Hounded by Heaven

 The Hound of Heaven

I fled Him, down the arches of the years;
I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways
Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears
I hid from Him, and under running laughter.
Up vistaed hopes I sped;
And shot, precipitated,
Adown Titanic glooms of chasmèd fears,
From those strong Feet that followed, followed after.
But with unhurrying chase,
And unperturbèd pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
They beat—and a Voice beat
More instant than the Feet—
‘All things betray thee, who betrayest Me.’

All right, however bad my day is, it’s a lot better than most of Francis Thompson’s probably were.

I know this because I had to take a quick trot over to Wikipedia, to check in on Thompson, since in fact I had never heard of the guy, whom G. K. Chesterton called “the greatest poetic energy since Browning.”

Well, Thompson got acclaim at the end, but it wasn’t easy getting there. Born in 1859, he studied to be a doctor, became one, but never practiced. Instead, he moved to London, hoping to be a writer, but did menial work. Then ill health struck, and he began taking opium. And that led him to the street—he was homeless and destitute for years, until 1888, when he was rescued by a couple, Wilfred and Alice Meynell. But he remained an invalid all his life; at one point he contemplated suicide, but had a vision of the poet Thomas Chatterton. Chatterton had killed himself a century back, but apparently drifted back to nix the idea to Thompson. Common stuff for poets….

So Thompson had been on the street, writing letters and poetry to the newspapers, who proclaimed that there was a genius greater than Milton walking around out there—but where, exactly? Thompson had no return address, since he was down sleeping with all the other vagrants down by the Thames. Although at one point, a prostitute took him in, and he lived off her earnings.

Finally in 1893 he published his first book of poems, in which the most famous of his work, The Hound of Heaven, appeared. But though he attained critical success, his health was never good; he died at age 48 in 1907.

I am today a refugee from my life, since every annoyance seems to have been pressed on me. Note the word “annoyance,” which I use deliberately. For whatever reason, I cannot wake up in the morning—today I arose at noon, having been up at midnight for an hour or so. And so I missed a class, which I hate doing. My computer is quitting the Internet every thirty seconds or so, and so I am using my spare laptop, which has the feeling of Linus’s piano. There is a major leak in Raf’s bathroom, and guess who has to fix it? The cats have taken to pissing everywhere, and the ficus tree which is growing on the side of the building is shooting its root into our gallery. Which, by the way, has huge pot and pans in it, to collect the water that courses in at the smallest rain.

Two days ago, I was feeling rapturous; today I am holding on by a silk thread. I feel as if, rather than the hound of heaven, the gnats of hell are buzzing around my heads. What will I do?

What I always do, dammit. I’ve lost my mind and found it again, I’ve lost my mother and given birth to her again, I’ve lost my job and found something else. In short, I’m luckier than most; many other people have it much worse than I. I know about iguanas falling from the trees, and I know what they—and I—gotta do.

I wonder, though, how it is that some of us, living yes in London but on the streets, can still hear the feet and the voice of the hound of heaven. And I wonder, as well, about the people who don’t hear. Are they happier?

Here’s Thompson’s answer:

Ah, fondest, blindest weakest,

I am he whom thou seekest!

Thou drawest love from thee, who drawest me.

Brian, the Blogging Pigeon

Well, I’m happy to report that on November 28, 2005, while I was celebrating my 49^th birthday, across the world Brian Pigeon was starting his blogging career. Here’s a picture of him:

And here’s his introduction:

My name is Brian Pigeon, and I am London’s premier blogging pigeon.

Pigeon Blog is my online diary.

A bona fide urban pigeon telling it how it is for the pigeons of London.

You can also follow me on Twitter – @brianpigeon

And, if you’re interested, I got me a Facebook page too – Brian Pigeon.

Make sure you get the right one tho coz the other one’s an impostor.

I’m the one who looks like this:

And here he posts the picture above. Well, I can tell you all about this because while munching a tuna sandwich, yesterday, I was watching a documentary about the wildlife in London. I can now tell you that there is a seal in the lower Thames, and that the normally gruff fishermen are improbably throwing their inventory to the seal in the river, as opposed to putting it on ice and selling it. There’s a lady who throws chicken sausages to five foxes—and she’s trained them to sit, too! Hedgehogs are having a hard time of it—they’re sticking the heads into thrown-away coffee cups, lured presumably by that sugar—and then dying. Londoners! Please tear your coffee cups in two!

Then there are the bird people. Oh, and did you know that the British government ordered the peregrine falcons to be killed in World War II? Apparently, the War Office was still using carrier pigeons, and the falcons were eating them….

Now where was I?

Ah, yes—the blogging pigeon. It seems that there’s a London woman—was her name Lisa? Think so—who goes about photographing pigeons; she reports that she been in virtually every neighborhood in the city. And she knows about as much about pigeons as I do about iguanas. And if I may say so, I was considerably more reticent about the sex life of iguanas than is Lisa about the pigeon equivalent. Really, Lisa, I was eating at the time!

Well, I obviously had to check in on Brian Pigeon’s blog—and well worth it. I happened on the page entitled “Press” and discovered that The Guardian, Time Out, and The Times have all reviewed it favorably—wow, and now comes Iguanas! The capping on the cake, or whatever the expression is….

Wow—and Brian has a good head for business, as well as a fine design sense. Look, who could resist the tote bag below?

Or what about the Brian Pigeon Classic Thong?

A bargain at just under twelve buck. Not only made in the USA—thanks, Brian!—but absolutely guaranteed to drive your lover, or even your husband, into the extremes of lascivious lust at the very sight of it. Be prepared—you won’t have a minute’s peace while wearing it.

But enough rank materialism. Brian tells a remarkable story of a common bird: here’s his very first blog post, on that late November day in 2005:

Welcome to the first ever online diary of a London pigeon. Well, in all fairness I come from Hayes which is not strictly speaking London. It’s close enough and, let’s face it, it’s as good as you’re gonna get coz not many of us pigeons have mastered the art of blogging! Mores the pity. You never know though, if enough of them can be arsed to read this – it might just catch on! Pigeon-friendly Cyber Caffs are, as a result, hard to come by so posting may be a little irregular (although I heard there’s quite a good one in Slough? Anyone know it? Let me know in the comments…).

This is a picture of mum. I think she sent it to me so I won’t forget her birthday.

And guess what! Brian has 2859 followers! Wow—wonder how many followers Iguanas will have after eight years!

I bring you the story of Brian as recompense for the video below. And please, call Wisconsin Capitol Police Chief David Erwin at (608) 266-8797, and give him a piece of your mind.

Oh, and Brian? You got any friends on the Capitol Square? Friends who could do what you guys do so well?

Call me….