Rejoice, Oxford, since you are so powerful
That over sea and fen you beat your wings,
And your name spreads through Hell itself.
I was shocked to find amongst the thieves,
Where those condemned for crimes against literature
Dwell, three of your alumni, a circumstance
That does you little credit.
Not content with taking over parliament
Now you wish to police literature with your
Agents and keep it safe with your unmagnanimous
Authors and their self-important posturings.
But literature is no coterie,
And if history is anything to go by,
Laureates
do not last.
We quit the pit of thieves,
Zone 8 Area G, making our way
Up some scree down which we had come.
To climb back up we had to get down
On our hands and knees, pursuing our
Solitary way, for here foot without hand sped not.
Once at the top, we took a shortcut up some stairs,
And came via a devious route, past some ducks
Hunkered down in a muddy tyre track,
As in a poem by Thomas Hardy,
To the LTB, where many lost souls
Stood about conversing and smoking.
It filled me with grief, and fills me with grief
Again now, when I think back on what I saw,
And as I write I know I must not indulge
My pen, but tell it straight, as it is,
For if some bit of luck, or something better,
Has gifted me this good, I don’t want to abuse it.
As headline acts (in the season when rock
Festivals fill the farmers’ fields with litter,
And shepherds take their annual leave)
Look out into the gathering darkness
To see the flickering of lighters
Held aloft, with flames just as numerous
The chasm of Zone 8 Area H was lit up.
I was standing by the bridge, on the long
Tiled seating area, leaning over
The opaque glass screen, so far over that
If Berrigan had not held my legs I might
Have toppled below. At first I thought there
Was some chemistry experiment going
On outdoors, perhaps involving explosives,
Until I remembered chemistry had been shut down.
Berrigan, reading my thoughts, was quick to
Put me right: ‘Those are no Bunsen burners,’
He said, ‘within these moving flames are souls,
And each is burned by its own conscience.’
‘If that’s the case,’ I said, ‘then who is in that fire
Which splits in two at its tip,
Like that flame which, if Graves speaks truly,
Sprang up once from the funeral
Pyre of Oedipus’ warring sons?’
‘Within,’ said Berrigan, my guide, ‘lie the
Souls of Peter Hulme and David Musselwhite,
Suffering in anger with each other,
Over the direction the department should take.
Poetic justice makes them walk together now.
Inside the flame they lament the compromises
That let The Enlightenment course fall by the wayside,
And led languages to all but disappear.’
‘Master,’ I said, ‘if the souls within these flames
Can speak, please, can we have a word with them now?
I never quarrelled with either of these just men,
And hold them both in high esteem,
The one for his work on Columbus and
Postcolonialism, the other for his
Work on Hardy and the phantasmatic.’
‘I can understand why you’d want to speak
With these two,’ said Berrigan, ‘and I’m not
Going to stand in your way, but hold your tongue,
Let me do the talking, for I can guess
What you want to ask, and perhaps, since they
Were hispanists, they would not pay attention
To your words with the respect they showed your father.’
When the flame had come close enough for Berrigan
To call out to it, I heard him speak these words:
‘You there, two souls trapped within one flame,
Perhaps you recall my face, for I was once
A visiting professor here, many years ago,
When I took over from Robert Lowell.
If you remember me, or remember my verses,
Which still stand on the shelves of the library,
Then speak to me now, and tell me, if there
Was ever a time when one of you, sailing the
High seas of scholarship, bit off more than you could chew.’
When Berrigan had finished speaking the
Greater horn of the ancient flame began
To shake itself, murmuring, just like a flame
That struggles with the wind, then, flickering
At the top, as if it were the tongue that spoke,
Threw out a quiet voice, and said:
‘When I’d done my third stint as HoD,
A job that by then I could do in my sleep,
I set my sights on loftier goals.
Neither the thought of retirement in the
Yorkshire Dales, nor the debt of love that I
Owed Susan, could quench my thirst for knowledge.
The British Academy had launched a new funding
Round, aimed exclusively at those with a
Good track record, encouraging A-list scholars
To break new ground, going beyond the
Merely interdisciplinary to develop
New synergies between the disciplines.
Our project was bold, and stretched the available
Expertise of a department already
Weakened by maternity leaves, retirement,
Cuts, and the relentless expansion of
Creative Writing – but its combination
Of rigour and flair gave it a sporting chance.
We called it Project Darwin, and its aim,
Put crudely, was to retrace the voyage
Of the Beagle from the Cape Verde Islands
To Mauritius, with a team of experts,
And developing talent, from a range of
Disciplines: Biological Sciences were central
As was the Centre for Latin American Studies,
But the crew included travel writers,
Historiographers, cartographers,
Representatives from Myth Studies,
Art History and Philosophy, and colleagues
Working in the History of Science.
Inevitably, with restrictions on
Humanities funding tightening by the hour,
Our bid failed – the cruiser alone would have cost
An estimated £6,000,000 – but
We didn’t abandon our idea altogether.
Cutting our losses, we borrowed the VC’s yacht,
And I set sail with a group of colleagues,
Not many, who had not deserted me.
We could see the shore until we passed Tenerife,
Then we struck out from the Cape Verde islands,
Leaving all land far behind us, for days on end,
Till at last we sighted Bahia, where we took on
Fresh provisions. From here we stuck to the coast,
Leaving Rio de Janeiro and Montevideo
Behind us. We were old and tired academics,
Not used to the rolling of the ocean.
“Colleagues,” I said, “you’ve sat through departmental
Meetings nearly as long as this voyage,
And much duller; but if you’re short of things to do
This is as good a moment as any to check
Your Course Material Repositories.
And as we near our goal, don’t forget why we came here,
You’re Essex men and women, not sea dogs,
And you’re here to pursue paths of excellence and knowledge.
The next RAE is only round the corner,
And for the humanities it’s time to sink or swim.”
I could not have known how prophetic my words were to be.
As we rounded the cape a tempest rose from the west
Striking the fore-part of our yacht. Three times it made
Her whirl round, at the fourth it made the stern rise up,
And the bow sink down, till the sea closed above us.’