by Неизвестный
Perfect, with his feet together,
His head down, evenly breathing,
As the sun poured up from the sea
And the headsman broke down
In a blaze of tears, in that light
Of the thin, long human frame
Upside down in its own strange joy,
And, if some other one had not told him,
Would have cut off the feet
Instead of the head,
And if Armstrong had not presently risen
In kingly, round-shouldered attendance,
And then knelt down in himself
Beside his hacked, glittering grave, having done
All things in this life that he could.
James Dickey, 1959
Next | TOC> The Highwayman> Robinson
Reuben Bright
Because he was a butcher and thereby
Did earn an honest living (and did right),
I would not have you think that Reuben Bright
Was any more a brute than you or I;
For when they told him that his wife must die,
He stared at them, and shook with grief
and fright,
And cried like a great baby half that night,
And made the women cry to see him cry.
And after she was dead, and he had paid
The singers and the sexton and the rest,
He packed a lot of things that she had made
Most mournfully away in an old chest
Of hers, and put some chopped-up cedar boughs
In with them, and tore down the slaughter house.
Edward Arlington Robinson, 1897
Next | TOC> The Highwayman> Knight
Hard Rock Returns to Prison from
the Hospital for the Criminal
Insane
Hard Rock was 'known not to take no shit
From nobody,' and he had the scars to prove it:
Split purple lips, lumped ears, welts above
His yellow eyes, and one long scar that cut
Across his temple and plowed through a thick
Canopy of kinky hair.
The WORD was that Hard Rock wasn't a
mean nigger
Anymore, that the doctors had bored a hole in
his head,
Cut out part of his brain, and shot electricity
Through the rest. When they brought Hard
Rock back,
Handcuffed and chained, he was turned
loose,
Like a freshly gelded stallion, to try his new
status.
And we all waited and watched, like indians
at a corral,
To see if the WORD was true.
As we waited we wrapped ourselves in the cloak
Of his exploits: 'Man, the last time, it took eight
Screws to put him in the Hole.' 'Yeah, remember
when he
Smacked the captain with his dinner tray?' 'He set
The record for time in the Hole—67 straight days!'
'O! Hard Rock! man, that's one crazy nigger.'
And then the jewel of a myth that Hard Rock had
once bit
A screw on the thumb and poisoned him with
syphilitic spit.
The testing came, to see if Hard Rock was
really tame.
A hillbilly called him a black son of a bitch
And didn't lose his teeth, a screw who knew
Hard Rock
From before shook him down and barked
in his face.
And Hard Rock did nothing. Just grinned
and looked silly,
His eyes empty like knot holes in a fence.
And even after we discovered that it took
Hard Rock
Exactly 3 minutes to tell you his first name,
We told ourselves that he had just wised up,
Was being cool; but we could not fool ourselves
for long,
And we turned away, our eyes on the ground.
Crushed.
He had been our Destroyer, the doer of things
We dreamed of doing but could not bring
ourselves to do,
The fears of years, like a biting whip,
Had cut grooves too deeply across our backs.
Etheridge Knight, 1968
Next | TOC> The Highwayman> Snodgrass
The Examination
Under the thick beams of that swirly smoking
light,
The black robes are clustering, huddled in
together.
Hunching their shoulders, they spread short,
broad sleeves like night-
Black grackles' wings and reach out bone-yellow
leather-
y fingers, each to each. They are prepared.
Each turns
His single eye—or since one can't discern
their eyes,
That reflective, single, moon-pale disc which
burns
Over each brow—to watch this uncouth shape
that lies
Strapped to their table. One probes with
his ragged nails
The slate-sharp calf, explores the thigh and
the lean thews
Of the groin. Others raise, red as piratic sails,
His wing, stretching, trying the pectoral sinews.
One runs his finger down the whet of that cruel
Golden beak, lifts back the horny lids from
the eyes,
Peers down in one bright eye, malign as a jewel,
And steps back suddenly, "He is anaesthetized?"
"He is. He is. Yes. Yes." The tallest of them, bent
Down by the head, rises, "This drug possesses
powers
Sufficient to still all gods in this firmament.
This is Garuda who was fierce. He's yours for
hours.
"We shall continue, please." Now, once again,
he bends
To the skull, and its clamped tissues. Into the
cranial cavity, he plunges both of his hands
Like obstetric forceps and lifts out the
great brain,
Holds it aloft, then gives it to the next who stands
Beside him. Each, in turn, accepts it, although
loath,
Turns it this way, that way, feels it between
his hands
Like a wasp's nest or some sickening outsized
growth.
They must decide what thoughts each part of it
must think;
They tap at, then listen beside, each suspect lobe;
Next, with a crow's quill dipped into India ink,
Mark on its surface, as if on a map or globe,
Those dangerous areas which need to be excised.
They rinse it, then apply antiseptics to it.
Now silver saws appear which, inch by inch, slice
Through its ancient folds and ridges, like thick
suet.
It's rinsed, dried, and daubed with thick salves.
The smoky saws
Are scrubbed, re-sterilized, and polished
till they gleam.
The brain is repacked in its case. Pinched in their
claws,
Glimmering needles stitch it up, that leave
no seam.
Meantime, one of them has set blinders
to the eyes,
Inserted light packing beneath each of the ears
And caulked the nostrils in. One, with thin twine,
ties
The genitals off. With long wooden-handled
shears,
Another chops pinions out of the scarlet wings.
It's hoped that with disuse he will forget the sky
Or, at least, in time, learn, among other things,
To fly no higher than his superiors fly.
Well; th
at's a beginning. The next time, they
can split
His tongue and teach him to talk correctly,
can give
Him opinions on fine books and choose
clothing fit
For the integrated area where he'll live.
Their candidate may live to give them thanks
one day.
He will recover and may hope for such success
He might return to join their ranks. Bowing away,
They nod, whispering, "One of ours;
one of ours. Yes
Yes."
W. D. Snodgrass, 1961
Next | TOC> The Highwayman> Carroll
The Walrus and the Carpenter
The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright—
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.
The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done—
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"
The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead—
There were no birds to fly.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand:
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand.
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"
"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year,
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.
"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."
The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head—
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.
But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat—
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.
Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more—
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.
"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—
Of cabbages—and kings—
And why the sea is boiling hot—
And whether pigs have wings."
"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.
"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed—
Now, if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."
"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said.
"Do you admire the view?"
"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut us another slice.
I wish you were not quite so deaf—
I've had to ask you twice!"
"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"The butter's spread too thick!"
"I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.
"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?"
But answer came there none—
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.
Lewis Carroll, 1872
Next | TOC> The Highwayman> Scott
Mrs. Severin
Mrs. Severin came home from the Methodist
Encampment,
Climbed naked to the diningroom table and
lay down.
She was alone at the time but naturally told
of it afterward.
"Lord! Lord!" she had called out. "Thou seest me.
Wherein is my fault?"
When she heard of it, secondhand, Mrs.
Birchfield laughed till she cried.
"My God!" she said, "I'd like to've seen her
getting up there!"
For Mrs. Severin, you see, was a very stout
old lady,
A spilling mass by buttons, shawls, pins and
ribboned eyeglasses held together
The eyeglasses were a shift of drama: hoisted
for reading aloud, lowered for talking;
They were not interruption. Mrs. Severin's soft
incessant sibilance
Through all the days she visited and rocked
by the window
Braided inextricably Bible and autobiography.
Jesus was near.
'The morning Encampment began the Lord
suddenly told me to go.
Ran all the way downstreet to the cars for
Canobie Lake,
Didn't fasten my dress or tie my shoes. Left the
house open. Young ones at the neighbors.
'Lord,' I said, 'I am thy servant'—and stayed the
whole beautiful, blessed week."
On the listening child her showers of quotation
pattered a drugged dream.
"'Thought becomes word. Word becomes act.
Act becomes character. Character becomes
destiny,'
Remember that. And praise the Lord," she said,
giving off also
Odor of camphor, old rose jars and muttonleg
sleeves.
"Amen!"
The husband long gone who wasted her
inheritance; the irritable children
Who hated to have to have her now; the friends
who took her in now and again: gone.
Here in her false hair and hand-me-downs,
patiently talking—talking:
Old Mrs. Severin who once, brave on a
diningroom table naked confronted her
unanswering Lord.
Winfield Townley Scott, 1951
Next | TOC> The Highwayman
> Auden
The Unknown Citizen
To JS/07/M/378
This Marble Monument Is Erected by the State
He was found by the Bureau of Statistics to be
One against whom there was no official
complaint,
And all the reports on his conduct agree
That, in the modern sense of an old-fashioned
word, he was a saint,
For in everything he did he served the Greater
Community.
Except for the War till the day he retired
He worked in a factory and never got fired,
But satisfied his employers, Fudge Motors Inc.
Yet he wasn't a scab or odd in his views,
For his Union reports that he paid his dues,
(Our report on his Union shows it was sound)
And our Social Psychology workers found
That he was popular with his mates and
liked a drink.
The Press are convinced that he bought a
paper every day
And that his reactions to advertisements were
normal in every way.
Policies taken out in his name prove that he
was fully insured,
And his Health-card shows he was once in
hospital but left it cured.
Both Producers Research and High-Grade Living
declare
He was fully sensible to the advantages of the
Installment Plan
And had everything necessary to the Modern Man,
A phonograph, a radio, a car and a Frigidaire.
Our researchers into Public Opinion are content
That he held the proper opinions for the time
of year;
When there was peace, he was for peace;
when there was war, he went.
He was married and added five children to
the population.
Which our Eugenist says was the right number
for a parent of his generation,
And our teachers report that he never interfered
with their education.
Was he free? Was he happy? The question is
absurd:
Had anything been wrong, we should certainly
have heard.
W. H. Auden, 1939
Next | TOC> Arms and the Boy>