AT THE OFFICE

It was considered good practice then

For private offices to have their own demons

(The government hired outside contractors

Who did not get benefits.) At PCRD,

My office was next to that of the telichine

Megalezius – we called her Meg.

She was always the first to arrive

But sometimes took long lunch hours.

Her last job had been to dip out Styx water

To bring to the world of the living

Where it caused misfortune. (She says it tasted

Much like raspberries with a hint of lemon.)

Before that, she’d been a minor goddess

Worshipped – or at least rather liked –

By apprentice smiths and ratcatchers.

SOMEWHERE BETWEEN THE BEGINNING AND THE END

It wasn’t the demons; the neighborhood

Was used to demons, rioting in the bars

Or being noisily sick in the alleys.

Demons told jokes. Not good ones, true;

But the angels never seemed even to smile.

A barmaid told me she’d heard them laughing

I doubted this. Drink never made them happy

They’d won the war; God was on their side;

When had they stopped dancing?

COWPER

In Hell they all are quite fond of William Cowper
Satan himself will spend hours explaining,
In great detail, Heaven's geography.
When he recites something new the demons

And the damned listen together quietly.

After John Milton he is Hell's favorite poet.
While he lived Cowper had a marvelous dream:
He was in Heaven; countless angels were singing
The harmony was overwhelming; the beauty frightening
And it was some time before he could put the music aside
And hear the words. "Everyone will be saved!"
Sang the angels, "Throughout the universe,
Throughout every universe that is and every one that isn't
Absolutely everyone shall be saved! Except,
Of course, William Cowper." Sometimes he wonders
What he will do when he is alone in Hell.

SO FAR THE STORY

The wizard, tired at last of life, went looking for his heart
Thinking to be mortal once more. He crossed the desert
Long deemed uncrossable, climbed the glass mountain,
Tricked the faithsworn demon into leaving his post,
Coming at last to the ruins of the tower where --
An unimaginable number of years before --
He had been raised and beneath which was a cavern
Whose darkest corner hid his heart which adamantly

Refused to return to the hollow in his chest.

"Ever were you stubborn," said the wizard,
"Ever did you stand against me, keeping me awake
With your witless, steady beating. I have prospered
Well and more than well without you. Still, you are my heart
And I am weary and seek to die." "Selfish as ever!"
Said his heart. "Ages have passed since we were one.
 I have no wish to rejoin you, nor do I think
That it is even possible. This is not how the story goes.
Some youngest son, some clever girl, was meant to find me,
Against all odds and slay you by stilling me
With one shrewd thrust of an enchanted blade
Or the sound of three syllables not meant for human tongue.
Why, then, did no hero ever come nor heroine?"
"New stories replaced the old; desert sands concealed the way across;
Few got past the demons. The destined slayer
Was, I believe, slain by me in his cradle. At the time
I thought it a prudent bit of work. I regret it now."

DEMON

Long ago I heard or read the story

Of a nun who was possessed by a demon.

An exorcist was called, then two, then three

Then all that could be found in the province.
They labored long days and into the nights.

Crowds gathered; the Abbess threw the gates wide

Lest some child be crushed by those pressing

To see within. It wasn’t Easter but the bakers

Came selling hot cross buns. Under a tree

Puppet devils dragged puppet Faust to Hell.

At last, pale and shaken, the demon came forth

He fell on his knees and kissed the ground;

Would have kissed the Bishop’s hand too except

The Bishop slipped it behind his back.

“Thank you, gentlemen all! A little wine –

Not consecrated, mind you! – and I’ll speak.

Two years ago it was, at least; an August day;

A hot sun; the drone of pollen-heavy bees;

What wonder that I should lie down?

But gardens are dangerous to more then men.

“I am not a large demon; I made myself less

And settled on a lettuce leaf to drowse

Remembering inconsequential things

Musing, half asleep, I was defenseless

When that large white hand swooped suddenly down

Tore off the leaf, and me still on it,

And swallowed us whole! May you never know

The things I have seen, nor experience a tithe

Of my sufferings! Not for all Hell’s riches

Would I return, nor for a share of Heaven

Would I spend one minute more listening

To the dark whisperings of that nun’s heart!”

NO INSTRUMENT

No instrument by which I’ve reckoned

Could tell me where the summer flies

No demon perched astride a second

Could say “Here, where my left leg lies

She loves you still, but on t’other side

You are for her as things that were

But safe among the dead reside.”

An unmarked border, no fence, no sign

“Your money is no good, your ways

Are strange to us. New stars shine

Than those you knew on other days.

Your marvellous lies none care to know.”

When did your pockets fill with dust?

But step lightly as you go

If strength won’t do then cunning must.

ANOTHER ANNE MILTON POEM

There are many Anne Milton poems. Deal with it.

God came to Anne Milton’s house

One wet November night to find

Satan in the kitchen drinking tea

With just a touch of something in it

To ward off the chill. Satan nodded as if

It was the most ordinary thing to see

His great friend, his eternal foe

Contracting Himself so that his head

Barely scraped against the low ceiling.

Another cup appeared; Anne filled it

Angels crowded around the house

Peering through windows, listening at doors

Having hastily made for themselves bodies

From mist or smoke or gutter-fallen leaves.

Abetha Gill,46,Anne’s red-haired maid,

Drove them briskly away, saying

“This is a respectable house; we’ll not have

Angels larking about. There’s the Queenshead

Three roads over. It is filled with demons

But they have manners. Pay for your own drinks

And there will be no problems.”