Collected Poems

by Anthony Burgess

  By the tabernacle to tell you that your God,

  The God of the people, speaks through the people

  By means of the voice of them that the people have chosen,

  That what the people have chosen as prudent and wise

  Will be confirmed by the God the people. We,

  The people, choose to return to Egypt, there

  To live in peace and fatness. Will our God

  Say nay?’ And that word was caught up: nay and nay

  In the torchlight. So Moses shut his eyes

  That he might not see what he knew must follow,

  Hearing only thunder, the jolting of the earth,

  Cries of terror, opening his eyes to see

  What he knew he must see: dust and enveloping smoke

  About the tabernacle, and the three false priests

  Not there, but the people on their knees in terror.

  Dathan no more: the earth had eaten Dathan.

  And Moses spoke to himself: Yet mercy is infinite.

  At least let us believe so. Dathan, Dathan,

  I shall miss your thorn in my side . . .

  Now, by a different way, skirting the mountains

  And the fierce foes beyond them, in a new unity,

  But wretched, they fared on, leaving behind

  Carcasses in the desert, as foretold,

  Seeking Mount Hor. Jolted in a cart,

  Attended by his wife and sons, Aaron lay,

  The wound on his thigh grown green, in great pain,

  With nauseous ointments lapped by the blowflies. ‘So’,

  Eliseba his wife said, ‘your reward

  For protecting that tabernacle of yours’. She wept.

  ‘The pain’, he said, ‘grows less. The wound will sleep.’ –

  ‘But not the fever. The fever is very much awake.’

  Aaron said: ‘I will be better at the oasis.

  Trees and running water. Fruit.’ She wiped his lips

  With a towel, and he spoke to Eleazar,

  His son, saying: ‘You know what you must do

  When we reach Mount Hor?’ And the son replied:

  ‘I must become a priest.’ – ‘A priest,’ said his father.

  ‘You must take over my office, wear my garments.

  Eleazar the priest. Your mother will be proud.’

  But she said: ‘Do not talk like that.’ And Aaron:

  ‘It is never too soon to prepare him for the task.

  It is the task and the glory that his sons

  And his son’s sons must fulfil till the end of our race.

  A task and a glory he will take with him into Canaan.

  It is he who will perform the rite of thanksgiving.’

  But Eliseba said: ‘You will be well soon.

  You will be there in all your robes and glory.’

  But Aaron replied: ‘The journey is by no means over.

  We cannot enter in peace. Bitter enemies –

  Those are to be faced. Oasis to oasis,

  Skirting the promised land, seeking a way in

  That is not to be granted so easily. Eliseba,

  You have known a hard life.’ – ‘All life is hard,’

  She said. ‘It is the nature of life

  To be hard. But there have been – Well, shall I say

  The hardness has made the pleasures more pleasurable.

  I do not complain. Try now to sleep a little.’

  So she laid his head in her bosom, and he slept.

  But slept less, raving, as the fever raved,

  And ceased to rave when they came in sight of the mountain,

  Speaking strange words softly, and soon no words,

  No breath for words. She shut his eyes for ever.

  He was borne on a litter, in his priestly robes,

  Up to the mountain-top. Gently, Moses

  Took off the priestly garments, and invested

  Eleazar, the son of Aaron, in them,

  And Eleazar led the chant, against the morning,

  Blessing all, finally blessing his father

  Who lay in the morning for ever. Moses spoke:

  ‘I speak of him as my brother first – faithful,

  Unwavering in his faith. My very voice,

  My other heart. And of the house of Israel

  None was more brave, more steadfast. His mouth was of gold,

  The spirit of the Lord burned in him. Now we see him

  Gathered to his fathers. God grant him rest.

  God grant that his spirit ever animate

  The race he so adorned, lending it

  Something of his strength, of his faith.

  So be it.’ But to himself he said:

  And how long will the race last? We are dying,

  The old men are dying. Can the young

  Survive? Can they keep the fire alight? He foresaw

  A desert of corpses, foreheard travelling voices:

  Dead so long ago. So much time passed.

  That body there – that could be my father’s.

  A powerful people – at least a numerous people.

  Have they disappeared? Are they gone for ever?

  The end of them, the end of them, I’d say.

  It would be a kind act to bury these dead.

  But they are already buried. Already forgotten.

  Just dead bodies. Without a name.

  Without a race. He shook the voices away,

  And turned again to the task of quieting

  Real voices, living voices. So they moved towards Edom,

  Living bodies, with a name, with a race, moved.

  And one day, in the palace of the king of Edom,

  A crude barbaric throneroom, eating grapes,

  Handmaidens about him, the king sat

  While a chamberlain spoke. ‘Ganas voti,’ the king said.

  So in they came, dusty, travel-worn, bowing,

  Joshua and Caleb: ‘May we speak, sir king?’

  The king nodded, spitting grape-seeds. Joshua:

  ‘You will have heard of our nation. Israel.

  We have been in bondage to Egypt for many years,

  Not only our generation but generations

  And generations before us. We cried out to the Lord

  And the Lord brought us forth out of Egypt. Now we are in

  Kadesh, on the border of your kingdom.

  We are sent to ask leave to pass

  Peacefully through your country.’ The chamberlain

  Translated into the dialect of the kingdom:

  The king showed little interest. Caleb said:

  ‘We promise, majesty, not to pass through your fields,

  Or through your vineyards. We promise not to drink

  Of the waters of your wells. We promise to go

  Only by the king’s highway – yours, majesty.

  We will not turn to the right hand nor to the left,

  Until we have passed your borders.’ The king listened,

  Spitting a fig now, and at length said: ‘Nor vah.’

  ‘I am instructed’, said the chamberlain, ‘to inform you

  That the answer is no’. The king spoke a longer sentence:

  ‘Go nadi daya, goro mi nadi nadi in vebu.’ –

  ‘His majesty’s words are these: if you try to pass,

  We will slay you all with the sword.’ Regretfully.

  ‘That was sufficiently plain,’ Joshua said.

  ‘I am instructed to add that if our people

  Or their cattle drink of the water of your kingdom,

  Then we will pay for it.’ The king waved a violent fig:

  ‘Garata karvol. Nor vah nor vah.’ The chamberlain

  Began to translate, but Joshua said:

  ‘We understand.’ They looked at each other wearily.

  The king offered grapes, figs. They refused.

  Handmaidens. Regretfully, they refused.

  So Moses sought another road, young men about him,

 
; Men even younger than Caleb and Joshua,

  While he traced a map in the sand, saying: ‘Yes,

  We are ready to progress, Joshua.’ They smiled.

  ‘But not by the northern road. We are, thank God,

  Much better warriors than we were, but hardly

  Good enough yet to face those northern armies.

  So we have to think of another road.’ But all roads

  Led, it seemed, to war – skirmishes

  With dirty desert people, formal battles

  With men in armour, their trumpets sweet and polished,

  Encounters with barbarous hosts that spoke a language

  Of growls and coughs. But, as time passed, the Israelite banners

  Prevailed more. A matter of training. Stolen arms.

  Even a matter of silver trumpets. There was a night

  When the Israelite warriors, proud of being warriors,

  Feasted and listened, full to a blind harpist

  Who sang of their strength: ‘Woe to thee, Moab.

  Thou are undone, O people of Chemosh.

  We have shot at them. Heshbon is perished

  Even unto Dibon. We have laid them

  Waste even unto Nophah.’ Caleb, wine-flushed, said:

  ‘And yet there was a time, not long ago,

  When we couldn’t win a single battle.’ Joshua,

  Wine-flushed, said: ‘Discipline. Generalship.

  Youth. New methods.’ The blind bard sang:

  ‘And we turned and went up by the way of Bashan.

  And Og king of Bashan went out against us.

  He and all his people, to the battle at Edrei.

  And the Lord said unto Moses: Fear him not,

  And thou shalt do unto him as thou didst

  Unto Sihon, king of the Amorites.

  So we smote them and his sons and all his people.

  Until, halleluiah, none was left alive,

  And we possessed his land.’ Warriors listening,

  Scarred, patched, amputated, reminiscent,

  Not above tears, cheering the end of the song.

  ‘Discipline’, Joshua said. ‘Generalship.

  And God, of course. God is on our side.’

  Wine-flushed, scarred, tough in the flare of the fires.

  15

  BALAAM

  Woe to thee, Moab. That was a proleptic phrase.

  They were hearing, in Moab, of a tough, scarred people,

  Young, with a leader so aged as to be mythical

  And hence unaging. In the royal palace at Moab

  The king, Balak, listened to a minister saying,

  In loud agitation to another minister:

  ‘Have I ever denied it? I said all along

  They were, are a dangerous people.’ The king said:

  ‘Where are they now?’ The second minister pointed

  To a crude map on sheepskin: ‘There. You see.

  The side of Jericho. By Jordan river.

  They have set up their tents on the plains of Moab.’

  So the king cried: ‘My territory. Do you mark that?’

  And the first minister: ‘As I said before,

  They were, are, a dangerous people. Also they are

  A breeding people. Babies scarce out of the cradle

  Doing arms drill, or so we are told. And look what they did

  To the Amorites.’ The king said: ‘What did they

  Do to the Amorites?’ The second minister said:

  ‘Your majesty is presented with a comprehensive report.’

  King Balak said: ‘Yes, yes, mass castration or something.

  I know.’ And the first: ‘With respect, your majesty.

  Slaughter, yes. But no atrocities. They are not a

  Castrating people.’ The king said: “Slaughter is enough.

  Slaughter will do very well. They’ll lick us up,

  As the ox licks up the grass of the meadow. Eh?

  Eh?’ An apt simile, they all agreed.

  ‘How many men can we put in the field?’ said the king.

  ‘Not enough’, he was told. ‘It’s a matter of numbers,

  Not of courage or organisation. No,

  Certainly by no manner of means enough.’

  King Balak thought and at length said: ‘How about a curse?’

  A curse, sir? ‘A curse, a malediction. Scare them off.

  A religious people, are they? Very well,

  They will know all about curses. Potent weapons.

  Also economical. A curse.’ The second minister

  Smiled wanly, and said: ‘Ah, Balaam. Balaam.’ –

  ‘Balaam, Balaam, a very powerful blesser

  And an equally powerful, if not more so, curser.

  Where is Balaam these days?’ The ministers knew.

  ‘In Pethor, your majesty. You know – by the river.’

  Balaam was fishing happily in the river,

  Singing a song of his youth. As he grew older

  His youth grew clearer. A song of his childhood.

  A fat short man, amiable, a powerful curser,

  This being his profession. Fishing in the sun,

  He scowled when he saw a shadow come over him

  And yet the sun still there. Looking up,

  He saw that the shadow was of four men, gentlemen,

  Of high rank certainly, standing there. He said:

  ‘Ah, gentlemen. You I know, I think.

  I am afraid the other gentleman – ’ Two elders from Moab:

  These he knew. The others? ‘Greetings, Balaam’,

  Said one of the Moabites. ‘We are come from the king.

  These gentlemen are from Midian. We bear you word

  From the court of Moab. The gentlemen of Midian

  Wish to be associated with our mission.’

  Balaam said: ‘Ah, come, come then, got you,’

  Landing a carp. Then: ‘Mission? Message?’ A fine one.

  The elder Moabite read aloud from a tablet:

  ‘Behold, there is a people come out of Egypt.

  Behold, this people covers the face of the earth

  And abides over against me. Come now, I pray you, therefore:

  Curse me this people, for they are too mighty for me.

  Then perhaps I shall prevail, drive them out of the land.

  For I know well that he whom you bless is blessed,

  And he whom you curse is cursed.’ Balaam heard that,

  Complacent, then he said: ‘The king’s own words?’

  The elder said: ‘You will recognise the style.’

  Balaam rose and said: ‘Lodge here tonight.

  Plenty of fish, as you see. I have to consult –

  I must – You understand there are certain things

  I shall have to do.’ They understood. ‘And in the morning

  I hope you may take back word to – How is his majesty?’

  Distressed, they said. Very fine carp, they said.

  They ate them that night, sucking the bones,

  And drank the thick black wine of Pethor. Balaam,

  Expansive, told tales of cursings. ‘Ah, yes, gentlemen.

  That was one of my better curses. It was

  Extremely efficacious.’ The eldest Moabite:

  ‘I hope you can provide an even better one.

  One worthy of this accursed people.’ – ‘Accursed?’

  One of the Midianites said. ‘That is surely

  A little premature.’ They laughed, finished the wine,

  And Balaam said: ‘Now, I will go to my sanctum

  And brew up my curse. Excuse me, gentlemen.’

  In what he called his sanctum, reeking of mould,

  Fish-glue, asafoetida, by a fish-oil lamp

  He muttered over signs of old sheepskin, a skull,

  A dried crocodile for company. Then the skull spoke.

  Out of the sempiternal grin of the skull –

  Or was it the crocodile’s? Words came,

  Ge
ntle enough: Who are those men with you?

  Balaam gaped, gaped again, then answered:

  ‘Balak, the son of Zippor, king of Moab,

  Sent them to me. But who are you, who are you?’

  The voice said: With what word? ‘Who are you?’ gaped

  Balaam. ‘Who?’ With what word? Balaam took the

  Tablet and read from it, shaking: ‘Behold,

  There is a people come out of Egypt, which

  Covers the face of the earth. Come now, curse me

  Them, then perhaps I shall prevail – ’ The voice said:

  Listen, Balaam. You shall not curse this people.

  For the Lord has already blessed them. You hear, Balaam?

  ‘Lord Lord what is the Lord?’ The Lord God,

  Balaam. ‘But I have an instruction, an order –

  From the king himself. What is this Lord God?’

  The voice said, quietly still: I am the king

  Of your king and all kings that ever were

  And shall be. Therefore, Balaam, I say to you:

  You shall not go forth and curse the children of Israel.

  So the skull or crocodile was silent. Balaam sat,

  Gaping. A dream? No, not a dream. Nor wine,

  Not wine, he knew the effects of wine.

  The emissaries snored. He sat there, gaping.

  In the morning, at first light, as they smacked dry mouths,

  Squinting for the wine-jug, he told them, spluttering,

  Saying: ‘You understand? You understand me?

  It was the voice of the Lord God, so he is called.’ –

  ‘And not,’ said an elder, ringing the taste of the wine

  On his morning mouth, ‘some devil of your own conjuring?

  Some devil that consults your interests? I’m empowered to say,

  On the king’s behalf, that he had thought of some

  Highly tangible reward.’ But Balaam cried:

  ‘If Balak should give me his palace crammed with silver,

  Gold too, rubies, I could not go

  Beyond the word of this Lord God, as he is called.

  I fear him. It was a quiet voice.’ The elder said:

  ‘And if Balak should, say, order decapitation,

  Preceded by certain ingenuities

  Of torture?’ Balaam stoutly said: ‘This Lord God

  Would intervene, of this I am sure.’ The second elder,

  Not much of a talker, spoke, rasping, saying:

  ‘Why not call on him now for assurance, Balaam?

  Are you certain, by the way, that he exists?

  That he was not a phantom induced by carp-flesh

  And the damnably heavy wine of Pethor?’ Balaam,

  Distressed, said nothing. And the first elder smiled:

  ‘Come then, O Balaam of my heart, let us go.