Dante's Inferno Page 2

  And Berrigan, my guide, replied:

  ‘Hold your horses, you’ll see

  soon enough.’

  And I, biting my lip,

  Said nothing more,

  until we reached the muddy shore.

  Then suddenly, coming towards us in a bark,

  An old man, hoary white with eld,

  Bellowed: ‘Woe to you, wicked students! Hope not

  Ever to see a grant again. I come to take

  You to the main campus

  Into eternal loans, there to dwell

  In sticky heat and dry-ice. And thou, who there

  Standest, live spirit! Get thee hence, and leave

  These who are dead.’ And when he saw I didn’t

  Budge, he added: ‘By other way

  Shalt thou come ashore, not by this passage.

  Thee a nimbler boat must carry.’

  Then Berrigan spoke slowly: ‘This is no time to get

  Imperious, Dr May, it is willed by Senate,

  That is all you need to know. Step aside.’

  His words brought silence to the woolly cheeks

  Of the boatman guarding the muddy swamp,

  Whose eyes glowed like burning coals.

  But all the students, shagged out and naked,

  Grew pale, and their teeth began to chatter,

  At the pronouncement they’d heard.

  They cursed the day they were born, they

  Cursed the coalition, they cursed their fathers

  For not having vasectomies.

  Then, like lost souls, wailing bitterly,

  They squelched knee-deep in mud, towards

  The shore of the forsaken building site.

  Dr May called them together with his

  Ferryman’s song, and with his oar he walloped the

  Latecomers, saying: ‘Put that on your SACS forms!’

  As at the start of the Autumn term,

  When the leaves begin to fall,

  Covering the ground with a slippery carpet,

  So did the doomed freshers

  Drop from that shore into the bark,

  Lured by the siren song.

  Off they go across the swamp waters,

  And before they reach the opposite shore

  A new crowd gathers on this side.

  ‘My friend,’ Berrigan said to me then,

  ‘Everyone who wants to get a degree

  Gathers here, from all corners of the globe;

  They want to cross the swamp, they are eager;

  It is the fear of being left on the

  Scrapheap that urges them on

  Into debt and toil and hardship;

  Only a fool would follow, so if Dr May

  Warns you off, you see what he’s saying.’

  As he finished, the ground shook with a violent

  Tremor, as the Wivenhoe fault opened

  Anew in the Palaeozoic rocks.

  A whirlwind burst out of the cracked earth,

  A wind that crackled like an electric storm;

  It struck my body like a cattle prod

  And as a man in Guantanamo Bay, I fell.

  CANTO IV

  The crack of fiercely hit squash balls

  Woke me from my blackout so that I started

  Like one woken from a deep sleep

  Or like some unfortunate commuter

  Rising to the call of alarm-clock Britain;

  Once on my feet I steadied myself

  And saw from an illuminated sign

  That I had been borne to a place called

  Valley, though it more resembled a ditch;

  The place thundered with endless wailing

  Which issued from the Sports Hall, but when I

  Put my face to the glass, I discerned nothing,

  For it was all steamed up with sweat;

  ‘It’s time to begin our descent into the

  Blind world below,’ said Berrigan, his face

  All pale, and I, who saw his complexion,

  For even his beard could not hide it, asked

  ‘How will I cope, when even you’re afraid,

  Who art wont to be my strength in doubt?’

  And he spoke back: ‘It’s the misery of the

  Fuck-ups here below which paints my face with

  That pity which you mistake for fear;

  Though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow

  Of Death, I shall fear no evil – for I am

  A lot more insane than this Valley.

  Now, let’s get moving, the journey is long.’

  He stepped forward then, leading the way for me,

  Towards our next port of call. As we advanced

  Along a straight track, no wailing could be heard,

  Only the sound of sighs coming from

  A vast car park, where none of the vehicles

  Could be moved for all had been clamped,

  Sighs that rose from grief without torment.

  Berrigan then said: ‘If you want to know

  What kind of souls these are that surround you,

  I’ll let you in on their secret: they are all

  Essex Alumni, Honorary PhDs,

  And retired academics: here they live

  Forever, but because they have left the

  University,

  they are forever

  Deprived of their departments.

  Without hope, they live on in desire.

  There’s a joke going round campus which sums

  Up their plight: “Academics never retire,

  They just lose their faculties.”’

  ‘My God,’ I said, ‘you mean they’re stuck here

  Forever in Limbo? Are there none that

  Manage to get away from here?’

  ‘Not many,’ he said, ‘but occasionally,

  When the VC raises the retirement age,

  Say, you hear of a lucky few

  Who find re-employment in one of our

  Partner Colleges: Colchester Institute,

  University Campus Suffolk, Writtle College.’

  We didn’t stop to dawdle while we spoke

  But made our way onwards, past a wood.

  We had not gone far from where I woke

  When I made out a fire burning up ahead,

  Which lit up a hemisphere in the darkness.

  We were still some distance from it,

  But we were close enough for me to begin

  To make out some of the shades up there.

  ‘Berrigan,’ I said, ‘who are these souls

  Who seem to occupy some place of special

  Honour, set apart from the rest?’

  And Berrigan, my guide: ‘Their honoured

  Names, which still resound in the world of

  The living, gain them favour here.

  They are poets who once taught here,

  Or studied, rare souls,

  who had the gift of sabi.’

  And as he talked I heard a voice exclaim:

  ‘Honour the poet of the New York School!

  His shade returns that was departed!’

  As the voice fell silent, I saw eight

  Shades step towards us, with an aspect

  Neither sad nor joyful.

  The good master began: ‘Mark him

  With the Havana cigar clenched in his teeth,

  Who walks steadily at the head of the pack,

  That’s Robert Lowell, the illustrious poet,

  Who was once a professor here, in the

  70s; the next, just behind him, is

  The satirist, Ed Dorn; then look, that stately

  Figure with the handlebar moustache is

  Tom Raworth, who wrote his Logbook

  When he was here, but of course, you’ve met them;

  Next is Doug Oliver, who descended into

  The caves at Winnats Pass to write his epic;

  Behind him there’s Elaine Feinstein,

  Jeremy Reed, who was a student her
e,

  Tony Lopez and Kelvin Corcoran.’

  As we drew level with them, they came

  To greet Berrigan, and after they had

  Talked a while, they turned towards me,

  Welcoming me with a gesture, and when

  I turned to gaze at Berrigan I saw him smile.

  We walked together,

  Talking of this and that, until we reached

  The boundary of a splendid villa,

  Set in a sweet vale all by itself.

  It was circled by a security fence,

  Bounded by woodland and a clear lake,

  And once we had passed through seven

  Surveillance gates, like those at Stansted,

  We stepped onto a brightly lit lawn.

  On it were shades with eyes slow

  And grave; they were of great authority

  In their demeanour, speaking slowly,

  With mild voices. Then moving to one side

  In unison, to where the cocktails were

  Being handed out, we stepped onto a

  Raised veranda, from where they could all be seen.

  From this vantage point, as he lit a cigarette,

  Berrigan pointed out the illustrious

  Shades who peopled the verdant pasture.

  There was Charles Leatherland, standing with a group,

  Amongst whom was Óscar Arias, the

  Nobel Prize Winner, and Dimitrij Rupel,

  Foreign Minister of Slovenia.

  I saw too Virginia Bottomley,

  John Bercow and Siobhain McDonagh,

  And when I looked up a little I saw

  The master of thought, Simon Critchley,

  Chatting away with his philosophical crowd,

  Who were hanging on his every word;

  I spotted, too, Richard Bartle and Roy

  Trubshaw, co-creators of the Multi-User

  Dungeon, MUD1, and Rodolfo Vela,

  Mexico’s first astronaut; then, cracking jokes,

  In a way that made them stand out from the crowd,

  I saw Nick Broomfield and Mike Leigh, Stephen

  Daldry, Lucy Ellmann and Ben Okri,

  Who won the Booker Prize.

  I can’t paint them all in full, as they deserve,

  My theme is long, and many times the words

  Must fall short of the reality.

  The company of ten diminishes to two.

  Berrigan leads me by another path,

  Out of the quiet, into the trembling air.

  I come to a part where there is no light.

  CANTO V

  We left the garden behind us, descending

  By a long track, till we reached Square 2,

  Which encompasses less space,

  But greater pain. Nearby Todd Landman,

  Professor of Government, has his desk,

  Where he sits, interrogating new arrivals.

  Barely have they entered his room

  Than he shows them how many books he’s written;

  If they have a weakness, he pounces on it,

  And he, who is an expert judge,

  Then leaps up, winding his scarf round his neck,

  And tells them where to go.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, when he caught sight of me,

  ‘And welcome to the place where pain is host –

  As we say round here, no pain no gain

  (That’s one from our team in marketing).

  Now, please, be careful where you go,

  There’s a health and safety talk in half an hour,

  And an address from our Faculty Manager

  Will follow – be warned, it may be easy

  To get in, but don’t let that deceive you.’

  ‘Put a sock in it you windbag,’

  Said Berrigan, ‘this one doesn’t need

  All that bullshit, he’s just visiting;

  It is willed there where the power is,

  That’s all

  you have to know.’

  And now the cries of anguish

  struck my ears

  Drowning out all else.

  I came to a place void of light

  Which rioted like the sea in a tempest

  When it is buffeted by warring winds.

  The hellish storm

  forever tossed

  helpless screaming spirits

  into the black air

  It was like some infernal

  fairground ride

  And when the faces whirled past our eyes

  they had the look

  of those grown sick with fear.

  I learned that to such torment are doomed

  The lustful,

  who subject reason to appetite.

  As the wings of crows roosting in winter

  Bear them along in vast swirling flocks,

  as Mark Cocker has written,

  So that blast transported these souls,

  Stretching as far as the eye can see.

  And I asked: ‘Berrigan, tell me,

  Who are these people, lashed in the black air?’

  ‘The one who’s just going by,’

  Berrigan replied, ‘is Maeve, Queen of Connacht,

  She had so many lovers you couldn’t count them,

  And more husbands than the Wife of Bath;

  In her kingdom she made lust and law alike.

  It was she who started the cattle raid

  To steal Ulster’s prize bull from her former husband,

  And there are those who say she had bull-longing.

  That other one is Marilyn, who slew

  Herself for love, behind her’s Berlusconi

  Whose scandal knew no shame,

  That’s King Edward and Mrs Simpson, whose affair

  Rocked the crown, then Bill Clinton,

  Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor,

  And there’s Paris Hilton…’ – then over a thousand

  Shades he showed to me, and pointing with

  His finger gave me their stories.

  When I had heard my teacher name so many,

  I was overcome by pity, and felt faint.

  ‘Poet,’ I began, ‘I would like to talk to

  That pair that go together

  And seem so light upon the wind.’

  ‘Wait till they’re a bit nearer,’ he said,

  ‘If you entreat them in the name of

  That love they share, they’ll come.’

  As soon as the wind gusted them towards us

  I raised my voice: ‘Oh wearied spirits!

  Come and speak with us if it isn’t forbidden!’

  And then, just as on Shooting Stars

  The dove comes down, when bidden, so those

  Spirits issued from the band where Ulrika is,

  Such was the power of my call.

  When they came into view, I beheld

  An aged tutor, balding on top,

  And a young student, with coal black hair.

  ‘Oh living creature, gracious and kind,

  Who goes through the black air

  to visit us,’ said the girl,

  ‘Whatever you wish to hear

  you shall hear it, whilst the wind,

  as now, is silent for us.

  The place I was born was Londonderry,

  I came here to study,

  and to escape the Troubles.

  Love, quick to kindle in a seasoned heart,

  Led my tutor to fall for my young body,

  And I in turn loved back.’

  ‘Dear creature,’ I said, ‘the terrible torment

  You suffer brings tears of pity

  To my eyes,

  but tell me,

  How, and by what signs, did love let you

  know your desires?’

  And she replied: ‘There is no greater pain

  Than to recall a happy time from a state

  Of wretchedness (as your companion knows)

  But if you wish to know

  t
he first root of our love

  I will tell it, though I weep.

  It was the Essex way, when Donald Davie still

  Held sway, to teach in tutorials, one on one;

  One day, the course was LT361:

  Arthurian Literature, we were comparing

  Malory with an Old French version of

  The legend; we read of Lancelot,

  Of how he fell in love, time and again

  Our eyes were united by the text,

  Gregory tried to impress me with an

  Interpretative aside; we blushed.

  To the movement of one line alone we yielded:

  When we read about the forbidden kiss

  Then my teacher kissed me on the mouth

  Tremblingly; that book was our Galeotto;

  That day we read it no further.’

  Whilst the one spirit thus spake she wept

  Constantly, while the other bowed his head.

  The sight of these wretched souls filled me with pity,

  And I fell, as a body, dead, falls.

  CANTO VI

  Regaining now my senses, which had zoned out