Poets' Corner

Westminster Abbey is akin to the mausoleums in St.Mary’s cemetery. Beneath it are the charred bones and decanted ashes of the greatest minds who have ever lived, their bodies a welcome mat, remnants coating the soles of our shoes as we walk, listening to Vivian lost inside West Minister. I walk behind Trevor into the cathedral and begin to float.  I float past the tomb of the unknown warrior wear Royal weddings always skirt around as they enter the architectural womb of the building he slab of quarry demarcating the ashes of fallen solider with the words THEY BURIED HIM AMONG THE KINGS BECAUSE HE HAD DONE GOOD TOWARD GOD AND TOWARD .HIS HOUSEI remember the lecture from Mr Reents quoting Joseph Campbell where he stated that the great cathedrals of Europe are configured like a woman, like a vaginal canal as you walk to the front of the church through a narrow plume the frieze of enlightenment.  Where you receive a splash of water the moment when you were born you received a splash of air while still connected to the maternal reel.

It is Westminster Abbey and I am floating.

I am floating, hovering as if by the propeller of an invisible beanie above my brow.  I am dancing in the nave. I am cascading in the shadows of buttresses. Vivian is mentioning how every British monarch with the exception of Henry III has had their coronation in the very building we find ourselves in now. She is gesticulating with her umbrella as if it were an orchestral wand. 
I am floating. I am lost in the Gothic contours, the cement clouds of light. I am lingering near the ceiling. I am hang-gliding beneath single butterfly wing buttresses. I am aloft tumbling in circles in the  nave bobbing between septets looking down at the group below.  There is Vivian’s voice. We are being rushed through one of the greatest demarcating plateaus of antiquity. Of History. A house of worship.  An interment of immortality.

Vivian is saying from afar that, of course, we all very will do love and support our Queen. However with the tabloid scandal of Charles do sort of ruffle the royal feathers quite a bit now don’t they? Vivian is stating that we all do love and accept Diana. She states that, despite the odious accusation of Mr. Morton's book and the serialization of it in the Times the British populace as a whole has absolutely no doubt that their differences will be rectified sometime in the near future.

I am still backstroking above the group as a whole.   I am floating through the spirits of monarchs with names like Henry and George and Edward followed by roman numerals. The poisoned unmarked breath of Anne Neville.  There are spirits and there are wraiths; translucent kings invisible, the color of windshield wiper fluid. I am hovering to the top of the nave, vacillating between septets. Below me there is a river or Lords wearing itchy white wigs.  I am witnessing ceremonies. A bevy of Yeoman and Town cried wing a handbell as if calling for dinner announcing on yez. A number of the British monarchs in spirit guise seem to be missing limbs, holding severed heads like a carefully picked out bowling ball. Although we are in Westminster I overhear Vivian discuss open procedures in the houses of parliament having to do with a blackrod and a lot of heckling. I continue to dance through a bubble of genius wraiths.The spirit of Darwin transmogrifies from dolphin  to an orangutan  to a bald human.  Dickens is rubbing his goatee asking for more.  Ben Jonson is bitching about plagiarism publicly inquiring if there is any ghastly chiropractors, making a bad pun as he alludes that being buried upright is not all its cracked up to b now is it.  I am floating.  Thomas Hardy jabs that its noyce to be buried here yet his heart is with his one true love. Mary Queen of Scot's in playing Bridge with Handel, John Gray and Samuel Johnson.

When I land I find myself on a chess board of names. It is Poets corner, If ever there were a shrine of literary mortality this is it.  It is Poets corner.I see Greta and Tamara and Sheila from a distance. It is Poets comer. I am walking on top of them. Their ashes are holding up St.Peters blessed abbey. They are holding up the tiara for coronation of England. I am looking at  a statue of Shakespeare. He is resting his chin on his knuckles. There is a parchment next to him.

                    

 I am hovering above a chessboard. There are writers’ I have never heard of before.  There are plaques to Byron and Shelley. Alfred Lord Tennyson. A kitchen floor mosaic of the greatest scribes who have ever lived. Somewhere  in the background Vivian is stating that the first poet buried in the abbey as everyone knows of course was Chaucer whose location still to this day remains somewhat of a mystery.

Perhaps I will write Harmony a poem. Perhaps I will milk everything I felt in a free verse in language sprinting across the page. 

I have no clue come less than two years’ time I well have somehow decide to devote the egress of every breath to this pursuit

                                              

I have no clue that in a sixteen month period I will have returned to this location as a poet.

Vivian is telling us that it is going to be close but that she think we will have made it just in time.