But they refused the wine, said who they were
And what they wished. ‘Yes. I understand you.’ –
‘We naturally undertake to respect all property
As well as human life. We will certainly pay
For damage inadvertently done.’ And the officer:
‘How will you pay?’ – ‘In sheep. In cattle.’ –
‘I see’, he said. ‘Not in slaves? Or women?’
Igal said: ‘We do not sell our women.
And we do not keep slaves.’ Shaphat added to that:
‘We have ourselves been enslaved – to the Egyptians.
Or so they tell us – it is rather a long time ago.’
The officer said: ‘The story of your people
Has travelled even to our cities. So. Now I see
Real live Israelites in the flesh. Not very much flesh,
If I may say so.’ Igal said: ‘We are a lean folk.
That comes, I would say, of not living in cities.’
And Shaphat: ‘A chosen people has to be
A lean people.’ The officer smiled. ‘But has also
To beg occasionally of the unchosen – and the fat.’ –
‘Oh, we do not beg, sir’, said Igal. ‘We merely request.’
The officer said: ‘With an army behind you? I do not
Think we can very well refuse your request.
We like to think of ourselves as hospitable.’ –
‘And the wells?’ said Shaphat. ‘The grazing lands to the north?’ –
‘You have, I hear, been living off salt,’ said the officer.
‘It would not be hospitable to send you back to it.
Salt is good, but only in moderation.’
And so the Israelites moved into the kingdom of Moab.
But Moses said to Joshua: ‘Towns. Towns.
Very corruptive places.’ Joshua said:
‘We shall, we hope, be building towns ourselves.’
But Moses shook his head: ‘Market-towns perhaps,
Full of sheep-dung. Call them disposable towns.
I am thinking rather of the cities where the citizens
Amass possessions – jewels and golden bedsteads.
Compromise, fatness, wavering in the faith.
Corruption. Even our short time here is dangerous.
The religion of Ba’al is seductive, Joshua.
We must watch our people.’ Caleb said: ‘We know that.
Zimri is watching. He has appointed himself
A kind of moral spy.’ And Moses said:
‘A young man of good family. Reliable.’
(Zimri walking watchfully in the evening,
Passing signs of corruption – laughing girls
Selling themselves for an hour or a night – swine flesh,
Drunken singing. He walked watchfully.)
‘Oh yes,’ Caleb said. ‘Very reliable.’
But Zipporah lingered at death’s gate. In the night,
Moses spoke to his God: ‘Let her go in peace.
I shall have no power over her final agony.
Then, soon, there will be very few of us
Left over from the old days. And Joshua and Caleb –
They alone of the old days shall enter the land.
Not I, because of my sin of doubt. So be it.
But what then is left for me now? Let the day come soon,
For all things are ready – a people in a good heart,
A people that learns to know its God. Let me see then
The river and the land from the high places,
And then be set free.’ He heard wailing
From the tent where Zipporah lay and bowed his head,
Though dry-eyed. What then is left for me now?
Zimri in daylight, walking the streets, observed
A public monument depicting men
Half-beast half-fish, engaged in contorted acts
Of love unknown to the Israelites. He saw
A woman, all brown blubber, laden with jewels,
Being carried on a litter, on her lap
A silver sweet-dish piled with powdery sweetmeats,
Powder and sugar about her mouth. Two flunkeys
Whipped beggars and children out of her path. He saw
A blind man, in the final stage of some pox
Unknown to the Israelites, being led by a boy
In the first stage of some pox unknown to the Israelites.
He saw a vendor crying his works of art:
A frank act of sodomy in silver,
A man eating a cat alive, an image
Of Ba’al both foul and seductive, the rarest modes
Of love on wood or copper. And then he came
To an open-air feast, a table loaded heavy
With strange dishes. Beggars hungrily watched
But were beaten away by men with staves. Odd scraps
Of odd-looking meat were thrown at them: they gnawed
At bones like dogs. And Zimri, horrified, saw
Two Israelites at the feast, wearing the apparel
Of the Army of Israel. Their host, a gross Moabite
With a moon-belly, urged them to eat and swill:
‘Nothing like this in the wilderness, my boys –
Lobsters fresh from the coast – crack one, crunch one,
Sausages – try one, try several. And this dish
Is one of my cook’s great prides: an unborn calf
Cooked in its mother’s milk. Fall to. Eat, eat.’
Zimri waited, collected a patrol,
And drove the drunken offenders, bellies taut,
Back to the camp and judgement. Joshua raged:
‘Why not? I will tell you why not – because it is
Expressly forbidden by the food laws: that’s why not.
Ten days on fatigues: you’ll soon learn why not.’
Zimri in night town, walking amid torches,
Music, dance, passed a man and a woman
Embracing naked and frankly in the shadows.
He shuddered, then grew angry when he observed
An Israelite he knew – Gaddiel, son of Sodi? –
Mounting steps to a temple, or what seemed to be
A temple, its front carved with contorted bodies
In acts of love unknown to the Israelites.
He followed but had already lost him in the shadows
When he entered a chamber leading off the porch of the temple,
Lighted by torches and splitting oil-lamps, gross
With pagan effigies. His heart thumped, he looked about him,
And then a woman emerged from the shadows, a Moabite,
In garments he took for those of a priestess, ugly,
Obscenely so, appallingly, seductively so.
She spoke honey: ‘You sir, are a stranger.’ –
‘An Israelite,’ he answered, his voice not
Well in control, and she said: ‘Ah a follower
Of the new god we are hearing so much about.
The god of vengeance which is called justice.’ He:
‘A God of love, we are taught. Of love. A God.’
But she said, smiling: ‘So – not a new god, then.
You are interested, stranger, in our faith?’
Stiffly he said: ‘My own faith is enough
To keep my organ of faith fully occupied.
Other faiths are an abomination, so we are taught.
Many gods – all of them unclean:
The way of the Moabites, we are taught, much like
The way of the accursed Egyptians.’ She said:
‘The Egyptian gods are gods of death – so we are taught.’
He said: ‘Madam, you have been well instructed.
I must tell you that I am here officially.
Are Israelites frequenting this temple? I thought I saw
One enter now.’ She said: ‘Israelites, Moabites –
The names mean nothing. Servants of
Ba’al
Come to the temple to worship. I do not enquire
Beyond the faith, beyond the willingness
To embrace the faith.’ – ‘And what’ he said, ‘is the faith?’
She said to him softly: ‘Look about you.’ He looked
At effigies, paintings, showing modes of love
Not known to Israel, she talking the while,
Holding a torch to light the effigies:
‘The faith is love, but not perhaps love
As a desert people will know it. You desert-folk
Live in wide space and feel a desire to fill it.
You are a nation, so I hear, that is desirous
Of being great among the peoples of the earth.
You breed, you fill your tents with children. With you
The coupling of man and woman is to that end.
You do not talk or dream of the ecstasy of love –
Only the seed’s flow, the setting of the seed to work.
To you, the act of the man and the woman is like the
Sowing of a field. To us, it is not so.’
Zimri gulped at some of the effigies.
‘Whatever it is, this love of yours, it is an
Abomination before the Lord.’ – ‘Which Lord?’ she asked.
Zimri said: ‘There is only one – our God,
The creator and sustainer of the world,
The God of Israel, the God of mankind.’
She smiled ‘The God of a madman on a donkey –
That is how he appears to the Moabites.
But you must see what we mean by love. Come with me.’
He cried out: ‘No. Blasphemy. Filth.’ She said:
‘It is blasphemy and filth to know that ecstasy
Which divides men from the beasts of the field? It is
Blasphemy and filth to know oneself
In the very living presence of the god?
The ecstasy is sent by the god: it is blasphemy
To reject it. The cleanness of the spirit,
From which all earthly dross is purged away –
To reject that is the sin of wallowing
In the filth of animals.’ But Zimri cried: ‘No. No.’
But he suffered himself, saying no no the while,
To be led to the inner temple, drawn there
In his own despite. The priestess ordered, with a gesture,
Two servants to open the portal. Then he saw.
He saw, before an effigy of Ba’al
As god of love, votive lamps burning. He heard
Flutes and a harp, incense-boats clanging, smelt
The richness of roasting herbs. Above all, he saw.
His eyes throbbed at the sight of the men, exalted
In a kind of holiness of lust, prostrating themselves
Before the prospect of love, before the flesh
Of the temple houris. He saw them, evil beauty,
And saw eyes on himself. They stood there, naked,
Before unseeing Ba’al. Zimri moaned, fled, blinded.
And the priestess said, as he fumbled at the portal:
‘Well, Israelite – are you prepared
To become not an Israelite but merely
A worshipper at the shrine? You are heartily welcome.’
But he cried out: ‘No. No.’ Blindly stumbling
Down the steps of the temple, jostled and jostling
Along a street of the city (no no), followed by laughter,
Obscenity, out of the city by its gate,
Back to the camp, hearing ring in his head
Moabite voices crooning about love.
He lay alone in his tent, writhing (no
No), and, pale in the morning, went to Joshua
To render a report. Joshua said:
‘Filthy pagan rites. Any evidence
Of our people indulging in filthy pagan rites?’
Zimri said: ‘I thought I saw – but no matter.
Nothing as yet really to report.
Wait. I am watchful.’ – ‘We know are watchful, Zimri.
We call you Zimri the incorruptible.’
Was there a sneer in the voice? He went again,
That night, to the temple. The priestess greeted him:
‘The Israelite. Is this more official business?’
Zimri said: ‘I come with a warning.
Any of our people – engage – in your rites,
You yourselves will be in danger.’ She smiled:
‘You mean the Israelite god of love and justice
Will wipe us all out with the sword?’ Zimri said:
‘Admit none of our people. You who talk of love
Should not desire to see love followed by pain.
But they will be punished, I warn you. I am watching.’
She said: ‘Well, if your priests and priestesses
(Do you have priestesses? I am somewhat ignorant
About your faith) – if, I say, they are willing
To persuade us of the superior attractions
Of your god, then we will be ready to listen.
Conversions are made in men’s hearts and men’s loins.
They are not easily enforced with armies and thunder.’
Zimri said: ‘I warn. It is a warning.’
From out of the temple two men came with obeisances
To the priestess. They recognized Zimri, being Israelites,
But he had his eyes to the ground, unwilling
To meet hers, despite his ‘Warning, a solemn warning’.
The Israelites rushed away, and Zimri, emerging,
Saw men running, but did not know who they were.
So, watchful Zimri, he wandered the town in torment,
Not knowing his feeling – anger, lust, envy –
Not knowing what he felt but knowing its violence,
And he came to a tavern and drank of the wine of Moab,
Hearing song, drank of the wine till a girl came
To ask if he would drink yet more of the wine,
Of the wine more, more of the, Moab the wine of,
More. But no. He shook his head and could not
Stop shaking it. No. I warn. A warning. Solemn.
‘So’ the priestess said, ‘you are very persistent.
Another solemn warning?’ For he was back there,
His tongue thick, tottering, shaking his head,
Not able to stop shaking it, hearing laughter,
Then hearing the laugher cease, hearing himself
Fall to the floor, hearing, feeling nothing.
Servants came forward, solicitous to raise him.
He was helped away to a bed somewhere, and the priestess,
Smiling with the sadness of long knowledge,
Said: ‘As so often happens, he finds his way
Through the little god of wine towards the great god:
Blessed then be the little god,’ seeing him there,
Smirking on the wall, crowned with vine-leaves,
The great god waiting apart, master and servant,
Humbly on Zimri’s awakening. Most blessed be he.
17
ABOMINATIONS BEFORE THE LORD
Zimri emerged from the cave and saw bright morning
Beyond the casement – a fountain, oleanders –
And flooding the chamber, wondering where he was
And then remembering the waking in the night,
Her beside him. She now, with eyes laughing,
Poured from a pitcher into a cup. She said:
‘You have slept long and deep. Take this’, bringing it.
‘Take. It is no poison.’ Herbs, achingly pungent,
View with dried rose-petals on the bed where he lay.
He drank, tasting herbs and petals, seeing the cup
Cunningly embossed with arms and bosoms,
Then probed in his mind for shame but found none. She
Lay by him in a loose robe, her eyes laughing,
Her hair loose, a torrent of bronze. ‘Your name’, he said.
‘I forget your name, or did I hear your name?’
She told him he had heard it – Cozbi, daughter
Of a minor prince of Moab whose name did not matter,
Servant of Ba’al. ‘Daughter of a prince’,
He said, ‘and you are here.’ – ‘But this is holy work’,
She told him. ‘We are not street-girls. What we do
Is in honour of the god. We call it holy work –
To bring men closer to the god.’ She kissed him then,
Holy work. ‘We are the chosen ones.
Not every woman can take her place in the temple.
Today you are specially blessed, I also,
For today is a feast-day of the god. You came to us
On the eve of his feast-day: it was as if you knew.’
Ba’al, genially ferocious, in a hammered bronze,
Was carried about the town that day, drums beating,
Trumpets and shawms braying, flutes cooing,
Some of his votaries drunk, all half-naked,
Honouring the god. Two Israelite officers,
Biting their lips, watched the procession,
Looking for – ‘An abomination,’ said one.
‘Look at them – look at that couple there.’ – ‘I see them’,
The other said, seeing them. ‘But what can we do?
The Moabites are not our responsibility.’ –
‘But those are’, said the first, pointing. ‘Look at them.’
Israelites, drunk and gay, dancing along.
‘Some of ours’, said the other. ‘I see what you mean.
But can we make an arrest? Now?’ The first one gloomed,
Envy perhaps in his gloom. ‘I see what you mean.
They’d tear us to pieces, man.’ As night fell,
The Moabites set up their bronze Ba’al high on a plinth,
And the revellers danced about, in contrary circles,
A contradance, singing something filthy and ancient,
Ending exhausted on the sward, any with all,
Man with boy with woman with man with, not too exhausted
To frot away, very holy work, while the god grinned.
But in daylight, in the garden of the temple,
Jasmine, oleander, fountains, birdsong,
Zimri saw holiness of a different order,
Walking, fingers entwined, with Cozbi, saying:
‘Why was I so slow in learning?’ – ‘You were not slow.’ –
‘I mean, I mean, why did it never occur to me,
Or to any of our people, that truly we worship
A god of misery, a god who hates all joy?
I see the truth clearly now. A god descended
When first we lay together, and it was not our God,
Collected Poems Page 27