I had to speak
to deny silence,
and proclaimed I believe
—my frosty speech white
in the atmosphere.
My my,
I was happy
to see peaceful Escher
in that territory
recording the view.
As a whole
Escher's world
was mine—
old Escher
with his failed heart
like a toothless bulldog
following the lines
drawn by the world,
an aggregation of white
dominated by black.
Young friend
he said,
formal objectivity
might be
a personal matter—
and finally the view,
whole and fair,
appeared,
a demilitarized zone
extending on both sides
in which further illusions were salvaged.
I took the chair
under the umbrella
and saw a train journey
through the countryside
on the approach
to a further world.
Alive while burning,
Sir I called,
I would take soundings Sir…
In the chaos,
an ample ivory villa
was open to faith.
I have seen the ruins
—the white black,
the black white—
but a man cannot live there.
8
I was led to a globe,
beholden
to its vast revolution
—a revolution living eyes
could hardly credit—
my life diminishing in scale,
myself the moving woods
they called the real,
guided by a spirit
to low countries in disarray.
The patchwork of views
emerged in negative—
machinery in the fields,
ground work,
the promise of form
in the background.
There was a universal man,
a scholar of history.
To exercise his heart,
he would complain about love
in front of the famous Chagall window—
autumn,
that revision of the year,
covering the ground;
one swallow
moving south;
form working the levers—
and I became a disciple of despair,
for I had a long good look at that world.
Help I said.
In the first circle,
the centre of never,
the Minister had constructed a residence
which included a private zoo
where he kept a collection
of exotic political leaders
set in the midst of vineyards,
the surrounding waters deep,
his great concern
the erosion under the world.
Greeting me there
with dinner in mind,
he launched his primitive harpoon
at men in the dark.
One gargled and spat,
then he swallowed the skin
red and raw,
which he insisted
was the best way
to eat a respected
former Congressman.
Well,
very well…
It was an old
and somewhat shabby-looking Falcon
professing disbelief—
Are you thing
or king?
I was impressed by the speech
(hard indeed to respond),
and facing him I said Help.
He was co-operative,
and over that Sahara within
he invited me to cross
beyond the fragile coast
towards the wisest men.
Friends,
somewhat surprised
by grace I was flown
to universal applause
—from the West
to the East summoned—
asking the Minister,
my speech in disarray,
Is that legion I see
hitherto doomed?
climbing higher
as new countries approached,
taken up
in the still atmosphere
and weighed down
by an increasing mood of If only…
9
This is the universal journey
the gravest proclaimed
in a universal language
on a universal stage,
but I found the sound
of hunger in the background
rather distressing.
Picture the scene.
Aged women accused their world
in unison,
the refrain quiet.
I approached with my list of names.
Before me
a figure said No,
waving a white handkerchief
and dancing.
(That lady, dancing,
seemed to me a delicate shape
held under breaking ice).
The aged Minister,
courteous but intractable,
invited me to make a speech
in that envisaged theatre.
My somewhat nebulous host,
his head a needless conference of wounds,
showed little interest
in my list of fellow religionaries
as I called Release them,
at pains to say Please,
for I worried about fate,
if I could bear it,
and a man with a halo,
black toga billowing,
invited me to listen
to the heart
I wish I had in life—
Death,
death…
I had the highest regard for him.
(I spoke a little Italian,
and was reading
his Tragedy of Aldo Moro—
in Italian it was
most moving).
With his staff he went
into his white house.
We were ushered in
and said world in different ways.
I was impressed by his interest
in my work—
he tried to encourage me,
comparing his with my own,
and made a moving speech
on one man's faltering steps
towards the hard barren ground of human suffering…
10
On the Indian sub-continent,
a prince was isolated
from all knowledge
that might upset him.
In the palace he began
to lament his captivity—
“Could this self,
born in a stream of sad time,
only be makeshift?
I consider my position
over and over.
In ships, the sea is law.
In famine, the field.”
Therefore he took the occasion
to visit the country.
“My my” he said,
“I understand nothing.”
The map of Asia was in the making
during this period.
Serious political disturbances
were causing people to flee
warfare,
drought,
and famine.
Some thrust aside
their tragedies to cope.
“The self in theory is a problem.
The word does not even cover the remains.”
11
My my,
I had no inkling
of the crowds within,
and considered every avenue
which might lead
to enlightenment.
On the first step I called
with tears in my eyes
—(that is poetic license,
it is not easy for me to cry)—
No
no…
A Byzantine Ambassador appeared.
That plucked out emigre of quiet—
I wondered what lay behind his words.
Perhaps you would permit me
revealingly he said
a little scenario?
This all seemed to me
to have a distinct
Alice in Wonderland quality.
Nevertheless the Ambassador
outlined the plan
of a public performance.
White was his wing
working in the dark
as I listened with increasing doubt
to this elaborate script.
It was extremely complicated
—full of traps I could not see—
but I agreed to play my part.
My role was to speak
to Mohammed the Revolutionary.
Under the world
that able guide awaited,
intent on the secret of everything.
True form
he hinted,
setting up a little house of cards,
never promises to remain.
I suggested that we be off
and thus left,
a post-mortem figure
in byzantine constraints
discussing the real
with everyone I met
at the funeral of fact.
Mohammed complained
of injustice,
turning from the world,
and called for vengeance
against fate.
Consequently,
I consulted his book
which I was told
in Teheran
had performed well.
It had neither inside
nor outside,
like holy
War
love
—its fabric absence.
Friends,
possessed of a clear mind,
if not happy,
he spoke on the erosion of wisdom.
I liked him,
his rage at spiritual irony,
his mastery of perhaps,
his head removed in the field
by the American people—
is that history?
12
In the middle of that failed regime
I made a fire.
A messianic peacock appeared.
I must have looked surprised,
for, whirling, he said
Slogans slogans…
So I in silence
regarded the fire.
It was a loophole in time,
a detailed plan
of the the.
The Minister contented himself
with listening to the fire—
that indefatigable flag,
that red question we faced.
Distracted in the house,
the growing frostiness
seemed to make the distance watchful.
The eye does not lie.
Some form continues
and will continue.
Thus the flames,
countless and imponderable,
sink anew—
solved,
whole,
Holy.
13
Time crackled softly
in the hearth.
The world the world he said
and nodded gravely.
I asked whether
there was any message
he wanted me to convey.
Leaning back in his chair,
stony and objective,
the Minister gripped a letter
concerning friendship,
good neighbourliness,
and co-operation
between the Democratic Republic
of Union
and the International Committee
of the Non-Aligned Movement
for Foreign Community,
which united
this world
with the other—
but friends,
I rejected the text.
Sir, I formally object
on matters of substance
I said
(for we had become
mere puppets in a scene
from Chapter 2
of Tolstoi's War and Peace),
slowly and with difficulty,
since I do not speak Russian
and could do little but say
do svidanya,
walking towards a succession
of old men from Moscow—
the old guard,
the outspoken
ambassadors there,
brilliant delegates
who,
in a friendly spirit,
dwelt at some length
on the making of the key
that opens the quiet,
turning in the mechanics of fact…
14
I was troubled
by the quiet
river of illusion.
Only self could move
that heavy river,
which turned on its way.
We remained
in place of course,
and suffered changes,
and finally arrived.
I had to build
the Minister a fire,
and even though
he did not feel that fire,
it was my Jerusalem.
We halted for the night
in a gloomy mood
down the road
from the Palace of Un.
Our welcome took place
in an austere room
decorated only with a few pictures.
Un said
(without actually saying so)
that one represented
The Liberation of Palestine.
It was a little prospect,
morning somewhere,
and hotel beds
in the garden.
When I jokingly asked him
how he liked beds,
the spirit assured me
he had slept a long time.
Ahead, the floor
was under assembly.
Steps hurried down
to a small podium where
connected to various cables
I was to remain—
while before the cameras,
Un, that intriguing character
(unshaven,
unruly,
and formal)
asked why I denied
the play of perceptions.
I repeated my my,
inspected my fly,
and made gestures
towards the ground.
There, under the future,
I saw Hamlet
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