Breaking or in pleading torn, implore, placate
The endless finite silence; and the single dead
Echo of that one voice, a pebble dropped
Into the black depths of a well, will not
Receive another answer, though your wish may be
To have to speak no longer, nor to hear.
The formless clouds swell round the broken peaks;
In all directions are their vapours blown,
Empty and white and substanceless as thought,
And without aim. – Not without time, for time’s
The valley’s one-way street which guides you on,
Without desire, towards what lies beyond.
What lies beyond? The question’s dead
Before it leaves the tongue: Death’s violence robbed
Of triumph, grief of majesty, and all illusion gone.
The eye cannot delight in stones or clouds
For long, moves restless on, without desire,
By nervous reflex action, waiting for
A new unknown to break the further sky.
The feet are fixed in dull mechanical trudge;
No destination, always straight ahead.
You cannot die; and sitting still is worse
Than stumbling forward in obedience to
The senseless law of motion and of time.
Take this bone: it is life and death reflected
in the movements of the stars
Take this knife: it is my brain
Take this sheet of darkness spread over the fountains of hearts
that have stopped too soon
In the rhythmical heat of the dusk,
In the untethered veins of a handful of soil
Thrown down into the radiance of melting snow
It is the heat generated by the prodigious efforts of calm
To efface the salt water that stains the tall brows of the sun
Enclasped in the arms of space
Where the limits of creation lose their claims
And approach the last moments of shattering the formless
eardrums of the darkness
To release the definition of a body white with birth
Upsurging from the half-extinguished fires
The rubbish heaps that burn along the delta
In the world beyond the rocks
The slow death of the furnaces does not affect their heat
Bitumen tumbles in the laughter of its excrescences
And a nine-pointed star grows out of man’s belief
Which sand has choked back into emotion’s twisted coat
Where lice are red in the perpetual rain
And daylight’s finger has become caught in the hinges of shells.
w. 1936, p. 2001
PHENOMENA
It was during a heatwave. Someone whose dress seemed to have forgotten who was wearing it appeared to me at the end of a pause in the conversation. She was so adorable that I had to forbid her to pass across my footstool again. Without warning, changing from blue to purple, the night-sky suffered countless meteoric bombardments from the other side of the curtain, and the portcullis fell like an eyelid.
The milk had turned sour in its effort to avoid the centrifugal attraction of a blemish on its own skin. Everything was mounting to the surface. My last hope was to diminish the barometric pressure at least enough to enable me to get out from beneath it alive.
In the end, I remembered that she would not have to make the decision herself, as her own fate was sufficient justification for the hostility of the elements. I turned the page. Nothing could have been more baffling than the way in which the words rose from the places where they had been printed, hovered in the air at a distance of about six inches from my face and finally, without having much more than disturbed my impression of their habitual immobility, dissolved into the growing darkness. As I have said, it was during a heatwave, and the lightning had well nigh worn itself out in trying to attain the limit of its incandescence. I suddenly forgot what I was supposed to be doing, and the soil beneath my feet loosened itself from the hold of the force of gravity and began to slide gradually downwards, with the sound of a distant explosion.
p. 1936
THE LIGHT OF THE LION’S MANE
If I had a candle I would bite it in half, avid with spite and angry greed. Why is it that candles give no light unless they are wrapped in oak-leaves that have been pressed between the pages of books illuminated by ancient monks? I hate to see them melting away like that, losing first their heads and then their tails, and balancing what remains of them as a fishmonger balances his wares on top of a pile of wicker baskets. It would be better to send for a pound of butter on a chafing-dish. Butter is far better, for it does not bite the tongue.
The violet light thrown by the lamp strapped on to the miner’s forehead falls gently on to the surface of a subterranean river. Eagles have made their nests along the banks, and the fossilized claws of the neolithic tiger are to be found in the rusty sand of the river’s bed. I often sleep there, and when I wake up it always seems as though a procession of foreign tourists had passed by that way during the night, gesticulating with their arms and making lengthy speeches at every turn of the twilit tunnel. I should never have been able to explain to them why the tattered curtains are alive with toads, or why the spectacular staircase is in ruins. It is a long time since I spat into so deep a hole; I have never seen such pilgrims, with their bells, their books, their baskets …
But let us pause to consider the cause of the disturbance that is taking place at the far end of this corridor. The waves have thrown up the remains of a small vessel on to the sanded floor and among the shattered casks and the crumbs of the ship’s biscuits one can see a dissevered head that is trying to speak to the assembled multitude. The muscular effort made by its jaw is equal to ten times the strength of a derrick trying to break away from the crane to which it is tethered. It is covered with sunspots and will undoubtedly burst into flame at the end of a quarter of an hour or so. Lay your hand on the massive forehead and you will feel the gradual movement of the birds that are imprisoned underneath. Each bird carries a leather glove in its beak, and the fingers of each glove are packed with gunpowder. The final explosion has been timed to coincide with the demolition of the plaster-of-paris monument that has been set up in the middle of the park to commemorate the victims of a savage watchdog who wrought great ravages in these parts towards the end of the nineteenth century.
Heads such as these do not speak as clearly as the heads of missionaries. Let us set up a temple for the Alpine mission, and let us weave a great carpet at the foot of every mountain in the Alps, to express our penitence and our desire to make amends for the broken glaciers and the training clouds of glory. Our whole childhood was spent in the shadow of these great heights, so is it not only right that we should decorate them now with dazzling garments stained with our own blood? I have often expressed a desire to lie down on the floor of a cave, and it seems that my wish is at last about to be granted. Have I put on my head-dress straight?
Looming out of the gloomy shadows of the further chamber there comes a great catafalque drawn by a pair of milk-white does and decked with plumes of lilies and clustering branches of tiger-lilies that look like sword-lilies. It has almost the appearance of a November bonfire set alight in the public square because of a plot that failed. The lights are turned on one by one, the leaves of the candelabrum-trees are shining like buttered gold, the foam of the Gulf Stream glitters like corn in the sun, and the whole effect is one of heat, drums and fireworks. The monster Egg that forms the centrepiece of these celebrations now bursts open, and a living Archangel leaps out. Nine months ago she was but an atom whirling through the wastes of outer space, and now her robe is bright with sweat and all eyes are turned towards her. She blows one blast on her vast brass trumpet shaped like an oar, and the whole brilliant pageant falls to dust.
But who has tied a bandage round my eyes
so that I can no longer see what is happening? A bandage saturated with the scent of crushed laurel-leaves, which is used by butterfly-hunters. I have the sensation of being driven away in a rickshaw, I could swear that I heard footsteps behind me, the wheels of the conveyance bump loudly down the stairs. Clusters of sharp little shells are growing beneath my eyelids, ants’ eggs to throw to the fishes, chrysalises lying quietly in the dust beneath the feet of the marching tyrants, who will all fall down with fatigue in the end, and bury their arrogant faces in the mire.
p. 1936
THE GREAT DAY
When I woke up it was indeed very beautiful. The banisters were shining intensely and the stairs were coming up towards me. I was well aware that my eyes were no longer clinkers. I sat on the edge of the bed with my feet in the sand and watched the ambulances going past the window. What carnage, what thunderbolts and, indeed, what pascal lambs!
But I’m afraid you will hardly believe me when I tell you that at the hour when the night-bird should have flown, at the hour when all the matrons no longer able to have children should have entered the room, precisely at the hour of the one-o’clock séances and balloon-course meetings, it was one o’clock. I went out as the cock was crowing and held my head above the basin which I thought was full of water but it was full of cream and ashes. This, of course, brought on one of my fainting fits, but I soon recovered, and there, to my infinite surprise, sitting upon the left-hand flap of the little linoleum wigwam which looks like a forge-bellows, was she upon whom my heart had been set ever since that marvellous sunset long long years ago when my heart was still a captive beating its pitiful wings in the great silence of all the empty rooms and the dining-rooms and the cellars and all the wine-cellars. Without a moment’s hesitation I went straight up to her and caught hold of her icy hand, I can tell you, and her mouth was like a beautiful garden full of flowers and full of bronze flowers and beautiful flowers like medals. My adoration knew no bounds and the sound of my kisses on the air was like the flapping of sheets, I know what I am saying, it was like the bottling of new wine. But what was my amazement and despair when she told me she could never be mine for she was married to a leper, imagine it, what could I do to prevent my heart from bursting into a million little pieces like diamonds and emeralds and rubies, yes real ones, not imitation glass ones, never, I have never stooped to that. She tore her hands and feet away and a great pain shot through me like a shaking spear, for it was she who had taught me all those wonderful words, it was she whose blood I had wanted to feel pulsing beneath mine own, and now she refused to open her veins for me! My passion was so frightful that I might have spat right in her face, but fortunately I was able to restrain myself and she passed away like the great wave after the earthquake of Messalina.
When everything was once more as clear and as peaceful as the falling rain and the terrible burden of my sighing had lifted itself from my poor ravaged breast, I was able to see all the dear little children playing at blind hands’ muff on the mantelpiece. I took out my great burnished watch that sings like a bird and whose very hands are like feathers and whose face is divided into four sections that are the four seasons all coloured like the rainbow. I even went so far as to open it for them and show them all the needlebones and chalcedonies going round and round in its chemical inside. I take a great delight in mechanisms of all kinds, especially those that repeat themselves like the famous reproduction of the great hunting-horn that hangs on the wall in my family ward.
And then it was at last time for the operation. Were I to describe to you all the details of what took place on that memorable occasion it would take me ten times as many books as there are stars in the universe and in any case my pen would have turned to dust long before I got to the last astonishing page where I should sign my name in letters of flame and of gold and in letters of flaming gold.
First of all it was like drinking oxygen. I had the gentle maternal pigeon on the one side of me and the symbol of the crossed keys on the other, so I felt perfectly safe. It was like looking at that picture of a girl climbing a rope which hangs on the wall in the warden’s room, it was like woollen buttons and angel’s skin. It kept changing all the time, of course, so that one minute you saw the pattern of the minutes coming and going and the next you saw the sort of sawdust that they throw down on the floor if you look at it hard enough. I stretched out my hands and they went sliding far away out over the multitudinous seas whose voices came to me like the sound of chariots and firearms roaring and terrible chariots grinding the limbs of the helpless Christians to powder. Then the bed started to go up and down but it wasn’t a bed it was a sort of automatic pianola and it began to gallop away with me on its back right into the middle of the forest where the chimneys were all smoking away like fury because the silly things thought it was the middle of the night. But I knew better, of course, so I sat up there and then and told them that I wasn’t going to stand any more of it and I smote the ridiculous creature with the wooden leg a terrific blow across the backside, and they were all absolutely terrified of my voice like hundreds of railways thundering and my face like a red indian’s.
But what am I saying? They thought they could scratch me with their tigers’ claws and their eagles’ talons, the wretches, they thought they could scratch my eyes out, but they weren’t going to get away with it so easily. I lifted my imperious iron hand, I whose hands and feet are the very seal of all that is powerful and triumphant in this miserable world where the flowers only grow to please me, I lifted my iron hand and it became a sword and sceptre against all the wicked and unruly tongues that were clacking in the caverns in the valley of the shadow of death. My breathing became like the wind of the great tempest and I felt my body growing to stupendous size and the blinding light was like organs playing. What noble pity surged into my melting soul and how I knew everything that had been forgotten down the centuries by the mages and the saviours and the nobility of all European countries! For that was easily the greatest moment of all, when all the candles were being burnt for me and all the banquets were being given in my honour and all the assembled nations were singing songs in which my name was mentioned at least once, I think I might even say without boasting that it was mentioned ten times, in every verse.
After that, as you will well understand, it was not so difficult for me to come back into the daylight. The room was just the same as before except that the window seemed to have lost something of its original transparency and the table had been replaced by a milk-float. Nobody seemed to notice any particular change in my appearance, but if they had looked closely enough they could not have helped seeing the little snow-white footprints on my eyelids and the little black stars on my lips. In any case I took no notice of them, for I despise all men who have not the words love and death inscribed on their banners, and when I went out in the evening I met my mother walking in the garden. She was wearing one of my most cherished hats and I told her of all my recent experiences, ending up by explaining how I had been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for my exploits among the redskins. She smiled gently and, lifting her veil, began to talk about the time when she went to tea with George Sand. Then we went to choose the flowers for the wreath. And the phosphorescent night began to fall.
Night, yes indeed it was the night that fell, for I distinctly saw its columns dissolving one into the other and its arches falling and its great aqueducts falling down like the very symptoms of a weak heart after taking belladonna. I knew it was soon going to be very beautiful again and I was just as sure that, after what had been revealed to me and to me alone, I should never fall down. Two very massive and indestructible shoulders support this noble and imposing head of mine, this head which is so full of gorgeous pictures of the wonderful palaces, castles, fortresses and great endless glittering palaces that are my inheritance and where I shall at last rest these weary bones of mine, far from the stupid creatures I despise, far from the snaggle-toothed turnip-heads and the heartless women whom I still adore although they hav
e made my life such a misery, far, I say, from the turnip-tops and the butterflies’ hearts and the rascally curly-locked gas-meters
And now it is time for me to end, or rather, since I never really end, shall I say come to an end before saying good night to you and a downright sentimental journey.
p. 1936
THE VERY IMAGE
To René Magritte
An image of my grandmother
her head appearing upside-down upon a cloud
the cloud transfixed on the steeple
of a deserted railway station
far away
An image of an aqueduct
with a dead crow hanging from the first arch
a modern-style chair from the second
a fir tree lodged in the third
and the whole scene sprinkled with snow
An image of the piano tuner
with a basket of prawns on his shoulder
and a firescreen under his arm
his moustache made of clay-clotted twigs
and his cheeks daubed with wine
An image of an aeroplane
the propeller is rashers of bacon
the wings are of reinforced lard
the tail is made of paperclips
the pilot is a wasp
An image of the painter
with his left hand in a bucket
and his right hand stroking a cat
as he lies in bed
with a stone beneath his head
And all these images
and many others
are arranged like waxworks
in model birdcages
about six inches high.
p. 1936
THE CUBICAL DOMES
Indeed indeed it is growing very sultry
The Indian feather pots are scrambling out of the room
The slow voice of the tobacconist is like a circle
Drawn on the floor in chalk and containing ants
And indeed there is a shoe upon the table
New Collected Poems Page 10