Collected Poems

by Anthony Burgess

  Till the end of our race. And the lamb we kill,

  Each of our households, the lamb we eat

  Is an offering to the Lord, who leads us

  In our passing over from death to life.’ But of that other

  Passing over he did not for the moment speak,

  Learning fast the beneficent wiles of the leader.

  So Aaron said: ‘On the lintels of your dwellings

  And on the doorposts, you shall daub some of the

  Lamb’s blood, as a sign.’ As a sign of what?

  So the bolder asked, and Aaron said: ‘As a sign

  Of the primal sacrifice, wherein we kill,

  And of the second sacrifice, wherein we eat,

  Marking the place where ‘we eat’’ [beneficent wiles].

  The daubing was done and inspected, and, on the fires,

  The tender flesh seethed, while in the ovens

  The heard heavy bread was baked. So at nightfall

  All were ready to sit, girded, sandalled,

  The children excited, and there was laughter,

  Even song, for the time was coming. ‘The time is coming,’

  They said, but not really believing,

  For this was a ceremony only of deliverance.

  But in Aaron’s house where all the blood of Amram

  Sat, fingering bitter herbs, ‘The time is coming’,

  Moses said, and shuddered. ‘This is Passover,

  And will be so till the end of our race, to mark

  The hour of his passing over.’ Shuddering. ‘But it is a

  Terrible thing, a terrible burden, and the

  Burden is just beginning.’ He put his head in his hands,

  But Miriam held his shoulders, saying: ‘Courage.

  Courage.’ Then all suddenly listened.

  But there was nothing to hear. ‘The silence,’ Aaron said,

  ‘Strikes like a new noise.’ Then Moses heard.

  ‘He is coming. God help them. He is coming. Now.’

  Then, from afar, a scream, and another,

  And soon the sound of wailing. They sat silent,

  The meat grown cold on the table, listening.

  Then the noise of a nearing wind at the door,

  And the door shaking, but then the shaking ceased,

  And the wind passed over.

  In the imperial palace

  They heard the wailing without, even Pharaoh heard,

  And his queen, in the innermost chamber, listened dumbly.

  The infant prince slept in his cradle, placed in the heart

  Of a magical pentacle, and the chief magician,

  His assistants all about him, intoned, intoned:

  ‘For the safety of the house and all within it.

  May the first nameless, who guards the doors of the eyes,

  Be doubly watchful. May the second nameless,

  Who sits in the doorways of the ears, be this night aware

  Of the rustling and breathing of the malign intruder.

  May the third nameless, who lives suspended in the

  Air of the nostrils, smell out the evil of him

  Who approaches with the intent of evil…’ A little cry

  From the cradle, and the king froze, and the queen,

  But they bent over and Pharaoh said: ‘He is dreaming.

  It is a good dream – see, he smiles in his sleep.

  My precious. See, he holds out his little arms.’

  And he lifted the child from his cradle and held him, crooning,

  Like any father, then said: ‘No harm, no harm,

  No harm shall come to him, for he is my precious.’

  A sudden scream from afar stopped the magician’s chant

  An instant, but he continued: ‘And the nameless one

  Who sits in the cup of the navel…’ Pharaoh said:

  ‘Be quiet. What was that?’ And a minister, soothing:

  ‘A servant, majesty. The child of a servant.’

  Pharaoh whispered: ‘Nothing shall. Nothing.

  Stand round us with your torches. Burn your incense.

  Say your prayer. Say it.’ So the magician intoned:

  ‘Gods of the seven worlds, hear, hearken.

  Let the word of your servant be sweet in the ear

  Of the guardians of the living. Let no evil

  Touch your servant this night, let the dark be

  Beneficent, and the vapours of the night

  Be like the balm of the morning. Let the souls

  Of the evil dead lie in sleep, unenticed

  By the smell of smoke that puts out the light

  Till the morning comes again, and the world is living

  And the sun blesses and there is nothing more to fear.’

  Pharaoh looked down on his child, cradled in his arms,

  Looked and looked and did not believe and looked

  Incredulously towards his queen and all looked and

  None was in any doubt as a bank of candles

  Flickered as in the draught of a great wind,

  And from Pharaoh went up the cry of an animal,

  Filling the chamber, the palace, spilling into the night,

  Spilling into one pair of ears in Pithom, those

  That had listened to fieldmice chatter and bats at nightfall.

  The palace took up the cry and gongs and drums

  Turned it to a geometry of lamentation,

  While, like a thing of wood or metal, the king

  Carried the child blindly, the mother following,

  Choked in pain the gongs muffled, till they stood

  Before a god of metal and Pharaoh whispered:

  ‘What do I do now? Beg you to comfort him

  On his passage through the tunnels of the night?

  Beseech you to remember that he is still

  Of your divine flesh, and to restore him to the light

  Where he is – needed? Or do I see you already

  As very hollow, very weak, impotent, a sham?

  Am I born too early or too late? Does heaven

  Remake itself? Has the dominion passed over

  To that single God who was neither sun nor moon

  But the light of both? But in your eyes there is nothing.

  Your head is the head of a bird.’

  The mother took the tiny body, weeping under the gongs,

  And Pharaoh turned his back on the god, looking towards

  Goshen, Moses, saying, ‘Did you hear my cry?

  And the cries of the other fathers of Egypt, mothers

  Of Egypt? Go, then. Take your women and your

  Unscathed children. Take your cattle and sheep

  And your wretched possessions. Leave my people in peace.

  Go, serve your God in what manner you will.

  And come no more into Egypt.’ And said again:

  Rise up and go forth among my people,

  Both you and the people of Israel, and go,

  Serve the Lord, as you have said.

  Take your flocks and your herds and bless your freedom

  Be gone. And bless me also. Me also.

  7

  THE EXODUS

  Before dawn, with a foredawn wind blowing,

  With the blowing of ram’s horns, answering

  From tribe to tribe, under the moon and stars,

  They got themselves ready, hardly able to believe it,

  Many sad at leaving the evil known for the unknown good,

  Especially as the hovels emptied of chattels,

  The meagre good were roped to carts, and

  Home, such as it was, dissolved with the

  Fading of the stars. There were tears enough

  As the cocks crew, answering from

  Village to village. The cows were milked in haste

  And, lowing, herded for the journey. A choral bleat

  Of sheep drowned the horn and the cock-crow. Oxen

  Were harnessed. While Aaron marshalled the tribal leader
s

  And then the leaders marshalled the tribes,

  Moses walked among them all, cutting off thought,

  For thought was mostly doubt of himself, seeing

  The women with child, the children, the champing old

  Lifted on to ox-carts. The stars were gone,

  The east promised another day of fire,

  The desert beckoned. Miriam released her doves

  And her doves flew eastward, into the light

  That was not yet cruel light. Dathan was a flame

  About the cart whereon the treasury was loaded,

  Gold, jewels, all Egyptian bribes. Then Moses spoke

  To the God within him, saying: ‘Be with me, be

  With me,’ raising his staff, setting his face

  With smarting eyes to the east, and so it began,

  The ragged exodus, with none to oppose them,

  Through the delta land, through scrub, then to the desert,

  Already, as the sun warmed, the lineaments

  Of fatigue, despair, the promise of rebellion

  Among some who, tasting that word freedom,

  Were ready enough to spit it out of a dry mouth,

  Longing sickly for the slave’s day, the known evil.

  So Pithom was empty. In the empty house of Aaron

  A lone dog crunched the paschal bone. In the

  Empty heart of Pharaoh bitterness

  Found a house, then the house grew to a palace,

  Then massive portals of the palace heaved to opening,

  After the funeral, one of many, the priests

  Giving unctuous comfort, saying: ‘It will pass

  As a bad dream passes. For the pestilence is gone,

  The rivers flow silver not red, the air is

  Filled with the song of birds not the buzz of gnats

  And the fretful cry of locusts. The land, you will see,

  Will be fruitful again, your loins, you will see,

  Will be fruitful.’ But the bereaved wept.

  ‘The evil,’ spoke the priests, ‘that visited our land

  Was an emanation of an evil people.

  But the Israelites are no longer with us: the gods

  Gave us a sign to drive them out of our midst.

  And lo they are gone…’ At Pithom, in the empty mudpits,

  A scribe drank palm-wine with an overseer of workers,

  His occupation, for the moment, gone. ‘Quiet,’ said the scribe.

  ‘The silence is a sort of memory of their noise.’

  ‘Not quiet in the other mudpits,’ the overseer said.

  ‘He should never have done it. Now all the slaves –

  Greeks, Berbers, the rest – want to go to the desert,

  To do sacrifice to what they call their gods.

  Of course, it could all be a coincidence –

  The plague, the flies, the locusts. But the

  Blood was real, though. Red, thick,

  As any in a slaughterhouse. All against nature.

  It was as if nature went wrong for a time.

  And these – ’ He gestured towards the huge absence.

  ‘These took advantage. They cause it, no.

  They pretended to cause it. Cunning.’ The scribe said:

  ‘This too is against nature. This not having slaves.

  How does one build a city without slaves?

  A civilisation – do you know that word? – without slaves

  Is totally against reason, meaning nature.

  You have to have slaves.’ So they drank palm-wine

  To protect themselves from the evil emptiness.

  In that other emptiness, nearly a day’s march done,

  The emptiness began to fill with the

  First of the new signs: a dust-cloud swirling

  And many fearful and talking of being lost,

  We’re lost already, and look at this evil dust

  Enveloping us, I said we should never have left,

  At least we were safe there. The words of Moses

  Relayed through leaders to tribe after tribe:

  ‘You say we are lost. But we are not lost.

  You see this cloud of dust. It is God’s sign

  That he is with us. See how the wind

  Drives the cloud before us. God works through

  Everything. Even a cloud of dust. God works

  Through the smoke and rain. And dust of the desert.

  God works through this pillar of cloud. See –

  How it moves ahead of us. It bids us follow.’

  Follow, some said, follow where? The answer was ready

  On the lips of the leaders: ‘The promised land.

  Where else.’ We shan’t see much of it.

  Not with the dust in the way. And then there’s night.

  What do we follow at night? ‘The Lord,’ said Moses,

  ‘Will think of something.’ And, indeed, at nightfall

  A blinding company of fireflies, was it fireflies?,

  Flashed into view. Fireflies? Glowworms? ‘Let’s follow,’

  Moses said. A pillar of fire, moving ahead of them.

  They followed, marvelling some, some grumbling.

  How did they know it was not Egyptian magic,

  Leading them back to slavery? Ah, slavery, some said.

  The word is worse than the thing. But they followed.

  And, in the council-chamber, the Lord Pharaoh

  Followed his ministers’ words distractedly,

  His ears still filled with the sobbing of his queen

  And his own sobbing. ‘The shock of the people, majesty,

  Has been, naturally, profound. It is manifested,

  So to speak, in a slow numbing

  Illness of doubt. Such doubt has not

  Previously been known.’ And ‘The whole concept of the

  Monarchy is inevitably in jeopardy,

  Since there seems, in the eyes of the commonalty,

  To have been a withdrawal of divine power.’ And Pharaoh:

  ‘What reports from the worksites, my lords?’ They answered:

  ‘Majesty, the recent riots have been contained.

  There has been what is termed in this message here

  A slackening of fibre, the sense of a

  Silent but massive insolence in the face of the

  Threat of…’ And Pharaoh: ‘Yes yes yes, and of course

  The great evil is already a great dream.

  Except among the bereaved.’ So one said:

  ‘Wounds heal, majesty. A truism, but true.’ Pharaoh answered:

  ‘Anger does not heal. Hatred. But then of course

  Comes doubt – doubt as to the validity

  Of the whole ancient system. New modes of justice.

  New gods. Can there be new gods?’ The chief magician:

  ‘The gods, as I have said, majesty, subsist

  Outside time. Only in time is change possible.

  There are no new gods. You may, majesty, take that

  As an irrefutable fact.’ Then a minister:

  ‘History, as our records show, is full of the

  Inexplicable. The sudden famine, the muddying of the Nile,

  Plagues, storms – Nature is wayward, self-willed.

  But this has nothing at all to do with the gods.’

  Pharaoh said: ‘Vague theology, half-chewed theory.

  What is to be done? What practical measures

  Offer themselves? There shoring up of a whipped monarchy

  With the gods yawning…’ The chief magician said:

  ‘With respect, your divine majesty, such cynicism

  Is in itself a corroborative of the already increasing

  Popular lack of confidence in the…’ A minister

  Spoke firmly: ‘The following narrative is no lie.

  The Pharaoh, out of his divine benevolence,

  Granted the request of the Israelite work-force

  That they be permitted to do sacrifice


  To their god in the desert. The period of leave requested

  Was three days.’ Pharaoh saw. ‘How many days

  Have they now been out of Egypt? Five, is it not?’

  Five, five. ‘So’, Pharaoh pronounced.

  ‘We bring them back. Nothing could be simpler.’

  Nothing simpler. Smiles, but he did not smile.

  At the end of the fifth day in the desert, Aaron spoke,

  Dissatisfied, to Moses, looking ahead,

  Pharaoh and Pithom already far in the past:

  ‘The mistake, I say, lies in the organisation.

  Old men, hereditary leaders of tribes and clans –

  What true leadership can you expect from them?

  They will be good enough at sitting in tents, cross-legged,

  Giving judgments on marriage and property. But for a

  Desert march…’ Moses looked back at Pithom,

  Into the sunset, faintly troubled at something

  He must wait for time to define, and said: ‘I know.

  But this is no time to reorganise.’ Aaron cried:

  ‘We cannot survive if we do not. Already

  Water discipline is bad. Food is stolen,

  Selfishly hoarded. We need police, weapons,

  A disciplinary court.’ Moses said: ‘The time is not yet.

  We are not yet out of Egypt.’ Joshua spoke:

  ‘We’re a five days’ march out of Pithom. As for Egypt,

  It belongs to our past, a past to be wiped out.

  We are already living in the future.

  Perhaps Aaron is too old to feel the flame of the future.

  We organise in a new way – from within.

  Not the Egyptian way. He talks of police,

  Of disciplinary courts. That won’t be our way.’ –

  ‘There is only one way’, said Aaron hotly. But Moses:

  ‘Not yet. I say again not yet. Nor is the past

  To be wiped out. If all others forget,

  If even Egypt forgets, we have to remember.

  He brought us out of Egypt. Write that in your hearts.’

  Then Miriam spoke: ‘Many of our women, I fear,

  Still have their hearts in Egypt. All they remember

  Is gossip around the fountain at nightfall,

  The daily baking of bread. They whine for it –

  The bread of Egypt.’ Joshua said: ‘Even the young,

  A few of them, talking about going back. To the

  Only life they knew – whips and tyranny

  As part of the order of nature. But I dealt with them.’

  Moses smiled, asked how. ‘Talked with them,

  I and some of the other progressives.’ Moses said:

  ‘A good word, progressive. Progress means

  Going forward. No matter to what. Just forward.