Collected Poems

Many dispersed, yelling, but Dathan and the

  Third thief, the soldierly one, held their ground,

  And, inside the cave, Dathan spoke of barbarism.

  ‘Barbarism?’ Moses said. ‘You talk to me

  Of barbarism? When you, to my certain knowledge,

  Were one of the leaders of the most filthy display

  Of barbarism known in the annals of all the tribes.

  Count yourself lucky, Dathan, that you were not chosen

  For the ultimate punishment after that abomination

  Which stinks still in God’s nostrils.’ Dathan replied:

  ‘Very well, Moses. If I was a sinner,

  I was unenlightened. What excuse can you show?’

  And Moses cried: ‘Excuse, Dathan? Must we

  Have excuses to sustain the law,

  The law that sustains the life of man? For I

  Am in the service of life, while you are

  All given over to death. You, the nay-sayer,

  The sneerer, the denier, you still live,

  While better than you could ever be granted a dream

  Of becoming are struck down by your sneers,

  Your greed and your lust.’ The soldierly thief said:

  ‘It is a strange way of serving life,

  Killing men. It was my brother you killed,

  Do you know that? A man who had his faults,

  Like all men, but meant to harm to any, dead

  And dead like a dog beaten to pulp by children.

  Dead because of some nonsense about the Sabbath,

  For nonsense it is, and all the world knows it for nonsense.’ –

  ‘All the word’, said Moses, ‘the little world

  Of the stupid who disdain the vision. Your brother, you say,

  On your head and the heads of the evil like you

  Lies my sister’s death. Ah, but it is no matter.’ –

  ‘Ah, it comes clearer now,’ Dathan said, in glee.

  ‘It is not the law that drives you – it is revenge.’ –

  ‘No, Dathan,’ said Moses, ‘not revenge.

  Vengeance is not for me. Vengeance is for

  The Lord God, in his own time. There is for me

  The law and the enforcing of the law –

  Yes, by murder if need be, since you hold

  That just execution is murder – until men

  Cease to be ignorant and know that their own good

  Is the good of the commonalty, and that that good

  Is enshrined in the law. You will learn, be made to learn.

  Perhaps you are already learning, you,

  Dathan, the most obdurate of my children.’ –

  ‘Oh yes,’ sneered Dathan. ‘I am learning one thing:

  Remember thou to keep holy the Sabbath day.’

  In torment of spirit, Moses walked the night,

  Addressing bitterly the torrent of stars

  And the silence of the wilderness. ‘My people,’ he said.

  ‘Your people.

  They are a stiffnecked people. They are a people

  Who savour their ignorance like manna. Why why,

  O Lord, am I set above them? Why, of all the

  Men that walk the earth, was I chosen

  To lead them to a fair land that is

  None of their deserving? Why, Lord, was I chosen

  To bring them to the law they despise and spurn?

  They speak harshly of me, spit in my shadow,

  Cast stones at my son, send my wife home weeping.

  Am I not a man like any other,

  Deserving of peace – deserving of wine at sundown,

  A glowing fire to dream into under the stars?

  Was I not better off as a prince in Egypt,

  Jewelled with office, wearing the perfume

  Of the respect and the worship of men? God, my Lord,

  I speak from the heart and I have ever done.

  I am sick to death of the burden of rule I bear.

  What will you do if I renounce it now –

  If I pass it to Aaron or to Joshua

  Or to any of the young who promise richly?

  You can do little more than strike me down

  As you have struck down others. Well, it may be

  That I am willing to be struck down – lie at peace

  In the earth, where is no more trouble, pain

  Or oppression of the wicked. I defy you, then,

  Or am willing to do so, as others have.

  Am I not free to do so? Am I not a man

  Like other men, clothed in the garment

  Of liberty of choice? And yet I have not forgotten

  The humility of the servant before the master.

  In humility I ask – let your servant

  Go, let your servant go.’ But there was no answer

  From the array of the stars or the night’s silence.

  So he went to his bed, finding his wife asleep,

  His son happy in a dream, and tried to sleep.

  Then he heard a voice, his own, grown old,

  Speak slow and tired: ‘Moses, my servant Moses,

  I will ride you as a horseman rides a horse.

  You will always know my weight at your back,

  My spurs in your flank. I will never let you go.

  You have doubted, and will doubt again and again,

  But in spite of your doubts, you will bear the burden

  To life’s end. You will lead your people to the land

  That is promised, since that is my will. You will lead them,

  But you yourself will never eat or drink

  Of the fruit of the fulfilment of the promise.

  I will never let you go, but I will never

  Let you enter. Nor will any one

  Of your generation, sick with the doubt

  Of the Lord’s promise, ever enter that land.

  The milk of my beneficence and the honey

  Of my jealous love – neither is for you

  Nor for the generation that is yours.

  Those will flow in a land you may see from far

  But whose soil will never bless your foot, whose air

  Never delight your nostrils, and whose sun

  Never warm your grey head. I have spoken.’

  Ghersom lay silently awake now, listening

  In wonder to a sound he had never heard:

  The sobbing of his father.

  So at daybreak

  They addressed themselves to the march, with Moses grim

  In the vanguard, and the young, guarding the tablets,

  Sang with a hope they had a right to feel:

  We go to the land

  Where the hand of the Lord

  Showers blessings, and

  The sun fails not, nor the soil

  And man’s toil is a prayer

  Of thankfulness to the Lord.

  There it lies, beyond our eyes

  And yet within reach of our hand.

  We go to the unknown land.

  Lustily singing,

  The young, guarding the Ark of the Covenant.

  13

  EVER UNREST

  The wilderness of Paran. Wilderness

  After wilderness, and now this wilderness.

  Sand, rock, distant mountain. A copper sun

  Riding a wilderness of bronze. Thirst,

  Their close companion in the wilderness.

  Here? Here? they cried. We camp here?

  A wife said humbly: ‘I should think there must be

  A good reason for it. I have a feeling – ’

  What feeling, woman? ‘There must be a reason.

  What are they doing up there?’ Pointing

  Into the distance, and they squinted into

  The distance, to the mountain range,

  To two lone figures, high up, scanning the distance.

  Moses pointed afar. ‘Is that Canaan?’

  Aaron asked. ‘It is what I saw in my dream,’
>
  Said Moses. ‘I heard the name.’ What Aaron saw

  Was wilderness and mountain. ‘Now,’ said Moses,

  ‘We must spy out the land. There will be a long

  Time of waiting still. Set up the tabernacle.

  Our symbol of permanency.’ Aaron groaned:

  ‘Permanency. What do we live on?’ What do we live on?

  They asked that question down in the wilderness,

  Setting up their tents. One man said to another:

  ‘Can you see anything beyond there?’ –

  ‘The same as lies beyond there – the way we came.’ –

  ‘Then what is all the fuss about?’ – “He says

  We’re near it. But we’ve been near it

  Ever since we left Egypt. It’s always the same.

  Sand sand sand and more sand.” –

  ‘Be reasonable. We have rocks as well, sometimes.’

  And, in mock solemnity, the other intoned:

  ‘Beyond there, O my people, lieth Canaan.

  And what is Canaan?’ Another growled: ‘It’s a word

  Meaning a dry throttle and an empty glut.

  And sand, of course.’ He spat towards the sand.

  The sun and sand wrestled for the moisture

  And the sand won. In the midst of the encampment

  The ark of the covenant, magnificently adorned,

  (Nothing too good for the law, they growled) shone out,

  And artists still worked on its adorning. Aaron

  Called out the names of those who were to spy

  Into the wilderness ahead, one from each tribe:

  ‘Shammua, son of Zaccur, from the tribe of Reuben.

  Shaphat, son of Hori, from the tribe of Simeon.

  Caleb, son of Jephunneh, from the tribe of Judah.

  Igal, son of Joseph, from the tribe of Issachar.

  Joshua, son of Nun, from the tribe of Ephraim.

  Palti, son of Raphu, from the tribe of Benjamin.

  Gaddiel, son of Sodi, from the tribe of Zebulun.’

  And so to the end of the twelve. Moses addressed them:

  ‘Over there, my sons – the land of Canaan.

  Yes, the promised land. But a land so fertile

  That it is doubtless inhabited by men

  Of rich flesh and strong bone. Yet remember:

  Whoever now possesses the land possesses it

  Not by God’s promise. You will find people wild, uncircumcised,

  Worshipping idols. The land is ours,

  But not ours for the easy taking. Your task

  Is to spy out the land.’ They listened, alert.

  ‘Get you up this way southward and go up

  Into the mountain, and see the land, what it is.

  Whether it is fat or lean, whether there is timber

  Or not. And be of good courage, my children,

  And bring of the fruit of the land.’ In his tent, near dawn,

  Joshua lay with a girl, who said: ‘How long?’ –

  ‘Who knows?’ he answered. – ‘But will you be back?’ –

  ‘Again, who knows? But you will be a good reason

  For wanting to come back,’ embracing her.

  ‘Why,’ she asked, ‘is it you who have to go?

  I thought you were learning to stand in his place’. –

  ‘He would go himself’, said Joshua, ‘if he were younger.

  He’s as curious as I am.’ The girl pouted:

  ‘That is the trouble with me. Too much curiosity.

  Never at rest.’ He kissed her. – ‘You are my rest,

  You are my heart’s ease, my soul’s tranquillity.’ –

  ‘But curiosity comes first’, she said. – ‘Alas,

  Daybreak,’ and he gave her a final kiss. She said,

  Sardonic: ‘You had better blow your horn.’

  He smiled, strode out, and blew it. They assembled,

  The eleven others, armed for adventure,

  Hearing, as they went, with Joshua leading,

  Words Moses had spoken: See the people

  That dwell therein, whether they be strong or weak,

  Few or many. And what cities they dwell in –

  Whether in tents or in strongholds. Search the land

  From the wilderness of Zin unto Rehob.

  You will come, so says the Lord, to Hebron,

  Where Ahiman, Sheshai and Tamlai dwell,

  The powerful children of Anak. Be of good courage…

  So time passed and the spies did not return,

  But the men of Israel said: ‘It is always the same.

  He starts something off, and then we wait.’

  The women: ‘Like laying dishes for a meal

  When you know there is nothing to eat.’ And the men, impatient:

  ‘Is anything being done? Magic, that is.

  Spells, anything, to get something done?’

  But other men said: ‘That is against the law.’

  What was against the law appealed to Dathan,

  Who lighted a fire and seasoned it with nitre

  And addressed the coloured flames: ‘Tell us, we beg you,

  O spirits of the desert, when these twelve

  Are going to return.’ There was no reply.

  ‘What do they say?’ asked the credulous. Dathan said:

  ‘They say they do not know.’ – ‘Try something else.’

  Dathan drew charcoal, sulphur mixed with nitre

  And raised a flashing spurt. ‘They say,’ he said,

  ‘Never.’ But over mountain slopes in the sunlight,

  Under stars, standing on hilltops, seeing

  Distant night-fires, and soon – ah, blessed – hearing

  Tumbling horns hurtling down rocks, dauntless the twelve

  Fared on. One day, from behind bushes, some saw

  Huge-limbed laughing men, bathing in a spring,

  Speaking strange language, laving metal muscles,

  Tough of sinew. Ahimen? Sheshnai? Tamlai?

  If so, God help the Israelites, muttered Joshua.

  While, back there in the encampment, the Israelites,

  Mercifully shut off from future troubles,

  Pondered present agonies, as they called them.

  Dathan said: ‘Manna, nothing but manna. How about some

  Flesh to eat, as in the old days?’ chewing his manna

  With a sour face, and his wife said: ‘Kill a sheep.’ –

  ‘A priest has to do that for you,’ Dathan said.

  ‘And no priest will do it. We have to, he says, he,

  Conserve the livestock. God help us, or somebody.’

  His wife dreamed, looking into their fire, of Egypt:

  ‘Remember the fish we used to eat, and the melons,

  The leeks, cucumbers, onions, garlic?’ – ‘Don’t,’ he cried.

  ‘You make me thirsty. Not till tomorrow midday

  Does he strike the rock, his twice-weekly miracle.’

  No miracles in Eshcol, or all miracle,

  The crystal plashing down, the pomegranates,

  The grape-clusters heavy on the vine,

  While the spies stared incredulous before

  Their thirst and hunger growled at idle fingers,

  And then the fingers tore, cluster after cluster,

  And the noon was a riot of juice. Juice-stained, they heard

  What greatly qualified this juicy heaven,

  Mouths open, dripping juice, listening to

  An undoubted war-chant. Some, from hill-slopes, saw

  A distant dust of an army, armour and swords

  Catching the light, heard drums and horns and shouts,

  And at each other, dismayed. Be of good courage,

  So he had said. Much good would good courage do them,

  Strong-limbed armies barring the way to Canaan

  Of a people weak and weaponless, a people now

  Cursing Moses: Worker of miracles, work

  A
proper miracle, give us proper food,

  Or at least let us slaughter some of the sheep and kine

  That we may fill our bellies with meat. He cried:

  ‘Is there no end to your complaining?

  Is not the Lord God looking after your needs

  Have I not told you till my very teeth

  Are shaped like the letters of the words, that we are

  Here but for a space? The antechamber of your inheritance,

  I call it that, and soon the doors will open

  On Canaan, where you will feed fully of its richness,

  Be clothed in suet like the kidney of the ox?

  I warn you now – if any of you shall seek

  To eat flesh meat against my will and the will

  Of the Lord your God, it shall be accounted a curse.’

  And then the lifting of rocks and pebbles began,

  The regular stoning of Moses who, angrily,

  Shouted: ‘Fools, can you not understand?

  We have no Egyptian gold or silver now.

  We have only our flocks and cattle – the wealth

  We take with us to Canaan. If we start killing –

  Even a ram, even a bullock – all too soon

  We shall have nothing.’ But still they hurled their stones

  Till the troops hit back, and then they hurled only curses.

  That evening, in proper furtiveness, a ewe was slain,

  Some said by Dathan: Dathan was certainly one

  Of the greasy tearers and munchers about a fire

  Spitting with fat in the small hours. When arrest was made,

  It was Dathan who smiled: ‘Very well, do your worst.

  At least our bellies sing and roll with meat.

  Would you gentlemen of the law care for a kidney

  Or a hunk of haunch?’ Moses, sitting in judgement,

  Sighed, said: ‘I believe that some of you

  Would eat your own mothers.’ Dawn was coming up.

  ‘Meat meat – is there no other thought in your heads?

  The gravity of the crime must be matched by – O Lord help me –

  Must I go down in their annals as the hard man,

  Moses the cruel?’ Dawn mounted, higher. He heard,

  Or thought he heard, jubilant noises from the sun,

  And then he turned and, striding through the dew,

  Twelve men seemed to be singing. Aaron said:

  ‘The punishment – what is the punishment?’

  And Moses said: ‘Not now, Aaron. Let us not talk of

  Punishments now. See, they return, all twelve,

  Singing and bearing poles, and on those poles – ’

  Soon they could see jostling pomegranates,

  Figs ready to burst with sweetness, grapes,

  All tied with vine-ropes to poles borne on shoulders,