Ariel: The Restored Edition (6 page)

Jade

Stone of the side,

The agonized

Side of green Adam, I

Smile, cross-legged,

Enigmatical,

Shifting my clarities.

So valuable.

How the sun polishes this shoulder!

And should

The moon, my

Indefatigable cousin

Rise, with her cancerous pallors,

Dragging trees

Little bushy polyps,

Little nets,

My visibilities hide.

I gleam like a mirror.

At this facet the bridegroom arrives,

Lord of the mirrors.

It is himself he guides

In among these silk

Screens, these rustling appurtenances.

I breathe, and the mouth

Veil stirs its curtain.

My eye

Veil is

A concatenation of rainbows.

I am his.

Even in his

Absence, I

Revolve in my

Sheath of impossibles,

Priceless and quiet

Among these parakeets, macaws.

O chatterers

Attendants of the eyelash!

I shall unloose

One feather, like the peacock.

Attendants of the lip!

I shall unloose

One note

Shattering

The chandelier

Of air that all day plies

Its crystals,

A million ignorants.

Attendants!

Attendants!

And at his next step

I shall unloose

I shall unloose

From the small jeweled

Doll he guards like a heart

The lioness,

The shriek in the bath,

The cloak of holes.

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary.

The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.

The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God,

Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility.

Fumey, spiritous mists inhabit this place

Separated from my house by a row of headstones.

I simply cannot see where there is to get to.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,

White as a knuckle and terribly upset.

It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet

With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.

Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky

Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection.

At the end, they soberly bong out their names.

The yew tree points up. It has a Gothic shape.

The eyes lift after it and find the moon.

The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.

Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.

How I would like to believe in tenderness

The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,

Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.

I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering

Blue and mystical over the face of the stars.

Inside the church, the saints will be all blue,

Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,

Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.

The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.

And the message of the yew tree is blacknessblackness and silence.

What is this, behind this veil, is it ugly, is it beautiful?

It is shimmering, has it breasts, has it edges?

I am sure it is unique, I am sure it is just what I want.

When I am quiet at my cooking I feel it looking, I feel it thinking

‘Is this the one I am to appear for,

Is this the elect one, the one with black eye-pits and a scar?

Measuring the flour, cutting off the surplus,

Adhering to rules, to rules, to rules.

Is this the one for the annunciation?

My god, what a laugh!’

But it shimmers, it does not stop, and I think it wants me.

I would not mind if it was bones, or a pearl button.

I do not want much of a present, anyway, this year.

After all, I am alive only by accident.

I would have killed myself gladly that time any possible way.

Now there are these veils, shimmering like curtains,

The diaphanous satins of a January window

White as babies’ bedding and glittering with dead breath. O ivory!

It must be a tusk there, a ghost-column.

Can you not see I do not mind what it is.

Can you not give it to me?

Do not be ashamed—I do not mind if it is small.

Do not be mean, I am ready for enormity.

Let us sit down to it, one on either side, admiring the gleam,

The glaze, the mirrory variety of it.

Let us eat our last supper at it, like a hospital plate.

I know why you will not give it to me,

You are terrified

The world will go up in a shriek, and your head with it,

Bossed, brazen, an antique shield,

A marvel to your great-grandchildren.

Do not be afraid, it is not so.

I will only take it and go aside quietly.

You will not even hear me opening it, no paper crackle,

No falling ribbons, no scream at the end.

I do not think you credit me with this discretion.

If you only knew how the veils were killing my days.

To you they are only transparencies, clear air.

But my god, the clouds are like cotton——

Armies of them. They are carbon monoxide.

Sweetly, sweetly I breathe in,

Filling my veins with invisibles, with the million

Probable motes that tick the years off my life.

You are silver-suited for the occasion. O adding machine——

Is it impossible for you to let something go and have it go whole?

Must you stamp each piece in purple,

Must you kill what you can?

There is this one thing I want today, and only you can give it to me.

It stands at my window, big as the sky.

It breathes from my sheets, the cold, dead center

Where spilt lives congeal and stiffen to history.

Let it not come by the mail, finger by finger.

Let it not come by word of mouth, I should be sixty

By the time the whole of it was delivered, and too numb to use it.

Only let down the veil, the veil, the veil.

If it were death

I would admire the deep gravity of it, its timeless eyes.

I would know you were serious.

There would be a nobility then, there would be a birthday.

And the knife not carve, but enter

Pure and clean as the cry of a baby,

And the universe slide from my side.

Love, the world

Suddenly turns, turns color. The streetlight

Splits through the rats-tail

Pods of the laburnum at nine in the morning.

It is the Arctic,

This little black

Circle, with its tawn silk grassesbabies hair.

There is a green in the air,

Soft, delectable.

It cushions me lovingly.

I am flushed and warm.

I think I may be enormous,

I am so stupidly happy,

My Wellingtons

Squelching and squelching through the beautiful red.

This is my property.

Two times a day

I pace it, sniffing

The barbarous holly with its viridian

Scallops, pure iron,

And the wall of old corpses.

I love them.

I love them like history.

The apples are golden,

Imagine it

My seventy trees

Holding their gold-ruddy balls

In a thick grey death-soup,

Their million

Gold leaves metal and breathless.

O love, O celibate.

Nobody but me

Walks the waist-high wet.

The irreplaceable

Golds bleed and deepen, the mouths of Thermopylae.

No use, no use, now, begging Recognize.

There is nothing to do with such a beautiful blank but smooth it.

Name, house, car keys,

The little toy wife

Erased, sigh, sigh.

Four babies and a cocker.

Nurses the size of worms and a minute doctor

Tuck him in.

Old happenings

Peel from his skin.

Down the drain with all of it!

Hugging his pillow

Like the red-headed sister he never dared to touch,

He dreams of a new one

Barren, the lot are barren.

And of another color.

How theyll travel, travel, travel, scenery

Sparking off their brother-sister rears,

A comet tail.

And money the sperm fluid of it all.

One nurse brings in

A green drink, one a blue.

They rise on either side of him like stars.

The two drinks flame and foam.

O sister, mother, wife,

Sweet Lethe is my life.

I am never, never, never coming home!

If the moon smiled, she would resemble you.

You leave the same impression

Of something beautiful, but annihilating.

Both of you are great light borrowers.

Her O-mouth grieves at the world; yours is unaffected,

And your first gift is making stone out of everything.

I wake to a mausoleum; you are here,

Ticking your fingers on the marble table, looking for cigarettes,

Spiteful as a woman, but not so nervous,

And dying to say something unanswerable.

The moon, too, abases her subjects,

But in the daytime she is ridiculous.

Your dissatisfactions, on the other hand,

Arrive through the mailslot with loving regularity,

White and blank, expansive as carbon monoxide.

No day is safe from news of you,

Walking about in Africa maybe, but thinking of me.

You do not do, you do not do

Any more, black shoe

In which I have lived like a foot

For thirty years, poor and white,

Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.

You died before I had time

Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,

Ghastly statue with one grey toe

Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic

Where it pours bean green over blue

In the waters off beautiful Nauset.

I used to pray to recover you.

Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town

Scraped flat by the roller

Of wars, wars, wars.

But the name of the town is common.

My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.

So I never could tell where you

Put your foot, your root,

I never could talk to you.

The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.

Ich, ich, ich, ich.

I could hardly speak.

I thought every German was you.

And the language obscene

An engine, an engine

Chuffing me off like a Jew.

A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.

I began to talk like a Jew.

I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna

Are not very pure or true.

With my gypsy ancestress and my weird luck

And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack

I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of
you
,

With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.

And your neat moustache

And your Aryan eye, bright blue.

Panzer-man, panzer-man, o You

Not God but a swastika

So black no sky could squeak through.

Every woman adores a Fascist,

The boot in the face, the brute

Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,

In the picture I have of you,

A cleft in your chin instead of your foot

But no less a devil for that, no not

Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.

I was ten when they buried you.

At twenty I tried to die

And get back, back, back to you.

I thought even the bones would do

But they pulled me out of the sack,

And they stuck me together with glue.

And then I knew what to do.

I made a model of you,

A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.

And I said I do, I do.

So daddy, Im finally through.

The black telephones off at the root,

The voices just cant worm through.

If Ive killed one man, Ive killed two

The vampire who said he was you

And drank my blood for a year,

Seven years, if you want to know.

Daddy, you can lie back now.

Theres a stake in your fat black heart

And the villagers never liked you.

They are dancing and stamping on you.

They always knew it was you.

Daddy, daddy, you bastard, Im through.