On Fire
9 poems by
Michael Cope
 

Poetry

Rain
GHAAP
Scenes & Visions
Some Examples of
       Silence
for the time being
Crossing the Desert
back view
Other Poems
Song Lyrics
A Virtual Anthology
YouTube Poems
Cautionary Verses
On Fire



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On Fire
In memory of WG Sebald

One year and four days ago
I began to write what I
Had hoped would turn into
An extended meditation
On fire. For this purpose
I began to gather materials,
Images, writings, articles
And above all scientific
Studies which touched on
Flame, and whatever is wrought
By burning. Here a skull
Glowed in the heart of a furnace
In a Danish crematorium,
The radiant gas streaming
From the socket of its
Right eye like a jet of
Vision, even as the dome
Of the skull cracked and burst;
All seen through a small
Doorway set in the bricks
Of the side of the kiln,
Through which those who
Tended the cremations
Could observe the process
Of dissolution into ash.
Another picture, showing a
Clutter of objects from within
The burned bodies, that, dulled

But still recognizable as steel,
Had survived the furnace,
Which I was assured reached
Temperatures above a thousand degrees:
Steel hip-joints, four or five
Pairs of forceps, springs, coils,
An item resembling a screwdriver
And one the size and shape
Of a horse-shoe, along with
Assorted scrap-metal of unknowable
Purpose, all presumably
A part of those technologies
Which we use to extend
Or add comfort to our lives, as though
Those here burnt had first been given
Into the hands of watchmakers.

                    g

In particular, I sought images
And writings which, I thought,
Might shed light on that great
Conflagration which is our order,
And by means of which we have
Contrived, not only to have
At our command hot water,
Light, cooked food, and all
Domestic niceties, but also
To so disrupt the processes
Of renewal which, like the invisible
Hands of angels, support and
Sustain our living world that,
As my investigations made clear,
We have rendered all thought
Of their continuation untenable.

                    g

On a certain morning I was
On my way to the city and,
Like so many of the motorists
Around me, alone in the car.
The traffic flowed freely until
Wynberg Hill, where it moved
So slowly as to seem stationary.
There the early morning sunlight
Shone yellow and optimistic
On the cars as they broke free
From the avenue of tall dark pines.
The air was cold and clear, and the
Emissions from all the idling
Motor-cars' exhausts were visible
In the form of an illuminated mist
That rose to about the height
Of the car roofs before dissipating,
Wreathing all the traffic in my view.
I was seeing the smoke of a
Large number of fires, and these fires
Extended as far as I could see,
And further, out of sight down
The road and, in my imagination
As well as fact, along all the
Other roads in the city, and
Ultimately all other roads.
I could also hear the burning
In the form of a low bass-note,
Varying and merging with the
Background and the almost
Unnoticeable scent of it, too,
Became strong in my nose.

                    g

It was around this time, also,
That I fell into dejection
And found myself unable to
Carry on my work, and although
The gestures, postures and procedures
Of my ancient trade still rose
In my body, my heart was
Elsewhere, or absent, and all
Was blurred or dulled, and
Although my love for my children
Was undimmed, yet I could
See for them no future, so that
When I was with them I was
As it were a deceiver, and
If I could present a simulacrum
Of geniality with others,
All the time the railways, refineries,
Factories, power-stations, airports,
Mills, pits, lamps, stoves and hearths
With their attendant flames and
The greater conflagration that
Wrapped the entire world in an
Invisible furnace did not leave me,
And such was my restlessness
That I abandoned myself to
The internet where all the world's
Horror was visible as banality,
Or else stared at nothing
While my place of work filled with
Dust and blown papers, and
Each twinge and ache in my body
Seemed a sign of mortal illness
And my debts were unpaid
And the telephone or the doorbell
Was a threat of debt collectors
Or some other intrusion beyond my
Capacity. And it is still so with me.

                    g

Julia seeks radiance, air, and the
Illuminated mind, so that she
Switches on the lights in any
Room that hints at twilight,
Leaving them to burn until sleep,
And I have come to see the lights
As uncannily steady flames,
Separated from their smoke
In space, but connected to it
By wires and machines, all of which
Themselves required considerable
Combustion in their manufacture
Before they could take their
Place in the burning web.
Thus in my mind as in fact,
The fire, contained, controlled
And directed, burns in every
Detail of our lives perpetually,
Whether casting light onto
The pages of some book,
Heating our bath or urging
Our vehicles forward over
The asphalt roads that connect us
To other sites of its expression,
And by day, when Julia is at work
I move through our rooms
A somnambulist or deep sea diver
With leaden boots, turning off
The lights, lowering the blinds,
Ensuring that the doors
Are locked, the shutters bolted.

                    g

Franz Huppertz showed me how
Gold melts in a crucible, his master
Showed him, transmitting from
Body to body the feel of the melt
Sloppy in its fired clay bowl,
The glowing borax, the smell
Of oil as the metal pours, cooling
From yellow to red, the crink crink
Of the cooling glaze, the hiss
Of boiling as the ingot drops
Into water, the smiting with a
Hammer, the shaping and forming
Reaching back in time, and forward
To the golden ring, love-token
Or sign of greed; the old trade
Is with me now, burning and
Melting. Dust settles on the tools
That will not ring in these hands.

                    g

Much of the cave is riven
With the trenches and channels
Of excavation, some of them
Crumbling, almost collapsing.
Near the front of the space is a
Deep pit, reaching in places
Right down to bedrock, over
Four metres below the surface
Where I stand on a sandy
Rubber mat. One may not enter
The hole, but can stand on the edge
And look down. At the bottom
Is a patch of ash the size
Of a burnt bush. This ash is
A million years or older,
Smirched with a layer of
Fine red dust born in on
The wind that blows from the north.
All organic remains have
Altered, flowed, intermingled and
Been absorbed, but the ash,
Its aptitude for change drawn
From it and expressed as flame,
Has stayed the same. Here,
Condensed and fixed, the ancient
Remains of the particular genius
Of my species have lain while
The people, animals small and large,
Owls, swallows, insects, mites,
Germs, and all the other living
Inhabitants have passed through,
Flickering in my mind: bright flashes
On a silver screen caused by light
Passing through scratches in a film.
To see the past in the present's ash
Is to stare into the flame, there is
No future save in burning. The
World rolls on, a ball of lava
Crusted with stone. The smoke
Rises and rises without surcease.

 

                    g

You who read this, do not look
Into the fire. Walk by the river,
Watch the waves repeat and repeat
On the shore. Go home and love
Your children. Pour water on
Your hands, roll in the dewed
Grass. Eat fruits and seeds. Leave
The flames, turn and walk
Towards the dusk, wipe tears
With dry hands. Make music, sing
Together. Talk and laugh in the dark.