A poem by the late Thomas Disch:
Sundays at the Colosseum
I think you always had to be a little juiced
to enjoy the show. Or Jewish!
I never attended
without a flask of red, and would salute
the dying singers–
martyrs they called themselves–
when the lions drew first blood.
The songs
went on until either terror or death
had silenced the last of them. I doubt
we would have gone so religiously
if it weren't for the singing.
Sometimes we'd even sing along.
Circuses aren't the same these days.
Pity.
— From Disch's weblog on Friday,
May 23, 2008, at 8:26 AM
Related material on a novel by Disch:
"On Wings of Song, published in 1979, tells the story of a repressive Amesville, Iowa, in the 21st century. The main character, Daniel Weinreb, tries to master the art of song and flight, 'driven by the knowledge that some have attained flight, their spirits separated from their physical bodies and propelled on the waves of their own singing voices– literally born on wings of song.'"
— Jocelyn Y. Stewart in a Los Angeles Times obituary of July 8, 2008
the date of Disch's poem–
St. Sarah's Eve— and for
the evening of July 8.