The Odyssey: A Modern Sequel
Page 121
he hears how the queen dresses and adorns herself,
he hears how her whole working army buzz about her,
rasp secret counsels in her ear, then see her off.
His taste augments and plunders fields like honeycombs,
his tongue flicks even about the sun like harvest knives, 980
his nostrils swell till in the springtime air he feels
the bridal body soaring in the wedding pomp
as honeyed premonitions burgeon through his body.
Earth is a buzzing beehive grove, the dripping sun
a golden honeycomb he gleans until he feels 985
about his sticky feet and fuzzy happy belly
her regal body merge with his and fill with seed.
Aye, honey-drone, good was the wedding, good the game,
old Honey-Mother Earth brimmed with transplendent seed,
nor now has need of you but rushes to give birth, 990
and all your empty guts hang from her sated thighs.
O honey-drone Odysseus, air, light, unseen form,
I raise my eyes on high and see with trembling joy
Death riding the most violent nuptial lightning bolt!”
For hours the dying man watched the sun’s lonely wheel 995
graze the sky’s level rim, nor rise nor sink in waves
as a continuous dawn poured in the pearly sea.
Without once touching the smooth waters, the sun turned,
pale, hopeless, weaponless, about the archer’s snow-white head.
In his skull’s secret lair, the suffering man approached 1000
with calm the fearful scorpion with its sting raised high:
“O Mind, great master-craftsman of the homeless air,
like an ascetic in his cave you sit cross-legged
deep in the skull, a sacred athlete, a great martyr;
your thoughts leap like trained falcons in the sky, and shriek, 1005
pretending to be gripped by hunger, to hunt game.
In empty air’s blue ring you marched earth’s brilliant troops
well-decked with flesh and soul, with fantasy and truth;
you leapt to earth and danced, pleased with its fragile toys,
you often changed forms, wings, plans, names, rolled carelessly 1010
like a small child on savage shores of a black sea,
scooped up wet sand, then pummeled it with haste and cried:
‘I’ll make clay men, I’ll set thick armies on the march,
I’ll blow into their nostrils, fill them full of soul,
for I won’t play alone on the world’s haunted shores!’ 1015
At once the poor sand trembled and began to move
till trees, beasts, birds, stark-naked dwarfish men sprang up,
seductive maids who decked themselves, bold fighting braves,
and white immortal souls that strutted down the beach
like swaggering pigeons as they flapped and tried their wings. 1020
Now blow, O Mind, and turn them into sand once more!
Animals shout, the waters roar, trees burst in bloom,
birds and dark demons rush on me like harbingers
to see how with untrembling hand, of my free will,
I’ve dared to open the earthen door to let Death in; 1025
but I still smile and fight black-eyed Necessity
with pride that won’t be put to shame, but sees and loves her.
The heart beats, passions churn the swelling seas to foam
till the mind looms within the flood, a monstrous rock
down which the quiet waters plunge in cataracts. 1030
O Mind, your four steeds, water, fire, earth and light
strain at the bit and leap, but you hold the reins firmly
and temper savage strength with the brain’s prudent thoughts.
Though your steeds snort and fly with winged hooves to reach
those fat stalls which they think await them at road’s end, 1035
and though you know the secret well, for your eyes brim
with chasms and despair and death and gallant deeds,
your hand is firm, you spur the swiftly dying steeds,
you feed them well, caress them, deck them handsomely,
then all together, road, steeds, chariot, charioteer, 1040
plunge swiftly headlong tumbling down the bottomless gulf!
I love you, Mind, for fearlessly, with open eyes,
you dash with pride straight for the naked cliff, and plunge!
In the fine scales of your mid-brow you weigh all things,
and in your every sorrow, every joy, you temper all 1045
with your wise thinking—water, fire, earth, or air—
for you know well that life is but a game of scales.
If a grain more of earth should fall, man’s mind grows heavy,
the poor soul’s caught in the lime-twigs of mud, and drowns;
if a drop more of water falls, man’s firm face breaks, 1050
its dough sags, it can’t grip, it spills, and flows, and rolls,
it tastes with no sure memory, clasps with no real arms;
if a flick more of flame falls in fate’s kneading trough,
alas then to the immoderate heart, for the whole world
burns down, and life turns ash within our palms once more; 1055
if in our ripe heads boundless light should overblaze,
then pallid and pellucid life, that star-stitched veil,
flutters and plays above us like a drifting cloud;
but our strong fists will never deign to be deceived
or rise to grasp air-phantoms like the firmest flesh, 1060
and life will fade in air like a soft shadowy dream.
O Mind, great charioteer, you hold the myriad reins
of sacred virtue and of shame, of fear, of hope
in your strong hands and drive on toward the plunging cliff;
I thank you, for you’ve ended your hard duty well; 1065
now that the cliff looms close, O Guide, let loose your steeds
to plunge with chariot and charioteer in the dark gulf,
for we’ve arrived with luck at length at our long journey’s end!”
Then the great athlete slowly crossed his workman’s hands,
a light but paralyzing swoon poured through his body 1070
until, deep in the shadow of the flesh, his mind,
that huntsman, and his heart, that faithful hunting hound,
lay down fatigued and burdened with their slaughtered prey.
The lone man closed his eyes till like a serpent-god
sleep wound in heavy coils within his head’s dark cave; 1075
black lightning bolts tore through his brain, the deep earth gaped
with its dread trap doors as in the damp swarming dark
God stood above his earthen troughs with heavy hands
and pummeled clay till from his armpits the sweat poured.
His monkey-daughters and his red-assed servant-sons 1080
dug earth and sieved it fine, then broke in cackling cries:
‘The Old Man’s gone berserk, lads, childish, addle-brained,
he sweats, unsweats, till with blood, tears and sweat he shapes
erect nude pigs and makes them stand on their hind legs,
sets them to bake in sun, but the soft showers fall 1085
and the clay melts to mud, the Old Man weeps and wails:
‘Alas, my latest children have turned to mud again!’
But now, they say, he’s shaped a two-legged upright pig
with pointed cap on his tall noodle, a strong bow,
and hung two flashing flints in his mind’s tinder box. 1090
Come on, let’s see what this new pig amounts to, lads!”
But as the monkeys jabbered in the world’s deep womb
and jeered at the old codger with his dripping armpits,
an ape-hag su
ddenly staggered in with frothing teeth:
“Red-buttocked brothers, help me, hold me or I’ll fall! 1095
The Old Man’s mad, he wants to burn the entire world
and bake his latest child so that his soul won’t fade!
He’s running to thrust it in his blazing oven now!
Frog-God of Rain, rise up and cast your spells once more,
call down the clouds, let the rains fall, make the world mud! 1100
We’re lost if this last son’s successful and well-baked!”
The monkey mob screamed shrilly, rushed to come in time
before the Old Man thrust his clay dwarf in the hearth,
leapt swiftly, then stood still with horrified dismay
and watched God enter the hot flames as the world swayed. 1105
“We’re lost,” the poor beasts moaned. “Here’s a new master born!”
The earth shook seven times, as though by birth-pangs seized,
and slowly God walked from the fire and his arms clasped
a curly-haired small man baked black as wheaten bread,
and when God bent above it, blew, and in its ear 1110
entrusted his great word, at once its azure cap’s
long tassel stood erect and stiff in the bright air.
The frightened Frog-God fell flat on his paunch on earth
and tried in a choked voice, with gurgling river sounds,
to allure the cackling rain that perched in the damp trees. 1115
The sky, in full concordance with the fearful beasts,
blackened with clouds till rains began to erode the world,
to strike the trees till the leaves fell, to melt the earth,
to beat and blind the sun as in the rain-drenched dark
God moaned, “My child!” and bent above his earthen son. 1120
But his son flourished and grew bold, he cocked his cap;
his eyes, his chest, his belly gleamed in rain; he twirled
his black mustache, then laughed and kicked the Old Man hard:
“Go pack, you doddering fool! Make way for me to pass!”
Then from his belt he drew an iron sword on whose 1125
broad blade there flashed the sharp-etched threat: “God, I shall slay you!”
Poor God grew pale and staggered back with buckling knees:
“Alas, I shouldn’t have shaped such a dread beast! I’m lost!
I’ll run and hide in the vast sky, for the earth’s his!”
His red-assed servants ran, his monkeys held him up 1130
and dashed him with rose water to revive his wits,
but his eyes glazed with staring on his last-born son
who with cocked cap and tassel bright as the pole star
flung to the light a gallant and defying song
with words first heard on earth that made the Old Man quake: 1135
he sang of joy, revolt, of freedom, and of bold new roads!
Odysseus slept and sank into the world’s foundations,
he plunged in sacred roots and like an infant clasped
the great dark Mothers and with unslaked passion sank
his thirsty mouth with greed into their earthen dugs. 1140
As his mind melted on his brows and poured like sweat,
his ears were plugged, the song died at the earth’s roots,
and ancient Mother Silence spread her brooding wings
on the world’s wastes as she had done before Life rose,
till the great archer with crossed empty hands, with trust, 1145
surrendered to the crooked tide of nonexistence.
Then with shut eyes he saw, with empty ears he heard
a huge snow-mountain with a thousand silver bells
sing in the still unsetting sun with joy, and slide
on the smooth waters like a bridegroom’s snowy sled. 1150
As his mind dropped its reins, he tossed his head and watched
with silent fearless wonder that pure crystal isle,
that snow-white peacock, that white elephant of Death,
that hundred-petaled, heavy-scented rose of white.
In silent greeting then he moved his waxen lips: 1155
“Welcome to all I’ve loved most in the living world:
that proud white peacock, the mind’s lightning; life’s white rose;
that pure-white elephant with whom I’ll plunge to Hades!”
His thought’s reflections rustled sweetly and still held,
his entrails quivered like a bowstring’s tremolo 1160
when suddenly thunder burst within the iceberg’s heart
and the snow-mountain cracked and clove, its top crashed down,
then split in two and bared its pure hard crystal heart.
But the unyielding proud man jumped, his mind burned clear,
his heart leapt up and poured into his regal veins, 1165
and the last soul the seven-souled man held in store
rushed to his aid and held his swooning flesh upright.
“Rise now, don’t cast your weapons off, uncross your hands,
how shameful, fool, to plunge to Hades headlong, blind!”
Pushed on beyond its will, his body tossed and cursed, 1170
squirmed from the skiff, leapt out, then strove with stubbornness
to cling with hands and feet to the white mountain’s slope.
His nails clutched grippingly and clawed the sliding ice,
but he fell down and rolled, ice zoned him everywhere,
and his despairing body once more clutched and gripped. 1175
But the snow-mountain, like a ghost with cloven heart,
immaculate and mute, slid slowly from the grasp
of the tormented man till on the water’s edge
alone, thick blood-drops gleamed, and shreds of white hairs shone.
But all at once the seven-souled man’s mind flashed fire, 1180
he grabbed the ax that hung down from his leathern belt,
struck at the ice and cracked it, clutched and gripped the clefts
with his ten nails, then on all fours crawled up the slope.
His white beard reddened with thick drops of dripping blood,
but like a horseman he gripped tight his crystal steed 1185
then mustered all his strength to shout with a hoarse cry
and call up swiftly from all Hades, lands, and seas
his faithful comrades, his old crew, his sunburnt troops,
that all might plunge to Death together, sail and oar;
but the cry choked in his cracked heart, and his throat foamed. 1190
Joy was a silent hopeless waste, and the sea poured
like frozen honey in a dream where ancient souls,
old outcries, old immense battalions, insect hordes,
huge honey-yearning molted wings, all Life’s assault,
unmoving, mute, in one great mass now slowly drowned. 1195
Only at times a flying fish with coral eyes,
rebellious soul that still remembered life in dream,
leapt from the thickened waves to see the upper world—
the sea erupted for a lightning flash, the bright air gleamed,
but once again the waters hushed and the game vanished. 1200
Life swayed like a sunflower, dark with too much light,
and turned its brooding face toward the black sun, toward Death.
Stars seethed behind the light till night’s great cypress tree
with its black-leaved unfruitful boughs burst into flame;
the birds awoke from sleep and stumbled with scorched wings, 1205
moths gathered like gay in-laws, worms like wedding guests,
the mole rushed like a harbinger with upraised flag
and Death paced like a bridegroom with a viper-ring
to wed the archer’s rich aristocratic soul.
He asked a hundred mills for dowry, souls for grain, 1210
ha
lf of the mills to grind with tears, and half with blood,
and one mill to be turned with the deep sighs of men.
Then the redeemed shipmaster on his fleet of ice
and with his snow-white bloodstained beard, with his smashed nails,
opened his black eyes wide and watched the bridegroom come. 1215
His blue hands froze, his feet became as hard as bone,
slowly his brains became benumbed with drowsy sleep,
and his mind hovered like cold breath and passed like mist
or a frail empty phantom on the foaming waves.
The coward ax dropped from his waist and on the ice 1220
left its old master weaponless in that dread hour;
his faithful heavy bow slipped from his shoulder blade
and left its Archer undefended, stark, alone;
and the thread snapped that bound the sacred chips of flint
till they rushed headlong to escape the grip of Death. 1225
The North Wind passed and laughed to see him, stretched its arms,
snatched off the hairy pelt that fenced his flesh and bones,
and left him stripped and blue-lipped on the seething sea
till all the spirits of the air pressed round and burst
with bells to jeer and taunt him with their silvery sounds. 1230
White seabirds dipped, enormous seagulls swooped and wound
the pale death-stricken man in swirling loops and rounds,
and their swift nooses tightly bound and choked his throat.
Then the great wailing, death’s high threnody, began,
and the pale sun drew close and burst in lamentation: 1235
“Alas, alack, the mind’s great eye is setting now!
I took great joy to light the world, to watch at least
one free soul that still loved and understood my light,
but now, O upright wing, you molt, and I molt with you!”
The sea, too, heard and rose, and to her loved one called: 1240
“Where are you going, beloved? Don’t leave me widowed here!
With whom shall I play now at dawn or quarrel at night,
who’s worth the trouble now to toss with smashing storms,
to batter his strong loins or cleave his hull in two?
Aye, Captain, take me with you, I shall miss our games; 1245
let Hades brim with our embracements, our fierce fights!”
The birds heard also, swooped and shed their downy breasts
in a sad twittering threnody, as the seals came,
compassionate plump sirens who began to weep
like mournful women, circling round the crystal tomb. 1250