And old men write their grandsons: ‘We’re dying of hunger! Help us!’ 220
The anguished scrivener, deep in the cisterns of his heart,
harvests the wormwood, hoards these poisons drop by drop:
‘Each soul has its own pain, dear brothers, but I have all!’
Masters, my heart has emptied, all my song spills out,
only the last most bitter drop sticks to my lips: 225
I saw a blind bard singing, crouched on the damp ground;
he stretched his bony hands, but all passed by in haste,
and once again he drew his hungry hands back, empty.”
He spoke, drew back his empty hands, and softly sighed,
till gluttonous Kentaur ached for him and stooped to fill 230
the hands of the blind bard with food, but his dark master
seized him by his strong arms and thrust them back again:
“Here where we’ve anchored, comrades, is earth’s stricken voice;
it suffers, wails, and shouts to God; not a soul hears it
Don’t stuff its mouth—for shame!—with only a piece of meat! 235
The more I roam this earth and spread my claws, the more
I feel that the herald of my hunting god is Hunger.
Forward! It’s time to cut the rivers current, brothers,
for I divine before us much of God, much more of Hunger!”
The oars spread wings and the prow leapt, God opened wide 240
his bottomless mouth, thick, filled with mud, and sucked them in;
all day they bucked the current till their eyes were filled
with hot sun, birds, date trees, and gray mud-nourished towns,
and all that day dragged with it they walled up with joy
till in the noisy hush the piper clapped his hands: 245
“Oho! We’ve left poor Diktena asleep on shore!”
Then the four-storied ballast of the ship bawled out:
“Both earth and woman need the plow and want no rest;
we’d set our minds elsewhere, and our musk-girl was bored
to gaze on this lust-itching crew yet touch no man!” 250
The friends guffawed and teased their master with sly looks,
but the archer only shrugged his shoulders and licked his lips:
“I’ve placed her on the knees of the plump harbor-goddess
to sit on the stone phalli where all ships are tied
and watch the waves for merchants, with their money belts 255
filled full of sacred gold, and with their heavy coffers,
that she might open her white thighs for them to moor,
for isn’t her beauty worth that yellow gold, my friends?”
He spoke, then roughly scratched his itching beard crosswise.
At that same hour by the swift-foaming harbors bay 260
the young grass widow sat on rocks and watched the waves:
“I like these waters well, there’s many a merchantman
borne by these ships, and many a downy lad for me;
God’s cast me on a wealthy strand, blessed be his name!”
Thus spoke the lust-excited maid, waiting for men; 265
and as the naked mountains wait, deep in warm darkness,
for the great castle to be sacked, their peaks to blaze
so that the flaming news might spread from mount to mount,
so did her two white thighs wait now in azure shadow.
When the wind fell and the tall mizzenmast went slack, 270
the comrades pulled their oars and plowed against the stream;
the river stretched on the mud banks, a guileless grandsire
on whom the people, his unnumbered grandsons, swarmed.
Nude men bent down with leathern buckets and drew water
to irrigate the scrubby grain, dry and dust-beaten, 275
and others browsed their horses on the broad-thighed earth,
A heavy sun strode on the banks and cracked the mud,
thorn-pointed, thick-branched fig trees decked the riversides,
date trees raised tall unmoving hands in breathless air
as underneath them passed the desert’s famous ships 280
like full-rigged bobbing camels, humped, flat-footed, mute,
A mother sat upon the bank and to her bosom clasped
her son who’d fallen asleep, his lips still wet with milk;
she sang low lullabies and fervently prayed to God
to nourish her belovèd well, to make him strong 285
that his gold wings might one day cover east and west;
but he, bent over his master’s fields his whole life long,
hungry and tired, would one day curse his mother’s milk.
Suddenly birds with crimson bellies and blue wings
perched on the topmost masts, lifted their emerald beaks 290
into the burning light and warbled a sweet song,
and the archer spoke then to encourage his weary crew:
“Row quickly on, lads, till we reach the holy city!
There was, yet was not—like a myth she comes and goes,
may she be blessed!—a famous lady, an arch-eyed beauty. 295
Some call her pure-white Swan and others call her Helen.
Her mouth’s a pomegranate flower, her voice is honey,
and one dim twilight as we lay on the soft grass,
and a warm South Wind blew, these date trees, these far strands,
these wild aromas, loomed up in her brimming mind, 300
and her eyes glowed, her bosom sighed like rustling wings:
‘You know the deepest roots of earth, world-wandering roamer,
you’ve prowled through every garden, yet one flower remains:
I know a hundred-petaled rose that blooms on sand,
fed by a sacred river, guarded by bestial gods, 305
and a great king, a honeybee, is throned in its heart.’
Her curly mouth then moved, flowing with sweetest sounds,
and spread voluptuous Egypt in my heart like veils:
sugar canes brimmed with honey, in the torrid sun
aromas melted from the claws of gaudy birds. 310
I looked on her swan-beauty, heard her speak, and thought:
What do I want with unalluring dry-dugged truth?
Wonders and marvels only bloom and flourish now
on your carnation lips, in your curvaceous mouth.
I want no other fruit, my heart no other flower.’ 315
But now, my friends, our eyes and nostrils have brimmed full,
it was no dream nor a red flower of her full lips;
we’re close to that great rose, my lads—pull on your oars!”
He spoke, his friends took heart and dipped those bygone words
like withered roses in their minds where they rebloomed; 320
dusk gathered, and the river like a lean-striped tiger
became a crimson conflagration, foliage darkened,
and Rocky watched the date trees till his slender form
stretched up as though he strained to reach their topmost tip.
The hunched day-workers now returned to sunless huts, 325
the stars hung low above their heads, sharp-rayed and bright,
and their unseen forefathers crawled from gaping earth.
“Enough, my lads! The day’s blessed work has turned out well!”
Thus did the boatman speak, and the crew crossed their oars.
They tied their skiff to a wild fig, with brushwood lit 330
a bonfire by the bank, and then sat down cross-legged,
weary with heat, grabbed bread and ate to knit their souls.
They held each other firmly by the shoulders then,
pushed hard, broke down the doors and breached the halls of sleep.
When their eyes closed, a thin wail like a mother’s cry 335
that rises, falls, then comes again to pierce the heart,
gro
aned like a slow song from the chain-pumps drawing water,
but the old friends, dead-tired, and deaf to all men’s sighs,
now sailed in sleep, untroubled, where dreams rolled and sped
above their flattened lashes like deep sluggish waterways. 340
Like dappled meadow-partridges on crimson feet
the days filed by the riverbanks, the friends pursued
like hunters, and time and the slow river flowed together.
Raising their eyes at noon one day, they saw in haze
a ghostly city steam in the sun’s silent beams 345
with myriad lofty tombstones, with unnumbered demons.
The passionate voice of their unsated pilot rang:
“Put up your oars! We’ll anchor here, this town will do.
I see the dead, and the stone gods, but no one living;
stay wide-awake, my lads, keep your wits keen, beware 350
of spells, we’re entering magic in an open hour!”
He spoke, leapt on the burning bank, while his fast crew
drew up their pointed prow, beached it on sand, then spied
with stealth, their hot brains pulsing in the flaming desert.
That black snake, Death, digesting slowly, coiled on sands, 355
an Ancient Archon, Master Shepherd, long-tailed Dragon
with piles of golden wedding rings stacked in his guts;
softly, as though he dreamt, he hissed in scorching sun,
then reared and flicked his two-pronged tongue, with corpses gorged.
Supine beneath the ground, the dead with criss-crossed hands, 360
their chests stuffed full of spice and magic incantations,
with keys stuck in their teeth, awaited their soul’s return.
The crew strolled through the tombs and trod on the long dead,
for earth held many heavy ghosts, the sun dripped fire,
and the dead city slowly seethed and steamed in light. 365
“The dead are sown in earth like seed, but they’ll never sprout,”
the archer said, and marveled at man’s patient hope,
brainless and gallant, that yet dared to strive with Death.
“They wear their charms like swords, they bind their chests with spells,
and armored thus they plunge in earth with flailing spears; 370
but slowly thrusting through the soil in the cool dark,
the Worm, that mute unconquered warrior, crawls and eats.”
Rooted in sand, placed side by side, chiseled in stone,
gigantic gods loomed high and shone with bestial heads,
and Granite frowned and grimaced with severe disdain: 375
“How has man’s spirit fallen in these mud-made towns,
to worship monsters and to lie with sacred beasts!
If we should ever shape our gods, we’ll take for measure
our own proud spirit at its passion’s highest peak!”
But the complex mind gazed on the new gods in silence 380
and thought how beasts were merged and grafted with man’s heart,
how they had filled his belly, coiled about his loins,
and how that panting mongrel breed had turned to gods.
At times the beast’s head smothers the dark soul of man,
at times man’s reverent head springs from the beast’s body 385
and fights for its salvation, filled with light and sweetness.
The archer’s soul throbbed, for its dim divinings here
had stood in stone a thousand years, hacked in the sun.
Thus had these two great foes within him, beast and god,
fought fiercely in his bosom, head, and loins until 390
high in his mind they turned to friends from so much strife,
and forefather Beast thus met with grandson God within him.
“May you be blessed, entangled ghosts, for now I know
who cried within me and what my ultimate destination!”
Thus did the archer murmur, and his soul grew light. 395
But wind-brained Orpheus, meanwhile, sprawled on the tombs
and heard slow groans and muffled wailing, poignant cries
that rose from the soul’s dungeons smothered deep in death.
Women and men cried hoarsely in a vast lament,
and with his ear pressed to the ground the piper heard 400
mankind’s shrill wails amid that noisy realm of worms:
“May he be cursed on earth who gives his trust to virtue,
that bankrupt crone who takes our life’s pure gold and gives
but bad receipts for payment in the lower world.
Ah, passers-by that stroll, travelers that come and go, 405
all that I had, I placed on virtue, and lost the game!”
The sands shook and fell silent, and then the piper heard
a thin, thin maiden’s cry in dim and soft complaint:
“Virgins who tread above me, maidens, O you who hear,
take joy in your bright youth, my dears; may my curse bless you! 410
Barefooted pilgrims from the world’s far corners sped
to gaze and bring me lilies, for they called me holy;
unkissed, untouched by man, I soiled life’s lustrous fabric.
Ah, God, if only I could walk the earth for a brief hour!”
The whole earth sobbed until the piper jumped and felt 415
an indestructible swarm of mute worms lick his brains.
He scurried down the sands and moaned to his huge friend:
“Ah, Kentaur, help me! Demons and worms are chasing me!”
but as he ran, he blinked his eyes and shrilly yelled:
“I see a beast squatting on sand! Dear God, he’ll eat me!” 420
A leprous demon’s head loomed on the burning sands,
large-eyed and hopeless, pallid, carved from a huge rock,
and splayfoot rushed and raised his fallen air-brained friend:
“My lion-cub, your brain has curdled in all this heat.
Reach out your hand and see: this is no airy ghost 425
but only a carved stone that greets the sun each dawn.”
Orpheus took courage then, his squinting eyes grew clear
and saw a monstrous form thrust to its neck in sand;
only its stubborn head still fought with proud despair
not to surrender its great soul to smothering sands. 430
“Splayfoot, my friend, I’ll lose my wits! Support me now!”
Then glutton laughed, picked up and gently placed the fool
among his friends who huddled with parched, panting tongues
beneath the huge beast’s lower jaw and gazed on the blank desert.
Odysseus rose in silence, for he yearned to stare 435
full in that head’s vast eyes within the scorching heat.
Between the bounds of sleep and waking his mind blinked,
for somewhere in high dreams, where the soul lifts the flesh,
this sacred head had risen like the pallid moon,
desolate and forlorn; three knives had pierced his heart: 440
“Ah, Lady, open your lips,” he’d cried, “show me the way!”
But she had twined him with a silent smile, and vanished.
Yet now, behold, her stone lips moved, a rasping rose
from the blank, burning sands like a slow serpent’s hiss.
Odysseus leapt up on his toes, yelled open-eyed, 445
and the whole beast—wings, light, and flame—rose with him there.
Rushing to touch it, the archer groaned, “It’s my true God!”
but the bright vision quivered, then burst in desert air.
Like a struck eagle, the mind-spinner fell to earth:
“How shameful that I, too, am but the sun-heat’s toy!” 450
But as he turned and stooped in shade to find his friends,
his brain at once distilled and gleamed like deep lagoons;
he smiled and shut his eyes till in his heart there rose
the wings of eagles, claws of lions, the smiles of women,
until he felt rejoiced in his own soul on sand. 455
Then light of heart he strode ahead and found his friends
conversing gently with a spare-haired native elder.
They’d found him lying flat on sand, thrust in the Sphinx,
trying to free her chiseled neck with his bare nails.
He turned with mildness and explained the sacred signs: 460
“Each letter locks a soul within its holy bounds;
if on this rock you chisel birds that speed through air,
those wounded birds shall plummet from the sky and fall
into that magic snare, your hand, which cut the rock.
Hack out a beast, and he’ll be walled in your strong trap, 465
entangled in your hieroglyph’s entrancing nets;
pierce with a marble-cutter’s tool a god in stone,
that sign becomes a shrine at once, God stoops and enters.
Look at these slender birds, these moons, these stars, these suns—
they’ve clung a thousand years on this choked neck and cried; 470
‘Help us, our only son, free us from smothering sand!’
I heard, then fell to earth and dug with my bare nails
to free God all I could, that my own soul might breathe,”
Odysseus leapt, reached out with eager hands and groped
the thick marks on the rugged neck, half-choked in sand, 475
as though he groped the Great Word on his own hewn neck.
He rose then, wanting on this day no other fruit:
“It’s close to sundown, friends, let’s make for our ship now;
we’ve grabbed off and well earned our daily wage today,”
But the old man reached out and touched him like a god: 480
“I ask one favor; strangers here are precious gods,
and we all prize that great day when they cross our sills
to eat our bread and share the joys of mortal man;
stranger, I kiss your hand, stoop to my humble hut.”
The archer grabbed the old man’s trembling hand with joy: 485
“Old man, you hold time’s plenty, all that you say is true.
It may be we are gods indeed who have come here now
to bless your holy dwelling and to share your bread;
I’m sure these other four gods here will bear me out!”
Then laughter brimmed and gurgled from four hearty throats, 490
and the lone man’s illustrious escort made for town
to clean up greedily at once the old man’s fare.
The fallen day leant toward the west, tombstones turned red,