Collected Poems

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Collected Poems Page 12

by Anthony Burgess


  And the flame the flame of a bush burning, its leaves

  Burning but not consumed, and sound from the flame

  As of the noise of some element striving with little skill

  To become a voice, then finding more skill and becoming the

  Voice of his sister Miriam. ‘Miriam!’ And, in Miriam’s voice:

  ‘Come no closer. Put off your shoes from your feet.

  For the place whereon you are standing is holy ground.’

  He was slow to obey. ‘Miriam? How is it possible?

  Miriam?’ And the voice: ‘I speak through the voices

  Of those who are near and yet far. The voice of your father.’

  And the voice was of his father. ‘Put off your shoes.

  For this is holy ground.’ And Moses, not without trembling,

  His fingers clumsy, clumsily obeyed. ‘I speak also

  With your own voice, but a voice no longer

  Slow and unassured.’ And so it was, his own voice,

  Saying: ‘I am the God of your father,

  The God of Abraham, the God of Isaac,

  The God of Jacob. And also the God of Moses.

  Listen. I have surely seen the affliction

  Of my people in Egypt, and have heard their cry

  By reason of their taskmasters. For I know their sorrows.

  And I am come to deliver them out of the hands

  Of the Egyptians, and to bring them out of that land

  Unto a good land and a large, a land that

  Flows with milk and with honey. Now therefore behold:

  The cry of the children of Israel is come unto me.

  Therefore I will send unto Pharaoh

  You, Moses, charged with the task of

  Bringing forth my people, the children of Israel,

  Out of the land of Egypt.’ But Moses, hesitant,

  Stumbling, in his own voice, what there was of his voice,

  Said: ‘Who am I. That I should. Go to Pharaoh.

  And should should. Bring the children. Of Israel.

  Out of.’ But the voice said: ‘I will be with you,

  I. And when you have brought them out of Egypt,

  You shall serve God upon this mountain.’ God.

  ‘It is God who sends you. God. The God of your fathers.’

  But Moses: ‘And if I say. The God of your fathers

  Has sent me to you. And they say. What is his name?

  What shall I. Say to them?’ And the voice replied:

  ‘You shall say to the children of Israel that he is called,

  For what he is called he is: I am that I am.

  And say too: the Lord God of your fathers,

  The God of Abraham, the God of Isaac,

  The God of Jacob has sent me unto you. And I am sure

  That the king of Egypt will not let you go,

  No, not by a mighty hand. But I will stretch out

  My hand, my, and smite Egypt with all my wonders.’

  Moses said: ‘But they will. Not believe me. They will

  Say: the Lord has. Not appeared unto you.’

  But the voice: ‘What is that in your hand?’ And Moses:

  ‘My shepherd’s staff.’ – ‘Cast it to the ground.’

  And Moses, bewildered, did so, and the staff,

  Touching the ground, writhed, hissed, a snake.

  A snake. He started back, afraid. And the voice said:

  ‘Put out your hand. Take it by the tail.’

  And Moses did so, still afraid, and what he took

  Was his own shepherd’s staff, no snake. Then the voice said:

  ‘Through this power they will believe. And through this, too:

  Put your hand into your bosom.’ Moses slowly did so,

  Doubtful still. ‘Now remove it.’ Did so, and his hand

  Was white as leprosy. ‘Return it your bosom,

  Then remove it.’ Did so, and the hand was of its

  Former colour. ‘If’, said the voice, ‘they will not

  Believe one sign, then let them believe the other.’

  Moses, now near weeping, said: ‘O Lord. I am not

  Eloquent. Not before. Not now. I am

  Slow of speech. I am of a. Slow tongue.’

  The voice was thunder, crying in fire and thunder:

  ‘Who has made man’s mouth?

  Who makes the dumb or deaf of the seeing or the blind?

  Am I not the Lord? For a time, for a time,

  Your brother Aaron shall speak for you, and you

  Shall put the staff in his hand. But with you, with you

  Shall be the power of the Lord.’ And the bush burned

  But was silent. Burned still, the leaves and branches

  Still unconsumed. He believed, he had to believe,

  Believed, had to believe, descending to his sheep,

  To the evening fire, the meat roasting, to Jethro saying:

  ‘You believe what you saw what you saw, heard what you heard?’

  Believed, had to believe. ‘And thus a heavy burden

  Is placed upon you. So.’ Seeing it all. ‘It is true.

  The one. The great simplicity. The is what he is.

  Well, at least I can die in the truth, knowing it the truth.

  But for you a heavy burden.’ Moses, sighing:

  ‘My shoulders are too narrow. My voice is not the. Voice.

  Of a deliverer. Easier to believe. It was a dream.

  It was a whiff of magic. Delivered out of Egypt.’

  His head fell to his bosom in a sudden sleep.

  Zipporah started but Jethro shook his head, saying:

  ‘He does not wish the belief. The belief is a burden

  His very flesh rejects. But we must believe, even though

  It means we must lose him for a while and, in a sense,

  For ever. He was not, as I always knew,

  Meant to be this kind of shepherd.’ But Zipporah wept.

  ‘It must be with our blessing’, Jethro said. ‘We must all

  Not merely bow but bless, we must will our loss,

  For think what we stand to gain.’ And he repeated: ‘True.

  The one. The great simplicity.’ But Zipporah wept.

  And when Moses woke, bewildered, he sought his tent

  Shivering, as though belief were an ague. Sleep now

  Would not come, but a storm came, and he went to the tent-flap

  To secure it against the rain. In lightning he saw Horeb

  And cried in agony to it: ‘Who am I?

  I am. No judge in Israel. Let the task be given.

  To one of the wise. One of the strong. Do not

  Place the burden on me. I refuse the burden.’

  Wife and son, awake, heard, then they saw in terror

  The naked body of the husband, father, hurled,

  In another flash, as though taken and thrown

  And lie writhing, groaning, then still. The wife cried

  Aloud to Horeb: ‘Whoever you are, what do you want of him?

  Is it his life? For you shall not have his life.’

  Lightning showed metal, a blade. In this dark she groped,

  Her fingers finding, as though told to find,

  A shepherd’s knife, his. Over thunder: ‘Take the child’s

  Life, if you must have a life’, and raised it.

  But with fresh lightning came the right words:

  ‘Not a life. But a token of life. Not the body.

  But flesh of the body that the body will not miss.

  Will that satisfy you?’ And, in an impulse, drew

  Taut the child’s foreskin and, with the sharp blade,

  Cut. The child, maimed, screamed, clutched where blood

  Flowed on to the flesh of the father, the loins and his father,

  And the father stirred, groaning in air,

  While blood dripped on the father. Then the father arose

  And the child was in his arms, then in the mother’s
arms,

  Kissed, soothed, while the storm travelled on

  And dark hid Horeb. So morning came,

  Fresh after rain, with birdsong, and the child was sleeping.

  They lay in love awhile, and after, in sad calm,

  Zipporah said: ‘Today?’ Kissing her eyelids, he:

  ‘It has to be today. It has to be. Alone.’ She wept,

  He comforted, and they rose as the day warmed.

  At least it was a known way. Staff in hand, he

  Blessed, awkwardly, a family that had done with weeping;

  ‘The blessing of the God of Abraham.

  The God of Isaac. The God of Jacob. The God whom

  Jethro has long sought. My love. My blessing.

  The blessing of Moses. For what it is worth.’

  And then: ‘We shall be together. In the

  Time of the setting free.’ He turned and strode

  Uphill to the solitary palm, blessing that too,

  Then engaged the desert. But he already knew the desert.

  It was Moses he did not know.

  4

  RETURN INTO EGYPT

  Aaron dreamed of an eagle made of fire,

  Consuming, unconsumed, swooping out of the sun,

  Yet this time now, as in the other dreams, in the desert,

  But here, in Pithom. And as it swooped, men ran

  To hide their own long shadows. He awoke

  To a relay of distant cock-crows. His wife Eliseba,

  Eleazar his son, slept on. He lay, loving and troubled,

  As the light advanced, dreading action, longing for action.

  (Alive, at least they were alive, they could live out their lives.

  No man could have everything.) Sighing, he arose,

  And he took his dream to Miriam’s house, but she

  Had left her pallet, earlier than he, her children

  Undisturbed, happy in sleep. At least the children

  Knew no other life. Was it right then to impose

  The promise of long agony on them? Troubled, he walked

  Down the street of the workers’ dwellings, open doors,

  Bodies obscenely huddled, flies, ordure.

  (Better the long agony, but still agony,

  Still long, perhaps endless.) Where the slave town ended,

  Miriam the widow cleaned out the bulrush cages

  She had woven for doves, and the white doves throbbed around her.

  Miriam the prophetess, as some called her, prophesying

  The long agony, but then freedom, whatever that was,

  Vigorous, laughing often, smiling now at her brother,

  A question in her smile. ‘I saw him again’,

  Aaron said, sighing. ‘This time as an eagle,

  Flying almost above us here. No longer in the desert.

  I knows what it means. It means he is close to us.

  It means I must go to meet him. I know, I know.’

  She said: ‘You still have too much doubt, like the others.

  But for the others there is excuse. None remembers him.

  Or, if he is remembered, it is in the wrong way –

  A far-off hero who could tame snakes, who could

  Strike men dead with a glance. Here once and hence,

  They accept or half-accept, may come again.

  But again is a future so far off as to be a

  Sort of past. A past like the beginning of the world.

  For us it is different. For our mother and father

  It was different, though they had to die with the hope

  Not yet bursting into dreams. Your dream is clear.

  I have silver hidden in the house. We need to bribe,

  Our overseer is bribable enough. You need to go

  Over the river.’ He said: ‘Silver? Where from?’

  And she, laughing: ‘Theft is too much virtue in you,

  Virtue meaning timidity.’ Laughing, launching a dove

  Into the light. He nodded, troubled, knowing it true:

  Why was the long agony reserved for him

  Who would have been content with quietness, or with words,

  The action left to his son, or his son’s son?

  So, when the work-day started, he trudged to the river,

  The ferry just arriving, loaded with farmers,

  A bull-calf snorting at a flutter of squawking hens,

  The boat emptied, the ferryman, black, from the south,

  His carven face swimming with light, swigged from a jug,

  Sour-faced on a mouthful of sour wine. Aaron said:

  ‘Will you take me to the other side?’ – ‘Double fare.

  A lot come into Egypt. Not a lot

  Go out, as you see. It’s always double fare.’

  Aaron said: ‘But you have to go back there anyway.’ –

  ‘Always double fare. Some are very glad

  To be paying double fare.’ So it was double fare.

  The ferryman was curious: why the journey? And then,

  Incredulous: ‘A dream? You say a dream? You

  Seek somebody because of a dream? Paying double fare too.

  A dream?’ Aaron said: ‘There was a time

  When dreams were considered important in Egypt.’

  The boatman spat. ‘That was Joseph. The old days.

  My grandfather told me about him. This is today.

  All science today. Nobody follows dreams, not any more.’

  Aaron said: ‘I do. There was a time

  When I did not. But I follow this dream. I have to.’

  The ferryman said: ‘Then you’re mad.’ Aaron spoke angrily:

  ‘I see. And the rest of the world bursts with sanity,

  Is that it? Mad because I dreamed of the coming of

  Salvation? The others sane because they are slaves –

  Is that it?’ The boatman earnestly said (and would have

  Laid a hand on Aaron’s arm had not his hands

  Been engaged in rowing): ‘Never be taken in by

  Words is what I say. Say that word slavery

  And it sounds bad. Say instead a mouthful of bread

  And fish and palm-wine for a day’s work and it sounds

  A great deal better. Who is this one you’re going to meet then?’

  Aaron told him. ‘Hear that, you fish down there?

  He’s going to meet his brother and his brother

  Is going to save the world. Look.’ (Earnestly,

  Squinting at Aaron across the blinding river light.)

  ‘If you’re going to have salvation, as you call it,

  It won’t be through your brother or my brother or

  Through anybody else’s brother. Forget all about it.

  You’re wasting your time. Nobody’s coming from over there.

  This Lord God you talk about has forgotten.

  He has other things on his mind. Let me take you back.’

  But Aaron smiled. ‘You seem,’ said the ferryman, ‘to be a

  Decent sort of a man. Touched, a bit, but that may be the sun.

  I’ll take you back. I’ll return your fare to you.

  Half of it anyway.’ But Aaron smiled. The fight, he saw,

  Was a fight against a man who, ferrying from bank to bank,

  Believed they were travelling. Good men, no doubt of it.

  Given time, they could be fought with words. Words:

  Words were a comfort as well as a weapon. So he landed,

  Sketched a blessing, smiling, and the ferryman

  Offered a swig of sour wine. Then, head-shaking,

  He waited for a boatload of the sane, seeking the world,

  Egypt. Aaron now left the freedom of slavery

  And sought the prison of the desert. Solitary, terrified,

  When night fell, of the geometry of the stars,

  He spoke to himself, or to someone: ‘There is, you see,

  The question of convincing them. So set,

  All of th
em, in their ways. Made soft by slavery.

  Who is he? Who? Never heard of him. Show us a

  Sign. Give us a sign. What signs does he have?

  Does he have any signs? Signs are what we need. Signs.

  You know what we mean? Signs. Signs. Signs.

  Something out of nothing. Miracles,

  Miracles is the word. You know the word. Miracles.’

  A star shot. The sky swung like a pendulum.

  Then day, a mirage of green, mirage of a caravan,

  Vultures gyrated, swooped. The corpse of a dog

  In the rocks. Vultures swooped. ‘Listen, Moses.

  Listen, brother. Brother. You know that word?

  You know these words I speak now? The joys of

  Slavery. The relief at not having to be

  Free any more. A terrible word, freedom.

  We are degraded, yes. But it is hardly our fault,

  Is it, hardly our fault. Only slaves.

  We are only slaves. You see, Moses? Do you

  Understand the words I speak to you, Moses?’

  A black sky, starless, with a dying moon.

  ‘Signs. You know, signs. You know what we mean?

  Signs, signs.’ Day and a fierce wind and he lay then

  Talking talking, half-buried in a sand-drift.

  Sand in the furrows of his face, till a hand came

  Gently to clear the sand, and he saw the hand,

  The arm. It was the eyes, he knew the eyes then,

  And the mouth quiet in the beard of one who, he saw

  With shock, was no longer young. Said to himself: No word.

  And no word. It is the first sign. No word.

  For though the word is in him it is I I I

  Who must speak the word. And so, together,

  With few words, words unneeded, they

  Stumbled back into Egypt. And, in black night,

  Unseen to Miriam’s house in Pithom. Unseen

  But heard of, guessed at. There was a morning

  When the whip was hardly felt: Came two days ago

  Over the river. And the children talked: ‘Gave signs.

  Turned his stick into a snake.’ – ‘But signs of what?’

  ‘Signs that he is a god. They’re always saying

  That we’re going to have a god. Well, here he is.’ –

  ‘But what is a god for?’ And the old men talked:

  ‘Something about his arm having leprosy on it.

  Then he puts his arm on his robe and pulls it out

  And the leprosy’s gone.’ – ‘That’s an Egyptian trick.

  He sounds like an Egyptian to me. Somebody coming

  To make us all work harder.’ But Dathan, plumper now,

  His linen bright, his fingers flashing in the sun,

  Spoke of the newcomer not to fellow-slaves

 

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