Dante's Inferno

by Philip Terry

  At the sight of that old roué

  and his student

  New wretchedness and new sinners retching

  I see, wherever I move,

  wherever I look.

  I am in the sewer that is Square 3,

  Fast food joints all around me,

  Knee-deep in chip cartons and half-chewed kebabs;

  Men in boiler suits hose it with jet sprays,

  The dirty water fills the air, like Irish mist,

  The stink never leaves the place.

  There’s a stoner wearing dreads and

  A filthy poncho, with a three-headed

  bulldog on a frayed bit of string,

  The dog’s six eyes are bloodshot, the three mouths

  Black, the three bellies swollen, ribs poking out –

  It’s like something out of Harry Potter.

  Spilling from Food on 3 and the SU bar,

  Hung-over students howl like mutts

  slipping and sliding in the filth.

  When the slimy hound got a sniff of us,

  He pulled on the leash, snarling,

  showing his fangs.

  Berrigan, my guide, bent down slowly,

  Without taking his eyes off the beast, and,

  spreading wide his wiry fingers,

  Shovelled up a fistful of spewed-up sausage

  And beans, flinging it down those

  gawping gullets.

  As a famished hound, hungering to

  Be fed, quiets down when you bring out the Bonzo,

  So the filthy heads now ceased their barking.

  We walked across this slippery square

  Of shades squirming in the soup,

  When one of them sat up suddenly:

  ‘You there, on a tour of Hell’s diners,’

  He beckoned, ‘do you not remember my face,

  For you were born before I expired.’

  I said: ‘It may be the torments you

  suffer have disfigured you,

  I can’t put a name to your face,

  But my memory is not

  What it was

  tell me who you are.’

  ‘Your own city,’ he said, ‘so full of hate

  It overflows the pan,

  Once held me in the fresh air above.

  Your people called me Round Nick

  And I’m damned

  for always stuffing my fat face,

  All the bodies flattened here

  Share in my sin

  and in my pain.’

  ‘Nick,’ I said to him, ‘I recall you now,

  And your sad suffering makes me weep,

  But tell me what’ll happen, if you can,

  To the people of that divided state,

  And are there any honest men among them?

  And tell me, why is it so fucked up?’

  ‘Some blame the Act of Union, some Kitty O’Shea,

  Some the Brits, some the Prods, some the IRA,

  but sheer bigotry has played its

  Part, coupled with sectarianism

  And lust for power. Who knows

  when the violence will run its course?

  There are honest men, but no-one wants to know,

  For pride and hate and envy are the three

  Tunes the Orangemen sing,

  They kindle in men’s hearts, and set them ablaze.’

  With this his dirge ended, but I answered:

  ‘Tell me more, what of

  Rowlands, and Trimble, who had such good

  Intentions, Cathal Goulding,

  Michael Farrell, and the rest,

  Bent on doing good? Where are they?

  Do they taste Heaven’s sweetness

  or Hell’s tandoori?’

  ‘Some taste Heaven’s sweetness, others lie

  Below with blacker souls. If you keep on,

  You may see them still. I speak no more.’

  He twisted his great head towards me

  And eyed me a moment,

  Then rolled beneath the scum.

  Berrigan, my guide, then spoke:

  ‘He’ll wake no more till Donald Davie

  Blows his shrill whistle,

  Then the dead souls will put on

  Flesh once more,

  and face their viva voce.’

  And so we splashed through the filth

  Of goners and doners,

  Talking a little of the afterlife.

  I said: ‘Master, will these torments be increased,

  Or lessened, on Finals’ Day,

  Or will the misery remain the same?’

  And Berrigan: ‘Remember your theory;

  The more a thing is subject to deconstruction,

  As Derrida says, the more monstrous

  Its pleasure, or its pain.’ We

  Talked of Foucault, and punishment,

  And Ginsters, till we came to a steep bank;

  There we found Mervyn King, man’s arch-enemy.

  CANTO VII

  ‘Give Col a bonus! Give Col a bonus!’

  The voice of Mervyn King spat out these words,

  And Berrigan, my guide,

  Whispered: ‘Don’t let him freak

  You out, he’s a powerful mother,

  But he can’t stop our campus tour.’

  Then he turned towards that bloated countenance,

  Saying, ‘Shut it, moneybags,

  Feed on last night’s oysters that rot your guts,

  This tour of your wretched kingdom

  Has Dean’s approval, and funding

  from the AHRC.’

  As sails, swollen by wind, collapse

  when the yacht’s mast snaps,

  So the savage beast collapsed before our eyes,

  And then we started up those slippery steps,

  Past wasted students stopped for a smoke,

  that led to Square 4.

  Who could imagine misery

  as strange as I saw here,

  Like something out of Dalí.

  As a speeding car on the road loses its

  Grip on the tarmac, spinning into a stream of

  Oncoming traffic, so these folk danced the conga;

  More sinners were here than anywhere below

  And from both sides, to the piercing cry of their

  Screams, chests stuck out, they rolled giant coins,

  And when they clashed against each other they

  Turned to push the other way, one bunch yelling

  ‘What’s the point in saving?’, the other bunch

  ‘Take out an ISA!’ And so they whirled round

  A grooved circle of pale concrete, like a

  Treadmill, some retreating as far as Barclays,

  Some sheltering near the Abbey. Then once more

  They clash and turn and roll in their circular joust.

  And I, shaken by such a sight,

  Turned to Berrigan, my guide: ‘Tell me, master,

  Who are these wretched souls?

  Were they all moneylenders?’

  He said: ‘Up above, the souls

  you see here

  had such myopic minds

  They could not judge with moderation

  when it came to money. The ones

  with nothing on top were loan-sharks,

  Or managed Building Societies, amassing fortunes,

  While whole generations went to the wall

  struggling to pay back mortgages.’

  ‘Ted,’ I said, ‘if I may, I reckon

  I should be able to recognise a few of these,

  Not least the shit who sold me shares in Gartmore,

  Just before the Credit Crunch.’

  And he replied: ‘Dream on, buddy,

  The undistinguished life

  of these moneygrubbers

  That made them slaves to cash,

  Now makes it hard to tell them apart.

  Squandering and hoarding robbed them

  Of any life, enlisting them in this scrum,
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br />   What more can I say?

  Here you see the short-lived mockery

  Of Capital,

  for which men bicker and connive.

  As Dylan said: “All the money

  you made

  will never buy back your soul.”’

  ‘This Capital you speak of,

  what is it,

  that has the world so in its clutches?’

  And he replied: ‘People are mugs,

  things of real value,

  friendship, love,

  Poetry, health,

  they ride over roughshod

  for a slice of Capital’s cake.

  Commodity fetishism rules the day

  drowning us in a sea of white goods

  and smart gadgets,

  Online markets transfer empty futures

  through time and space

  beyond all human wit to tell.

  One state grows fat with power,

  another lean,

  according to Capital’s law

  Which (like a snake in the grass) cannot

  be seen.

  Nothing human can touch it,

  Capital divides

  and rules its kingdom

  Like a greedy spoilt dictator.

  Its changing changes never rest,

  Now in houses, now in arms, gold, wheat,

  Beef, rice, diamonds, manganese,

  Tumbling markets keep it constantly

  in motion, as investors come and go,

  glad to be part of the ride.

  But now let us go on to greater sorrow

  night is coming

  we’ve no time to lose.’

  We crossed Square 4 to the other side,

  Past Happy Days, where tomato ketchup spills

  Into a trench formed by its overflow;

  That stream was darker than blood

  And we, accompanied by that shadowy sauce,

  Moved down along a strange path.

  When it has reached the foot of a

  Grey slope, that melancholy stream descends,

  forming a black lake.

  And I, peering into its depths,

  Could make out muddied students in that slime

  Totally naked and their faces mad.

  They struck each other not only with hands,

  But with their heads and chests and feet,

  And tore each other apart with knives.

  Berrigan, my guide, said: ‘These are the

  Souls of Greek and Turkish MA students

  Who war on campus after dark,

  Full of hate and anger; and beneath

  The surface there are arts students

  Whose sighs make the bubbles you can see.

  Wedged in the slime they say: “We were lazy

  Sods and never turned up for lectures;

  Most of the time we were completely stoned,

  Now we are lazy sods in the black mud.”

  This is the dirge they gurgle in their throats,

  They can’t even get their words out properly.’

  And so, across the water,

  we circled that disgusting pond

  Our eyes glued to the slime swallowers.

  We came, at last, to a tower’s base.

  CANTO VIII

  Before we reached the foot

  of that tower

  Our eyes had been glued to its tip

  Where two flashlights morsed,

  And, so far off our peepers could barely see,

  Another flashlight signalled back.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ I said, turning to Berrigan,

  ‘We’re nicked.’ ‘No such luck,’ he replied,

  ‘Feast your eyes on the filthy water,

  You’ll see our welcoming party soon enough,

  Unless the marsh’s vapours

  hide it.’

  An SLR never shot a bullet

  That cut through flesh faster

  Than the coracle, covered in Tesco’s bags,

  That skimmed towards us, drawn by the shades

  Of Brent geese, culled for the royal visit,

  With a solitary helmswoman, who was yelling:

  ‘Now I’ve got you, you wretched soul!

  Prepare to burn!’ ‘Hold your geese,

  Boudicca,’ my guide replied,

  ‘This dude’s just visiting.’ If you’ve seen

  Someone looking real pissed when they find

  Out they’ve been swindled – that was Boudicca.

  As Berrigan stepped into the coracle

  he handed me a pill,

  saying,

  ‘You might need one of these,’

  And only when I followed

  did the coracle begin to rock.

  As we cruised the course of that dead lake

  Before me there rose up a mud-bespattered shape,

  Saying: ‘Who are you, come before you’re called?’

  And I replied: ‘Though I come here, I’ve

  No intention of staying; but who are you

  Sporting that mud-soaked mullet?’

  ‘As you can see,’ he said, ‘I’m one who weeps.’

  ‘Weep on,’ I replied, ‘for even covered in that

  Stinking slime, I recognise you.’

  Like a zombie he reached out to rock the boat,

  But Berrigan my guide pushed him off with a kick,

  Saying: ‘Get down there with the other dogs!’

  Then he hugged me,

  saying: ‘God bless you!

  Up above this arrogant arsehole

  Was obsessed with promotion,

  selling himself to the highest bidder,

  like the Whore of Babylon.

  Many in LiFTS think themselves great scholars,

  who here will wallow like pigs in muck,

  leaving behind their repulsive fame.

  In life he did nothing good, and so

  his shade is filled with rage.’

  ‘Master,’ I said, ‘call me a sadist,

  But I’d love to see him dumped

  deep in the slop,

  before we leave.’

  ‘Just watch,’ Berrigan replied, and soon after

  I saw the wretch set upon

  by a crowd:

  ‘Get Harry Potter!’ they all shouted,

  And at that war cry the Frankfurter, gone mad,

  Turned on himself and bit his own fingers,

  The blood oozing like ketchup.

  We left him there, I’ll say no more about him.

  The sound of drum and bass began to pound my ears

  And made me peer ahead across the water.

  ‘Approaching,’ said Berrigan, ‘is Cannabis Castle,

  with its iron walls and its hardened dopers.’

  And I: ‘Already I can see the

  bright glow of the spliffs

  across the swamp.’

  And he to me: ‘Those are rather fires,

  From nightlights carelessly left burning

  On stereos and televisions,

  Causing the eternal conflagration

  that burns within,

  that no fire-extinguisher can put out.’

  We sailed around till at last we

  reached the shore, where Boudicca shouted:

  ‘Alight here! This is the entrance-way!’

  I saw the best minds of the Student Union

  Perched above the gates, enraged, screaming:

  ‘Who’s this cunt approaching? Who, without a

  Student card, dares to enter the kingdom of

  The dead?’ My wise teacher flashed his ID,

  Asking to speak to them in private.

  They suppressed their rage enough to say:

  ‘You may enter, but that breather

  goes no further.

  Let him retrace his fool’s path

  alone, let’s see him try.

  You’re staying right here where you belong!’

  Gentle reader, imagine how I shat myself
,

  When those words reached my ears!

  I thought I’d never see the light of day more.

  ‘Ted,

  don’t leave me here,

  I beg you!’ I cried,

  ‘If we can’t go any further,

  let’s turn tail now,

  while we still can.’

  Then Berrigan, who had guided me this far,

  Took out his Lucky Strikes,

  and offered me a smoke.

  ‘Wait here,’ he said, ‘and don’t despair yet.

  You can bet your bottom dollar

  I won’t leave you in this hell-hole.’

  At this, he walked away,

  to parley with them,

  Leaving me to battle with my thoughts.

  I couldn’t hear what he proposed,

  but they were having none of it.

  I saw them turn

  and shut the heavy gates

  In Berrigan’s face.

  He turned towards me

  His eyes downcast,

  playing with his beard.

  ‘Who are these shits to forbid my entrance