|
THE SEASIDE GRAVEYARD
Stanzas
12-18
(Version
1)
One
thinks of nothing. It’s
so baking here
that
walls disintegrate and bushes blear
back
into air, though still cicadas grind.
—To
nothing-air, severe as nothing is.
Life
could be drunk on absence such as this!
It
makes pain almost nice and clears the mind.
The
dead no doubt are calm in their retreat.
Their
worries are dried out.
In this damned heat
the
empty air knows best.
It does not change
but
focusses itself upon the sun,
complete,
perfected gem, the Selfless One.
I
am the only stuff that’s being strange.
I’m
full of fear. It’s
maybe not my fault.
I
doubt.—Who doesn’t?—And repent; get caught
In
strangling guilt.—I am the jewel’s flaws!
Only
the dead don’t question.
Underground
A
vapid people who don’t make a sound
already
rally to the nothing-cause!
Absence
has melted them into one grease,
and
red, wet clay has sucked off every piece
of
each white face. Our
life’s a refill gift
for
flowers and things. Idiosyncrasy
of
chat and such lie under scrub and tree—
and
worms thread sockets where once tears would drift.
The
yelps that tickled girls would once devise;
the
laughing teeth; the wet and sexy eyes
which
played with fire; the tits which did the same;
the
blood-red lips which moistened as they bent,
the
pushing-off before the whole hog went:
all gone beneath the ground, back to the game!
You
pious sods who one day hope to see
a
dream where lying colours cannot
be
goldenly
sloshed for carnal eyes to horde:
when
you are vapour what hymn will you hum?
Tempus
fugit! Life
is porous. Come!
Death
will oblige your mean hope for reward.
Mephitic,
so-called immortality;
golden
corona; nurse; mendacity:
you
say that death’s a bosom?
Oh, not half!
A
fine lie that! Your
holy tricks have style.
Who
has not sussed you? Who
does not revile
|
THE CEMETERY BY THE SEA
Stanzas
12-18
(Version
2)
The
future, now I am here, is idleness.
An
insect scrapes the dryness: neat, precise.
All
is burnt, shrivelled, turned back again to air—
To
who knows what severity of essence...?
Life
is vast, intoxicated with absence.
Bitterness
is sweet and the mind is clear.
The
hidden dead lie easy in this plot.
It
warms them again; their mystery dries out.
The
sun is still, and noon, nowhere in motion,
Regards
itself, sufficient, its very own:
Completed
summit and perfected crown.
In
you I am the secret alteration!
Your
fears are now contained by me alone.
Repentance,
doubt, timidity, concern,
Are
fractures in your diamond universe.
But
in oblivion’s marble-heavy night
A
vagrant people where the trees take root
Have
gathered now already to your cause:
Molten
into absence’s gorged surcease,
Red
clay has sucked each flaccid, ashen face;
The
gift of life now passes into flowers!
Where
are the long-gone, once-familiar ways,
The
personal style of these particulate souls?
The
worm threads through the holes that once held tears.
The
sudden yelp of tickled girls who tease,
The
laughing teeth, the wet and glittering eyes,
The
lovely breasts that play with fire each time,
The
blood-red lips that gleam as they sink under,
The
fingers toying off the last surrender:
All
go beneath the ground, back to the game.
And
you with pious soul hope to acquire
Some
dream where lying colours are no more
Proffered
in golden waves to carnal eyes?
When
you are vapour what will be your hymn?
Tempus
fugit. Life
is porous. Come!
Those
who can’t wait for death, Death will oblige.
Mephitic,
meagre immortality,
Golden
consoler crowned with laurel, you
Nastily
make a bosom out of death!
A
fine lie that! A
sacred trick, and fit!
Who
does not know it? Who
does not refute
That
empty skull and everlasting laugh!
(translated by Alan Marshfield)
|
