and planning.
Is it obsessive?
Am I a monomaniac like Captain Vere?
As far as that goes, I think I know
which end of the rope I’m attached to.
I wonder what the Captain turns his mind to
when the execution is over, God bless him.
But what is it that we love
about Billy?
Their physical, animal beauty.
Even that Chillingworth guy Billy has to smack
loves them, and so exploits them
as Iago exploits Othello.
Physical, animal beauty in that case too,
sexual excellence negatively mouthed
in Brabantio’s lascivious litigation.
How we love Othello’s and Desdemona’s marriage bed!—
beautiful picture of physical health!
wasted!
Our most restful moments
those we spend enjoying our own physical beauty.
Prayerful meditation tries to get beyond
bodily enjoyment, which it sees
as an occlusion,
a spot in the sun.
What happens is that the Devil persuades you
that what you love is impugned—
the bloody handkerchief, whiff of disloyalty.
The blow stricken,
second blow in waiting.
“Their honor was betrayed,
their human dignity was betrayed,”
says Paul Robeson. The Devil always comes
with the horrible analytics of sin.
“Motiveless,” as Coleridge says?
“I dug on your grave six long hours of last night,”
says the Devil,
just before he stabs you in the heart.
2.
The only good religion is a religion of life.
The blood of Jesus, the physical beauty
of the Body on the cross.
What could be more lovely
than Jesus’s bent knees,
Jesus's cupped animal navel,
twisted animal hands and feet—
until the neck breaks below the shoulders—
wind pipe crushed.
Fatality of the sin
that, they say, made this death necessary.
Jesus can take death away—
Billy, the Lamb, themselves;
the Moor black in Desdemona’s arms.
Now we can rest and meditate
truly.
