No Verse is Libre

“Thomas” He arose from his chair where he had been sitting for the past six hours.  The chair was not comfortable, It merely served as a rare solitude for him as a patient in St. Elizabeth’s Mental Hospital. “Ezra. Good to see you. 

“Congratulations are in order.  Three major literary awards.  People are really taking note of your Pisan Cantos.” Thomas stood up and embraced his editor and long time friend. 

“Thank you, thank you. My cantos sing the song of the angels.” His laugh could not hide his irritation with being a patient here where he remanded after his capture in Italy.  

“Good to see you have not lost your unique sense of humor.”  Thomas shot him a quick glance as he took a seat in the other chair in the small claustrophobic room “Charming accommodations.”

“I am in the presidential suite, you know.  Nothing but the best for the Lunatic of St. Elizabeth’s Hospital for the Criminally Insane.  Personality disorder possible bipolar.” Ezra's beard was shabby and unkempt, but there was no mistaking the sparkle in his dark eyes.  

“It is good to see you.” Thomas held him at arm's length for quite a few minutes. “Frost and Auden send their best.” 

“Glad to hear they are doing well. Both have become favorites of the Post and Look Magazines.  It  is my assertion that one day school children will recite their socialistic poetry and not know Robert Frost or W.H. Auden were socialists.” Ezra fumbled for a cigarette. 

“At least with my poetry, there is no doubt.” Thomas reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved his cigarette holder and offered one to his friend.

“Thank you, Thomas, you always were a gentleman.” Ezra lit it and took a deep puff. “This hospital is nuts, nuts I tell you.” 

“You have been  here over ten years.  By now, I thought you’d be quite used to it.” Thomas smiled, but Ezra’s eyes got that crazy look in them just like when he was about to sit down and hammer out a few cantos. 

“And they keep waiting for me to recant.  Sign here Mr. Pound and you can walk out those gates.” He poses like a Greek Statue.

“We have had this discussion before, I’m afraid.”

 Thomas wags his head.

“And yet here I sit pining.” Ezra bows his head. “We have a petition for your release.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and produces a thick document.

“Touching.” He takes the document from Thomas’ hands, but does not open it.

“We have been actively seeking writers who agree that Lunatic of St. Elizabeth's is not crazy.” Thomas smiled.

“Papa Hemmingway wired me, but the administration did not allow me to get it.  Said it was too subversive.  Can you imagine? I swear the sensitivity is sometimes a bloody joke.” Ezra stood up.

“Ezra, why are you here?” Thomas exhales a cloud of smoke.  

“I am a political prisoner. A subversive who supported the wrong side.” He pontificates.

“This is a mental hospital.” Thomas points out.

I am not crazy.” Ezra glares at his friend.

“There are a lot of people in this place who would say otherwise.” Thomas crushes his cigarette in the overfilled ashtray. “You are known as the Lunatic.  I know that you are no more crazy than any other poet.  Auden should be in here occupying the cell next to you, but Auden did not do radio broadcasts for Mussolini.”

“Thinking men understand that fascism is the answer.” Ezra paces.

“Mussolini was killed by his own people.  You picked the losing side, Ezra. I have my doubts about fascism to be honest.  Why not join the Modernist movement’s socialism?” His expression is somber, because he knows Ezra can become emotional.  

“What about you?  Your epic Wasteland supports a political ideal similar to the fascists.  You support the fascist political agenda.” Ezra smiles, “I know, I helped you edit that masterpiece.”

“I won’t deny my point of view, but I am not locked up in a nuthouse.” Thomas points a finger at his friend. “We have ideas and an agenda.”

“I’m not going to die here.” There is a catch in his voice.

“We will not let that happen to you.  E.E. Cummings and I had a discussion.  Your recent Bollingen Award for the Pisan Cantos. The list of judges was impressive.” Thomas patted his friend on the back, “Conrad Aikens, W.H. Auden, Louise Bogan, Katherine Garrison Chapin.  The list goes on.”

“And you are on it.” Ezra bows his head.

“Of course, of course.” He nods. 

“And such is such.” Ezra shakes his head. “They murdered him and hung him like a side of beef.  Didn’t they know he had the answers. Italy was this poor afterthought of a country.  And he put the pieces together like a puzzle.  He gave his country a leap into the future and they killed him.  They killed him.  I was there to see it. What are we going to do when those who have the answers are martyred.  Here I sit and they have tried to shut me up, but I still write my cantos.  I wrote it on toilet paper in my first days in this blessed place. I will not be silent.” 

“I do not believe you will ever truly be silent.” Thomas allowed himself a righteous smirk. 

“But they don't listen.  I have seen starving children wandering the streets of Florence where some of the greatest riches known to man are on display.  What have we won? What has been our prize?  If you ask me who won this bloody war, I will tell you...it was the Jews.  They now have their country.  They have robbed and pillaged anything of value.”

“Six million died and they have the sympathy of the rest of the world.” Thomas shakes his head. 

“They were wrong.” Ezra slammed his open palm on the wall.

“Yes, but the world has sympathy for the Jews following the Hitler's Final Solution.  We will continue to spread our words through our poetry.” Thomas picked off a piece of lint on his jacket.

“Will they listen to what we have to say?” Ezra tilted his head.

“Karl Shapiro has made some statements in the press about your anti-Semitic sentiments and has support from Katherine Garrison Chapin.” Thomas met Ezra’s eyes. 

“You know her liberal views.” Ezra laughed.  “What do I do?”

“Say nothing, my friend.  She is a minor talent at best.  Karl Shapiro is a bit of a loose cannon who pushed hard for an independent nation in Palestine.” He shrugged. “An independent nation in the middle east will surely cause more trouble than its worth. I doubt the Arabs will tolerate an enemy living so close, don’t you?”

“Another war?” Ezra casts a quick glance over his shoulder.

“Possible.” Thomas shrugs. 

“So we’d be right back where we started from.” Ezra hissed facing the wall.  

“Appears that way.” 

“Oh God, I’d love to get out of here and let the world know of the disaster that is just around the corner.” Ezra slams the wall with his fist.

“Remain silent.” Thomas shakes his head.

“Will my silence become my acceptance?” 

“I doubt it.” 

“Thomas, I feel like Wuluwaid.” Ezra became sullen. 

“Nonsense.” Thomas put his hand on Ezra’s shoulder in support.

“Wuluwaid lost his freedom to speak his mind. "Lordly men are to earth o'ergiven," and then applies this quote to his now-deceased friends from his years in London and Paris.`` 

“You always did have a flair for dramatics, Ezra.” Thomas laughed.

“And the Serpentine will look just the same/and the gulls be as neat on the pond/and the sunken garden unchanged/and God knows what else is left of our London.  From my Cantos LXXX.” He coughed.

“Charming. In two couplets you managed to say what it took me many verses to say.  You always had a way with brevity.” Thomas’ laugh is more caustic, but this is not lost on Ezra. “My regrets is that no matter how much poetry we write, our words will fall upon deaf ears.” 

“I sit here day after day and look out this small window.  My only window on the world and I know how Van Gogh felt when he painted Starry Night. You do know he liked to eat the paint, right?” Ezra chuckles as Thomas nods his head. “I don’t want to eat my own pages of poetry.”

“Chin up old chum.” Thomas is on his feet with his arm around Ezra. 

“How can I?  How can I Thomas?” Tears are in his eyes and he wipes them away with his dirty fingers, “I am a mirror of all of the sins and errors and yet I am locked up to keep me silent.  I will not be silent.”

“We are the conscience of the world. Maybe our words will not be in the mouths of the intellectuals, but one day they will be recited by children on the playgrounds. Their voices will rise up to the angels who will then take them to the Creator himself.” Thomas whispered into his friend’s ear. 

“And the voice of truth will once again sound out as it had during my radio broadcast.” He began to shake uncontrollably.  

“I wonder what the world will make of us after we are laid to rest.” Thomas shook his head.

“Why would you say that?”

“Just musing.  You remember how we looked at the classic Greek and Roman writing. We talked about how we could improve on perfection?” Thomas smiled.

“Yes, yes, and yet we still wrote.” Ezra closed his eyes.

“Because we are human.” Thomas replied.

“Human to experience this world and trying to imagine what is waiting for us in the next.” Ezra continued.

“And we dared to question and probe into the forbidden territory.  We walked into the Gates of Eden, plucked ourselves a juicy apple right from the forbidden Tree.” He closed his eyes and licked his lips.

“And we were so disappointed that after all that trouble, there wasn’t anything special about the flavor.  It was the same as the rest we had tasted.” Ezra proclaimed with a laugh.

“But what if just once...that apple filled us with the wisdom and vision of something extraordinary?” 

“Ah, now that would be something, Thomas Stearns Eliot.” His laughter came from the deepest place in his soul it seemed. 

“If they did release you from this place, where would you go?” Thomas leaned against the wall.

“I don’t know.  Most likely, Italy. The seeds planted are starting to bear fruit.” He said with some deep thought. “I had the best days of my whole life in that country. You should see how golden the sun is, Thomas.”

“I’ve been there.” Thomas says quickly.

“Yes, but you prefer that damp island they call England.” Ezra shakes his head slowly.

“Suits my personality.” He manages a smile. 

“Stubborn bunch they are.” Ezra laughs, joined by Thomas.

“It is rather amazing that two Americans would find different places in the world.” 

“Idaho? Have you ever been there?” Ezra lights another cigarette.

“Can’t say I have.” Thomas puts his finger on his chin. 

“You didn’t miss anything.” Ezra declares.

“Well I wasn’t fond of Missouri either.  Never did see what Twain saw in the place.” Thomas sighs.

“He didn’t stay.  He wound up in California.” Ezra noted.

“Papa Hemingway is looking to move heaven and earth to get you out of here, you know.  He has collected a lot of signatures.” Thomas prepared to leave. “I have to be on my way.”

“Well, I will keep my fingers crossed.” Ezra nodded.

“Keep your nose clean.” Thomas shook his finger in Ezra’s face. “People have short memories at times and we want to keep it that way.” 

“Yeah, yeah, you know me.” Ezra embraced his friend.

“That’s why I gave you the warning.” He smiled, “You are one of the most talented men I have ever met.  You have ideas no other human being has thought.  Your perceptions are dead on.  This world will never be perfect as you have envisioned it, but there are places, small paradises that can be forged. Just remember one man’s paradise can be another man’s hell and within that lies the paradox.  Sometimes just closing your eyes and being still can deliver that which we seek.”

“You are a wise man, Thomas Eliot and a good friend.” Ezra nodded as a single tear formed in his eye.  

“We will keep doing our best to get you out of this nuthouse.” Thomas rang the bell so the orderly would let him out, “This place is no place for the Father of the Modernist Movement.” 

Ezra watched Thomas being escorted out of the ward by the orderly.  He would continue to write his poetry and share with the world his unique and controversial perspective no matter who it upset or pleased.