A RI EL

,
By the same author
THE CoL OSSUS (1960)
A RI EL
BY
SY L VI A PL A TH
HA RPER &ROW, PUBL I SHERS
'New York
, CONTENTS
FOR
'.Foreword by Robert £owell vii
MORNI NG SONG 1
TI lE COURI ERS 2
SHEEP I N FOG 3
THE A PPL I CA NT 4
L A DY L A ZA RUS 5
TUL I PS 10
CUT 13
EL M 15
THE NI GHT DA NCES 17
POPPI ES I N OCTOBER 19
BERCK-PL A GE 20
A RI EL 26
DEA TH & CO. 28
L ESBOS 30
NI CK A ND THE CA NDL ESTI CK 33
GUL L I VER 35
GETTI NG THERE 36
MEDUSA 39
THE MOON A ND THE Y EW TREE 41
A BI RTHDA Y PRESENT 42
MA RY 'S SONG 45
L ETTER I N NOVEMBER 46
TI lE RI VA L 48
DA DDY 49
Y OU'RE 52
FEVER 103
0
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TI lE BEE MEETI NG 56
FRI EDA A ND NI CHOL A S
A CKNOWL EDGMENTS
The poems Tulips, The Elm Speaks (appearing in this book as Elm)
and The Moon and the Yew Tree appeared originally in The New
Yorker.
Fever 1030 originally appeared in Poetry Magazine.
A Birthday Present was originally published in Critical Quarterly--
England.
Other poems in this book appeared in The Atlantic Monthly, Encounter,
Harper's Magazine, London Magazine, the New York Review of Books
and The Observer.
A I UEL . Copyright © 1961, 1962, 1963, 1964, 1965 by Ted Hughes. Printed in
the
United States of A merica. A ll rights reserved. No part of this book may be used
or
reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the
case
of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information
address
Harper &Row, Publishers, I ncorporated, 10 East 53rd Street, New Y ork, N.Y .
10022.
L lBRA llY OP CONGRESS CA TA L OG CA RD NUMBER: 66-15738
78 79 10
THE A RRI VA L OF THE BEE BOX
STI NGS 61
THE SWA RM • 64
WI NTERI NG 67
THE HA NGI NG MA N 69
UTI L E FUGUE 70
Y EA RS 72
THE MUNI CH MA NNEQUI NS
TOTEM 75
PA RA L Y TI C 77
BA L L OONS 79
POPPI ES I N J UL Y 81
KI NDNESS 82
CONTUSI ON 83
EDGE 84
WORDS 85
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FOREWORD
I n these poems, written in the last months of her life and often
rushed out at the rate of two or three a day, Sylvia Plath becomes
herself, becomes something imaginary, newly, wildly and subtly
created-hardly a person at all, or a woman, certainly not another
"poetess," but one of those super-real, hypnotic, great classical hero-
ines. This character is feminine, rather than female, though almost
everything wecustomarily think of asfeminine isturned on its head.
The voiceis now coolly amused, witty, now sour, now fanciful, girl-
ish, charming, now sinking to the strident rasp of the vampire-a
Dido, Phaedra, or Medea, who can laugh at herself as "cow-heavy
and floral in my Victorian nightgown." Though lines get repeated,
and sometimes the plot is lost, language never dies in her mouth.
Everything in these poems is personal, confessional, felt, but the
manner of feeling is controlled hallucination, the autobiography of
a fever. She burns to beon the move, a walk, a ride, ajourney, the
flight of the queen bee. She is driven forward by the pounding pis-
tons of her heart. The title Ariel summons up Shakespeare's lovely,
though slightly chilling and androgenous spirit, but the truth isthat
this Ariel is the author's horse. Dangerous, more powerful than
man, machinelike from hard training, she herself is a little like a
racehorse, galloping relentlessly with risked, outstretched neck,
death hurdle after death hurdle topped. She criesout for that rapid
life of starting pistols, snapping tapes, and new world records
broken. What is most heroic in her, though, isnot her force, but the
desperate practicality of her control, her hand of metal with its
modest, womanish touch. A lmost pure motion, she can endure
"God, the great stasisin his vacuous night," hospitals, fever, paraly-
sis, the iron lung, being stripped like a girl in the booth of a circus
sideshow, dressed like a mannequin, tied down like Gulliver by the
L illiputians . . •apartments, babies, prim English landscapes, bee-
vii
hives, yew trees, gardens, the moon, hooks, the black boot, wounds,
flowers with mouths like wounds, Belsen's lampshades made of hu-
man skin, Hitler's homicidal iron tanks clanking over Russia, Sui-
cide, father-hatred, self-loathing-nothing is too much for the ma-
cabregaiety of her control. Y et it istoo much; her art's immortality
is life's disintegration. The surprise, the shimmering, unwrapped
birthday present, the transcendence "into the red eye, the cauldron
of morning," and the lover, who are always waiting for her, are
Death, her own abrupt and defiant death.
He tells me how badly I photograph.
He tellsme how sweet
The babies look in their hospital
I cebox, asimple
Frill at the neck,
Then the flutings of their I onian
Death-gowns,
Then two littlefeet.
There is a peculiar, haunting challenge to these poems. Probably
many, after reading Ariel, will recoil from their first overawed
shock, and painfully wonder why somuch of it leavesthem feeling
empty, evasiveand inarticulate. I n her lines, I often hear the serpent
whisper, "Come, if only youhad thecourage, you toocouldhavemy
rightness, audacity and easeof inspiration." But most of us will turn
back. These poems are playing Russian roulette with six cartridges
in the cylinder, agame of "chicken," the wheels of both cars locked
and unable to swerve. Oh, for that heaven of the humble copyist,
thosemillennia of Egyptian artists repeating their lofty set patterns!
A nd yet SylviaPlath's poems are not the celebration of somesavage
and debauched existence, that of the "damned" poet, glad to burn
out his body for afewyears of continuous intensity. This poetry and
viii
life are not a career; they tell that life, even when disciplined, is
simply not worth it.
I t is poignant, looking back, to realize that the secret of Sylvia
Plath's last irresistible blaze lies lost somewhere in the checks and
courtesies of her early laborious shyness. She was never astudent of
mine, but for a couple of months seven years ago, sheused to drop
in on my poetry seminar at Boston University. I seeher dimagainst
the bright sky of a high window, viewless unless one cared to look
down on thecity outskirts' defeated yellowbrick and square concrete
pillbox filling stations. She was willowy, long-waisted, sharp-el-
bowed, nervous, giggly, gracious-a brilliant tense presence embar-
rassed by restraint. Her humility and willingness to accept what
was admired seemed at times to giveher an air of maddening docil-
ity that hid her unfashionable patience and boldness. Sheshowed us
poems that later, more or lessunchanged, went into her first book,
The Colossus. They were somber, formidably expert in stanza struc-
ture, and had a flair for alliteration and Massachusetts' low-tide
dolor.
A mongrel working hislegsto agallop
Hustles the gull flock to flapoff the sand-spit.
Other linesshowed her wit and directness.
The pears fatten like little Buddhas.
Somehow none of it sank very deep into my awareness. I sensedher
abashment and distinction, and never guessed her later appalling
and triumphant fulfillment.
I
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ROBERT L OWEL L
New York City
1966
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MORNI NG SONG
L oveset yougoing likeafat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its placeamong theelements.
Our voicesecho, magnifying your arrival. New statue.
I n adrafty museum, your nakedness
Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly aswalls.
I 'mno moreyour mother
Than the cloud that distils a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind's hand.
A ll night your moth-breath
Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:
A far seamoves in my ear.
One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral
I n my Victorian nightgown.
Y our mouth opens cleanasaeat's. The window square
Whitens and swallows itsdull stars. A nd now you try
Y our handful of notes;
The clear vowelsriselikeballoons.
THE COURI ERS
SHEEP I N FOG
The word of asnail on the plateof aleaf?
I t isnot mine. Do not accept it.
The hills stepoff into whiteness.
People or stars
Regard me sadly, I disappoint them.
A ceticacid in asealedtin?
Do not accept it. I t isnot genuine.
The train leavesalineof breath.
oslow
Horse the colour of rust, •
A ring of gold with thesun in it?
L ies. L ies and agrief.
Hooves, dolorous bells--
A ll morning the
Morning has been blackening,
Frost on aleaf, the immaculate
Cauldron, talking and crackling
A flower left out.
My bones hold astillness, the far
Fields melt my heart.
A ll toitself on thetop of each
Of nine black A lps.
A disturbance in mirrors,
The seashattering itsgrey one--
They threaten
To let methrough to aheaven
Starless and fatherless, adark water.
L ove, love, my season.
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THE A PPL I CA NT
Comehere, sweetie, out of the closet.
Well, what doyouthink of that?
Naked aspaper to start
First, areyouour sort of aperson?
Do you wear
A glasseye, falseteeth or acrutch,
A braceor ahook,
Rubber breasts or arubber crotch,
But in twenty-fiveyearsshe'll besilver,
I n fifty, gold.
A living doll, everywhere you look.
I t cansew, it can cook,
I t can talk, talk, talk.
Stitches to show something's missing? No, no? Then
How can wegiveyouathing?
Stop crying.
Open your hand.
Empty? Empty. Here isahand
I t works, thereisnothing wrong with it.
Y ouhaveahole, it's apoultice.
Y ouhavean eye, it's an image.
My boy, it's your last resort.
Will youmarry it, marry it, marry it.
To fill it and willing
To bring teacups and roll away headaches
A nd do whatever you tell it.
Will youmarry it?
I t is guaranteed
To thumb shut your eyesat the end
A nd dissolveof sorrow.
We make new stock fromthe salt.
I noticeyouare stark naked.
How about this suit--
Black and stiff, but not abadfit.
Will you marry it?
I t is waterproof, shatterproof, proof
A gainst fireand bombs through the roof.
Believeme, they'll bury you in it.
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Now your head, excuseme, isempty.
I havethe ticket for that.
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L A DY L A ZA RUS
I havedone it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it--
A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright asaNazi lampshade,
My right foot
A paperweight,
My faceafeatureless, fine
J ewlinen.
Peel off the napkin
omy enemy.
Do I terrify?--
The nose, theeyepits, thefull set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in aday.
Soon, soontheflesh
The gravecaveatewill be
A t home on me
A nd I asmiling woman.
I amonly thirty.
A nd likethecat I havenine times to die.
This isNumber Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.
6
--
What amillion filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shovesin to see
Them unwrap me hand and foot--
The bigstrip tease.
Gentleman, ladies,
These aremy hands,
My knees.
I may beskin and bone,
Nevertheless, I amthesame, identical woman.
The first time it happened I wasten.
lt was an accident.
The secondtime I meant
To last it out and not comeback at all.
I rocked shut
A s a seashell.
They had to call and call
A nd pick the worms off melikesticky pearls.
Dying
I san art, likeeverything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it soit feelslikehell.
I do it soit feelsreal.
I guessyou could say I 'veacall.
I t's easy enough to do it in acell.
I t's easy enough to do it and stay put.
I t's the theatrical
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Comeback in broad day
To the sameplace, the sameface, thesamebrute
A mused shout:
Herr God, Herr L ucifer
,
Beware
Beware.
"A miracle!"
That knocks meout.
There is acharge
Out of the ash
I risewith my redhair
A nd I eat men likeair.
For theeyeingof my scars, there isacharge
For thehearing of my heart--
I t really goes. •
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A nd there isacharge, avery largecharge,
For aword or atouch
Or abit of blood
Or apieceof my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.
I am your opus,
I amyour valuable,
The pure gold baby
That melts toashriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
A sh, ash-
Y ou poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, thereis nothing there--
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A cakeof soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.
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TUL I PS
The tulips aretooexcitable, it iswinter here.
L ook how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in.
I amlearning peacefulness, lyingby myself quietly
A s the light lieson thesewhite walls, this bed, thesehands.
I amnobody; I havenothing to do with explosions.
I havegiven my name and my day-clothesup to thenurses
A nd my history to the anaesthetist and my body to surgeons.
They have propped my head !>etweenthe pillow and the sheet-cuff
L ike an eyebetween two white lidsthat will not shut.
Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in.
The nurses passand pass, they areno trouble,
They passtheway gulls passinland in their white caps,
Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another,
Soit isimpossibleto tell how many thereare.
My body isapebbleto them, they tend it aswater
Tends tothe pebblesit must run over, smoothing themgently.
They bring menumbness in their bright needles, they bring me
sleep.
Now I havelost myself I amsickof baggage--
My patent leather overnight caselikeablack pillbox,
My husband and child smiling out of the family photo;
Their smilescatchonto my skin, littlesmiling hooks.
I havelet things slip, athirty-year-old cargoboat
Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
They have swabbedmeclear of my loving associations.
Scaredand bareon the green plastic-pillowed trolley
I watched my tea-set, my bureaus of linen, my books
10
Sink out of sight, and thewater went over my head.
I amanun now, I havenever beensopure.
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I didn't want any flowers, I only wanted
To liewit? ~y hands turned up and beutterly empty.
How freeI tI S,youhaveno ideahow free-
The peacefulnessissobig it dazes you,
A nd it asksnothing, aname tag, afew trinkets.
I t is,:hat th: deadcloseon, finally; I imagine them
Shutting their mouths onit, likeaCommunion tablet.
The tulips aretoored in thefirst place, they hurt me.
E:en through the gift paper I could hear them breathe
L lg~tly, through their white swaddlings, like an awf~l baby.
Their redness talks tomy wound, it corresponds.
They ~resubtle:. they seemto float, though they weigh me down,
Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their colour
A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck. '
Nobody watched mebefore, now I am-watched
The tulips turn tome, and the window behind me
Where onceaday thelight slowly widens and slowly thins
A nd I seemyself, flat, ridiculous, acut-paper shadow '
Betweentheeyeof thesun and theeyesof thetulips
A nd I .h.aveno face, I have wanted to effacemyself. '
The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.
Befo~ethey cametheair wascalmenough,
Coming and.going, breath by breath, without any fuss.
~hen the t~hps filledit up likealoud noise.
ow the air snags and eddies round them the way ariver
inagsand eddies round asunken rust-red engine.
he~concentrate my attention, that was happy
Playmg and resting without committing itself.
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The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves.
The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals;
They arc opening like the mouth of some great A frican cat,
A nd I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes
I ts bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea,
A nd comes from a country far away as health.
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CUT
'Jor Susan O'Neill Roe
What a thrill-
My thumb instead of an onion.
The top quite gone
Except for a sort of a hinge
Of skin,
A flap like a hat,
Dead white.
Then that red plush .
L ittle pilgrim,
The I ndian's axed your scalp.
Y our turkey wattle
Carpet rolls
Straight from the heart.
I step on it,
Clutching my bottle
Of pink fizz.
A celebration, this is.
Out of a gap
A million soldiers run,
Redcoats, everyone.
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Whose side are they on?
amy
Homunculus, I am ill.
I have taken a pill to kill
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The thin
Papery feeling.
Saboteur,
Kamikaze man--
The stain on your
Gauze Ku Klux Klan
Babushka
Darkens and tarnishes and when
The balled
Pulp of your heart
Confronts itssmall
Mill of silence
How you jump--
Trepanned veteran,
Dirty girl,
Thumb stump.
EL M
'Jor Ruth 'Jainlight
I know the bottom, shesays. I know it with my great tap root:
I t iswhat youfear.
I do not fear it: I havebeenthere.
I sit theseayouhear in me,
I ts dissatisfactions?
Or thevoiceof nothing, that wasyour madness?
L oveisashadow.
How youlieand cry after it.
L isten: theseareits hooves: it hasgoneoff, likeahorse.
A ll night I shall gallop thus, impetuously,
Till your head isastone, your pillow alittleturf,
Echoing, echoing.
Or shall I bring youthesoundof poisons?
This israin now, this bighush.
A nd this is the fruit of it: tin-white, likearsenic.
I havesufferedtheatrocity of sunsets.
Scorchedto theroot
My red filaments burn and stand, ahand of wires.
Now I break up in piecesthat flyabout likeclubs.
A wind of suchviolence
Will tolerateno bystanding: I must shriek.
The moon, also, ismerciless: shewould drag me
Cruelly, being barren.
Her radiance scathesme. Or perhaps I havecaught her.
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I let her go. I let her go
Diminished and flat, asafter radical surgery.
How your bad dreams possessand endow me.
THE NI GHT DA NCES
I aminhabited by acry.
Nightly it flapsout
L ooking, with its hooks, for something to love.
A smilefell in thegrass.
I rretrievable!
A nd how will your night dances
L osethemselves. I n mathematics?
I amterrified by this dark thing
That sleepsin me;
A ll day I feel its soft, feathery turnings; its malignity.
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Such pure leapsand spirals--
Surely they travel
The world forever, I shall not entirely
Sit emptied of beauties, thegift
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Clouds pass and disperse.
A re thosethe facesof love, thosepaleirretrievables?
I sit for such I agitate my heart?
Of your small breath, the drenched grass
Smell of your sleeps, lilies, lilies.
I amincapable of more knowledge.
What isthis, this face
Somurderous in itsstrangle of branches?--
Their fleshbears no relation.
Cold foldsof ego, thecalla,
I ts snaky acidskiss.
I t petrifiesthe will. These aretheisolate, slowfaults
That kill, that kill, that kill.
A nd the tiger, embellishing itself--
Spots, and aspread of hot petals.
The comets
Have suchaspaceto cross,
Such coldness, forgetfulness.
Soyour gestures flakeoff--
Warm and human, then their pink light
Bleeding and peeling
I
Through theblack amnesias of heaven.
Why amI given
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These lamps, theseplanets
Falling likeblessings, likeflakes
Six-sided, white
On my eyes, my lips, my hair
Touching and melting.
Nowhere.
POPPI ES I N OCTOBER
Even the sun-cloudsthis morning cannot manage such skirts.
Nor thewoman in the ambulance
Whose red heart blooms through her coat so astoundingly--
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A gift, alovegift
Utterly unasked for
Bya sky
Palely and flamily
I gniting its carbon monoxides, by eyes
Dulled to ahalt under bowlers.
omy God, what amI
That theselatemouths should cry open
I naforest of frost, in adawn of cornflowers.
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BEReK-PLACE (I I )
This black boot has no mercy for anybody.
Why should it, it isthehearseof adead foot,
(I )
This isthesea, then, this great abeyance.
How thesun's poulticedraws on my inflammation.
The high, dead, toelessfoot of this priest
Who plumbs the well of his book,
Electrifyingly-coloured sherbets, scoopedfromthefreeze
By palegirls, travel theair in scorchedhands.
The bent print bulging beforehimlikescenery.
I
Obscenebikinis hide in the dunes,
Breastsand hips aconfectioner's sugar
Of littlecrystals, titillating the light,
Why isit soquiet, what arethey hiding?
1havetwo legs, and 1movesmilingly.
!
A sandy damper kills thevibrations;
I t stretches for miles, the shrunk voices
I
Whileagreen pool opens itseye,
Sickwith what it has swallowed--
Waving and crutchless, half their old size.
The linesof theeye, scaldedby thesebaldsurfaces,
iL imbs, images, shrieks. Behind theconcretebunkers
- Two lovers unstick themselves.
I
Boomerang likeanchored elastics, hurting theowner.
I sit any wonder heputs ondark glasses?
awhite sea-crockery,
What cupped sighs, what salt in the throat....
I sit any wonder heaffectsablack cassock?
Here hecomesnow, among themackerel gatherers
A nd theonlooker, trembling,
Drawn like a long material
Who wall up their backs against him. ;
They are handling the black and green lozenges like the parts of a I~
body.
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Through astill virulence,
A nd a weed, hairy as privates.
The sea, that crystallized these,
Creeps away, many-snaked, with alonghissof distress.
(I I I )
On.thebalconiesof the hotel, things areglittering.
Thtngs, things--
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Tubular steel wheelchairs, aluminium crutches.
Such salt-sweetness. Why should I walk
Beyond the breakwater, spotty with barnacles?
I amnot anurse, white and attendant,
I amnot asmile.
These children are after something, with hooks and cries,
A nd my heart too small to bandage their terriblefaults.
This isthe sideof aman: his red ribs,
The nerves bursting liketrees, and this isthesurgeon:
One mirrory eye--
A facet of knowledge.
On astriped mattress in oneroom
A n old man is vanishing.
There isno help in his weeping wife.
Where are theeye-stones, yellowand valuable,
A nd the tongue, sapphire of ash.
(I V)
A wedding-eake facein apaper frill.
How superior heisnow.
I t islikepossessingasaint.
The nurses in their wing-caps areno longer sobeautiful;
They arebrowning, liketouched gardenias.
The bed isrolled fromthe wall.
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This iswhat it istobecomplete. I t ishorrible.
I shewearing pajamas or an evening suit
Under theglued sheet fromwhich his powdery beak
Risessowhitely unbuffeted?
They propped hisjaw with abook until it stiffened
A nd foldedhis hands, that wereshaking: goodbye, goodbye.
I
Now the washed sheetsfly in the sun,
The pillowcasesare sweetening.
I I t isablessing, it isablessing:
Ii The longcoffinof soap-eolouredoak,
i.
!The curious bearers and the raw date
Engraving itself in silver with marvellous calm.
I
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Thegrey sky lowers, thehills likeagreen sea
Run foldupon foldfar off, concealingtheir hollows,
- The hollows in which rock the thoughts of the wife--
Blunt, practical boats
I Full of dressesand hats and china and married daughters.
I I ntheparlour of thestonehouse
Onecurtain isflickering fromtheopen window,
Flickering and pouring, apitiful candle.
This is the tongue of the dead man: remember, remember.
How far heisnow, his actions
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A round him like livingroom furniture, like a decor.
A s the pallors gather--
The pallors of hands and neighbourly faces,
The elatepallors of flyingiris.
They areflyingoff into nothing: remember us.
The empty benches of memory look over stones,
Marble facades with blue veins, and jelly-glassfuls of daffodils.
I t is sobeautiful up here: it isastopping place.
(VI )
The natural fatnessof theselimeleaves!--
Pollarded green balls, the treesmarch tochurch.
The voiceof thepriest, in thin air,
Meets the corpseat thegate,
A ddressing it, while thehills roll the notes of thedead bell;
A glitter of wheat and crude earth.
What isthename of that colour?_ _
Old bloodof caked walls thesun heals,
Old bloodof limb stumps, burnt hearts.
The widow with her black pocketbook and threedaughters,
Necessary among the flowers,
Enfolds her facelikefinelinen,
Not to bespread again.
While asky, wormy with put-by smiles,
J
Passescloudafter cloud.
A ndthebride flowersexpend afreshness,
A nd thesoul isabride
In astill place, and the groom is red and forgetful, heis featureless.
(VI I )
Behindtheglassof this car
I
Theworld purrs, shut-off and gentle.
A nd I amdark-suited and still, amember of theparty,
Gliding up in lowgear behind thecart.
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IA ndthepriest isavessel,
A tarredfabric, sorry and dull,
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Followingthecoffinonitsflowery cart likeabeautiful woman,
iA crestof breasts, eyelidsand lips
t Storming the hilltop.
Then, fromthebarred yard, the children
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~ Smell the melt of shoe-blacking,
Their facesturning, wordlessand slow,
• Their eyesopening
On awonderful thing--
Sixround black hats in thegrass and al~ienge of wood,
A ndanaked mouth, red and awkward.
For aminute thesky pours into the holelikeplasma.
Thereisno hope, it isgiven up.
A RI EL
Melts in the wall.
A ndl
A m the arrow,
Stasisin darkness.
Then thesubstancelessblue
Pour of tor and distances.
The dew that flies
Suicidal, at one with thedrive
I nto thered
God's lioness,
How one we grow,
Pivot of heels and knees!- The furrow
I
I
i
J
Eye, the cauldron of morning.
Splits and passes, sister to
The brown arc
Of the neck I cannot catch,
Nigger-eye
Berries cast dark
Hooks--
Black sweet blood mouthfuls,
Shadows.
Something else
Hauls me through air--
Thighs, hair;
Flakes frommy heels.
White
Godiva, I unpeel--
Dead hands, dead stringencies.
r
J
A nd now I
Foamto wheat, aglitter of seas.
The child's cry
L
DEA TH & CO.
Two, of coursethere aretwo.
I t seemsperfectly natural now--
The one who never looks up, whose eyesare lidded
A nd balled, like Blake's,
Who exhibits
The birthmarks that arehis trademark--
The scaldscar of water,
The nude
Verdigris of thecondor.
I amred meat. His beak
Claps sidewise: I amnot his yet.
He tellsme how badly I photograph.
He tellsme how sweet
The babieslook in their hospital
I cebox, asimple
Frill at the neck,
Then the flutings of their I onian
Death-gowns,
Then two little feet.
He doesnot smileor smoke.
The other doesthat,
His hair long and plausive.
Bastard
Masturbating aglitter,
He wants to beloved.
I do not stir.
The frost makes a flower,
The dew makes a star,
The dead bell,
The dead bell.
Somebody's done for.
•
·
I
~
l
i
!
~
•
L ESBOS
Viciousnessin thekitchen!
The potatoes hiss.
I t isall Hollywood, windowless,
The fluorescent light wincing on and off like a terrible migraine
Coy paper strips for doors-- '
Stagecurtains, awidow's frizz.
A nd I , love, amapathological liar
o ,
A nd my child-look at her, facedown on thefloor,
L ittle unstrung puppet, kicking to disappear--
Why sheis schizophrenic,
Her facered and white, apanic,
Y ouhavestuck her kittens outsideyour window
I n asort of cement well
Where they crap and puke and cry and shecan't hear.
Y ou say you can't stand her,
The bastard's agirl.
Y ou who haveblown your tubes likeabad radio
Clear of voicesand history, the staticky
Noiseof the new.
Y ou say I should drown the kittens. Their smell!
Y ousay I should drown my girl.
She'll cut her throat at ten if she'smad at two.
The baby smiles, fat snail,
From the polished lozenges of orange linoleum.
Y oucouldeat him. He's aboy.
Y ou say your husband isjust no good toyou.
His J ew-Mama guards his sweet sexlikeapearl.
Y ouhaveonebaby, I havetwo.
I should sit on arock off Cornwall and comb my hair.
I should wear tiger pants, I should havean affair.
3
0
We should meet in another life, weshould meet in air,
Meand you.
Meanwhile there's astink of fat and baby crap.
I 'mdoped and thick frommy last sleepingpill.
The smogof cooking, the smogof hell
Floatsour heads, two venomous opposites,
Our bones, our hair.
I call youOrphan, orphan. Y ou areill.
The sungivesyou ulcers, the wind givesyouT.B.
Onceyouwerebeautiful.
I nNew Y ork, in Hollywood, themen said: "Through?
Geebaby, you arerare."
Y ouacted, acted, acted for the thrill .
Theimpotent husband slumps out for acoffee.
I try tokeep himin,
A nold polefor the lightning,
Theacidbaths, the skyfuls off of you.
Helumps it down theplastic cobbledhill,
Flogged trolley. The sparks areblue.
The blue sparks spill,
Splitting likequartz into amillion bits.
•• . .
ojewel! 0 valuable!
That night themoon
Dragged its blood bag, sick
A nimal
Up over the harbor lights.
A nd then grew normal,
Hard and apart and white.
The scale-sheenon thesand scaredmeto death.
Wekept picking up handfuls, loving it,
Working it likedough, amulatto body,
3
1
!
L
. The silk grits.
A dogpicked upyour doggy husband. He went on.
Now I amsilent, hate
Up to my neck,
Thick, thick.
I do not speak.
I ampacking thehard potatoes likegood clothes,
I ampacking the babies,
I ampacking thesick cats.
ovaseof acid,
I t isloveyou arefull of. Y ouknow who youhate.
He ishugging hisball and chain down by thegate
That opens to the sea
Where it drives in, white and black,
Then spewsit back.
Every day you fill him with soul-stuff, likeapitcher.
Y ou are soexhausted.
Y our voicemy ear-ring,
Flapping and sucking, blood-lovingbat.
That isthat. That isthat.
Y ou peer from the door,
Sadhag. "Every woman's awhore.
I can't communicate."
!
I
i
•
I seeyour cutedecor
Closeonyou likethefist of ababy
Or an anemone, that sea
Sweetheart, that kleptomaniac.
I amstill raw.
I say I may beback.
Y ouknow what liesarefor.
Even in your Zenheaven weshan't meet.
L
NI CK A ND THE CA NDL ESTI CK
I amaminer. The light burns blue.
Waxy stalactites
Drip and thicken, tears
The earthen womb
Exudes fromits dead boredom.
Black bat airs
Wrap me, raggy shawls,
Cold homicides.
They weld tomelikeplums.
Old caveof calcium
I cicles, old echoer.
Even the newts arewhite,
Those holy [oes,
A nd thefish, thefish--
Christ! They arepanes of ice,
A viceof knives,
A piranha
Religion, drinking
I ts first communion out of my livetoes.
The candle
Gulps and recoversitssmall altitude,
I ts yellows hearten.
olove, how did youget here?
oembryo
33
Remembering, evenin sleep,
Y our crossedposition.
The blood blooms clean
I n you, ruby.
The pain
Y ou wake to isnot yours.
L ove, love,
I havehung our cavewith roses.
With soft rugs-
The last of Victoriana.
L et the stars
Plummet to their dark address,
L et the mercuric
A toms that cripple drip
I nto theterrible well,
Y ou aretheone
Solidthe spacesleanon, envious.
Y ou arethe baby in the barn.
34
L
GUL L I VER
Over your body theclouds go
High, high and icily
A nd alittleflat, asif they
Floated on aglassthat wasinvisible.
Unlike swans,
Having no reflections;
Unlike you,
With no strings attached.
A ll cool, all blue. Unlike you-
Y ou, there on your back,
Eyes to the sky.
The spider-men have caught you,
Winding and twining their petty fetters,
Their bribes-
Somany silks.
How they hate you.
They converse in the valley of your fingers, they are inchworms.
They would haveyou sleepin their cabinets,
This toeand that toe, arelic.
Stepoffl
Stepoff sevenleagues, likethosedistances
That revolvein Crivelli, untouchable.
L et this eyebean eagle,
The shadow of this lip, an abyss.
35
GETTI NG THERE
How far isit?
How far is it now?
The gigantic gorilla interiors
Of the wheels move, they appal me--
The terrible brains
Of Krupp, black muzzles
Revolving, the sound
Punching out A bsence! likecannon.
I t isRussiaI havetoget across, it issomewar or other.
I amdragging my body
Quietly through the straw of theboxcars.
Now is the time for bribery.
What do wheelseat, thesewheels
Fixed totheir arcslikegods,
The silver leashof the will--
I nexorable. A nd their pride!
A ll thegods know is destinations.
I amaletter in this slot--
I fly to aname, two eyes.
Will there befire, will there bebread?
Here there is such mud.
I t isatrainstop, thenurses
Undergoing thefaucet water, itsveils, veilsin anunnery,
Touching their wounded,
The men theblood still pumps forward,
L egs, arms piled outside
The tent of unending cries--
A hospital of dolls.
A nd themen, what isleft of themen
Pumped ahead by thesepistons, thisblood
I nto the next mile,
The next hour--
Dynasty of broken arrows!
How far is it?
There ismud on my feet,
Thick, red and slipping. I t isA dam's side,
This earth I risefrom, and I in agony.
I cannot undo myself, and thetrain issteaming.
Steaming and breathing, its teeth
Ready to roll, likeadevil's.
There isaminute at theend of it
A minute, a dewdrop.
How far is it?
I t issosmall
The placeI amgetting to, why aretheretheseobstacles--
The body of this woman,
Charred skirts and deathmask
Mourned by religious figures, by garlanded children.
A nd now detonations--
Thunder and guns.
The fire'sbetween us.
I sthere no still place
Turning and turning in the middle air,
Untouched and untouchable.
The train isdragging itself, it isscreaming--
A n animal
I nsanefor thedestination,
The bloodspot,
The faceat theend of theflare.
I shall bury the wounded like pupas,
I shall count and bury thedead.
L et their soulswrithe in adew,
I ncensein my track.
The carriages rock, they arecradles.
,
37
A nd I, stepping fromthis skin
Of old bandages, boredoms, oldfaces
Step toyou fromtheblack car of L ethe,
Pure asababy.
•
1
••
~:
I
f
L
MEDUSA
Off that landspit of stony mouth-plugs,
Eyesrolled by white sticks,
Ears cupping the sea'sincoherences,
Y ouhouseyour unnerving head-God-ball,
L ens of mercies,
Y our stooges
Plying their wild cellsin my keel's shadow,
Pushing by like hearts,
Red stigmata at thevery centre,
Riding therip tideto thenearest point of departure,
Dragging their J esushair.
Did I escape, I wonder?
My mind winds to you
Old barnacled umbilicus, A tlantic cable,
Keeping itself, it seems, in a stateof miraculous repair.
I n any case, you arealwaysthere,
Tremulous breath at theend of my line,
Curve of water upleaping
To my water rod, dazzling and grateful,
Touching and sucking.
I didn't call you.
I didn't call youat all.
Nevertheless, nevertheless
Y ou steamedto meover the sea,
Fat and red, aplacenta
39
Paralyzing the kicking lovers.
Cobra light
Squeezing thebreath fromthebloodbells
Of thefuchsia. I coulddraw no breath,
Dead and moneyless,
THE MOON A ND THE Y EW TREE
This isthe light of themind, coldand planetary.
Thetreesof themind areblack. The light isblue.
Thegrassesunload their griefs on my feet asif I were God,
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility.
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place
Separated frommy houseby arowof headstones.
I simply cannot seewhere there istoget to.
Overexposed, likean X-ray.
Who do you think you are?
A Communion wafer? Blubbery Mary?
I shall takeno biteof your body,
Bottlein which I live,
The moon isno door. I t isafacein itsown right,
White asaknuckle and terribly upset.
I t drags theseaafter it likeadark crime; it isquiet
With theO-gapeof completedespair. I livehere.
Twiceon Sunday, thebells startlethe sky--
Eight great tongues affirming theResurrection.
A t theend, they soberly bong out their names.
Ghastly Vatican.
I amsicktodeath of hot salt.
Green aseunuchs, your wishes
Hiss at my sins.
Off, off, eely tentacle!
There isnothing between us.
The yewtreepoints up. I t has aGothic shape.
The eyeslift after it and find themoon.
The moon ismy mother. Sheisnot sweet likeMary.
Her bluegarments unloosesmall bats and owls.
How I would liketobelievein tenderness--
The faceof theeffigy,gentled by candles,
Bending, on mein particular, itsmild eyes.
I havefallen along way. Clouds areflowering
Blueand mystical over thefaceof thestars.
I nsidethe church, the saints will beall blue,
Floating on their delicatefeet over thecoldpews,
Their hands and facesstiff with holiness.
The moon seesnothing of this. Sheisbald and wild.
A nd the messageof the yewtreeisblackness-blackness and silence.
L
A BI RTHDA Y PRESENT
What isthis, behind this veil, isit ugly, isit beautiful?
I t isshimmering, has it breasts, has it edges?
I amsureit isunique, I amsureit isjust what I want.
When I am quiet at my cooking I feel it looking, I feel it thinking
"I s this theone I amtoappear for,
I s this the elect one, the one with black eye-pitsand ascar?
Measuring theflour, cutting off the surplus,
A dhering torules, torules, torules.
••
I sthis theonefor theannunciation?
My god, what alaugh!"
I
!
But it shimmers, it doesnot stop, and I think it wants me.
I would not mind if it was bones, or apearl button.
I do not want much of apresent, anyway, this year.
A fter all I amaliveonly by accident.
I would havekilled myself gladly that timeany possibleway.
Now there aretheseveils, shimmering likecurtains,
The diaphanous satinsof aJ anuary window
White as babies' bedding and glittering with dead breath. 0 ivory!
I t must beatusk there, aghost-column.
Can you not seeI do not mind what it is?
Can you not giveit to me?
Do not beashamed-I do not mind if it issmall.
Donot bemean, I amready fo~enor~ity. ..
L et us sit down to it, oneon either side, admiring the gleam,
The glaze, themirrory variety of it.
L et useat our last supper at it, likeahospital plate.
I know why you will not giveit tome,
Y ouareterrified
The world will go up in ashriek, and your head with it,
Bossed,brazen, an antique shield,
A marvel toyour great-grandchildren.
Do not beafraid, it isnot so.
I will only takeit and goasidequietly.
Y ouwill not evenhear meopening it, no paper crackle,
No falling ribbons, no screamat theend.
I donot think youcredit mewith this discretion.
I f you only knew how the veils were killing my days.
To youthey areonly transparencies, clear air.
•
But my god, theclouds arelikecotton.
A rmies of them. They arecarbon monoxide.
Sweetly, sweetly I breathe in,
Filling my veins with invisibles, with themillion
Probablemotes that tick the yearsoff my life.
Y ouaresilver-suitedfor theoccasion. 0 adding machine-
I sit impossiblefor youto let something go and haveit go whole?
Must you stamp eachpiecein purple,
43
,
L
Must youkill what youcan?
There is this onething I want today, and only youcangiveit tome.
I t stands at my window, big asthe sky.
I t breathes frommy sheets, thecolddeadcentre
Where spilt livescongeal and stiffento history.
L et it not comeby themail, finger by finger.
L et it not comeby word of mouth, I should besixty
By the time the whole of it was delivered, and too numb to useit.
Only let down theveil, theveil, theveil.
I f it weredeath
•
I would admire thedeepgravity of it, itstimelesseyes.
I would know you wereserious.
There would beanobility then, there would beabirthday.
A nd theknife not carve, but enter
Pure and cleanasthecry of ababy,
A nd theuniverseslidefrommy side.
I
I j
I
i
44
1
4
i
I
L
MA RY 'S SONG
The Sunday lamb cracksin itsfat.
The fat
Sacrificesitsopacity. . . .
A window, holy gold.
The firemakes it precious,
The samefire
Melting the tallow heretics,
Ousting the J ews.
Their thick palls float
Over thecicatrixof Poland, burnt-out
Germany.
They do not die.
Grey birds obsessmy heart,
Mouth-ash, ashof eye.
They settle. On the high
Precipice
That emptied oneman into space
The ovens glowed like heavens, incandescent.
I t isaheart,
This holocaust I walk in,
ogolden child the world will kill and eat.
45
LETTER IN NOVEMBER
L ove, the world
Suddenly turns, turns colour. The streetlight
Splits through the rat's-tail
Pods of the laburnum at nine in themorning.
I t is the A rctic,
This littleblack
Circle, with its tawn silk grasses-babies' hair.
There isagreen in theair,
Soft, delectable.
I t cushions melovingly.
I amflushed and warm.
I think I may beenormous,
I amsostupidly happy,
My Wellingtons
Squelching and squelching through thebeautiful red.
This ismy property.
Two times aday
I paceit, sniffing
The barbarous holly with itsviridian
Scallops, pure iron,
A nd the wall of old corpses.
I lovethem.
I lovethem likehistory.
The apples aregolden,
I magine it--
My seventy trees
Holding their gold-ruddy balls
4
6
L
I n athick grey death-soup,
Their million
Gold leavesmetal and breathless.
olove, 0 celibate.
Nobody but me
Walks the waist-high wet.
The irreplaceable
Golds bleed and deepen, the mouths of Thermopylae.
47
THE RI VA L
I f themoon smiled, shewould resembleyou.
Y ou leavethe sameimpression
Of something beautiful, but annihilating.
Bothof youaregreat light borrowers.
Her a-mouth grieves at the world; yours is unaffected,
A nd your first gift ismaking stoneout of everything.
I waketoamausoleum; youarehere,
Ticking your fingers on the marble table, looking for cigarettes,
Spiteful asawoman, but not sonervous,
A nd dying to say something unanswerable.
The moon, too, abasesher subjects,
But in the daytime sheisridiculous.
Y our dissatisfactions, on theother hand,
A rrive through the mailslot with loving regularity,
White and blank, expansiveascarbon monoxide.
No day issafefromnews of you,
Walking about in A frica maybe, but thinking of me.
DA DDY
Y oudo not do, youdo not do
A ny more, black shoe
I n which I havelivedlikeafoot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or A choo.
Daddy, I havehad to kill you.
Y ou diedbeforeI had time--
Marble-heavy, abag full of God,
Ghastly statue with onegrey toe
BigasaFrisco seal
A nd ahead in thefreakish A tlantic
Where it pours beangreen over blue
I n the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
A ch, duo
I n the German tongue, in thePolish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But thename of thetown iscommon.
My Polack friend
Saysthere areadozen or two.
SoI never couldtell whereyou
Put your foot, your root,
I never couldtalk toyou.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.
I t stuck in abarb wiresnare.
I ch, ich, ich, ich,
49
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
A nd the language obscene
A n engine, an engine
Chuffingmeoff likeaJ ew.
A J ew to Dachau, A uschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk likeaJ ew.
I think I may well beaJ ew.
The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
A re not very pure or true.
With my gypsy ancestressand my weird luck
A nd my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may beabit of aJ ew.
I havealways beenscaredof you,
With your L uftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
A nd your neat moustache
A nd your A ryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, 0 You--
I
Not God but aswastika
Soblack no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores aFascist,
The boot in theface, thebrute
Brute heart of abrute likeyou.
Y ou stand at the blackboard, daddy,
I n thepicture I haveof you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no lessadevil for that, nonot
A ny lesstheblack man who
5°
Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I wasten when they buried you.
A t twenty I tried to die
A nd get back, back, back toyou.
I thought eventhebones would do.
But they pulled meout of thesack,
A nd they stuck me together with glue.
A nd then I knew what todo.
I made amodel of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look
I
-I
A nd aloveof the rack and the screw.
A nd I saidI do, I do.
So daddy, I 'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voicesjust can't wormthrough.
I f I 've killed one man, I 've killed two-
The vampire who saidhewasyou
A nd drank my blood for ayear,
Sevenyears, if you want toknow.
Daddy, youcanlieback now.
There's astakein your fat black heart
A nd thevillagers never liked you.
They aredancing and stamping onyou.
They always knew it wasyou.
Daddy, daddy, youbastard, I 'mthrough.
Y OU'RE
Clownlike, happiest on your hands,
Feet to thestars, and moon-skulled
,
Gilled likeafish. A common-sense
Thumbs-down on the dodo's mode.
Wrapped up in yourself likeaspool,
Trawling your dark asowls do.
Mute asaturnip fromtheFourth
Of J uly to A ll Fools' Day,
ohigh-riser, my littleloaf.
Vague asfogand looked for likemail.
Farther off than A ustralia.
Bent-backed A tlas, our travelled prawn.
Snug asabud and at home
L ike asprat in apicklejug.
A creel of eels, all ripples.
J umpy asaMexican bean.
Right, likeawell-donesum.
A cleanslate, with your own faceon.
FEVER 103
0
Pure? What doesit mean?
The tongues of hell
A re dull, dull asthe triple
Tongues of dull, fat Cerberus
Who wheezes at the gate. I ncapable
Of licking clean
The aguey tendon, the sin, the sin.
The tinder cries.
The indelible smell
Of asnuffed candle!
L ove, love, the low smokesroll
From melikeI sadora's scarves, I 'min afright
One scarf will catch and anchor in the wheel.
Such yellow sullen smokes
Make their own element. They will not rise,
But trundle round the globe
Choking the aged and themeek,
The weak
Hothouse baby in its crib,
The ghastly orchid
Hanging itshanging garden in the air,
Devilish leopardl
Radiation turned it white
A nd killed it in an hour.
53
Greasing the bodiesof adulterers
L ike Hiroshima ashand eating in.
The sin. The sin.
Darling, all night
I havebeenflickering, off, on, off, on.
The sheetsgrow heavy asalecher's kiss.
Three days. Three nights.
L emon water, chicken
Water, water make meretch.
I amtoo pure for youor anyone.
Y our body
Hurts me as the world hurts God. I am a lantern--
•
My head amoon
Of J apanesepaper, my gold beaten skin
I nfinitely delicate and infinitely expensive.
Does not my heat astound you. A nd my light.
A ll by myself I amahuge camellia
Glowing and coming and going, flushonflush.
I think I amgoing up,
I think I may rise--
The beadsof hot metal fly, and I,love, I
A m apure acetylene
Virgin
A ttended by roses,
By kisses, by cherubim,
By whatever thesepink things mean.
54
Not you, nor him
Not him, nor him
(My selvesdissolving, old whorepetticoats)--
To Paradise.
55
THE BEE MEETI NG
Who are these people at the bridge to meet me? They are the
villagers--
The rector, themidwife, thesexton, theagent for bees.
I n my sleevelesssummery dressI haveno protection,
A nd they areall glovedand covered, why did nobody tell me?
They are smiling and taking out veilstacked to ancient hats.
I amnude asachicken neck, doesnobody loveme?
Y es, hereisthesecretary of beeswith her white shopsmock,
Buttoning the cuffs at my wrists and the slit from my neck to my
knees.
Now I ammilkweed silk, thebeeswill not notice.
They will not smell my fear, my fear, my fear.
Which istherector now, isit that man in black?
Which is themidwife, isthat her bluecoat?
Everybody is nodding a square black head, they are knights in
visors,
Breastplates of cheeseclothknotted under the armpits.
Their smilesand their voicesarechanging. I amled through abean-
field.
Strips of tinfoil winking likepeople,
Feather dusters fanning their hands in aseaof bean flowers
,
Creamy beanflowerswith black eyesand leaveslikebored hearts.
I sit bloodclotsthetendrils aredragging up that string?
No, no, it isscarlet flowersthat will oneday beedible.
Now they aregiving meafashionable white straw I talian hat
A nd a black veil that moulds to my face, they are making me one
of them.
They areleading meto theshorn grove, thecircleof hives.
I sit thehawthorn that smellssosick?
Thebarren body of hawthorn, etherizing itschildren.
I sit someoperation that istaking place?
I t isthe surgeon my neighbours arewaiting for,
This apparition in agreen helmet,
Shining glovesand white suit.
I sit thebutcher, thegrocer, thepostman, someoneI know?
I cannot run, I amrooted, and thegorsehurts me
With its yellowpurses, its spiky armoury.
I couldnot run without having torun forever.
The white hiveissnug asavirgin,
Sealingoff her brood cells, her honey, and quietly humming.
Smokerollsand scarvesin thegrove.
The mind of thehivethinks this istheend of everything.
Here they come, theoutriders, on their hysterical elastics.
I f I stand very still, they will think I amcowparsley,
A gullible head untouched by their animosity,
Not evennodding, apersonage in ahedgerow.
The villagers open the chambers, they arehunting thequeen.
I sshehiding, issheeating honey? Sheisvery clever.
Sheisold, old, old, shemust liveanother year, and sheknows it.
While in their fingerjoint cellsthe new virgins
Dream of aduel they will win inevitably,
A curtain of waxdividing themfromthebride flight,
The upflight of themurderess into aheaven that lovesher.
The villagers aremoving thevirgins, there will beno killing.
The old queen doesnot showherself, isshesoungrateful?
57
I amexhausted, I amexhausted--
Pillar of whitein ablackout of knives.
I amthe magician's girl who doesnot Hinch.
The villagersareuntying their disguises, they areshaking hands.
Whose is that long white boxin the grove, what have they accom,
plished, why amI cold?
58
THE A RRI VA L OF THE BEE BOX
I ordered this, this cleanwoodbox
Squareasachair and almost tooheavy to lift.
I would say it was the coffinof amidget
Or asquare baby
Werethere not suchadin in it.
The boxislocked, it isdangerous.
I haveto livewith it overnight
A nd I can't keep away fromite ,
There areno windows, soI can't seewhat isin there.
There isonly alittlegrid, no exit.
I put my eyeto thegrid.
I t isdark, dark,
With the swarmy feeling of A frican hands
Minute and shrunk for export,
Black on black, angrily clambering..
How canI let themout?
I t isthenoisethat appals memost of all,
The unintelligible syllables.
I t islikeaRoman mob,
Small, taken oneby one, but my god, together!
I lay my ear to furious L atin.
I amnot aCaesar.
I havesimply ordered aboxof maniacs.
They canbesent back.
They can die, I need feed them nothing, I amthe owner.
I wonder how hungry they are.
59
I wonder if they would forget me
I f I just undid the locks and stood back and turned into atree.
There isthelaburnum, itsblond colonnades,
A nd thepetticoats of thecherry.
They might ignore me immediately
I n my moon suit and funeral veil.
I amno sourceof honey
Sowhy should they turn on me?
Tomorrow I will besweet God, I will set themfree.
The boxisonly temporary.
60
STI NGS
Bare-handed, I hand thecombs.
The man in white smiles, bare-handed,
Our cheeseclothgauntlets neat and sweet,
The throats of our wrists bravelilies.
He and I
Have athousand clean cellsbetween us,
Eight combsof yellowcups,
A nd thehiveitself ateacup,
White with pink flowerson it,
With excessiveloveI enamelled it
Thinking "Sweetness, sweetness."
Brood cellsgrey as thefossilsof shells
Terrify me, they seemsoold.
What amI buying, wormy mahogany?
I sthere any queen at all in it?
I f thereis, sheisold,
Her wings torn shawls, her long body
Rubbed of its plush-
Poor and bareand unqueenly and evenshameful.
I stand in acolumn
Of winged, unmiraculous women,
Honey-drudgers.
I amno drudge
Though for yearsI haveeaten dust
A nd dried plates with my densehair.
A nd seenmy strangeness evaporate,
61
Bluedew from dangerous skin.
Will they hate me,
These women who only scurry,
Whose news isthe open cherry, theopen clover?
I t is almost over.
I amin control.
Here ismy honey-machine,
I t will work without thinking,
Opening, in spring, like an industrious virgin
To scour the creaming crests
A s the moon, for its ivory powders, scours the sea.
A third person iswatching.
He has nothing to do with the bee-selleror with me.
Now he is gone
I n eight great bounds, agreat scapegoat.
Here ishis slipper, here isanother,
A nd herethe square of whitelinen
He woreinstead of ahat.
He was sweet,
The sweat of his effortsarain
Tugging the world to fruit.
The beesfound himout,
Moulding onto hislips likelies,
Complicating his features.
They thought death was worth it, but I
Have aself to recover, aqueen.
I sshedead, isshesleeping?
Where has shebeen,
With her lion-redbody, her wings of glass?
62
Now sheisflying
Moreterriblethan sheever was, red
Scar in the sky, red comet
Over the engine that killed her--
The mausoleum, the wax house.
THE SWARM
Somebody is shooting at something in our town--
A dull porn, pornin the Sunday street.
J ealousy can open the blood,
I t can make black roses.
Who arethey shooting at?
I t isyou theknives areout for
A t Waterloo, Waterloo, Napoleon,
The hump of Elbaon your short back,
A nd the snow, marshalling itsbrilliant cutlery
Mass after mass, saying Shh!
I
I' ~. Shh! These arechesspeopleyouplay with,
Still figures of ivory.
The mud squirms with throats,
Stepping stonesfor French bootsoles.
The gilt and pink domes of Russiamelt and floatoff
I n the furnace of greed. Clouds, clouds.
Sotheswarmballsand deserts
Seventy feet up, in ablack pine tree.
I t must beshot down. Porn! Porn!
Sodumb it thinks bullets arethunder.
I t thinks they arethe voiceof God
Condoning the beak, the claw, the grin of the dog
Y ellow-haunched, apack-dog,
Grinning over its boneof ivory
L ike thepack, the pack, likeeverybody.
The beeshavegot sofar. Seventy feet high!
64
Russia, Poland and Germany!
The mild hills, the sameold magenta
Fields shrunk to apenny
Spun into ariver, theriver crossed.
The beesargue, in their black ball,
A flyinghedgehog, all prickles.
The man with grey hands stands under thehoneycomb
Of their dream, the hived station
Where trains, faithful totheir steel arcs,
L eaveand arrive, and thereisno end tothecountry.
Porn! Porn! They fall
Dismembered, to atod of ivy.
So much for the charioteers, the outriders, the Grand A rmy!
A red tatter, Napoleon!
The last badge of victory.
The swarm is knocked into acocked straw hat.
Elba, Elba, bleb on the sea!
The white busts of marshals, admirals, generals
Worming themselves into niches.
How instructive this is!
The dumb, banded bodies
Walking the plank draped with Mother France's upholstery
I nto anew mausoleum,
A n ivory palace, acrotchpine.
The man with grey hands smiles--
The smileof aman of business, intensely practical.
They arenot hands at all
But asbestosreceptacles.
Porn! Porn! "They would havekilled me."
65
Stings big as drawing pins!
I t seemsbeeshaveanotion of honour,
A black, intractable mind.
Napoleon ispleased, heispleased with everything.
oEurope! 0 ton of honey'
WI NTERI NG
This isthe easy time, there isnothing doing.
I havewhirled the midwife's extractor,
I have my honey,
Sixjars of it,
Sixeat'seyesin the wine cellar,
I
I
I 'lro
I
I
,
Wintering in adark without window
A t theheart of thehouse
Next to thelast tenant's rancid jam
A nd the bottles of empty glitters--
Sir So-and-so'sgin.
This istheroomI havenever beenin.
This istheroomI couldnever breathe in.
The black bunched in there likeabat,
No light
But the torch and itsfaint
Chinese yellowon appalling objects--
Black asininity. Decay.
Possession.
I t isthey who own me.
Neither cruel nor indifferent,
Only ignorant.
This is the time of hanging on for the bees-the bees
SoslowI hardly know them,
Filing like soldiers
To the syruptin
66
To make up for thehoney I 'vetaken.
67
Tate and L ylekeeps themgoing,
The refined snow.
I t isTate and L ylethey liveon, insteadof Bowers.
They takeit. The coldsetsin.
THE HANGING MAN
Now they ball in amass,
Black
Mind against all that white.
The smileof thesnow iswhite.
I t spreads itself out, amile-long body of Meissen,
By therootsof my hair somegodgot hold of me.
I sizzled in hisbluevoltslikeadesert prophet.
The nights snapped out of sight like a lizard's eyelid:
A world of bald white daysin ashadelesssocket.
I
L
I
I
I nto which, on warm days,
They canonly carry their dead.
The beesare all women,
Maids and thelong royal lady.
They havegot rid of themen,
A vulturous boredompinned mein this tree.
I f hewereI , hewould do what I did.
The blunt, clumsy stumblers, theboors.
Winter is for women--
The woman, still at her knitting,
A t the cradleof Spanish walnut,
Her body abulb in thecoldand toodumb tothink.
Will thehivesurvive, will thegladiolas
Succeedin banking their fires
To enter another year?
What will they tasteof, the Christmas roses?
The beesareflying. They tastethespring.
68
1
LITTLE FUGUE
Gothic and barbarous, pure German.
Dead men cry from it.
I amguilty of nothing.
i;
The yew's black fingers wag;
Cold clouds go over.
So the deaf and dumb
Signal theblind, and areignored.
The yewmy Christ, then.
I sit not astortured?
A nd you, during theGreat War
I n the California delicatessen
I likeblack statements.
The featurelessnessof that cloud, now!
White as an eyeall over!
The eyeof the blind pianist
L opping the sausages!
They colour my sleep,
Red, mottled, likecut necks.
There wasasilence!
A t my tableon the ship.
He felt for his food.
His fingers had thenosesof weasels.
I couldn't stoplooking.
Great silenceof another order.
I was seven, I knew nothing.
The world occurred.
Y ouhad oneleg, and aPrussian mind.
He could hear Beethoven:
Black yew, white cloud,
The horrific complications.
Finger-traps-a tumult of keys.
Now similar clouds
A re spreading their vacuous sheets.
Do you say nothing?
I amlame in the memory.
Empty and silly as plates,
Sothe blind smile.
I envy the big noises,
The yewhedge of the GrosseFuge,
I remember ablueeye,
A briefcaseof tangerines.
This was aman, then!
Death opened, likeablack tree, blackly.
Deafness is something else.
Such adark funnel, my father I
I seeyour voice
Black and leafy, asin my childhood,
I survivethe while,
A rranging my morning.
These aremy fingers, this my baby.
The clouds are amarriage dress, of that pallor.
A yewhedgeof orders,
7
0
7
1
Y EA RS
They enter asanimals fromtheouter
Spaceof holly where spikes
A re not the thoughts I turn on, likeaY ogi,
But greenness, darkness sopure
They freezeand are.
oGod, I amnot likeyou
I n your vacuous black,
Stars stuck all over, bright stupid confetti.
Eternity boresme,
I never wanted it.
What I loveis
The piston in motion--
My soul diesbeforeit.
A nd thehoovesof thehorses,
Their merciless churn.
A nd you, great Stasis--
What issogreat in that!
I sit atiger this year, this roar at thedoor?
I s it aChristus,
The awful
God-bit in him
Dying to fly and bedonewith it?
The blood berries are themselves, they are very still.
The hooveswill not haveit,
I n bluedistancethepistons hiss.
THE MUNI CH MA NNEQUI NS
Perfection isterrible, it cannot havechildren.
Cold assnowbreath, it tamps thewomb
Where theyewtrees blowlikehydras,
The treeof lifeand thetreeof life
Unloosing their moons, month after month, to no purpose.
The bloodfloodisthe floodof love,
The absolute sacrifice.
I t means: no more idolsbut me,
Me and you.
So, in their sulphur loveliness, in their smiles
These mannequins lean tonight
I n Munich, morgue between Paris and Rome,
Naked and bald in their furs,
Orange lollieson silver sticks,
I ntolerable, without mind.
The snowdrops its piecesof darkness,
Nobody's about. I n the hotels
Hands will beopening doors and setting
Down shoesfor apolishof carbon
I nto which broad toeswill go tomorrow.
othe domesticity of thesewindows,
The baby lace, the green-leaved confectionery,
73
The thick Germans slumbering in their bottomless Stolz.
A nd the black phones on hooks
TOTEM
Glittering
Glittering and digesting
The engine iskilling thetrack, thetrack issilver,
I t stretches into thedistance. I t will beeaten nevertheless.
Voicelessness.The snowhas no voice.
I ts running isuseless.
A t nightfall thereisthebeauty of drowned fields,
Dawn gilds the farmers likepigs,
Swaying slightly in their thick suits,
White towers of Smithfield ahead,
Fat haunches and bloodon their minds.
There isno mercy in theglitter of cleavers,
The butcher's guillotine that whispers: "How's this, how's this?"
I n thebowl thehare isaborted,
I tsbaby headout of the way, embalmed in spice,
Flayed of fur and humanity.
L et useat it likePlato's afterbirth,
I!t
. ~.
t
L et us eat it likeChrist.
These arethe peoplethat wereimportant--
Their round eyes, their teeth, their grimaces
On astick that rattles and clicks, acounterfeit snake.
Shall the hood of thecobraappal me--
The lonelinessof itseye, theeyeof themountains
Through which the sky eternally threads itself?
The world isblood-hot and personal
74
75
Dawn says, with its blood-flush.
There isno terminus, only suitcases
Out of which thesameself unfolds likeasuit
Baldand shiny, with pockets of wishes,
Notions and tickets, short circuits and folding mirrors.
I ammad, callsthe spider, waving itsmany arms.
A nd in truth it isterrible,
Multiplied in theeyesof theflies.
They buzz like blue children
I n netsof theinfinite,
Roped in at theend by theone
Death with its many sticks.
~I
,,'
~~ :
PA RA L Y TI C
I t happens. Will it go on?--
My mind a rock,
No fingers togrip, no tongue,
My god the iron lung
That lovesme, pumps
My two
Dust bagsin and out,
Will not
L et merelapse
While theday outsideglides by liketicker tape.
The night brings violets,
Tapestries of eyes,
L ights,
The soft anonymous
Talkers: "Y ou all right?"
The starched, inaccessiblebreast.
Dead egg, I lie
Whole
On awholeworld I cannot touch,
A t the white, tight
Drum of my sleepingcouch
Photographs visit me--
My wife, dead and flat, in 1920furs,
Mouth full of pearls,
Two girls
A s flat as she, who whisper "We're your daughters."
77
The still waters
Wrap my lips,
Eyes, noseand ears,
A clear
Cellophane I cannot crack.
On my bareback
II
I smile, abuddha, all
Wants, desire
Falling fromme likerings
Hugging their lights.
The claw
Of themagnolia,
Drunk on itsown scents,
A sks nothing of life.
U Ki
BALLOONS
SinceChristmas they havelived with us,
Guileless and clear,
Oval soul-animals,
Taking up half the space,
Moving and rubbing on the silk
I nvisibleair drifts,
Giving ashriek and pop
When attacked, then scooting to rest, barely trembling.
Y ellow cathead, blue fish--
Such queer moons welivewith
I nstead of dead furniture!
Straw mats, white walls
A nd thesetravelling
Globesof thin air, red, green,
Delighting
The heart likewishesor free
Peacocksblessing
Old ground with afeather
Beaten in starry metals.
Y our small
Brother ismaking
His balloon squeak likeacat.
Seeming to see
A funny pink world hemight eat on the other sideof it,
He bites,
79
Then sits
Back, fat jug
Contemplating aworld clear aswater,
A red
Shred in his littlefist.
POPPI ES I N jut,Y
L ittle poppies, littlehell flames,
Do you do no harm?
Y ouflicker. I cannot touch you.
I put my hands among theflames.Nothing burns.
A nd it exhausts meto watch you
Flickering like that, wrinkly and clear red, likethe skin of amouth.
A mouth just bloodied.
L ittle bloody skirts!
There arefumes that I cannot touch.
Where areyour opiates, your nauseous capsules?
I f I could bleed, or sleep!--
I f my mouth couldmarry ahurt likethat!
Or your liquors seepto me, in thisglasscapsule,
Dulling and stilling.
But colourless. Colourless.
80
81
KI NDNESS
Kindness glides about my house.
Dame Kindness, sheissonice!
The blueand redjewelsof her rings smoke
I n the windows, the mirrors
A re filling with smiles.
What issoreal asthecry of achild?
A rabbit's cry may bewilder
But it has no soul.
Sugar cancureeverything, soKindness says.
Sugar is anecessary fluid,
I ts crystalsalittlepoultice.
okindness, kindness
Sweetly picking up pieces!
My J apanesesilks, desperatebutterflies,
May bepinned any minute, anaesthetized.
A nd hereyoucome, with acup of tea
Wreathed in steam.
The bloodjet ispoetry,
There isno stopping it.
Y ou hand metwo children, two roses.
CONTUSI ON
Colour floods to the spot, dull purple.
The rest of the body is all washed out,
The colour of pearl.
I n apit of rock
The seasucks obsessively,
One hollow the whole sea'spivot.
The sizeof afly,
The doommark
Crawls down thewall.
The heart shuts,
The seaslidesback,
The mirrors are sheeted.
EDGE
The woman isperfected.
Her dead
Body wears thesmileof accomplishment,
The illusion of aGreek necessity
1'-'
j- Flows in thescrollsof her toga,
Her bare
Feet seemtobesaying:
We havecomesofar, it isover.
Each dead child coiled, awhite serpent,
One at eachlittle
Pitcher of milk, now empty.
Shehasfolded
Them back into her body aspetals
Of aroseclosewhen thegarden
Stiffens and odours bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.
The moon has nothing tobesadabout,
Staring fromher hood of bone.
Sheisusedtothis sort of thing.
Her blacks crackleand drag.
WORDS
A xes
A fter whosestrokethewoodrings,
A nd theechoes!
Echoes travelling
Off fromthe centrelikehorses.
The sap
Wells liketears, likethe
Water striving
To re-establishits mirror
Over the rock
That drops and turns,
A white skull,
Eaten by weedy greens.
Y ears later I
Encounter themon the road--
Words dry and riderless,
The indefatigable hoof-taps.
While
From the bottom of the pool, fixed stars
Govern alife.