Not Wanting the Stars

An author’s intention is not necessarily what matters to readers of poetry or prose.

I have read that W. H. Auden wrote Funeral Blues as a parody of the mourning of the death of a politician, and yet readers of the poem have mainly read it as if it were a serious lament for someone the poet had loved who had died, or even for the death of God.

I have read the words of scholars who convincingly argue that the books we call “The Bible” were first written as political propaganda, starting in the reign of David to frighten his enemies and justify his sovereignty, perhaps.

In reader’s hearts, parody becomes serious lament and political propaganda becomes scripture.

In his book, How to Read the Bible, James Kugel wrote about the possibility that the ancient world made a connection between stars in the sky and Seraphim, the angels, or flaming creatures, who in Isaiah constantly praise God, saying, “Holy, holy, holy…”

Auden wrote, “The stars are not wanted now; put out every one.”

Imagine the sky filled with sparkling angels.  We put them out.

Another poet, E.E. Cummings, writing about love and stars and death, wrote, “Only the snow can begin to explain why children are apt to forget to remember.”

Auden wrote, “I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.”

Do you see?  Love is the problem. It makes us oblivious to parody in poetry and propaganda in scripture.  Or it makes us forget.  And its most troubling aspect is that it does not last.