All right, classh, come to order please. Good,
that's much better. I feel so refreshed now, and you all look so wide awake and
bushy-tailed! Bushy-tailed? Did someone bring a dog to class? That sure looks
like a dog's tail at the back of the room. Now. OperaKait, Sister is very
allergic to dogs and asks that you,...Aaaaaaaacccccchhhhhhoooo!!
Oh, excuse me! Let me just reach into my habit and
pull out a box of EnyaPuffs ™, the tissue gentle enough for a magic dragon’s
nose. Now, where were we? Oh, of course, in Room 222. And we are ready to
exhume the lyrics that our beloved Roma wrote for “China Roses”? Good,
studnuts, you are all such eager beagles.
First, let me say that I adore this poem because it
is such a deep metaphysical treatise on a subject dear to my heart:
Heaven! You see, I have been told by
Brother Posthumus (who sees dead people) that Heaven is a lovely place, so
delightful in fact that I have already requested a cloud over Dublin, but let
me not digress this soon.
I shall begin today’s lesion as soon as I take a bit
of, um, water from this shining flask in my habit. I do need to feed my habit!
Classh, pay attention, I just made a joke – please laugh! Thank you!
We shall begin at the beginning, as dear logical
Roma would want us to do:
Oh, what a brilliant commencement! You see,
studnuts, this initial verse is a perfect example of the literary device called
"metaphysica questio crucialis” – that is, starting the poem with a deeply
important query! Roma is investigating not only heaven itself, but also our
relationship to it. Do we know if we have heaven? Can we know
this at all, given our lowly status as mere zits upon the face of the Cosmos?
So, the poem's persona (here called “me”) faces the ultimate question of life
after death and where we are supposed to go.
But, wait, perhaps there is a Roman riddle here! You
see, Master Card, Roma presents us with a “double entendre” - maybe, just
maybe, Roma is suggestive that we can have, and/or already do have, Heaven on
Earth! Right here, right now! Wouldn't that be wonderful: Heaven now AND Heaven
hereafter. O my heart throbs with excitement to move onto the next line:
Again, the WHO appears (though not in concert). So
we must now ask: Who IS who? Is Who some divine being? An ethereal Irish
singer? Her ingenuous producer? An ancient Geek philosopher, like Pluto? Or,
does Roma in fact suggest that WHO is simply one of US, we mere flyspecks who
most likely cannot answer any deep metaphysical queries. Do WE know the way it should
be? Do we even know what “it” IS? Well, judging by the last faculty bleating, I
would say no.
So let us cast our eyes back upon the text for
illumination:
Moonlight holly, the Sappho comet
Aha, Roma removes her mind unto time and nature, and
we now contemplate holly in the moonlight: holly - that wonderful instigator of
carnal romance (about which I, of course, know nothing) under the light of the
Moon itself. But another “double-entendre" rears its dubious head once
again: note that “holly” has just one more letter than "holy"! Holy
Moonlight! No, Miss Read, I am not quoting Batman. Rather, I am inculcating
that our beloved Roma has loftier things on her mind than a peck or two last
time by moonlight.
Now, what about the Sappho comet? Does it scamper
through the moonlit sky shining down on the holy holly? Well, first of all, you
should know that Sappho was a very famous Greek poet who lived around 600 BC.
What? No, Miss Rhine, I did not know her personally. Sappho wrote lovely
lyrics, just like Roma; in fact, I sometimes see Sappho in Roma, especially if
I overdose on Pepto-Brennan ™, but I digress. Sappho also sang her own songs,
just like Enya, but without the piano. And Enya also has her own celestial body
– er, that is, one named after her. Could all this be meaningful?
I’m afraid not – my, how Roma loves the literary
device of “unexpected things bumping in the night”! She tries to fool us into
imagining a celestial body streaming through the night sky, but, surprise, she
is deluding to a BIRD! You see, classh, the Sappho Comet is a distinctive type
of hummingbird, iridescent in its appearance, its Latin name being
"Hummingbirdia cometosis holliferousa.” So, in the moonlight, we see a
tiny but beautiful bird holding a piece of holy holly in its beak. And what on
earth is a hummingbird doing flying at night? The poor thing will hit a
building or something! So, Roma grabs our sense of concern and involves our
emotions in the poem: we must save that little creature! Run, classh, run!
But, sigh, we next read:
Alas, we have failed, and the little doomed birdie
has crashed headlong into a tree! There its corporeal essence lies, now knowing
that it does indeed have Heaven, even if we do not. The Angel weeps
copious tears at this tragic turn of events. Ah, but WHO is this mysterious
Angel who now weeps its way into the poem? Perhaps it is one of the 500 Angeles
who escaped L.A. to fly to Dublin to have recording careers as backed-up
singers? Or is it a vampire with a soul? Has it been recently re-buffyed? How
Roma keeps us guessing, forcing us to TRY AGAIN.
But now she hits us with:
YOU? Indeed, WHO is you?
(No, OperaKait, you are not the Walrus). In stanza one we were
introduced to WHO, and now it's YOU! Ah, Roma has switched her devious gears on
us - from who to you, with love. Or was that a Beatles song? Our persona has
become "interlocutor ignota". Perhaps it is that little hummingbird
from the first stanza? It did indeed break its neck, so the "break of
morning" might be relevant. Perhaps Roma even hints at the “beak of
mourning” in her word-playful manner. But let us meander on:
As you view the new aurora
Oh! The sky is now lit with the aurora borealis! And
it's a new one, too, not the old, boring borealis of last night. Can this still
be our little deceased hummingbird (now loosey in the sky with diamonds)? Roma
has pulled a good one on us here, hasn't she, Miss Taken? In fact, a proton of
inspiration has just struck me! Perhaps the new aurora reflects the stars and
stripes seen by our little feathered friend as it whammed into the tree? Oh,
how poignant that would be! And lo and behold:
Now we are getting
somewhere! Crimson clouds: are they red with weeping for our little bird? Or,
has the aurora lit them up, painting the sky with crimson? Please note, classh,
the obliteration here: cloud, crimson: how comforting!
But the VERY important
phrase here is "the key of heaven"! Remember stanza one, wherein Roma
discussed the metaphysics of Heaven? Of course you do, Miss Cooked! Does our
little limp birdie now possess the key of Heaven itself? Or is the
little bird in fact the key to Heaven? We cannot yet be certain, but
must trudge on:
One love, and only one! And
it is immoralized by being engraved on acajou!
What,
Miss Beguiled, you do not know what acajou is? Well, dear, acajou is a type of
mahogany, a very lovely and durable wood, quite suitable for studnuts’ heads.
Its Latin name (and do write this down) is "Swietenia.” You never know
when this little fact will earn you millions on some crazed TV game show!
Acajou grows naturally in both Africa and Central/Southern America; red-brown
in colour, it is widely employed for furniture (including coffins) and boat
building.
But what is this one
love carved in such a wood, and why? It must be long-lasting, suitable for
eternity or perhaps for a bedroom suite. And, what does this long-lasting,
wood-based love have to do with anything else encountered so far? I doubt the
little hummer loved the wood it smashed into! Or perhaps it did? Yes, in
metaphysical terms, the coming of death brings the little birdie to eternal
life amongst the crimson trees of Heaven. Of course! The crimson clouds reflect
the crimson trees of Heaven! How oblivious!
Lettuce vegetate onwards!
One? Who is this “One”? We
have not yet met him/her/it in this poem, unless, of course, we have met
him/her/it under another name! That would be so Roma-nesque, wouldn’t it,
Master Chef?
Now, do you all remember
that the previous verse ended with "one love"? Thank you for nodding,
Miss Cast, or are you asleep? No matter, perhaps the “one” here echoizes the
one there! Clever Roma, using "referentio backwardia". Now, is it
possible that the "one" here is still our sweet, Heaven-bound little
hummingbird? Could this tiny creature know about China roses? And exactly what
ARE China roses anyway?
Well, classh, the China rose
is actually "Rosa chinensis" and entered the western world from,
guess where? Yes, Miss Rhine, from China! They were brought to Europe in the
late 18th century and now have many varieties. They are lightly fragrant, but
somewhat sensitive to cold (unlike Canadians), and are reddish in colour. So,
someone or something is telling the persona (“me") about these lovely
flowers, but why? Let us continuate:
This line, studnuts, appears
to refer to the roses from China (and not to Miss Scheherazade (who is absent
today), and guess what? China roses have interesting blooming habits, quite
unlike my own rather drab one. Some bloom briefly, others last a long time,
except in Ireland, of course. But consider also the metaphysical level of
meaning here: is 1000 nights really just 1 very very long night? Especially for
a demised hummingbird? Is time at a standstill, mourning the little creature so
untimely taken from us? Were China roses present at its funeral? That would be
such a nice touch!
Anyway, we must move on:
Now we are diving very deep
into Roma's metaphysical mind: is this the last photo of the world, taken on
the Adam and Eve of destruction? As the sun goes down, will it rise again? But
perchance Roma is being less apocalyptic and more metaphorical: she really may
be deluding to a typical evening on Earth as it turns into dawn. But why, we
ask?
Then we read:
The colours of destruction
and/or dawn now appear! Please note the subtle difference between a hue of
indigo and a hue of blue, something most people are simply unable to do, not
having attended Roma Ryan’s High. Whatever is going to happen, it will be
accompanied by two Hughs.
Thus the stanza as a hole
concludes with a moment of uncertainty: is this simply the dawn of a new day on
Earth, or is this really the end of life as we know it? Perhaps all the China
roses on Earth turn blue as they mourn the demise of the hummingbird, now also
blue and metamorphosed not only into Heaven, but also into Earth itself - a
device called "minor pro major.”
Perhaps Roma will soon end
our Confucian:
Aha! A brand new moon is
leading “me” somewhere woody, perhaps to our little blue hummer fallen by the
fatal tree? But this new moon has also been sent by Roma to lead our late
little bird to the woods of its dreams, where big, hulking acajou trees do NOT
wipe out sweet little innocent beings. You see, classh, Roma offers us hope:
even after a bad crash, we can find our way to new beginnings. Or at least to
the insurance office, but I digress. So our little hummingbird follows Roma
into new woods under a new moon, how elegant! But who is the “I” who follows?
Yes, Miss Spoken, it is indeed the “me” led by the new moon above.
Another “new” from Roma, an
example of "repetitio exclamatia". A NEW moon, and a NEW world! Of
course, our hummer needs a new world - it has just departed from the old boring
(and rather deadly) one! Heaven is thus seen approaching, as the
metaphysical level of the poem expands to include us all! Oh, the rapture!
No, studnuts, Roma is not
echoing Frank Sinatra here. But the poetic persona IS emphasizing its innate
independence. “My dream”: yes, we all have our dreams, and the little birdie
thus represents us all. Though its dream probably involves more sugar water
than ours. But then, it has such a long, long journey ahead!
“My way”: yes, we each do it
our way, and so we must. Would I want to do it the way Master Card does it? Of
course not. We must all express our unique individuality during our travel
through this mortal vale of tears.
And so we come unto the
climax of the poem:
Aha! "Ring
Compositio" as Roma brings us back to the very first stanza. There she
poignantly posed the question "who can tell me if we have heaven" and
now, presto, we read once more about our eternal resting place. But, this time,
THIS time (emphasasio), classh, our persona (aka “I”) KNOWS rather than asks
for directions! I surmise that this persona is of the male persuasion - they
never want to ask for directions, but I digress again.
Anyhow, our sweet but dead
little hummer seems to be more aware of the Heavenly aurora surrounding him at
this climactic time. Moreover:
Well, of course not! IF we
have Heaven, what else is there to desire? For Heaven, says Roma, is our
"ultimata desiderio" - what we all wish to obtain at the conclusion
of our earthy existence. In Heaven we have no desires, just heavenly peace and
Philadelphia Cream Cheese.
Yet Roma cannot but add:
Rain - ah, the joy of a day
with rain! Did you know that Ireland has a lot of rain, classh? That moss grows
behind people's ears? No? Well, now you do! Rain (spelled Ryan in Irish) is
wet, but that wetness brings life and abundance and potato blight. See how much
Roma can cram into just a few words? That is the "economy" of her
poetry, that rare ability to speak briefly and to the point, something that I myself
always do.
And what about the river,
studnuts? Well, that's just another form of wetness. And (how clever) the rain
falls into the river and replenishes it, thus continuing the Circle of Life. Awimoweh…….
“A world of wonder”: here
Roma respeaks herself of Heaven as wonderful, our world being a mere
preparation H for that other world, far and away. This other world:
Yes, we started off in
search of Heaven and come to the end having found Paradise, the nicest suburb
of Heaven! No desires, just lots of water and wonder. The two essential
"w"s of life. Our little hummer (allegorically speaking, all of us)
is now at rest in Paradise.
Then Roma concludes with the
"ultimatiatio" -the magic ending she so skillfully conjures up for us:
Of course, so easily visible
from Heaven -- the divine fire that lights up our hearts and shows us the way.
The sun, source of life, and a good heating supply in death. But, classh,
double-entendre exists here once more: when a little bird whacks into an acajou
tree, the bright lamp of death comes to it and leads it to Heaven. So, here,
the sun is also the bright torch of the afterlife!
And then, at last:
Well, of course!. A little
bird whamming into a very hard tree is going to see stars, lots of them! Last
time I banged my head against the blackboard I saw many stars, though not Enya,
come to think of it, but I digress.
We thus reach the end of
this heavenly metaphysical journey from life to death, seeing the stars themselves:
other suns (see previous verse), givers of life and illuminators of death. And
I do hope you are now all well illuminated. I know I am, having downed a lot of
Pepto-Brennan ™ before setting foot in this wretched classhroom! Oh dear,
excuse me, studnuts, it's the heat, you know. I think I shall go down to the
sea and cool off. It's one of my favourite habits. Ta!