It is Christmas and I cannot help remembering this poem. Although written in context of Nativity, the thoughts are relevant to anyone who takes his religion seriously. How often do we think of renaissance, how often do religions and traditions undergo this process? How often should they undergo this process? In my opinion it should happen more often then it happens now.
For the not so religious minded---is this process not an essential part of living. How often in our life do we take a stock of our philosophies----discard the inaccurate and replace them with new found realities. Should we also not take stock of how far we have wandered from our principles? Is this not a process of death and birth? How attached are we to our Gods, do we not sometimes cling to our worn out philosophies as if they were Gods. Is it not painful to let go of them in search of the unknown new? Is it not painful to accept our follies; admit our mistakes to ourselves? No wonder we dislike change, even if it is for the better. But then we do change, don’t we? The process of stagnation and decay is equally painful.
The more I think of it the more dimensions it attains.
The first time I read this poem I abhorred it. It made no difference to me that it was written by T S Elliot (at that time I did not know who he was. I do not know much about him even now except for the fact that he has written this poem. I am sure I will read his poems more carefully now). My hatred towards it was made more acute by the fact that I had to answer questions about it in the impending final exam which we had to pass in order to get into the next class. Although English was not our main subject, passing it was crucial, we could not fail. Our English lecturer had made no attempts to explain the poem (this one or others)………and so we were left to our fate. Thankfully enough I grumbled about this predicament to my father. He showed no interest in the poem until I mentioned Eliot’s name. With the mention of the name my father sprang into action--------read the poem twice and then explained it to me. The meaning of the last stanza is what makes this poem my favourite. May be it was the explanation my dad gave………….for I have read many other explanations -------many of them take away the magic in the poem.
Through this poem Nativity to me has become a symbol of a journey - a journey which will take us closer to the truth. So every Christmas I remember this journey and pray that this cycle of death and birth never leaves me.........
'A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.'
And the camels galled, sore-footed,
refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the
terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and
grumbling
And running away, and wanting their
liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the
lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns
unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high
prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all
night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears,
saying
That this was all folly.
Then at dawn we came down to a
temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of
vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill
beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped in
away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with
vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for
pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no information, and so
we continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment
too soon
Finding the place; it was (you may say)
satisfactory.
All this was a long time ago, I
remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth,
certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I had
seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different;
this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like
Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these
Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old
dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their
gods.
I should be glad of another death
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.'
And the camels galled, sore-footed,
refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the
terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and
grumbling
And running away, and wanting their
liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the
lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns
unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high
prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all
night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears,
saying
That this was all folly.
Then at dawn we came down to a
temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of
vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill
beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped in
away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with
vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for
pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no information, and so
we continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment
too soon
Finding the place; it was (you may say)
satisfactory.
All this was a long time ago, I
remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth,
certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I had
seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different;
this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like
Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these
Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old
dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their
gods.
I should be glad of another death
-----------T.S. Eliot
