Fallen Pilgrims

A Darker Round

Then we descended to a darker round Where, issuing from the groaning bowels of earth, Came such great waves of mournful, piteous sound

That I shrank back. As women, giving birth, Will cry to God to spare them further pain, These screams were greater far, neither the mirth

Of drunken fools nor shrieks of the insane Their equal. “Oh,” I said, “good Master, see These writhing throngs whose wretched pleadings stain

The air around them with their agony.” “Poet,” he answered, “these are those whose crime Was to take bids on damaged property,

Swearing to make repairs. Never on time Did they appear for work with sweating crews. For their own mortar they are ground for lime,

And since they were so seldom seen they lose Their own sight in this place and labor blind. In short they were contractors, those we choose

From yellow pages where their words we find— Plumbers, carpenters, painters, roofers. Names They may in truth reveal to you, but mind

Their promises. Their sweet-tongued gaudy claims Shall vanish in the wind, for they are lies.” At that a pair came stumbling through the flames,

One with a blindfold cinched about his eyes, The second so bespattered in his face With layers of old paint I could surmise

Little of his appearance in that place. “Ryan I am,” he said. “This other, Heath. Partners we were above and, in disgrace,

Here where our work goes on. With broken teeth He chews the nails he must in darkness drive. No balm or unguent known can give relief

To what he suffers.” As young eggplants thrive Upon their stems and grow to enormous size, So did the thumb among his fingers five

Swell purply with his sins. “And in no wise Am I exempt,” said he, “for I must paint With no regard to where each splatter dries.

Blindly, we toil forever.” I grew faint, But then great Virgil plucked my arm to show A greater marvel: “If you had complaint

With such as them, behold these!” Row on row Of cabinets I beheld; from each, a pair Of wiggling legs extended. Groans of woe

Came forth; I knelt to peer in that dim lair Wherein one torso dwelt. He with a pipe- Wrench wrestled vainly, cursing in despair

While filth spewed in his eyes that none would wipe. His words were as the gurgling of some drain Clogged with old grease, hair, turds, and overripe

Peelings of fruits. “And here where he has lain, This A–1 plumber,” said my master, “may The whole tribe come, if God will so ordain.”

But then my eye was caught and made to stray To something even stranger. Thick with tar, A shade tried to rise from the ground and say

What torments he endured, but as a spar Rising on waves slips under from its weight, He sank back in black ooze. “Know who we are,

Pilgrim,” he cried. “Those who may share this fate Warn well when you at last return above! I was the roofer Rojo, who of late

Neglected flashing nor sealed the shingles of The valleys with cement. Now demons play Their game of pitch with me; lost from God’s love,

I have become the roof I promised. Pray That those who live will never suffer so!” “I know you, dog,” I said. “The price you pay

Here is a fair one. May the rain and wind Torment your blackness steadily and slow, And may God will your sufferings never end!”

“Come,” Virgil said, “for we must downward go. Dante, gird up thy loins ere we descend. Insurance-claims adjustors lie below.”

Subterranean Timrod Blues

“No doubt about it, there has been some borrowing going on,” said Walter Brian Cisco, who wrote a 2004 biography of Henry Timrod, when shown Mr. Dylan’s lyrics. Mr. Cisco said he could find at least six other phrases from Timrod’s poetry that appeared in Mr. Dylan’s songs. But Mr. Cisco didn’t seem particularly bothered by that. “I’m glad Timrod is getting some recognition,” he...