Poets Translate Poets: A Hudson Review Anthology (35 page)

Bed.

—You may as well have said

One wide gulf?
—Th

e drum-wail

Of your fi ngers.—
I’m not asking you to move mountains!

Love means . . .

—You are mine.

I understand you. So?

Th

e drum-wail of your fi ngers

Grows louder. (Scaff old and square.)

—Let’s go away.—And I: Let’s die,

I was hoping. It would be simpler!

Enough of this squalor:

Rhymes, rails, rooms, stations . . .

—Love is: a life.

—No, it was something else

To the ancients . . .

—So what?—

Th

e shreds

Of a handkerchief in my fi st, like a fi sh.

—
So, should we go?—And what would we take?

Prison, the rails, a bullet—you choose!

Death—and none of these arrangements!

—A life!
—Like a Roman tribune

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Surveying the remnants of his force,

Like an eagle.

—
Th

en, we should say goodbye
.

6

—
I didn’t want that.

Not that
. (I’m thinking: listen!

Desire is the traffi

c of bodies,

While we should be souls—to each other

Hereaft er . . . )—And he didn’t say it.

(Right, when the time comes for the train to pull out,

You let pass to your women, as it were some

Goblet, the sad honor of

Parting . . . )—
Perhaps it’s my delirium?

Did I hear you right?
(You, polite liar,

Letting pass to your lover, as it were some

Bouquet, the bloodstained honor of this

Rupture . . . )—Clearly: syllable

Aft er syllable,
so—should say goodbye,

Th

at’s what you said?
(As it were some handkerchief

Let drop at a point of sweet

Excess . . . )—
In this battle

You—are Caesar.
(What an impudent thrust!

To let pass to your adversary the sword

You surrender, as if it were a

Trophy!)—He goes on: (some ringing

In my ears . . . )—I double over:

Th

e fi rst time I am spoken of personally

In this breakup.—
Do you say this to every woman?

Don’t deny it! A vengeance

Worthy of Lovelace.

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A gesture, doing you honor,

And stripping the meat from my

Bones.—A chuckle. Above the laughter—

Death. A gesture. (Without desire.

Desire is the traffi

c—
of others

While we shall be shades—to each other

Hereaft er . . . ) A last nail

Driven home. A screw, if the coffi

n is lead.

—A last, very last request.

—Yes.—Not a word, ever,

About us . . . to any . . . well . . .

Men aft er me.
(From their stretchers

Th

e wounded—do yearn for spring!)

—And I would ask the same of you.

Should I give you a ring, a keepsake?

—No.
—Your wide-open eyes are

Unreadable. (Like a seal

Set upon your heart, a signet ring

On your fi nger . . . No scenes!

I swallow.) More ingratiatingly, quieter:

—
A book then?—What, like you give to everyone?

No, don’t even write them, those

Books . . .

Th

is means, I mustn’t.

Th

is means, I mustn’t.

Mustn’t cry.

In our wandering

Fishermen’s tribe we

Dance—and don’t cry.

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Drink—and don’t cry.

Pay with our hot

Blood—and don’t cry.

Pearls in a glass

Melt—and rule

Th

e world—and don’t cry.

—
So it’s me who’s leaving?
—I see

Right through you, Harlequin, for her fi delity,

You fl ing your own Pierrette—a bone,

Th

at most contemptible

Prize: the honor of ending it,

Of ringing down the curtain. Th

e last

Word. An inch of lead

In my breast: would be better, hotter

And—cleaner . . .

My

teeth

Press into my lips.

I will not cry.

All my strength—to press into

My soft est fl esh.

And not cry.

In our wandering tribe

We die, and don’t cry,

Burn, and don’t cry.

In ashes, in songs,

We do bury the dead

In our wandering tribe.

—
So am I fi rst? Mine the fi rst move?

As in chess then?
And

You see, even mounting a scaff old

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Men ask we go fi rst . . .

—
And quickly.

Th

en please, don’t look!—One glance
,—

(Any moment mine will come thick and fast!

And then how will I drive them back

Into my eyes?!)—
I tell you, you mustn’t

Look!!!

Clearly and abruptly,

Looking up:

—
Darling, let’s go,

Or I’m going to cry!

I forgot! Among all the breathing

Money-boxes (and commodities!)

Th

e blonde back of
her
head fl ashed:

Wheat, corn, rye!

All the commandments of Sinai

Washed away—Maenads’ pelts!—

In a pile to rival Golkonda,

Th

at storehouse of pleasure—

(For everyone!) Nature doesn’t amass

Riches in vain, is not completely niggard!

From these blonde tropics, my

Hunter,—how will you fi nd your way

Back? With her rude nakedness,

Teasing and dazzling to tears—

Adultery, like solid gold,

Pours out. Laughing.

—
Isn’t it true?
—A clinging, pushy

Look. In every eyelash—an urge.

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—And above all—at her core!

—A gesture that twists into a braid.

O, gesture that is already tearing off —

Its clothing! Easier than eating or drinking—

A smile! (For you, there’s some hope,

Alas, of salvation!)

From—that nurse or your fraternal order?

From an ally: from our alliance!

—Buried as I am—to be able to laugh!

(And unburied—I laugh.)

7

Th

en—the embankment. A last.

Th

at’s all. Apart, not holding hands,

Like neighbors avoiding each other,

We wander on. Away from the riverside—

Weeping. Salty, falling

Quicksilver I lick away, not caring:

Whether Heaven sent Great Solomon’s

Moon to meet my tears.

A pole. Why not bang my forehead against it

Until it bleeds? Until it shatters, not just until it bleeds!

Like two criminal accomplices, fearful,

We wander on. (What was murdered—is Love.)

Wait! Are these really two lovers? Walking

Into the night? Separately? To sleep with others?

—
You understand, the future

Lies there?
—I lift my head up and back.

—
To sleep!—Like newlyweds, on a fl oor . . .

—To sleep!—When we can’t even manage to fall

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In step. In time
. Plaintively:—
Take my arm!

We’re not criminals, that we have to walk like this! . . .

Electric. (As if it were his
soul
—has

Come to lie on my hand.) A current

Strikes through feverish leads and

Excites,—his hand comes to lie on my soul!

And clings. Everything is iridescent! What could be

More iridescent than tears? Like curtains, a rain

Of many beads.—
I don’t know of any banks like this

Th

at really come to an end.—Th

ere’s a bridge, and:

—What then?

Here?
(A hearse draws up.)

Calm eyes

Fly up.—
May I take you home?

A la—st time!

8

A la—st bridge.

(I won’t let go, won’t pull away!)

A last bridge.

A last toll.

Wa—ter and dry land.

I lay out my coins.

Mo—ney for death,

Charon’s token to cross Lethe.

A sha—dow of a coin

Into the hands of a shade. Th

is money

Is sou—ndless.

So, into the hands of a shade—

A sha—dow of a coin.

Without glint, without tinkle.

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My coins go—into his.

Th

e dead have their poppies.

A bridge.

Ha—ppy destination

Of lovers without hope:

Bridge—you are passion:

A convention: an unbroken between.

I nestle: it’s warm,

I’m your rib—so I cling.

Neither
ahead of
, nor
behind
you:

At some interval of insight!

Without hands, or feet.

With all my bones and forces:

Only my side is alive, O

Which I press to you, next to me.

Th

e whole of my life—in that side!

Which is my ear—and my echo.

As the yolk to the white

I cling, like a Samoyed to his fur,

I press myself, I cling,

I nestle. Siamese twins,

What are you—to our conjunction?

Th

e woman—you remember: the one you called

Mama? Forgetting everything and even

Herself, in the motionless triumph

Of ca—rrying you,

She held you no closer than I do.

See! We li—ke this!

It’s true! On your chest you cradled me!

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I won’t jump do—wn!

To dive—I would have to let go of—

Your hand. I press close,

Press closer . . . And I can’t be torn away,

Bridge, you are a bad husband:

A lover—slipping away!

Bridge, you have taken our side!

We feed your river with bodies!

I have fa—stened on you like ivy,

Like a tick: so tear me out by my roots!

Like ivy! Like a tick!

Godless! Inhuman!

To ca—st me aside, like a thing,

Me, who never cared for

A single thing in this

Infl ated, material world!

Tell me it’s unreal!

Th

at night follows night—some

Morning, an Ex—press to Rome!

Grenada? Even I don’t know,

Th

rowing back the featherbeds

Of Mont Blancs and Himalayas.

Th

e de—ep valley of the bed:

I warm it with the last of my blood.

Lis—ten to my side!

Aft er all, it’s much fi ner

Th

an po—etry . . . It’s good and warm

Still? Who will you sleep with tomorrow?

Te—ll me it’s my imagination!

Th

at there’s not, never will be any end

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To this bri—dge . . .

—As

it

ends.

—
Here?
—With a child’s, or a god’s

Gesture.—
We—ll?
I cling.

—Ju—st once more:

A last time!

9

Walking the factory blocks, loud

And resonant to our call . . .

A concealed, sublingual

Secret of wives from husbands, of widows

From their friends—to you, I impart the whole secret

Eve took from the tree—here:

I am no more than an animal,

Wounded in the belly by someone.

I burn . . . as if it were my soul peeled away with my

Skin! Steam disappeared down a hole,

Th

at notorious and foolish heresy,

We call the soul.

Pallid green Christian sickness!

Steam! You don’t treat a soul with poultices!

When it never existed!

Th

ere was only a body, who wanted to live,

Th

at now does not want to live.

Forgive me! I didn’t mean it!

Just a wail out of my gut!

As the condemned await execution

Aft er three in the morning

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Over their chessboard . . . Grinning

To mock their warder’s eye.