"Fellow Bedlamites . . . ."

 “Fellow Bedlamites, . . . .”     

We had a speaker last night – from another ward. I decided to listen because the blurb about him in the Loony Times cited the old French proverb that guides me when I let it.

            Praise the God of all, drink the wine, and let the world be the world.

He acted like he knew what he was talking about – he was the speaker, after all. But did he? Here’s what he said, more or less.

What I’m about to say doesn’t need to make sense, for nothing really makes sense, does it? We can impose sense on the world around us, but chaos continues if not to reign to pick at the edges until they become increasingly ragged; soon the middle will become unraveled.

     We can acknowledge or ignore that.

When is a glass of wine not a glass of wine?*

So, which is more open to recognizing – and acknowledging (not ignoring) – the disorder around us, science or religion? The answer is . . . poetry.

     Science concedes there are things we do not know – yet! Disorder is actually only apparent; eventually we shall discover the order that underlies it, all the way to the edges.

     Religion loves the edges and mystery, as long as it is the one that defines it – and solves it: “God is the answer.”

Poetry, on the other hand, simply describes. Any explanation it offers is tentative – and ultimately dismissed. “Here is a way to understand this,” it says, “not that it really works. Consider it for the moment, just until I tumble onto another possibility.” And another and another.

     Only poetry lets the world be the world, because only poetry drinks the wine. Science must analyze its composition; religion must transubstantiate it.

At that, one of the orderlies held up a sign, “Applause!” So we did. Then, it was time for a story and bed. My story was “The Frog Prince.”

12.22.16

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 * When it’s a beaker or chalice.