The Collected Poems
Page 17
he received the news of my death calmly
he was thrown out of the palace and banished
he bore that blow with dignity
he died without progeny
slaughtered by a thick-skinned butcher from the municipality of Antium
about the posthumous fate of his flesh
Tacitus has nothing to say
AKELDAMA
The priests have a problem
on the borderline of ethics and accounts
what to do with the pieces of silver
which Judas flung at their feet
the sum was entered
in the expenses column
chroniclers will put it
in the legends column
it wouldn’t be right to enter it
under the rubric of unforeseen revenue
dangerous to bring it to the treasury
it might contaminate the silver
it wouldn’t be appropriate
to use it to buy a candlestick for the temple
or to distribute it among the poor
after long deliberation
they decide to acquire a potter’s field
and to establish upon it
a cemetery for pilgrims
to return—as it were
money for death
to death
the solution
was tactful
so why does
the name of this place
rend the air down the ages
akeldama
akeldama
that is field of blood
MR COGITO TELLS OF THE TEMPTATION OF SPINOZA
Baruch Spinoza of Amsterdam
was seized by a desire to reach God
in his attic while polishing
lenses
he suddenly pierced a veil
and stood face to face
he spoke at length
(and when he spoke
his mind expanded
and his soul also)
he put questions
on human nature
—God stroked his beard absently
he inquired into the first cause
—God looked off into infinity
he asked after the final cause
—God cracked his knuckles
cleared his throat
when Spinoza fell silent
God spake
—you’re a good talker Baruch
I like your geometrical Latin
and the clarity of your syntax
the symmetry of your proofs
but let us speak
of Things Truly
Great
—look at your hands
scarred and shaking
—you ruin your eyes
by sitting in the dark
—you eat poorly
you dress badly
—buy a new house
forgive Venetian mirrors
for reflecting surfaces
—forgive flowers in the hair
the song sung by drunkards
—manage your income well
like your friend Descartes
—be cunning
like Erasmus
—dedicate a treatise
to Louis Quatorze
he won’t read it anyway
—temper
the rational fury
it will topple thrones
and blacken the stars
—think of
a woman
who will give you a child
—you see Baruch
we speak of Great Things
—I want to be loved
by the unlearned and fierce
for they are the only ones
who truly hunger after me
now the veil falls
Spinoza is alone
he sees no golden cloud
nor a light in the heights
he sees darkness
he hears a stair creak
footsteps going down
GEORG HEYM—AN ALMOST METAPHYSICAL ADVENTURE
1
If it is true
that image precedes thought
one might imagine
that Heym’s ideas
arose while he was skating
—the ease of moving
across an icy surface
he went here and there
circling a mobile center
he wasn’t a planet
or a bell
or a farmer bound to a plow
—the relativity of motion
mirrored systems merging
the nearer left bank
(the red roofs of Gatow)
lurched backward
like a yanked tablecloth
the right bank however
(apparently) stood still
—the toppling of determinism
a wondrous coexistence of possibilities
—my greatness—
Heym said to himself
(pushing out with
his raised left leg)
lies in the discovery
that the modern world
knows no direct results
no tyranny of consequences
no dictatorship of causation
all thoughts
actions
objects
phenomena
lie beside each other
like a skater’s tracks
on a white surface
an important claim
for theoretical physics
an ominous claim
for a theory of poetry
2
those standing on the right bank
did not notice Heym vanishing
a gymnasium student passing by
saw everything in reverse order
the white sweater
trousers fastened at the knee
with two ivory buttons
calves in orange socks
the skates misfortune’s cause
two policemen
made their way through a crowd
gaping at the opening in the ice
(it looked as if it led to a dungeon
or like the cold mouth of a mask)
licking their pencils
they tried to report on the event
to introduce order into it
in accordance with the outdated
logic of Aristotle
with the dull-witted indifference
characteristic of power
toward the discoverer
and his thoughts
now drifting helplessly
under the ice
MR COGITO SOMETIMES RECEIVES ODD LETTERS
Miss Amelia of Darmstadt
asks for help
finding her great-great-grandfather
Ludwig I
he perished
like so many others
in the tumult of war
he was last seen
on a family estate
near Jelenia Góra
Mr Cogito
remembers well
the hard winter of 1944
filled with fires
at that time
this great-great-grandfather
gross herzog by profession
lived in a frame
he stood
in a uniform
in white trousers
in front of a summer house
on his right
a broken column
in the background
a dark stormy sky
with a bright mark on the horizon
Mr Cogito
thinks
of his great-great-grandfather’s death
without a shade of irony
did he lose
his sangfroid
when flames
mounted the window-sill
did he cry out
when he was dragged across the courtyard
did he fall
; to his knees pleading
when they aimed
at the great star on his chest
Mr Cogito’s
imagination
is small
like an orderly
lost in the fog
he doesn’t see
the face
the uniform
the white trousers
he sees only
the dark stormy sky
with the bright mark on the horizon
MR COGITO’S REFLECTIONS ON REDEMPTION
He should not send his son
too many have seen
His son’s pierced hands
his everyday skin
it was written
to atone for us
by the worst atonement
too many nostrils
inhaled with relish
the smell of his fear
one must not descend
low
fraternize with blood
He should not send his son
it was better to reign
in a baroque palace of marble clouds
on the throne of terror
with a scepter of death
MR COGITO SEEKS ADVICE
So many books dictionaries
bloated encyclopedias
but no one to give advice
they studied the sun
the moon the stars
they lost me
my soul
refuses the solace
of knowledge
so I wander at night
on our fathers’ roads
and here
is the town of Braclaw
amid black sunflowers
the place we abandoned
the place which shrieks
it is Shabbas
as always on Shabbas
a New Heaven appears
—I’m looking for you Rebbe
—he’s not here—
say the Hasidim
—he is in the world of Sheol
—he had a beautiful death
say the Hasidim
—very beautiful
as if he crossed
from one side
to the other side
he was all black
held in his hand
a flaming Torah
—I’m looking for you Rebbe
—beyond what firmament
did you hide your wise ear
—my heart aches Rebbe
—I have troubles
Rabbi Nachman
might give me advice
but how do I find him
among so many ashes
MR COGITO’S GAME
1
Mr Cogito’s
favorite entertainment
is the Kropotkin game
it has many virtues
the Kropotkin game
it frees the historical imagination
and the sense of solidarity
it’s played in the open air
abounds in thrilling episodes
its rules are noble
despotism always loses
on the great board of the imagination
Mr Cogito marshals the pieces
the king represents
Piotr Kropotkin in the Peter and Paul Fortress
the bishops three soldiers and a sentry
the castle the getaway carriage
Mr Cogito has many parts
from which he may choose
he can play
gorgeous Zofia Nikolaevna
she smuggles the escape plan
inside a watch case
he can also be the fiddler
in the little gray house
rented for the purpose
across from the prison
who plays Abduction from the Seraglio
which means the coast is clear
but most of all
Mr Cogito likes
the role of Doctor Orestes Weimar
he engages the soldier at the gates
in conversation at a crucial moment
—ever seen a microbe Vanya
—never did
—but the sucker’s all over you
—don’t say that your honor
—all over and it’s got a tail
—a long one?
—it’ll be two or three furlongs
now the fur cap falls
over the sheep’s eyes
and already
the Kropotkin game
is going full throttle
the prisoner-king moves with great bounds
grapples briefly with a flannel dressing gown
the fiddler in the little gray house
plays Abduction from the Seraglio
you hear voices cry get him
Doctor Orestes raps on about microbes
a heartbeat
hobnailed boots on cobblestones and finally the getaway carriage
the bishops are frozen on the spot
Mr Cogito
is happy as a child
again he has won the Kropotkin game
2
so many years
so many years now
Mr Cogito has been playing
but never has he
been tempted
by the role of the fugitive hero
not because of any dislike
for the blue blood
of the prince of anarchists
nor distaste for the theory
of mutual aid
it isn’t due to cowardice either
Zofia Nikolaevna
the fiddler in the little gray house
Doctor Orestes
all put their heads on the line
but with them
Mr Cogito
identifies almost completely
if the need arose
he would even be a horse
for the fugitive’s carriage
Mr Cogito
would like to be freedom’s intermediary
hold the escape rope
smuggle the message
give the sign
trust the heart
the pure impulse of sympathy
but he doesn’t want to answer for what
is written in the monthly Freedom
by bearded men
of feeble imagination
he accepts a supporting role
he will not dwell in history
WHAT MR COGITO THINKS OF HELL
The lowest circle of hell. Contrary to popular opinion it is not populated by despots, matricides, or those who lust after the flesh of others. It is a retreat for artists, full of mirrors, instruments, and paintings. At first glance it is the most comfortable infernal department, free of tar, fire, and physical torture.
All year round competitions, festivals, and concerts are held. There is no peak season. The peak is permanent and virtually absolute. Every two or three months new movements are formed and nothing, it seems, will halt the triumphant march of the avant-garde.
Beelzebub is a lover of the arts. He boasts that his choirs, poets, and painters almost outdo those in heaven. Where there’s better art, there’s better government—that much is clear. Shortly they will be able to measure their strength at the Festival of Two Worlds. And then we’ll see what remains of Dante, Fra Angelico, and Bach.
Beelzebub supports the arts. He guarantees his artists tranquillity, a healthy diet, and complete isolation from infernal life.
MR COGITO ON UPRIGHT ATTITUDES
1
In Utica
the citizens
don’t want to put up a defense
in the city an epidemic broke out
of an instinct of self-preservation
the temple of freedom
has been turned into a flea market
the senate deliberates on how
not to be a senate
the citizens
don’t want to put up a defense
; they enroll in accelerated courses
in falling to their knees
passively they wait for the enemy
write servile speeches
bury their gold
they sew new flags
innocent and white
teach children to lie
they’ve opened the gates
through which a column
of sand is now passing
apart from that as usual
commerce and copulation
2
Mr Cogito
would like to rise
to the occasion
that is
look fate
straight in the eye
like Cato the Younger
see Plutarch’s Lives
he does not have a sword
however
or an opportunity
to send his family overseas
so he waits with the others
pacing an insomniac room
despite the Stoics’ advice
he’d like to have a body
of diamond and wings
he watches from the window
as the sun of the Republic
sinks toward the West
not much is left to him
really only
the choice of the attitude
in which he wishes to die
the choice of a gesture
the choice of a last word
so he does not go to bed
to avoid
being throttled in his sleep
he would like to rise
to the occasion fully
fate looks him in the eye
in a place where he once
had a head
THE ENVOY OF MR COGITO
Go where the others went before to the dark boundary
for the golden fleece of nothingness your last reward
go upright among those who are down on their knees
those with their backs turned those toppled in the dust
you have survived not so that you might live
you have little time you must give testimony
be courageous when reason fails you be courageous
in the final reckoning it is the only thing that counts
and your helpless Anger—may it be like the sea
whenever you hear the voice of the insulted and beaten
may you never be abandoned by your sister Scorn
for informers executioners cowards—they will win
go to your funeral with relief throw a lump of earth
a woodworm will write you a smooth-shaven life
and do not forgive in truth it is not in your power
to forgive in the name of those betrayed at dawn
beware however of overweening pride
examine your fool’s face in the mirror
repeat: I was called—was there no one better than I