fr. On a Raised Beach

Bo Bartlett

fr. On a Raised Beach

Listen to me - Truth is not crushed;
It crushes, gorgonizes all else unto itself.
The trouble is to know it when you see it?
You will have no trouble with it when you do.
Do not argue with me. Argue with these stones.
Truth has no trouble in knowing itself.
This is it. The hard fact. The inoppugnable reality,
Here is something for you to digest
Eat this and we'll see what appetite you have left
For a world hereafter.

Hugh MacDiarmid

I have loved this poem for so long. Back when I was in university, I made a mural of it for my wall. Which seems funny now, when so many use the phrase “my truth”, as if truth were a cat. Could truth be a cat? (That would be a great question poem for Neruda to work out.) Is it a thing you own and take care of, or grow, as in a garden or a houseplant? Is truth something you possess? Or, as MacDiarmid suggests, what if truth is like a rock? Itself and nothing else? Solid, set, unchanging? What if truth cannot be possessed? 

 

I hope the latter is correct. If I can possess the truth it is a lacklustre, lame thing, a pathetic not-worth-trusting-in thing. So help me, may truth be BIG, Gigantic, colossal! Let it be enormous, beyond my puny comprehension! If it can be “mine”, subject to my whims, my incoherencies, my ever-changing perceptions, my ignorance and arrogance and well, silliness – God help us all. And if truth is mine – what is yours? Can both exist? At the same time? Must I eradicate you in order to maintain the predominance of “my truth”? 

Truth is not ours. We are Truth’s. 

And yes, it will crush us, if we do not move with it. It will destroy us. You don’t have to argue with me – as MacDiarmid says - “Argue with these stones.” Look around. Does the world dance to our tune? Do trees bend to our bidding? Does the storm calm when you raise your hand? 

Truth does not belong to me. 
 I belong to the truth. And that is no small thing.