by Robert Lax
“I don’t remember where he lived out there,” said the
Colonel.
“I think it was … aaaah! That lion!”
It was time for him to go on;
the lion knew it and roared.
The Colonel went into the small cage carrying a folding
chair and a whip.
The lion, big and dusty, snarled and pawed at him,
Then he roared,
Angus snapped the whip,
the lion crouched and pounced.
Apparently alarmed,
the trainer dropped his chair,
scurried from the cage,
slipped through the steel door, and sprang it behind him.
The audience was impressed.
The lion, furious, was left standing with his paws against
the door.
“I think it was Pasadena!” said the Colonel, coming lightly
down the steps.
night
ACROBAT ABOUT TO ENTER
Star of the bareback riding act,
dressed in a dark red high-collared cape,
black-browed,
waiting with the others
to go in:
To enter
the bright yellow
glare of the tent,
He stood on an island,
self-absorbed.
At twenty-one
there was trouble in his universe.
Stars were failing;
planets made their rounds
with grating axles:
The crown of stars in blackness
was awry.
Clouds were rising,
thunder rumbled;
he was alone,
nobly troubled
waiting a moment.
He waited with challenge,
young and in solitude,
mourning inwardly,
attentive to the black, fiery current
in his mind,
he would not be comforted.
Swift water,
failing darkness:
he alone could hear it.
Hoarded the sound,
pulled his cape around it:
bitter and intense,
but it was his:
Youthful secret,
black and smouldering,
not of the crowd;
It was his private woe
and, being private,
prized.
Now in telling the story
of the Cristianis,
their early beginning
and long-ago birth
and their rising from earth
to brightness of sunlight,
we tell of creation and glory,
of rising,
and fall:
and again of the rising
where we are all risen;
for each man redeemed
is risen again.
The spinning of the sun,
the spinning of the world,
the spun sun’s span
on the world in its spinning,
are all in the story
from its beginning;
and when it is spun
there shall be no unspinning.
Mogador is running along with the horse.
His eyes are serious, full of thought.
His mouth is a little open as he runs and breathes.
He is smiling a little.
His lips are thin.
As he runs,
bending the knees,
dancing lightly beside the horse,
he is in step with the horse.
They both land lightly.
They both spring from the earth;
their movement is through the air.
Their feet drop lightly to earth
and push off from it.
And as they rise and fall,
rise,
fly,
and (momentarily) fall,
their heads rise too
and fall in regular rhythm.
They rise
and the hair of the horse’s mane clings to him,
pointing to earth.
They drop down
and each hair of the white long mane
remains in air
The boy’s hair too,
dark silk
rides close as he rises;
then rises in the air
falling lightly over his forehead
as he drops to earth.
They come around the ring,
The boy runs on the inside.
The horse trots along close to the curb.
The boy with his horse as they turn
in the ring are boy and horse running in
blue and green field: his hand is on the
horse’s back the horse is to him close as hand.
They round the turn, the boy is out of sight.
But now, behold!
He flies above the horse, holding a strap at his shoulders.
His feet fly out behind.
His toes are together and pointed like closed scissors.
Now he splits,
sits riding bareback
pointing his toes to the ground
spinning beneath them.
His arms are held in air relaxed.
He rides lightly,
barely touching,
his arms in air.
Then he leaps up
and with a pirouette begins his dance.
What was begun
as a run
through the field
is turned
to ritual.
RASTELLI
Now the story of Rastelli is one they love to tell
around the circus.
He is a hero
not because his work was dangerous
but because he was excellent at it
and because he was excellent as a friend.
He was good at juggling
at talking
at coffee
Loving everyone
he died juggling
for everyone
He died
Oscar said in a low secret voice
when he was 33
The age of our Lord
They loved Rastelli
and he loved them
their loves flamed together
a high blaze
Ascending to the Sun of being
Rastelli was a juggler and a kind of sun
his clubs and flames and hoops
moved around him like planets
obeyed and waited his command
he moved all things according to their natures:
they were ready when he found them
but he moved them according to their love.
As dancers harmonize, the rising falling planets
mirrored his movements.
Rising, falling, rotating, revolving, they spun on
the axis of his desire.
Clubs were at rest, he woke them and sent them spinning,
from which again they flew, until flying and falling,
spinning and standing a moment in midair,
they seemed to love to obey his command,
and even dance with the juggler.
Seeing the world was willing to dance,
Rastelli fell in love with creation,
through the creation with the Creator,
and through the Creator again with creation,
and through the creation, the Lord.
He loved the world and things he juggled,
he loved the people he juggled for.
Clubs and hoops could answer his love:
even more could people.
Lover and juggler
bearer of light
he lived and died in the center ring
dancing decorously
moving all things according to their nature
And there, before the Lord, he dances still.
He is with us on the double somersa
ult;
the three-high to the shoulders;
he is with us on the Arab pirouette and the principal
act on horseback.
And in the long nights,
riding the trucks between towns, Rastelli is with us:
companion,
example,
hero in the night of memory.
He stood outside the horse truck, waiting for Mogador to
come back, and he began to whistle. Across the field the men
had taken down the sides of the tent and were moving about in
dim light under the top, picking up trunks, ropes and equipment
and packing it away. He began to whistle a tune from the
depths of his soul; he had never heard it before but he
recognized it as a form of the song his soul had always been
singing, a song he had been singing since the beginning of
the world, a song of return. It was as though he stood in a
dark corner of the universe and whistled softly, between his
teeth, and the far stars were attentive, as though he whistled
and waves far off could hear him, as though he had discovered
a strain at least of the night song of the world.
By day I have circled like the sun,
I have leapt like fire.
At night I am a wise man
in his palanquin.
By day I am a juggler’s torch
whirling brightly.
Have you known such a thing?
That men and animals
light and air,
graceful acrobats,
and musicians
could come together
in a single place,
occupy a field by night
set up their tents
in the early morning
perform their wonders
in the afternoon
wheel in the light
of their lamps at night?
Have you seen the circus steal away?
Leaving the field of wonders darkened,
leaving the air where the tent stood empty,
silence and darkness where sight and sound were,
living only in memory?
Have you seen the noonday banners
of this wedding?
MOGADOR’S BOOK
The principal act
is a psalm of praise;
the somersault
a well-turned proverb.
Big black door,
square opening;
elephant’s entrance,
performer’s entrance,
the door that led to the back
performer’s entrance near the
bandstand.
The bandstand;
Pete’s chair,
the mike,
the springboard,
the leapers’ mat.
Circus wagon.
Dressing tent;
men’s & women’s,
black canvas,
the canvas wall
between the men’s and women’s side
of the dressing tent.
Performer’s tent;
trunks,
mirrors,
towels,
makeup can,
powder puff
(tent stake
iron tent stake)
folding chair.
Light beam through
sky in top of tent wall,
just under the deckled
eaves of the roof.
Red & white makeup on
towels.
Bell-bottom blue silk trousers,
white silk wide-collared blouse.
Blouse caught wind and light.
Red and gold riding habit.
Fancily draped (crepe de chine) tie.
Black hair.
Piss hole in corner.
Rain hole covered with sawdust.
Lonely spectators who had wandered back,
family of Indians,
blond child,
curls,
limp-dressed,
balanced like a shaky tripod onto
skinny
lanky
legs.
Cowboy Eddie makes money selling rides on
pony out back.
Tina with green flat Mexican hat,
idly eating,
munching at,
chewing (listlessly) at
the string (which was) meant to go
under her chin.
Tent ropes cutting each picture diagonally.
Orange sun streaming
into sag in tent wall.
Grass,
sky,
elephants stepping lightly.
Earth is a tattooed lady.
In her tegument
Signs and the signs of signs:
mermaids and dolphins,
hearts and arrows,
roses and eagles;
Signs and the signs of signs
sewn with a fiery needle
into her woven walls.
One bright leg
across the other,
she sits on a camp stool
under the tent of sky
smoking
a momentary
cigarette.
I have often thought how much like
a circus the world is, and how
the more like a circus it becomes,
the better.
These are some of the reasons:
More than almost anything in the
world, the circus is an end in itself.
(That used to be said of all art, but
too often literature
painting & music, even ballet turn
into means & servants of some other
end)
No one jumps through a
hoop on horseback to prove a point
(except incidentally, the point that
anything that is done proves: i.e.,
that it can be)
So if the world ever came to its
final rejoicing what would it
prove (what better thing could it
try to prove) except
that it
can
be.
That which we have believed in,
said prayers
and
made sacrifices in the hope of,
is.
The traveling circus
(and that’s what I mean)
in its nature is always in
motion, even when it seems
to be standing still. This is
literally true. Circuses in
their season are always
traveling from town to town.
When the circus is in one
town, advance agents
are moving about the next
working routes, checking
ads, making reservations
in hotels, and “Put it
up & tear it down” is the
constant chant of the
circus.
It spends
all morning
building up tents
and bleachers,
rings,
trapezes,
and
all evening
tearing down
(silently)
unobtrusively
(an unoccupied
clown folds chairs)
folding chairs,
loosening ropes,
sending the cookhouse
out through the night.
Like civilizations
and
everything
that grows,
it holds
in
perfection
but a little moment
The world too is always in motion.
Nothing abides,
all changes.
A bright falbala
turns to the light
and is seen no more
(For this poor world presenteth
naught but shows
whereon the stars in
secret influence comment)
Everyone who travels with a
circus is of use to the circus.
Nobody is just along for the ride.
There is a hierarchy in the
show; not of souls but of skills
and talents, it is a
natural kind of hierarchy
allowing free movement up
and down, which gives
legitimate hope to
aspiration but
not just cause for
resentment.
In most circuses the administrators
(owners) and star performers make
up two kinds of nearly sovereign
aristocracy, but the line is seldom
drawn tight between them.
Performers often become entrepreneurs.
I said it is a hierarchy
of talents. What (precisely)
does the circus aristocracy have
a talent for? A talent
precisely for life in the circus
(which, by analogy, means life
in the world)
The circus is a show;
the aristocrats are showmen.
The circus is an organization (almost
an organism). The aristocrats
(entrepreneurs) are good at organizing
at keeping it organically
functioning.
The circus is in motion, it requires
(calm) nerves, easy breathing, balance,
an ability to change from place to
place without inner disturbances.
Circus aristocrats, the performers
are well fitted to this kind of
motion, to traveling through
the world from day to day eating
& sleeping in a new town each day.
But further,
motion precisely is their business;
easy,
graceful,
(physical) motion through space,
the balance
and
coordination of
physical movement
is the quality,
the talent,
which distinguishes these people.
It is a quality
(most) useful
and
highly valued
in the life of the circus.
Useful and highly valued
(though too
often now in a state of atrophy)
throughout the world.
It is no wonder
that wherever they go
