The War in Heaven The war in heaven is denied . . . You know, The book with the red page-marker attached To the binding, that lies around the house Like it were part of no library--that book Speaks loudly and with images, forebodingly, Which have always been like truth to children awestruck by the moon. But the elders of the tribe know how to Live without regrets, and without memory, How to make the juice run off a turning spit! And howling animals in the woods must fear All mankind now, for mankind is loose, he has Lost his king . . . on the prairie, in the city, At the loom, throughout centuries, spinning tales throughout a windy night. Ah yes, how could there have been this war In heaven, in the past? It seems neither Gods believed by patriarchs, nor forces larger than the elemental fear One naturally feels just in the presence of All other human strangers, ever could have interrupted life . . . on the lonely earth! We have quite enough to contend with now, Too much. There was no combat in the past we Must share. And God has no arch-enemies, When he must reconcile us to our inner needs. Take away from history this devil in distress, We must declare it free from any trauma. Ah, Yes, this is where our literature is most Clever, to represent in figures taller than The trees, one like head of all the angels-- Who is more degraded and versatile than we! But, how could there be a war in heavens Empty of all interest in the puny encampments And the glittering cities we have here . . . The ancient records are interpreted. They Cannot tell of some travail that has any basis In right religion. Heaven is not now a place, It is not the throne of a creator. But the Sky was only designated such, another region Never seen, or the place where dead men wander. So it was, in a flowering referral, this sky above, Which, when you blink, does not change place. Well, people in the past, I mean living then-- It's only they thought, somehow God was up there! Sometimes I wonder whether when it rains, or Snows, these rains and snows are catalogued, Or numbered, say, consecutively. Or does the Planet just revolve, endlessly, with no drama, Like a lyric, giving dosages to the senses? It may seem best to believe, in some naivite, That our planet is . . . nicely repeating the times. And so I think, in this mood, that it must be The same deluge that befell Aunt Katie and Her beau, silent John, that now attends these Most reflective walks I take--in the evening to The grocery store. Ah yes, we talk of climactic Shifts, and galaxies so very far away, but of Things free from history, you know, very paramount is the image of the weather. Could there have been a war in heaven or in nature? Well, some parts of nature are Seemingly old. Mountains have a face storing Up the years. I say, uprooted trees are a Living nightmare--in a storm. And the ocean, I've heard, almost contains a universe of its own. But it's the rains and snows, the rains and snows, It is of them mostly I wonder. Like they came In reminiscence . . . the snows of yesteryear . . . What war in heaven could account for these Environs? All I hear is the thunder, all I See is the lightening, then the dripping on The leaves, from my post on the front porch. Ancient stories telling of great cosmic dramas, They are trying to invoke the aid of silent ministering spirits In the heart and brain. Just like, well, I'll Tell you this my friend, just like I am. But How shall we rephrase, or ever teach again, That culture that saw a demiurge in the flames, Or shadows of the flames, in nights of fear-- As if the logs themselves were leaping high against the barricades! Ah, night was a barricade when John and Katie Left the house, arm in arm in a light scattering Of rain, as the future of their life was never Open to them. So they walked, this pair, across A corner of the earth. And now, they're gone. And still the sky condenses some brief shower, Like there were an audience in the air around us. And I wonder, when the rain is coming . . . Who is it now . . . who is walking out? These images, these lyrics, these affections, These are longings that should be fulfilled. Child of the hour, are we deprived of secret Knowledge . . . and the guarantee of God? Is it true there never was a war above, no Contest for the earth we love? Are we not Sanctioned to believe that loyalties beyond Our own have invested time in water, trees, and stone? Or hath struck the universe with such force That echoes in the ear still dumbly sound? These scars you bear are injuries suffered Here, on the playing field, your own in life, Young life . . . that picture show playing at eye-level. Do not look up, for the visions are now closed. No, do not consult the oracle that knows these Things we let each other keep, in silence for the wind to halt, on the threshold Of the mountain pass, at the very gates, lo! As was in the very words we speak foretold. Now it is inescapable, what thought alone Can hold. A war arose in heaven, Michael and his angels Fighting against the dragon and his angels, and The visible clash went before my eyes. I was Collapsing, I stood before the sun, my garments and my hands and eyes Were burning. This was true, and it was way Beyond me. Yet I thought, how do I know this? It was as if I thought I myself must stand before the throne of the Lamb Slain before . . . the foundation of the world. I saw, the dragon and his hideous cohorts Fought, but as they fought the miles and miles of air dried up. There was no longer any place for them in Heaven. It was as if the dragon and his chariot of fire . . . were thrown down, And the ground below me was in flames-- The city was burning, on the plains. And it was not upon my lips, but I heard The litany of his terrible curse. I heard the Devil, who is the deceiver, when he threatened to return. I heard that all of this would come to pass, There would be another storm in heaven. I saw and heard what I knew had occurred, I saw the past, the great prophecy. And when the scenario was at hand, I knew it Was over. The earth was claimed far before I broke the sticks, and set up my camp, on The shore of the windy island, in the time of confession. And when you say the world will end in flames, now it's the devil . . . that you quote! The dragon was cast down to the earth, filled With remorse. Woe to you on earth and sea, Who inhabit this place without memory. The Devil in flames has seared the earth, Kindled the water with deep electric storms, And strafed the sand with hoofprints of the Horse and camel. His time was short, and his Wrath intense. I have sealed up what I know, Written it . . . and contained it. For this has Come to pass, and it is over. And you know, What plagues the memory is the time of creation.