Bells on the Ivory Tower

Hear the Angelus toll amidst discourse and ruckus,

those who hear the consecutive high note to low note,

On each half-hour of each old day,

sonic hammerings for fifteen times to remind

and remember the revenues and lanes.

 

When the clock strikes twelve (or one hand consistent

on twelve, the other on any number),

the chambers are opened.

Out sally them who hear the chimes blare,

heads downcast, downtrodden, either

averting from the sun or droning down

at their black plaques built on data,

lumbering towards the next set of cells.

Responsibilities pull down at their backs from big bags.

Their hearts and heads are still hollow.

 

Time wasted and spent in listening.

To what does one listen to, one ponders.

The reminders? The speakers? The repeaters?

What were the words spoken, the thoughts relayed

upon dry lips and bright boards for younglings to butcher

but never grasping the spirit of the body?

 

Again, the metal trumpeters cry recess.

Out pour they who wear their beings like nooses,

trudging along destined pathways and inevitable—

(A moment. Stop, stand, and listen.

If you wish, place your hand to your heart.

Believe, aspire, for this song. All will scarcely

notice if you practice creed. Finish.)—routes beneath sunny skies.

 

The day ends. Uniformed robots shuffle

homeward bound within clogged veins

of a smoked citadel. Whether their hearts and heads

are still hollow, that is for them to study.

When the bells on the ivory tower sing again,

they remember the old days to this new one.

 

Yet what of those who hear nary

the bells on the ivory tower?—They beyond the

coded realm of songs and signifiers?

Do they learn? Do they suffer, too?

Do they aspire, perspire? Do they make love and war, too?

 

To those who hear the Angelus toll,

on each half-hour on each new day:

Remember that tune, ringing in the void

when you leave these enlightened grounds,

teaching and learning beyond.