Elena Georgiou

Writer, editor, and professor Elena Georgiou: author of Rhapsody of the Naked Immigrants and mercy mercy me; co-editor of The World in Us...

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This Eternity, This Hour

To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.
—from “Auguries of Innocence”
I will not cease from Mental Fight,
Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand:
—from “And did those feet in ancient times”
William Blake

 

 

I am walking along these mountains green.

I am walking along this pleasant land.

I am walking along this quiet road.

 

And the goats are in their pasture, grazing.

And the apple orchard is now sleeping.

And the river is as ice.

 

And did I already say this road is quiet?

And I am walking along it?

And I am listening through headphones?

And my Sword is asleep?

 

And did I already say the mountains are green?

And I am listening to Newshour’s Razia Iqbal?

 

But it’s the producer now speaking:

“John, can you hear me?”

 

She’s interrupted the broadcast.

Prayers are being launched.

John is standing in the midst of a hymn.

 

And did I already say I am walking along a quiet road?

And the pen is not mighty?

And prayers tear up the sky?

 

Does it matter

whose sky? Does it matter

which weapons?  “Protect yourself, John.

Get out of the line of fire.”

 

And this road is still quiet.

And the orchard is sleeping.

And the baby goats are grazing.

And did I already say my Sword is in slumber?

 

And Razia is back on the air

to apologize to the world

for this interruption–another

prayer is fired

across another line.

 

And these mountains are still green.

And this land is still pleasant.

And this road is still quiet.

And the kids are still grazing.

 

But what of this Mental Fight?

 

And Razia is still apologizing.

“John, take cover.”  Forget the World

in a Grain of Sand.

Hymns do not save lives.

 

But Blake is still

engraving I will not cease . . .

He is hanging on to the last stroke:

Nor shall my Sword sleep. . .

And the orchard still slumbers.

 

And the kids are still grazing.

And the river is still ice.

 

And Blake writes into this Eternity.

Then disrobes & bids his wife do the same.

“Let us make our own Eden.”

And the Blakes are naked

amid mountains green and kids

that are grazing.

 

And the prayers are now falling.

“Are you still there, John?

Take cover.  Please.”

 

Hymns are destroying the landscape.

(No one apologizes.)

The orchard is devastated.

 

This Mental Fight is unceasing.

This Sword is no longer sleeping.

 

And the road is not quiet.

And John is still reporting—this eternity;

this hour.

 

“We urge you to put down that Grain of Sand, John.

Infinity is not in your palm.  Get out of that desert!”

 

But John will not cease.  He is asking

the woman questions

as Edens collapse.

 

“This is not a hymn we are fighting, John.”

The woman is adamant.  Her child picks up a rock.

 

“John!” the producer returns.

Get out of the line of fire.”

 

This is not heaven, John!

A rock is not a Wild Flower.

 

And the mountains that flank me are still green.

And the river is still ice.

But what is happening to the goats?

 

And John fires back: “If this is not a hymn, then what is it?”

And John is drawing our attention to this Eternity.

 

And the road that was once peaceful is now not.

And the mountains once green are now deserts.

But the river is still ice.

And the kids are now dying.

 

And John holds his microphone in the palm of his hand

and lifts it to this woman’s lips:

Do you think this Sword will lead to a solution?”

 

“This is not a Mental Fight we are engraving, John.”

The widow–who lives in a city of widows–is still adamant.

 

“John, please,” the producer pleads.  “Find safety.

Razia, let’s cut this short.”

 

And the orchard is not Eden.

And the river is not Infinity.

 

And in his palm, her kid holds a World of Sand.

And she is now speaking:

 

“A Mental Fight, John, (a prayer tears up the sky)

is when two sides go into a battle with equal weaponry.

But this is one group of people (another prayer tears up)

trying to keep an army (another kid dies)

from taking our Eternity in an hour.

 

And the grains between us are worlds.

And the roads we walk along are not quiet.

And the rivers we stand upon are ice.

 

But our mountains are green.

And we are all orchards.

And the kids are Wild Flowers.

 

~ * ~

 

Recent Posts

Rain Taxi review of “The Immigrant’s Refrigerator”

My thanks to the very kind George Longenecker for his review of The Immigrant’s Refrigerator (GenPop Books 2018) in the current issue of In Rain Taxi. George writes: This is not the first time there has been racist, nativist backlash in this country and throughout the world, yet the U.S. remains a nation of immigrants, a place […]

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Finalist!

I’m excited and honored that my new book, The Immigrant’s Refrigerator, has been named a finalist for the Institute for Immigration Research New American Voices Award. My thanks to FallForTheBook.org and the judges, and congratulations to the other finalists. I look forward to attending the award ceremony in October. From the website: Hernán Díaz, Elena […]

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