Lear & Present Anger

There are always strange things in Kent. A low but noble estate, some think of Kent as but a satellite of the grandeur that is London. But, yes, there are always strange things to be found in Kent, in its legends, in the minds of those who have served that almost-imaginary but all-too-real place. And here is Kent.

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You, O King, are the patriarch, the anointed leader of the green country, the pleasant land. At the zenith of your majesty, life and death, wealth and power, innocence and savage wrath, are in your mighty hand. Nobody gainsays your excellence, your achievement, your range of virtue and skill. You have called the beasts of the field to your service and the beasts of the wild to your hunt. All instruments of peace and war are subject to your intellect and will.

And you have surrendered land and, latterly, your dignity to the womenfolk of your high estate. Beneficience falls like summer lightning on the eldest; your malediction falls like winter hail upon the youngest. You exile those who serve you best, retain those who might secretly use you worst. And this is tragedy, a goat-song of the earth for all – for the king is the land, and the land is the king, as it has been since Adam's time.

I would be a disciple of that rarest of prophets, William of the Bleak House. Listen to what he has said, O King! Listen to the words of the prophets on the subway walls. Listen, and when the watchman has said that the day comes, and also the night, beware!

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Readings

Jerusalem by William Blake

And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England's pleasant pastures seen?

And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark satanic mills?

Bring me my bow of burning gold!
Bring me my arrows of desire!
Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire!

I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England's green and pleasant land.

The Sound of Silence by Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel

Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence

In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone
'Neath the halo of a street lamp
I turn my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence

And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people maybe more
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never shared
No one dared
Disturb the sound of silence

"Fools," said I, "You do not know
Silence like a cancer grows;
Hear my words that I might teach you,
Take my arms that I might reach you..."
But my words like silent raindrops fell
And echoed in the wells of silence

And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said "The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls
And whispered in the sound of silence