The Laughter of the Sphinx

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The Laughter of the Sphinx Page 4

by Michael Palmer


  STILL

  (A CANTATA—OR NADA—

  FOR SISTER SATAN)

  Zeit ist Geld

  as we say in America

  and art too

  buckle my shoe

  to the wall

  my heart to my jaw

  my throat to the kestrel’s cry

  Call me Digital Mike

  or Mnemonic Mike

  or Felonious Mike

  or even better

  don’t ever call

  Time is money

  says it all

  1st chorus

  And the children, who have no language,

  sing:

  obatai roma obatai

  romatai oba romatai

  They sing lee la lee

  in pursuit of light

  And the children, who have no knowledge

  of death

  sing with their darting hands

  offer praise in the stubble fields

  turn their faces to greet the rain

  And the children, with their knowledge of death,

  place sound upon sound

  stone upon stone

  fire upon flame

  They pour sand on their heads

  They bow toward the west

  obatai roma obatai

  “There’s no

  more to say”

  –Inger Christensen

  There’s no there’s no there’s no

  more to say

  There are the minutes the hours

  the pulses of the day

  There are day lilies, cormorants, fretted clouds

  There are the sweet smells of baking,

  apples tart and mild

  along the way

  There is a chair of solid oak

  You sit on it to write

  You get up and pace

  and it is late, the light

  is gone, there’s a drunk

  muttering by the curbside

  about eyes, Why so many

  eyes

  ancient, babbling child, swollen,

  tattered, rheumy-eyed

  once hazel perhaps, hazel-eyed,

  why so many hours, so many eyes

  There’s no there’s no there’s no

  more to say, there’s a chair

  of solid oak, a desk

  where you sit to write,

  scent of night jasmine,

  memory of a face, a voice,

  body taut, short of breath, des-

  perate dancer

  grasping for air, never, not

  ever quite enough, actias

  luna, luna moth, desperately

  dancing toward light, not ever

  quite enough

  and the page

  upon the desk is white,

  the desk, as it happens,

  the improvised desk

  also white

  the plum blossom

  and the night sky at times

  almost white

  and as to the children

  erased this day

  beneath a placid sky

  beneath a phosphorus rain

  a rain white as night

  along the sandy shore

  where they’d slipped away to play

  for a time (Can

  you tell us the time,

  Venus-Phosphor, Morning Star?)

  they will be long

  forgotten by tomorrow

  We will remember to forget them

  We will be certain

  to forget them

  since it’s necessary

  that there be no more to say

  The child first learning the words

  wonders what comes between the words.

  And learning the words she tries to recall

  what came before,

  a ringing or whistling or roaring, a

  kind of chorus perhaps, as of wind over water,

  like the water here, near enough to see

  that’s mysteriously called the Sound.

  Are there sounds between the words

  where all feels asleep and still?

  Maybe she laughs at the thought

  that the words breathe too

  and that the breathing turns

  right there, in the air between the words.

  2nd chorus

  And the ancient children of stone,

  the kouroi and the korai,

  their bodies are still as they sing

  of what has passed and what is to come

  since they know too much

  of binary stars and spots on the sun,

  of the tyger in the night,

  the tyger burning all too bright,

  the forest, the anvil and the furnace,

  and the sovereign secrets

  of the tongue and of the bone,

  the sovereign secrets

  of tongue and bone.

  To the mother they soundlessly sing

  Are you here or are you gone?

  And they see the father dazed,

  mute singer as well, brittle and bent,

  effaced by time’s remains

  and an elsewhere not to be named.

  Sing, silent father, my brother,

  in your distant tongue,

  lost father, lost other.

  Sing of the flesh and of the bone

  and speak for the children of stone,

  the kouroi and the korai

  and the secrets of their smile.

  From the broken tower

  of the Cathedral of Our Lady

  of the Holy Spectacle we watch

  the rockets fall upon the small

  and ever smaller figures.

  They rain down in many colors,

  chrome yellow, magenta, blood red

  and a white whiter than white

  before the attentive audience,

  eager, fervent and intense

  as if in a kind of trance.

  The latest show

  is always the greatest

  until the next.

  And the children sing

  knowing and unknowing

  in the space of the field

  that is opening,

  in the child’s slow time,

  the rhymes of the day

  and the rhymes of night,

  the rhymes of still water

  and those of sudden fire,

  of the lamb, the dolphin and the unicorn,

  and the white spider constructing a cloud.

  Say apple for the first time,

  say yellow apple, wagon, plum,

  sea horse, flying horse, river horse

  and taste mint, say mint,

  watch the lantern light as it plays

  across the furred walls of a barn,

  the curves of a rutted path,

  words, so many, made for ears?

  For eyes? So many eyes, say

  I, say cyan, violet, wintergreen

  beneath your feet, the simple

  words as they vanish

  among the white oaks’

  echoing shadows, the paw paws, the

  sassafras with lobed leaves,

  the spirals of summer thought,

  sing the secrets of the stream.

  for Nico

  Things get lost

  things whose words

  can no longer be heard

  Still we try to find them

  and place them

  inside the silences

  The Emperor will get his cities,

 
his drummer boy lie in the snow.

  –Marina Tsvetaeva

  The children drum on anything

  a bottle, a pan, the corpse of a car

  They drum Sister Satan into the garden

  They drum the dogs of war

  loose upon the poppy fields

  They drum whatever they can find

  a skull will do, a smile, a wooden shoe,

  most anything will do

  these children

  who are who they are

  They drum the forest, the bones, the night

  right up the Glass Mountain

  They drum whatever they can find

  They drum the silent sky

  3rd chorus

  And the elders as one:

  I was sealed in the magic box

  there to be taken

  limb by limb apart

  Invisible I danced

  with Sister Satan

  As regards her caress

  you may only guess

  At last I wore no mask

  The seasons came the seasons went

  seasons of our waking

  seasons of our sleep

  Where it was cold

  now it was hot

  Where rivers had flowed

  nothing but sand

  new world we had wrought

  The shadows of mournful ancestors

  passed across the sun

  lighting that magic box

  though I knew them not

  Invisible we danced

  Sister Satan and I

  dismembered as we were

  all torsos all legs all arms

  still eager to please one another

  while the clowns of our better natures

  sang untranslatable songs

  Copyright © 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015, 2016 by Michael Palmer

  All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in a newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or website review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: Many of these poems first appeared in the following publications: The American Reader, The Brooklyn Rail, Hambone, The Harvard Advocate, Lana Turner, The Ocean State Review, Phoebe, Plume, Spacecraftproject, Vanitas, and White Stag Review.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First published as New Directions Paperbook 1342 in 2016

  eISBN 9780811225557

  New Directions Books are published for James Laughlin by New Directions Publishing Corporation

  80 Eighth Avenue, New York 10011

 

 

 


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