An alternative version of Yeats’ new-age poem
The hierophant has supper with the fool,
This spade will raise my body up, he chimes,
This chalice holds my blood, that is the rule,
But the fool sees only bread and wine;
A hand turns on the Christ light one more time.
The priestess takes her crystals from her veil,
The magician turns her secrets into fuel
As if it bears on what we do, his grail,
Its vast illusion truth beyond their rule;
A hand turns on the Christ light like a jewel.
The emperor of wands and empress of swords
Fall from the tower under stars and moon
While the hanged man prize lies upside down from cords,
The devil rapt in judgment on the wheel of fortune;
A chariot turns the Christ light on the runes.
These ancient archetypes were made for us
So we could grieve for what we were with wars
And know love as an arc of endless service
With music and mathematics as our lords;
The hand that lit the Christ light brought the words.
And now we see the priests steal children’s souls,
The devil wins whatever king we choose,
The world of form has fallen through the holes,
The truths we sought an analgesic ruse,
The Christ light’s now inside us like a fuse.
