Showing posts with label karamoja. Show all posts
Showing posts with label karamoja. Show all posts

Thursday, June 28, 2012

karamoja pictures with t.s. eliot


In my beginning is my end. 


In that open field
If you do not come too close, if you do not come too close,
On a summer midnight, you can hear the music 
Of the weak pipe and the little drum
And see them dancing around the bonfire 
Round and round the fire
Leaping through the flames, or joined in circles,
Rustically solemn or in rustic laughter
Lifting heavy feet in clumsy shoes,
Earth feet, loam feet, lifted in country mirth
Mirth of those long since under earth
Nourishing the corn.

Keeping time,
Keeping the rhythm in their dancing
As in their living in the living seasons
 
The time of the seasons and the constellations 
The time of milking and the time of harvest 
The time of the coupling of man and woman 
And that of beasts. Feet rising and falling. 
Eating and drinking. Dung and death.
 
Dawn points, and another day
Prepares for heat and silence. Out at sea the dawn wind
Wrinkles and slides. I am here
Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning.
 To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not, 
You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy. 
In order to arrive at what you do not know 
You must go by a way which is the way of ignorance.

 
  In order to possess what you do not possess 
You must go by the way of dispossession. 
In order to arrive at what you are not 
You must go through the way in which you are not. 
And what you do not know is the only thing you know 
And what you own is what you do not own 
And where you are is where you are not.

Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
Of dead and living. Not the intense moment 
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning in every moment
And not the lifetime of one man only
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered. 
 
There is a time for the evening under starlight,
A time for the evening under lamplight
(The evening with the photograph album).
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.

Old men ought to be explorers
Here and there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper communion 
  
In my end is my beginning.