Copyright 2020 by Gary L. Pullman
That
civilization may not sink,
Its
great battle lost,
Quiet
the dog, tether the pony
To
a distant post;
Our
master Caesar is in the tent
Where
the maps are spread,
His
eyes fixed upon nothing,
A
hand upon his head.
Like
a long-legged fly upon the stream
His
mind moves upon silence.
That
the topless towers be burnt
And
men recall that face,
Move
most gently if move you must
In
this lonely place.
She
thinks, part woman, three parts a child,
That
nobody looks; her feet
Practice
a tinker shuffle
Picked
up on a street.
Like
a long-legged fly upon the stream
Her
mind moves upon silence.
That
girls at puberty may find
The
first Adam in their thought,
Shut
the door of the Pope's chapel,
Keep
those children out.
There
on that scaffolding resides
Michael
Angelo.
With
no more sound than the mice make
His
hand moves to and fro.
Like
a long-legged fly upon the stream
His
mind moves upon silence.
Commentary
The
first line of this poem alerts us that something of monumental
importance—no less than the survival of civilization—is at risk. For
this reason, the speaker of the poem asks that precautions be taken
against potential distractions. The dog should be silenced, and the
pony should be tied to a “distant post.” The next lines introduce
the subject of this first stanza. None other than Caesar himself is
plotting his next battle. He is in his tent, “where the maps are
spread,” but his gaze is “fixed upon nothing.” The “nothing”
that he focuses on could be the destruction that will result from the
battle to come, the very battle that he is, even now, planning.
However, this immediate destruction will have the paradoxical effect
of ensuring civilization’s survival, as the opening line contends.
To this end, Caesar’s mind, the speaker says, “moves upon the
silence” “like a long-legged fly upon the stream,” with
quickness and certainty, a fluid movement of consciousness.
In the next stanza, the poem moves from Caesar to Helen of Troy, she of the face that launched a thousand ships. Helen’s mother is Leda, the Spartan queen who was raped by Zeus in the guise of a swan. As a result of their union, Helen was born and, upon her abduction, the Trojan War was waged: “A sudden shudder in the loins engenders there/ The broken wall, the burning roof and tower/ And Agamemnon dead.” The line in “Long-Legged Fly,” “That the topless towers be burnt,” recalls the line “The broken wall, the burning roof and tower” from “Leda and the Swan.” This is the same event that Leda, in “Leda and the Swan,” was allowed, perhaps, to see. Now, Helen is beginning to develop her charms. (Here, we see her practicing a dance, whereby, we may suppose, she will develop grace.) Her development will require an uninterrupted silence, just as quiet was needed for Caesar to plot his strategies. That’s why we are asked to “Move most gently if move” we “must/ In this lonely place.”
The third stanza concerns the artist Michelangelo
at work on the Sistine Chapel. It may seem amusing that the speaker
suggests that the importance of this work will be to ignite lust in
young women. “Girls at puberty,” upon viewing the nude men in the
artist’s painting will have their first thoughts of men as men—that
is, their first sexual thoughts concerning men—“the first Adam in
their thought.” However, we should remember that civilization’s
continuance is predicated as much—or more—upon such thoughts and
their attendant actions as it is on the winning of wars. For the sake
of the artist—or perhaps for art’s sake—the speaker, once again,
calls for the elimination of all distractions, including not only
children but also the Pope himself, who might quarrel with
Michelangelo’s use of nudes in his painting:
That
girls at puberty may find
The
first Adam in their thought,
Shut
the door of the Pope's chapel,
Keep
those children out.
The
chapel is as quiet as a mouse, so to speak, as the great artist
works, his mind, like that of both Caesar’s and Helen’s, moving
“upon the silence” “like a long-legged fly upon the
stream.”
A great general, a great beauty, and a great artist—three famous persons of celebrated accomplishment, each in a different area of life—share the same genius, for the mind of each “like a long-legged fly upon the stream/ . . . moves upon silence.” In each case, the genius requires nothing more than silence to perform, since the movement upon that silence is a movement of the mind, which is subjective and unique rather than objective and general. The poem suggests that the rest of us also have a part to play in the accomplishments of such genius. What is more, our part may be neither as small nor as insignificant as it might first seem. It is the ordinary person who is called upon to “quiet the dog,” to “tether the pony,” to “move most gently,” to “shut the door of the Pope’s chapel,” and to “keep those children out” so that the great men and women of genius can exercise their genius. In short, it is we, ordinary men and women, who are called upon to maintain order and to sustain civilization so that, within the peace and quiet afforded by such orderly life, genius can develop and create.