The dragon is getting closer. It is chasing Izanaki toward the sea. In each eye it has nine black lightning flashes. Prince Itanagi sleeps.
The princess throws a comb behind her. Seventeen knights rise up from it and a bloody fight begins. They spent too much time in Izanaki’s black hair. They turned into complete sissies.
Prince Itanagi found the comb on the seashore. He built it a marble tomb. Who has ever seen a tomb built for a comb? I have.
This was on the day of the tree and the foal.
THE EMPEROR’S DREAM
A crevice! shouts the Emperor in his sleep, and the canopy of ostrich plumes trembles. The soldiers who pace the corridors with unsheathed swords believe the Emperor dreams about a siege. Just now he saw a fissure in the wall and wants them to break into the fortress.
In fact the Emperor is now a wood-louse who scurries across the floor, seeking remnants of food. Suddenly he sees overhead an immense foot about to crush him. The Emperor hunts for a crevice in which to squeeze. The floor is smooth and slippery.
Yes. Nothing is more ordinary than the dreams of Emperors.
ORGAN PLAYER
He lives in a forest of naked tree trunks. He grafts leaves and branches onto them, whole crowns of fiery greenery. He beats the wind against them. Sometimes he fans a fire called a fugue or a chorale.
A monk the size of a woodworm moves around in the little mirror hanging over the music; the organ player rouses himself to a yet more thankful dance, more wonderful falls.
He finishes with a spasm of archangels’ trumpets, descends the dark spiral stairs, coughs and spits in a checkered hankie full of thick phlegm.
MOON
I don’t understand how you can write poems about the moon. It’s fat and slovenly. It picks the noses of chimneys. Its favorite thing to do is climb under the bed and sniff at your shoes.
THE CAPTAIN’S TELESCOPE
I bought it from a street vendor in Naples. It was said to have belonged to the captain of the Maria, which was shipwrecked right off the Gold Coast on a sunny day in mysterious circumstances.
An odd instrument. Whatever I fix it on, I just see two blue strips—one dark sapphire, the other sky blue.
A RUSSIAN TALE
The tsar our little father had grown old, very old. Now he could not even strangle a dove with his own hands. Sitting on his throne he was golden and frigid. Only his beard grew, down to the floor and farther.
Then someone else ruled, it was not known who. Curious folk peeped into the palace through the windows but Krivonosov screened the windows with gibbets. Thus only the hanged saw anything.
In the end the tsar our little father died for good. The bells rang and rang, yet they did not bring his body out. Our tsar had grown into the throne. The legs of the throne had become all mixed up with the legs of the tsar. His arm and the armrest were one. It was impossible to tear him loose. And to bury the tsar along with the golden throne—what a shame.
PEEPSHOW
A great brown barrel in which Paris blue, Arabic silver, and English green are poured from above. They add a pinch of Indian pink and stir with a big ladle. The thick mixture seeps through the cracks, and the people sticking to the barrel like flies lick it up greedily drop by drop. But sadly this doesn’t last long. The tram, an ironic ocean steamer, sounds the bell for dreamers.
STUDY OF THE OBJECT
1961
THE BOX CALLED IMAGINATION
Rap a knuckle on the wall—
a cuckoo will jump
from a block
of oak
It will summon trees
one after another
until a forest
stands
whistle softly—
a river will run
a mighty thread
tying hill to dale
clear your throat—
here is a city
with one tower
a leaning wall
yellow houses
like playing dice
now
close your eyes
snow will fall
it will snuff out
trees’ green flames
and the red tower
under the snow
it is night
with a bright clock on top
the landscape’s owl
WOODEN BIRD
In the warm hands
of children
a wooden bird
began to live
under enamel feathers
a tiny heart gave itself
a glass eye
caught fire with sight
a painted wing
stirred
a dry body
felt craving for the forest
it marched
like a soldier in a ballad
with its sticks of legs it drummed
the right leg drummed—forest
the left leg drummed—forest
it dreamed
green light
closed eyes of nests
at the bottom
at the forest’s edge
woodpeckers picked out its eyes
its tiny heart blackened
from the torture of common beaks
yet it marched on
shoved about by venomous mushrooms
jeered at by orioles
at the bottom of dead leaves
it sought a nest
it lives now
on the impossible border
between matter animate
and invented
between a fern from the forest
and a fern from Larousse
on a dry stalk
on one leg
on a hair of wind
on what tears itself away from reality
but hasn’t enough heart
enough strength
does not transform itself
into an image
WRITING
when I mount a chair
to capture the table
and raise a finger
to arrest the sun
when I take the skin off my face
and the house off my shoulders
and clutching
my metaphor
a goose quill
my teeth sunk into the air
I try to create
a new
vowel—
in the table’s wilderness
lie paper flowers
the wall’s frock coat fastens
with a button of small space
enough enough
the ascension
failed
for a little while longer
my pen trips over a page
from an evil yellow sky
a trickle
of sand
descends
NOTHING SPECIAL
nothing special
boards paint
nails paste
paper string
mr artist
builds a world
not from atoms
but from remnants
forest of arden
from umbrella
ionian sea
from parkers quink
just as long as
his look is wise
just as long as
his hand is sure—
and presto the—world—
hooks of flowers
on needles of grass
clouds of wire
drawn out by wind
IN THE STUDIO
With a light step
he moves
from spot to spot
from fruit to fruit
the good gardener
props a flower with a stick
a human being with joy
the sun with deep blue
then
nudges his glasses
puts on a tea kettle
mumbles to himself
strokes the cat
When God built the world
calculated and calculated
hence the world is perfect
and impossible to live in
on the other hand
a painter’s world
is good
and full of error
the eye strolls
from spot to spot
from fruit to fruit
the eye purrs
the eye smiles
the eye remembers
the eye says you’ll last
if you manage to enter
right into that center
where the painter was
he who has no wings
wears floppy slippers
he who has no Virgil
with a cat in a pocket
a genial imagination
an unconscious hand
correcting the world
GAUGUIN—THE END
Mango blossoms in white sun in black rain
raking images and leaves in a broad sweep
on the rue des Fourneaux and on the Pacific
giant Gauguin heavy muted clogs knocking
seeks out a source then langorously drinks in
a sky slashed open and falls into sweet sleep
he didn’t want rest he wanted a dream
which is work a long march at noon
carrying the shadowy pails of images
sometimes he still hears
the hissing of Paris salons at home he left
a white woman now his curtains are shut
he must still be sleeping
let him sleep
ocean driftwood guitars O parrot
he didn’t love girls not Téhoura
nor Mette Gad spit strung between her lips
Alina died too early mildew disgusted him
a great vehicle goes with mango blossoms
the last king Pomare this rotting pineapple
in an admiral’s coat drives into the country
a wooden bell rings
patient Vincent a sunflower in the sun
the sun will burn out his ruddy brain
he was brave he painted with a razor
it isn’t Monet he cried I won’t exhibit
avec le premier barbouilleur venu
he who comprehends cobalt leaves the guild
there was no other path just a path to the sea
Gauguin moves his body on hands and knees
fruits are like boils the forest has eczema
the Maori gods pick their teeth moodily
ocean driftwood guitars a parrot
between a fiery sky fiery grass—snow
a Breton village with mango blossoms
BLACK ROSE
it emerges
black
from eyes blinded
by lime
it touches the air
and stands
diamond
black rose
amid planetary chaos
blowing
the imagination’s little pipe
lead out
colors
from a black
rose
like a memory
from a burned city
violet—for poison and cathedral
red—for a steak and an emperor
blue—for a clock
yellow—for a bone and an ocean
green—for a girl turned into a tree
white—for white
O black rose
in a black rose
what do you hide
amid the dead flies of electrons
APOLLO AND MARSYAS
The real duel of Apollo
with Marsyas
(absolute ear
versus immense range)
takes place in the evening
when as we already know
the judges
have awarded victory to the god
bound tight to a tree
meticulously stripped of his skin
Marsyas
howls
before the howl reaches his tall ears
he reposes in the shadow of that howl
shaken by a shudder of disgust
Apollo is cleaning his instrument
only seemingly
is the voice of Marsyas
monotonous
and composed of a single vowel
A
in reality
Marsyas relates
the inexhaustible wealth
of his body
bald mountains of liver
white ravines of aliment
rustling forests of lung
sweet hillocks of muscle
joints bile blood and shudders
the wintry wind of bone
over the salt of memory
shaken by a shudder of disgust
Apollo is cleaning his instrument
now to the chorus
is joined the backbone of Marsyas
in principle the same A
only deeper with the addition of rust
this is already beyond the endurance
of the god with nerves of artificial fibre
along a gravel path
hedged with box
the victor departs
wondering
whether out of Marsyas’ howling
there will not some day arise
a new kind
of art—let us say—concrete
suddenly
at his feet
falls a petrified nightingale
he looks back
and sees
that the hair of the tree to which Marsyas was fastened
is white
completely
FRAGMENT
Hear us O Silver-bowed archer through the clutter of leaves and arrows through the stubborn silence of battle and the mighty call of the dead again autumn O Silver-bowed archer trees and people depart we sleep in sultry tents under a sky crumpled by curses we dip our faces in dust and wash our bodies in sweat from the breast opened by a sword not blood not blood escapes animals die the eyes of mules are sinking the sails of our ships are rotting and no storm near the bay we shall not return to our wives bitter girls of foreign countries will not leave us much time to weep in their arms not for the stone wreath of Troy do we implore You O Master not for a plume of fame white women and gold but restore if you can to blemished faces goodness and put simplicity into our hands just as you once put iron
send down white clouds Apollo white clouds white clouds
TO POMPEII’S AID
Thanks to energetic action taken by the government, firefighters and youth organizations, two thousand victims of Vesuvius have been rescued after twenty centuries. They are (it must be said at once) in good shape; their lives are now out of danger. Lovers turn their backs on aggressive journalists and angelic old ladies, chained dogs bark as if possessed, and a street urchin bestows on history the name of a certain strumpet.
PRINCIPALITY
Marked in the guidebook by two stars (in fact there are more) the whole principality—that is to say the city, the sea and a stretch of sky—looks great at first glance. The graves are whitewashed; the houses are detached; the flowers are plump.
All the citizens are guardians of landmarks. Owing to the low number of tourists, the work is not arduous—an hour in the morning and an hour at night.
In between, a siesta.
Over the principality a cloud of snores rises, red as a cauldron. Only the prince isn’t sleeping. He’s rocking the head of a local god to sleep.
The hotels and inns are occupied by angels, who took a liking to the principality for its hot baths, solemn customs, and air distilled by the motion of feathers buffing memory.
MONA LISA
Through seven mountain frontiers
barbed wire of rivers
and executed forests
and hanged bridges
I kept coming—
through waterfalls of s
tairways
whirlings of sea wings
and baroque heaven
all bubbly with angels
—to you
Jerusalem in a frame
I stand
in the dense nettle patch
of a cook’s tour
on a shore of crimson rope
and eyes
so I’m here
you see I’m here
I hadn’t a hope
but I’m here
laboriously smiling on
resin-colored mute convex
as if constructed out of lenses
concave landscape for a background
between the blackness of her back
which is like a moon in clouds
and the first tree of the surroundings
is a great void froths of light
so I’m here
sometimes it was
sometimes it seemed that
don’t even think about it
only her regulated smile
her head a pendulum at rest
her eyes dream into infinity
but in her glances snails are asleep
so I’m here
they were all going to come
I’m alone
when already
he could no longer move his head
he said
as soon as all this is over
I’m going to Paris
between the second and the third finger
of the right hand
a space
I put in this furrow
the empty shells of fates
so I’m here
it’s me here
pressed into the floor
with living heels
fat and not too nice signora
loosens her hair upon dry rocks
hewed off from the meat of life
abducted from home and history
with horrifying ears of wax
smothered with a scarf of glaze
the empty volumes of her flesh
are set in diamonds
between the blackness of her back
and the first tree of my life
lies a sword
a melted precipice
LAST REQUEST
she could no longer move her head
The Collected Poems Page 10