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"About suffering they were never wrong,"
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" About suffering they were never wrong, "
About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters; how well, they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just
walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the
torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.
In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how
everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman
may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the
sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into
the green
Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must
have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.
ARCHAEOLOGY
The archaeologist's spade
delves into dwellings
vacancied long ago,
unearthing evidence
of life-ways no one
would dream of leading now,
concerning which he has not much
to say that he can prove:
the lucky man!
Knowledge may have its purposes,
but guessing is always
more fun than knowing.
We do know that Man,
from fear or affection,
has always graved His dead.
What disastered a city,
volcanic effusion,
fluvial outrage,
or a human horde,
agog for slaves and glory,
is visually patent,
and we're pretty sure that,
as soon as palaces were built,
their rulers
though gluttoned on sex
and blanded by flattery,
must often have yawned.
But do grain-pits signify
a year of famine?
Where a coin-series
peters out, should we infer
some major catastrophe?
Maybe. Maybe.
From murals and statues
we get a glimpse of what
the Old Ones bowed down to,
but cannot conceit
in what situations they blushed
or shrugged their shoulders.
Poets have learned us their myths,
but just how did They take them?
That's a stumper.
When Norsemen heard thunder,
did they seriously believe
Thor was hammering?
No, I'd say: I'd swear
that men have always lounged in myths
as Tall Stories,
that their real earnest
has been to grant excuses
for ritual actions.
Only in rites
can we renounce our oddities
and be truly entired.
Not that all rites
should be equally fonded:
some are abominable.
There's nothing the Crucified
would like less
than butchery to appease Him.
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ROMAN WALL BLUES
Over the heather the wet wind blows,
I've lice in my tunic and a cold in my nose.
The rain comes pattering out of the sky,
I'm a Wall soldier, I don't know why.
The mist creeps over the hard grey stone,
My girl's in Tungria; I sleep alone.
Aulus goes hanging around her place,
I don't like his manners, I don't like his face.
Piso's a Christian, he worships a fish;
There'd be no kissing if he had his wish.
She gave me a ring but I diced it away;
I want my girl and I want my pay.
When I'm a veteran with only one eye
I shall do nothing but look at the sky.
October 1937
EPITAPH ON A TYRANT
Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after,
And the poetry he invented was easy to understand;
He knew human folly like the back of his hand,
And was greatly interested in armies and fleets;
When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter,
And when he cried the little children died in the streets. [259]
January 1939
REFUGEE BLUES
Say this city has ten million souls,
Some are living in mansions, some are living in holes:
Yet there's no place for us, my dear, yet there's no place for us.
Once we had a country and we thought it fair,
Look in the atlas and you'll find it there:
We cannot go there now, my dear, we cannot go there now.
In the village churchyard there grows an old yew,
Every spring it blossoms anew:
Old passports can't do that, my dear, old passports can't do that.
The consul banged the table and said,
" If you've got no passport you're officially dead":
But we are still alive, my dear, but we are still alive.
Went to a committee; they offered me a chair;
Asked me politely to return next year:
But where shall we go to-day, my dear, but where shall we go to-day?
Came to a public meeting; the speaker got up and said;
" If we let them in, they will steal our daily bread":
He was talking of you and me, my dear, he was talking of you and me.
Thought I heard the thunder rumbling in the sky;
It was Hitler over Europe, saying, " They must die":
O we were in his mind, my dear, O we were in his mind.
Saw a poodle in a jacket fastened with a pin,
Saw a door opened and a cat let in:
But they weren't German Jews, my dear, but they weren't German Jews.
Went down the harbour and stood upon the quay,
Saw the fish swimming as if they were free:
Only ten feet away, my dear, only ten feet away.
Walked through a wood, saw the birds in the trees;
They had no politicians and sang at their ease:
They weren't the human race, my dear, they weren't the human race.
Dreamed I saw a building with a thousand floors,
A thousand windows and a thousand doors:
Not one of them was ours, my dear, not one of them was ours.
Stood on a great plain in the falling snow;
Ten thousand soldiers marched to and fro:
Looking for you and me, my dear, looking for you and me.
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March 1939
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