293

Portrait d'Ambroise Vollard, 1899

He sits easily in a three piece suit
Of brown flannel, of which the
Breast opens upon a white doublet
And a curt navy bowtie. His back
Is slightly fallen as he leans against
The banquette of dark leather. He
Crooks his right leg over his left
Knee, his hands held loosely in his
Lap. Beneath them, a number of
Slim volumes he seems unaware of.
His face is frank and tired, a brown
Beard rising to his thin cheeks, and
A stoic mustache. His nose as solid
As his brow. His forehead is high,
And catches green and blue where
The clean morning light passes the
Coloured advertisements of the café
Windows. His expression is passive :
He seems almost the image of a man
Listening to the lengthy recitation
Of an old grief, unmoved to choler
Or to sadness. He does not show his
Force. His kindness is his intelligence.

291

As the snow comes down it swims
In luminous particles beneath the
Halogen lights that line the street,
Like the action of motes when dusk
Lays a golden beam through glass.
At this hour, the street is empty of
All pedestrians : at long intervals,
Solitary cars make their slow way
Down its length, their low engines
Breaking the hush, leaving dark,
Parallel curvatures as they crawl
Penitently toward the residential
Garages. Their is a rumour on the
Air as of an idea being born, but
It is only the fall of what has now
Fallen down the catalogue of years.
Our solitary life : the precipitation
Of sparks out of the great anvil of
A barren night, the snow lighting
Upon us in its fiery shoals. We are
As children, looking upon grace.

288

La Orana Maria, 1891

The virgin stands in a loose dress
Of faded red patterned with large
Flowers from which hang stamens
Heavy with pollen. Her full arms
Support the body of her son, who
Rests on her shoulder and inclines
Over her black hair. His body is
A bloated green and seems in the
Process of putrefaction. The air
About their heads is traced by two
Dull halos. About them the bounty
Of the earth extends : at the fore,
Bananas and guava ripen in bowls,
Slight flowers hang in triads from
The filaments of sparse bushes,
And beyond them the trees spread
Great clouds of incense over dusty
And vacant wheat fields. Ragged
Lights unwind themselves across
The face of the far mountains. The
Day tires of its chaleur, sliding into
Dormancy. In the lady's shadow
Three figures abase themselves.
Two village women, dressed only
In pareus skirts of white with gold
Motifs, clasp their hands before
Their soft bodies as if in prayer.
At back, a woman, faint behind the
Veil of her black hair, dressed in
A formless pink robe. From the apt
Curvature of her spine a collosal
Structure rises, bipartite. Her wings.
At their height the coverts are a blue
Of childhood nights and billowing
Curtains. The long primaries seem
To light the gloom where they hang,
The yellow of decaying palm leaves.
She appears to withhold her force,
Anticipating some commandword.
A body may contain such power.

274

Baudelaire: LA CLOCHE FÊLÉE

It is bitter and sweet, during the nights of winter,
Close to the fire that palpitates and fumes, to listen
For the distant recollections that rise up
At the sound of clarions singing in the mist.

Blessed is the bell with vigorous throat
Which, despite its age, alert and far-carrying,
Faithfully throws out its religious cry,
Like an old soldier watching from under a tent.

Me, my soul is cracked, and when in its ennui
It would people the cold night air with chants,
It often happens that its enfeebled voice

Seems the heavy groan of a forgotten casualty, left
At the edge of a lake of blood, under a great pile of
Bodies, who dies, immobile, in his immense efforts.

273

Baudelaire: SÉPULTURE

If on a heavy and sombre night
A good christian, by charity,
Inters your vaunted body
Behind some old debris,

At the hour when the chaste stars
Close their overburdened eyes,
The spider will make its webs
There, and the viper its young ;

You will hear all year long
Over your condemned head
The lamentable cries of wolves

And of famished witches,
The revels of lubricious old men,
The conspiracies of frauds.

272

Baudelaire: LA MUSIQUE

Music often carries me like a sea!
                Toward my pale star,
Beneath a hazy vault or in a vast ether,
                I set sail.

My chest forward and my lungs
                Swelling with the flax,
 I climb the backs of mounting waves
                Veiled by the night ;

I feel vibrating in me all the passions
               Of a suffering vessel ; the good
Wind, the tempest and its convulsions

                Cradling me over
An immense gulf. Other times a dead calm,
                Great mirror of my despair!

271

Baudelaire: LA PIPE

I am the pipe of an author ;
One can see, contemplating my
Abyssinian or Cafrine air,
That my master is a great smoker.

When he is filled with pain,
I fume like a little cottage
Where the kitchen is prepared
For the return of a labourer.

I enlace and I cradle his soul
In the mobile and blue weave
That rises from my fiery mouth,

And make a balm of dittany
Which charms his heart and heals
His spirit of its fatigues.

270

Racine : ATHALIE, Act I, Scene I  

                       JOAD.

And what time was ever as fertile in miracles?

When has God shown his power with more effect?

Will you always have such eyes that see nothing,

Ingrate people? What? The grandest miracles

Come to your ears without shaking your hearts?

Must I, Abner, remind you the course of

Famous prodigies accomplished in our days?

Of the celebrated disgrace of the tyrants of Israel,

Where God delivered upon his every threat?

The impious Achab destroyed, and the field that

He had usurped by murder drenched in his blood ;

Near to that fatal field, Jezebel immolated,

This queen trampled under horses' hooves, the dogs

Quenching their thirst with her inhuman blood,

And the members of her hideous corpse torn off ;

The crowd of lying prophets confounded as the

Flame of the heavens came down upon the altar ;

Eli, sovereign, in conference with the elements,

The heavens shut up and made brazen by him,

And the earth for three years without rain or dew ;

The dead reanimating at the voice of Elisha—

Recognise in these brilliant signs, Abner,

A God who today is such as he has always been.

He will, when it pleases him, let his glory break.

His people are always present in his memory.

269

Racine : ATHALIE, Act I, Scene I

                        JOAD.

He who calms the fury of the waves

Knows also how to arrest the plots of the wicked.

Submitting with respect to his holy will,

I fear God, dear Abner, and have no other fear.

However, I give thanks to the officious zeal

With which you open my eyes to all perils.

I see you still have the heart of an Israelite,

And that the injustice it knows of irritates you.

Heaven be blessed in this. But this secret rage,

This idle virtue—do you content yourself with it?

Is the faith that does not act a sincere faith?

For the past eight years an impious foreigner

Has usurped all the rights of the sceptre of David,

Bathed herself with impunity in the blood of our kings

—In the detestable homicide of her son's children—

And even raised her perfidious arm against God.

And you, one of the supports of this trembling State,

You, nourished in the camps of the holy king Josaphat—

Who, through his son Joram, commanded our armies,

And who alone reassured our alarmed towns—

Seeing Okosias' unforeseen death at Jehu's hand

And all the camp fleeing from his aspect:

“I fear God,” you said, “his truth touches me.”

See how God responds to you through my mouth:

“To what purpose do you adorn youself with my law?

“Do you think to honour me by sterile vows?

“What fruit will all your sacrifices bring me?

“Have I need of the blood of goats and heifers?

“The blood of your kings cries and is not heard.

“Break! Break all pact with impiety! Exterminate

“The crimes that pervade my people, and then

“Come to immolate your victims before me.”

267

Pierrot et Colombine, 1900

Colombine bares her neck and
Flares her dark blue skirt. The
Pink and white undercarriage
Shows as she balances on one
Slender ankle, her breasts and
Arms pale flashes in the murk.
Her teeth show in her magenta
Lips. Pierrot stands at her side,
A bulk of blue and grey, black
Buttons and black sailor's brim.
His eyes hold some secret, and
His hand is raised in a gesture
Of caution. His mouth a petal,
A cherry phare in darkness of
The wings. Gathering shapes
Fill the gulf behind them. She
Speaks to him : no response.
Around them, the lights dim.

261

Ecce Homo, 1850

The prisoner comes forward
To the balustrade, bound
At the wrists with rope
That trails, black filament,
To the hand of a dark
Keeper. Other forms stand
In the half light beyond.
The prisoner's head melts
In the haze, crowned
With laurel or with brier.
At his side a muscular
And naked servitor, demi-
Tyrant in a tyrant world,
Looms sinuously over the
Baying crowd of peasants
Gathered at the foot of the
Wall. Faces pale with anger
And vengeance and fear,
The white bodies of small
Children, clamour of many
Anonymous voices. All eyes
Trained on the condemned.
The servitor raises an arm
And shrugs up his ribs to
Bellow: Behold the man!

253

The facade of the bar is
In red brick, darker over
The wide, barred windows,
Paler where it meets the
Distressed tarmacadam of its
Front. Cigarette butts lie in
The grass and weeds where
The rain has soaked them
Brown and dark and fragile.
A yellow hydrant punctuates
The beige concrete of the
Sidewalk. Dead leaves drift
Across the doorway and in
The moist and febrile air.
The door is painted brown
And marked with a plaque
That reads PRIVATE CLUB in
Red and above a gold 284.
A silent air-con unit and a
Surveillance camera pose
At the left of it. Over the door
A white crescent awning with
Lettering in crimson that
Reads EAST SIDE CARDINALS
And the image of a yellow bat
On which two cardinals sit.
Behind the iron grating of
The window, three vacant neons:
Miller Lite, Budweiser, Pabst.
The light has left them and hangs
Before them in its first form.

252

In the lee of an aged
Birch where milkweed and
Clover have flattened in
From the wind and rain,
Feet from the iron grate
Of a storm drain gorged
With leaves and a curb
Where paper and plastic
Have come to rest, lie
Fifty or so mushrooms
In vanilla and coral and
Ochre and chole and bone.
They are broken white in
Places and elsewhere wet
And dark and corrugated
As labia in corona, some
Striped as cockleshells and
Others inglorious and dun.
Among the largest are some
Wounded, fibrous insides
Breathing of the pale air.

They congregate where
The wind is soft and the
Sky relents of its silent
Iterations. The afternoon
Is in descent : earth runs
To sleep, and so too these
Slight and tawny children.

251

At all intersections the lights
Hang empty, their casings
Swinging out upon the breeze.
Cars make provisional moves
In the space beneath them,
Each junction a negotiation.
The neighbourhoods resound
With the bellowing of solitary
Fire engines. Street signs and
Political hoardings lie where
They have fallen in the fallen
Leaves, tangle of sodden brush
And torn treelimb. By the side
Of the road the plants lie flat.
Power gone from here to
Shippan and the drab sound :
Families gather before their
Lightless corner stores and
Wait. North of the junction
The interstate's bland thunder,
South a raised section of the
New Haven line, where for
Two days a train of carriages
Have lain idle in their dark.

250

He sits below a faded brown
Oil painting of Japanese courtesans,
Alongside a minuscule portrait of
A mustachioed viellard framed in
Etched and golden wood. The chair
Is angled awkwardly into the space
Between a console and several
Canvases, one of which is mounted
On an easel throwing an abrupt
Shadow. His legs are held half
Under the seat, as if he were afraid
Of kicking them. On the console
Behind his inclined head a bouquet
Of flowers inside a funnel of gauze.
His face is ironic and pale and is as
Mustachioed as that in the portrait.
He holds a thin cane languidly in
One hand, and the tip rests lightly
On the fawn pile of the carpet.

249

A workman in the white
Cage of a basket crane
With navy overalls and
Cold yellow braces leans
Into the glowing crown of
An acacia tree. He has gold
Shivering in his hands,
And he trails it over the
Small, tender growths like
A weave of gossamer. Wind
Rattles the cage and he
Touches his hat and reaches
For a junction of the branches.
Automobiles are pale shapes
That move in the lenses
Of his large black sunglasses.
He returns to the earth and
The tree is dressed in a
Thousand particles of light.
The folded crane reposes,
Dull white and bleached:
Radius, ulna, humerus.

248

The maple in front of the
Drugstore is in colour,
Gold as blood and green as
Fire. Along the roadside
Stell chairs have fallen
Over in the wind. From
A doorway a piano is
Let sound by some soft
Hand. The televisions are
On in all the morning bars.
Doves tumble overhead.
Some stand at the corner
And smoke cigarettes : it
Is eleven o'clock Tuesday.
Old light in an old world.

247

What is there to speak of
If not to speak of love?
When the last of it has
Passed, true then to say
The motion has worn in,
No more will come, and
We will sing our orphan
World to sleep. O caravan!

A crowded train, night
Turning across itself in
The glass, the bare light
Passes of a place that
Is already gone. An end
To empire and to truth.
A gentleman that stands
Raging to nobody in the
Space between two doors.
Lights that pass and lights
That do not pass. Fugue.

Come here while I embrace
You, emergency!

246

Raindrops fall into the
Track of an old pathway,
Where pools of water
The colour of wheat
Accommodate them. Fall,
Softbodies and clarity!
Our earth is of a kind.
You cannot be certain
That the mobile of heaven
Hold or that love will
Save but certain that
The earth is all for you,
Where you find your end
And blow to fragments.
I have seen them hold,
And still cannot attest.
The quiet love that calls
Their slightness down
Is sure. And yet, no more.
The earth is good tonight
In its solitary music.

245

It was far from the
Noise and from the lights
Of the house, where the
Apples had begun to fall

I was speaking, some words
I do not remember, and
You were there, dressed in
The fire of your age.

It was a fine gathering,
The windows and doors flung
Wide, and a soft glow of lamps.
They had spoken to me of you.

Stars! How the future captures us—
I could not know then how. 

243

Il s'est tourné à la barrière
Et l'herbe était pliée à son
Côté et il s'est levé dans
L'air et il a poinçonné avec
Ses pieds avant et le métal
De les fers à cheval était
Comme si perforé en lumière
Sur une feuille cintrée de métal
Et les formes ont flotté dans
L'air et ont monté sur l'air
Deux formes en fer  : Ω Ω
J'était à ce côté de la clôture
Et il a pivoté contra elle et il a
Retombé comme une vague,
Ses flancs roulant au-dessus
Eux-mêmes et montrant de
Longues cordes et son cou
Tordu en arrière sur lui-même,
Et je pouvais voir sang qui le
Traverse, mouvant avec les
Pieds arrière et les palefreniers
Ont couru vers nous à partir du
Pâturage et j'ai vu sang qui le
Traverse et la jument a été
Criant au loin, et il pendait là,
Et il y a du sang palpitant, et j'ai
Tenu fermement sur ma robe.

242

La pluie dans les arbres
Et les branches déplaçant
Et je l'ai dit nous devrions
Cacher et poussé à travers
Et à l'intérieur, le vent s'est
Arrêté et je pouvais voir
Gris ses vêtements mouillés
Dans le lumière cassée et
J'ai touché son épaule et
Le peau a montré et
Elle a dit ne pas donc je
N'ai pas donc elle est entrée
Et l'eau luisait sur lui et une
Branche a sauté et la pluie
Qu'elle détenait a éclaté sur
Nous et nous avons été
Sursauter par le froid et elle
A crié et s'accrochait à moi,
Et après je sentais encore
Sa bras brûlant sur ma cou
Comme une marque chauffé
À blanc, et sa coffre et son
Visage sur moi et la pluie
Coulait de les arbres et son
Cœur battant dur et elle
A dit ne pas, ne pas, ne pas.

241

La grange est calme et l'air
Est pleine de poussière d'or
Tombant, et flocons de paille,
Et insectes flottants sur l'air,
Comme astérisques brillants,
Tous pris dans les faisceaux
Étroits qui projettant entre
Planches une pleine et miellé
Lumière.
               L'âne lève sa tête
Gris dans la portée de celui-ci
Et un halo est formé qui attrape
Sa tête et oreilles hirsutes,
Et il souffle les moustiques de
Sa peau avec un exhalaison
Qui semble prendre feu pour
Un instant. Les motes dispersent
Hors de vue, évasant à des
Intervalles comme ils passent
Dans le foin sombre. Sa souffle
Est en lambeaux, et il aussi,
Et il porte ses ossements
En arrière dans sa paille. Lèvres
Se retirent de dents brillantes,
La couleur de maïs detrempé.

240

La lampe était immanent
Dans la chambre et tout
La pièce participait de celui-ci.
Il est se pencher sur le lit
Et tirait la couverture
Par-dessus le petit garçon,
Et a lui aplanit avec sa main,
Et retirait les cheveux de
Sa visage et la lampe
Était immanent aussi dans
Les deux dioramas sombres
De la chambre, projetée dans
Les yeux d'enfant. Une lumière
Fondateur hors de tel distance.

Il a attiré le garçon à lui
Et il a dis à lui :
Je peux t'aime parce que
J'aime moi-même, fils.

239

Les colombes font un cercle
Partir de le couronne de l'arbre,
À l'antenne, à la cheminée.

Leurs queues sont
Comme coquilles de pétoncle,
Blanc crème, comme ils montent.

Cols noirs encerclent
Leurs gorges de lait
Ils appellent, assis tristement et

Sottement, entourée d'air
Tremblant, rose et gris,
Et ils montent une fois de plus.

Le soir leur couleur
Est d'abord celle de cervelle
Et plus tard ce de sang,

Et l'air est lacée de fumée.

238

Dieu est bon
C'est une belle nuit
Les fleurs courbées se
Baigner dans leur lueur

Perdu Jack est dormant
Dans le creux sous les
Arbres. Son esprit un petit
Feu, une fleur, Dieu est bon

Dans les petites heurs
Il y a étincelles dans les
Ronces. Une floraison douce
Tombe sur sa sommeil

Et le rêve est loin
Et la brosse est légère
Dieu est bon
C'est une belle nuit

237

Et quoi de toutes nos œuvres?
Dit-il doucement dans l'obscurité.
L'ombre a brisé, et foudre est venu,
Sautant par-dessus lui-même, et
Dans la lumière l'obscurité a parlé.
Mais ce n'était pas du tout un langue.
Si c'était même vraiment une voix,
C'était malfaisant et insensé,
Et il a regrimpé vers le bas
Du vallée sacré. Il a chanté son
Enfant à dormir, et il a retourné
A ses œuvres. Tonnerre a sonné.

236

Nous s'allonger, regardant
Tandis les formes passent
Par les chevrons peints
De notre petit univers,
La lampe derriere nous,
Nos yeux dans l'ombre.
Tandis le tungstène chante,
Les formes défilent
En mouvement diurne
Contre le terre tournant.
Dans l'ouest, mourant,
Dans l'est, en train de naître,
Ces icônes de la vie
Évoquent notre soleil.
Au-dedans l'ampoule du
Lampe, tout est un.
La vie est pas une ombre,
C'est une lumiere fugitive.

235

Le vieux s'agenouilla à le foyer,
Empalant les jointures de bois gris
Avec un tisonnier. Lumière jailli,
Une machôire de flamme se levait 
À la brique de la foyer, se tordait,
Couvait, et se retirait. Cendres est
Tombé dans la main de l'enfant.
Fagots a eclaté vers l'interieur avec 
Un rugir et une fragile lumière
S'épanouissait dans le brûlé épave.

La lumière est l'enfant de le feu
Et n'est pas le feu, l'homme a dit.
Lumière est le fantôme de ce qu'on
Ne vois. Feu est la mort de bois,
Et c'est une chose ancien et étoilée,
Et c'est lente. Tu vois? Et il passa
Sa main entièrement grâce le feu.

Sur les arbres sous le colline, illuminé
Par les étoiles, un vent coloré souffla.

234

Une fois Dewey a trouvé un
Lapin mort en l'herbe longue à
L'arrière de la maison, se couchant
Comme si il a eu tombé endormi
Dans la nuit. C'était un Samedi
Matin. Sa fourrure etait lissé
De rosée, et l'herbe autour où
Il se couchait a été bleu et tout
Enfilées des lumières humides.
Les gouttes étaient astres du jour.
Dewey l'a regardé, debout, dans
Une vieilles chemise blanche qui
Etait comme une robe sur lui, sur
Son corps léger. Un fantôme blond.
Le lapin était cassé à la cou. Taches
Sombres dans l'herbe, et les yeux
Étaient vacants et sans couleur.

Le feu qui a été dans le lapin a
Divisé et incendiée l'herbe autour.
Sa force a bondi dans l'air, et a
Répandu en archipels de lumière.

233

For some minutes the image of the
White room and the peeling paint
Remained to me, held in place by
A nebulous and disconcerting sense
That somehow the train and its
Passengers were only a continuation
Of my dream, that at any time
            I might wake anew and find
Myself somewhere else altogether,
For instance at home in my bed.
Of the preceding events that passed
Before me in sleep I retained only
Fragments : their order had become
    Confused and their vitality gone.
I remembered the darkness and the
Movement of lights and great sounds,
But I could not hear or see them
Any longer, they were now no more
Than ideas to me. I felt this as a loss.
I began suddenly to think of my
Brother, but it was impossible to
Determine if this thought had come
Out of some forgotten part of the
Dream, or from a submerged idea
Of him in my mind, or from some
Other far place without coordinate.
The longer I looked the fainter the
Images of the dream grew, until
    I remembered only the white room.
Smoke rose above passing silhouettes
Of buildings, lit yellow and ringed
            With a periphery of weak stars.

232

  A voice spoke : I will carry you
From the dark. Evening has come.
   It is not good to sleep so long.

I opened my eyes and saw that
Night had fallen upon the carriage.
They had turned on the lights :
A soft glow from behind acetate.
Streetlamps swept their rays over
The interior walls, over the faces
Of newly embarked passengers.
A string of saliva connected the
Lapel of my jacket to my lower lip,
And below the lip a crust where
Some had dried. I wiped it away,
Gently. I could smell sleep in my
Hair, and feel my own breathing,
Soft and heavy, and the clatter
Of the train passing over the earth
Was like a meditation. I looked
About me, and then out into the
Dark beyond the window. Forms

Of houses and their dim curtains

Rose from the pools of streetlight.
A prodigy of the train's interior 
Was borne out into the night. Our
Pale images hung in the dark like 
Ghosts. I thought about my dream.

231

    Once my eyes had adjusted to
The unadulterated light by which
They had suddenly been struck,
I was able to distinguish rows of
Halogen bulbs hung in the space
    Above my head, all encased in
Sheaths of thin metal, arranged
In series. I found myself in a
Room of some size, devoid of any
Furnishings other than the lights
Overhead. The walls were identical
Edifices covered in a white paint
That had decayed and fallen away
    In many places, revealing dark
And indeterminate openings that
Were like wounds in the side of
A gigantic and indifferent animal.
The floor was tiled, also in white,
And at some distance from me lay
   An area laced with fine cracks
As if a heavy object had fallen there.
The room was entirely silent, and
As I moved closer to the nearest
Wall my footfalls did not sound.
I came upon a door that appeared
   To have rusted into a recess in
The crumbling paintwork. When I
Tried the handle it gave on an
Obscure space. As I strained to see
Through it, I felt myself waking.

230

I realised at once that the little
        Lights were stars, and that as
They grew faint with distance
They were falling into the old forms
Of constellations. Some of the lights
Split or collided and left clouds
        Of gas that coalesced softly of
Themselves, and flashes of white
Occurred at intervals sending out
Darker matter among the trajectories
Of the brighter bodies. The furthest
        Pilgrims seemed to gain in their
Momentum as they receded, and at
The limits of my sight these stars
Began to wheel and pirouette upon
Unseen axes : as more fled into
        The lightless outer field a havoc
Of agitated motion grew there and
It was as if a silent will had lit
Dancing fires at the boundary of the
Heavens. There was a groaning
        Sound like the chassis of a great
Vehicle being demolished : a fury
Of evacuation in which the cries
Of saxophones and dying blasts
Upon the organ could be heard.
        Suddenly the stars were put out,
And all flooded with blinding light.

229

    As light continued to pour from
    Orifices rent in the darkness,
Blooming like a pale flower or the
Outflung corpus of a vast, ghostly
    Zooplankton in the deep ocean,
Odours began to rise up to me
    That seemed to communicate
Inarticulate parts of my past self :
The fester of desiccated geraniums,
Rotten apples crushed into soil,
    The smell of hay beneath the
Bodies of sleeping animals, the
Discharge in the air after a rain :
    The odours of my hot breath
Sharp in the air before me as I
Woke in the night, and returned
Into sleep : the commingling of oil
And woodsmoke and dust with the
    Reek of feces, with the effluvia of
Violet and magnolia and hyacinth :
A soft taste of grey morning air.

The milk-white particles spread
As if across a river in the night,
And it seemed that a heavy wind
Came over the lights so that they
Nodded in place like paper lanterns.
       An ache flowered in my ribcage.

228

Light flooded from the punctures in
The barrier, a mass that seemed at
First made of particles conjoined as
In a nucleus : as the mass fed itself
Into the darkness it spread slowly
    As into a solution, and what had
Been a stream began to dissipate
In fragments that careened outward
In every direction, as if of their own
Volition. Each sending out a solitary
Light into a vacant quarter of the
    Void : like luminous creatures
Crossing distant fathoms of an abyss,
Trailing insectile tendrils, giving
Off sparks of antenna or mandible,
Haloed in the aspects of their light.
I thought that perhaps they were
    Only pilot-lights of some greater
Structure to come, that their fragile
Movements into vacancy would bear
New forms out into the darkness.
For a time I did not know whether
    The lights lay beyond me or if they
Only played across the inner surface
Of my closed eyes : no sound
Of a carriage or engine reached me
Where I had gone. Somewhere ahead,
The trembling sound of a mandolin.

227

                   The ashes of an unseen fire
Seemed to rise out of the dim
        Space before me, and the barrage
Of drums and banshee horns
         Fade and gutter, until two voices
Remained, mutually held in the
         Alloy of one duration : a vibrato
Interval that suspended itself across
          The vault beyond me, collapsing
Into eddies of half-formed arpeggi :
        Now in parallel, now in fugue,
Now in a low counterpoint that would
Gradually build itself only to fall back
Into a strained and latent harmony.
        As these voices faltered and drew
Near the threshold of silence,
      An explosion occurred : the report
Of a single screaming trumpet,
             Then an arc of white light that
Broke across the surface of the
                 Far dark causing it to buckle
And coruscate like iron under the
       Heat of a forge. It was as if a great 
Mass of fused points of light 
   Were crashing through a membrane
Of slight construction : the very fabric
   Of the lightless deep shuddered and
Rent in places and cataracts of
       Molten whiteness poured forth as
From bulletholes in a black pail.

226

                I turned my body—in place,
As would a dancer at the apex
                Of a saut—from the darkness.
There was a sense of motion
        That I could not define, and then
A cataclysm : the totality of sound
        Seemed to crash in on me, first the
Jangle of a struck mandolin
        Hung quivering in space, then in an
Instant a confluence of strings
        That seemed to light disparate fires
In the murk ; following, a colossal
        Blow upon the piano that recoiled
Darkly into its own lower register,
        Held at once within a structure of
Thunderous drums and bright cymbals.
     As these colliding elements began to
Galvanise they were utterly overcome
    By an inchoate, monstrous howling
Of wordless voices and saxophones :
    A mordant and dissonant tide of
Ululating noise like the expression of
    Some primal and ineluctable force.
    It was as if I had been addressed
    From the obscurity by the very anima
    Of the universe, in an unmediated
    Language that I could not hope
    To comprehend. The dark seemed to
            Swell and prickle with far lights.

225

As he turned away from me I felt
Myself fall back from the room
Until I was some distance from it
    In the darkness. I could see
    The interior, lit as if of itself,
Hanging in the emptiness like a great 
Fire-balloon sent up into the night.
No stars were visible beyond the
Lighted place: it was as if making
My way on foot through the deep
Country during the darkest hours
Of night I had come upon a dim
    Garden, at the end of which
Lay a broad window and inside a
Bright scene to which I nonetheless
Could have no access : a glow
Touching the flowers and falling,
Diminished, before my weary feet.
    I felt as far from my birth as
At any time in my life, as I watched
My child-projection grow smaller
And less distinct, as I watched the
Steady light of my old bedroom
Recede into an enveloping dark.

As the room became no more
            Than a point of light, I felt
A tremor in the air around me—

224

            Into the now-distinct arena of
The lighted room came a third party
That seemed to originate in my own
            Person : a trembling and hazy
Projection of my body as it
Was in my childhood that went
Before me into the space, trailed
Vaguely by a grey aura as are
Images transmitted through static or
Exposed to too much light. This
Child-body seemed to move without
            Force : as it advanced into the
Room my own vantage drew back
In proportion until the projection
Occupied the centre of the room and
I found myself outside the threshold.
The features of the child were not
Distinct but I recognised his posture
            And his gait as being my own.
Further, there was some unspoken
Sense in which he communicated to
Me his knowledge of our shared self.
Sitting himself on the wicker chair,
He turned to me : as our gazes met
For an instant, a flood of images
Cascaded before my eyes, ending
Abruptly as he looked away beyond
          The thin partition of the walls.

223

This sense lasted only as long
As the last vestiges of the limbic
Void remained : soon my vision
Was presented with an integral
Reproduction of the room that
I had known, a facsimile that
No longer reacted to the touch
Of my thought by reconfiguring,
But stood consistently of itself.
    Only half-consciously, I felt
That the headrest against which
I leant somehow acted as a
Buttress for the rear wall that
    Lay out of sight behind me.
The seat and the trembling of
The floor of the carriage were
As foundations that put forth
An abstract support which held
My bedroom in place. The walls
Furthest from me found no
Counterpart, and they seemed
At times to vacillate, and the
Size of the room would not hold.

222

            As each attribute took its place
The object would seem to grow
Almost imperceptibly and at once
            To recede from me, as if by
Regaining the features of quotidian
Reality the bold structural lines
            Of its first raw form had lost
Some of their transcendent power.
            These lines of force no longer
Extended beyond the boundaries of
            The objects which they served :
As the characteristics of the room
            Took place, this naïve energy
Of self-construction shrank back
And became hidden behind the
            Tangible facade of the room's
            Outer surface. For the fleeting
Moment in which this schematic
View of my childhood was visible
            I felt as if I had gained access
            To a staging area of reality :
That this unmediated power
            Must lie behind all mundane
Experience, that somehow memory
Lived in every present moment of
            My life, willing each scene into
            Existence. I felt that perhaps I
Had never directly felt any of the
Sensations of my childhood, that
            They too had been constructed,
Passed down out of a senseless void :
That the present was perhaps only
            A prodigy of my living thought.

221

            Without yet opening my eyes,
            I watched the furniture of my
            Past life reconstitute itself
            As if under its own power :
Planes and vertices rendered at 
The slightest suggestive motion of
Thought converging into familiar
Shapes, finally making themselves
Known overtly to my consciousness,
As if by each speaking a soft word,
Every new presence consummating
A particle of the larger construct.

            As each object appeared to me
I had the impression of encountering
            It for the first time, and yet at
            Once of a rupture in the dense
            Fabric of the intervening years
Through which the object's attributes
            Seemed to fall. It was as if the
Haemorrhage of a communicating
            Membrane between two parts
Of my brain had allowed the fluid
Of association to torrent suddenly
            From one chamber to another.

220

    I allowed myself to drift
    Through a series of unformed
    Impressions that the memory
    Of my bedroom had provoked :
    As the dimming earth fell away
    Relentlessly beneath the wheels
        So too a vast terrain fell
    Past the portal of my interior,
    Lit here and there by images
    Many of which I had thought
        Lost in distance and sleep.

        I will not open my eyes,
        I thought, believing they would
        Flee once superimposed : that
        In the low light of the carriage
They would decay and be forgotten.
I held them before me wilfully,
So the feeling they communicated
Should not disappear. Gradually the
Frail structure of my bedroom
Began to assemble itself in the
        Cavity of my thought as if in
The form of a diorama. Walls rose,
Membranes of tenuous construction
Serving only to house the objects
Of my recollection. They lacked
Texture and lapsed when examined,
But held while the vivid objects
Of memory held their places as
The anchors of all contained within.

218

        As we were headed south,
        The sun as it set illumined
The opposite interior panel of
The imitation ebony laminate
That lined the carriage walls.

We came through a grove of
Willow trees that cascaded
Into a small pool, and their
Branches broke the light into
Fragments that swung wildly
Across the walls from north
To south. I remembered that
In my early childhood I had
Slept in the light of a magic
Lantern, which projected over
The walls of my bedroom a
        Parade of phantasms that
Rode silently through the dust.
Then I felt that I was calm.

In the aura of light that hung
Over the water, insects gathered,
Their bodies becoming aspects
Of its fulness, like particles of a
Fiery matter held in solution.

217

            I thought, in our loneliness
We sometimes fall out of this
Continuity of causes. At once
            It is as if our access to the
Communion of being had been
Interrupted, some cord severed,
            And for a while we can act
Only as would a device that had
Been disconnected from its anima.

Left without command or direct
    Imperative we are forced into
Extemporisation. The great lights
        Of our culture form a chain,
And that chain is our one hope.
We seek shelter in common loves :
        Rather to be loved than free.

It was becoming evening. Workers
Trudged home through the fields
In overalls and white shirts. Light
Struck the crown of a boy's hair :
Marigold! All else faded into blue.