Nov 192010
 

The Pine

Some woodmen, bent a forest pine to split,
Into each fissure sundry wedges fit,
To keep the void and render work more light.
Out groaned the pine, “Why should I vent my spite
Against the axe which never touched my root,
So much as these cursed wedges, mine own fruit;
Which rend me through, inserted here and there!”

A fable this, intended to declare
That not so dreadful is a stranger’s blow
As wrongs which men receive from those they know.

The Young Cocks

Two Tanagraean cocks a fight began;
Their spirit is, ’tis said, as that of man:
Of these the beaten bird, a mass of blows,
For shame into a corner creeping goes;
The other to the housetop quickly flew,
And there in triumph flapped his wings and crew.
But him an eagle lifted from the roof,
And bore away. His fellow gained a proof
That oft the wages of defeat are best,–
None else remained the hens to interest.

Wherefore, O man, beware of boastfulness:
Should fortune lift thee, others to depress,
Many are saved by lack of her caress.

Jupiter and the Monkey

A baby-show with prizes Jove decreed
For all the beasts, and gave the choice due heed.
A monkey-mother came among the rest;
A naked, snub-nosed pug upon her breast
She bore, in mother’s fashion. At the sight
Assembled gods were moved to laugh outright.
Said she, “Jove knoweth where his prize will fall!
I know my child’s the beauty of them all.”

This fable will a general law attest,
That each one deems that what’s his own, is best.

The Mouse That Fell Into The Pot

A mouse into a lidless broth-pot fell;
Choked with the grease, and bidding life farewell,
He said, “My fill of meat and drink have I
And all good things: ‘Tis time that I should die.”
Thou art that dainty mouse among mankind,
If hurtful sweets are not by thee declined.

The Lamp

A lamp that swam with oil, began to boast
At eve, that it outshone the starry host,
And gave more light to all. Her boast was heard:
Soon the wind whistled; soon the breezes stirred,
And quenched its light. A man rekindled it,
And said, “Brief is the faint lamp’s boasting fit,
But the starlight ne’er needs to be re-lit.”

Translations by James Davies in Library Of The World’s Best Literature, Ancient And Modern, Vol 3 [Gutenberg edition].

Nov 192010
 

Derek Mahon

(De Rerum Natura 6, 451-523)

Clouds take shape in the blue sky and gather
where flying bodies get tangled up together;
tiny clouds are borne along by breezes
till the moment when a stronger current rises.
Hills, for instance: the higher up the peak
the more industriously they seem to smoke;
wind blows these wisps on to the mountain tops
while they are still vague, evanescent strips
and there, heaped up in greater quantity,
they reveal themselves as a visible entity
trailing from snowy summits into the ether,
the empyrean spaces torn by wind and weather.
Steam rises from the sea, as becomes clear
when clothes on the shore absorb the salty air;
particles rise from rivers and wet slopes
while the sky, weighing upon them, packs them tight
and weaves them closely like a linen sheet.
Some come from space, as I’ve explained before,
their number infinite, their source obscure,
and these can travel at the speed of light.
No wonder the storm clouds, so fast and thick,
darkening fields and sea, slide up so quick
since from the blow-holes of the outer spheres,
as a our own windpipes. our glands and pores
the elements come and go, mysterious and opaque,
through ducts and channels, roois and corridors
as if in a house of opening, closing doors.
As for the rain clouds, how they come to grow
and fall as rain on the drinking earth below –
a multitude of life-germs, water semen, floats
with cloud stuff and secretions of all sorts,
both swollen up, the fat clouds and whatever
solution is in the clouds themselves, cloud-water,
as our own bodies grow with the serum, gism,
sweat, whatever fluid is in the organism;
also they draw up brine with streaming sieves
when wind drives the clouds over the waves,
hoisting it from the surface in dripping fleeces
(same thing with bogs and other soggy places).
When all these water-sources come together
clouds discharge their excess moisture either
by ganging up in a bunch to crush each other
till tears flow; or else, blown thin by winds
and sun-struck, they give off drizzling rains
as wax held to a brazier melts and runs.
Sometimes the two things coincide, of course,
the violent pushing and the rushing wind-force,
and then you get a cloudburst which persists
with clouds upon clouds, tempests upon tempests
pouring out of the heavens, soaking the smoky air
while the earth breathesbhack in bubbles everywhere.

Nov 192010
 

667-682
If I had money, Simonides, as I have had in time past,
I could without embarrassment consort with the great.
But as it is, I know a man, and he passes me by. Dumb
stand I, for poverty, though I know as much as the rest
even now. So it is. We are swept with the wind, white sails lost
out from the Melian Sea, on into the gloom of the night.
The men are unwilling to bail any more. The sea washes over
the bulwarks on either side, and barely and in distress
we keep afloat. But some are at work. They have put down the noble
helmsman, who know his business well, and kept a good watch.
All discipline is gone, and they plunder the cargo at random,
nor is there any fair division made for the lot.
The base hands and the porters control, the great are beneath them.
I am afraid. I think the sea will swallow our ship.
Let this be my secret cipher addressed to the nobles;
but even the base man, if he is clever, can see what it means.

699-718
For the multitude of mankind there is only one virtue:
Money. And there was no good found in anything else,
not if you had the resource of Sisyphos, Aiolos’ son,
who by the crafty guile in his mind came up out of Hades
and flattered the Queen of the Dead into letting him go,
Persephone, who dim’s men’s mind with the water of Lethe;
and to this day no other man has made such an escape,
once the darkness of death has closed in a vapor about him,
once he has taken his way to the shadowy place of the dead
and gone on through the black gates which shut the protesting
souls of dead men in and will not let them go free;
yet Sisyphos was a hero who came back even from that place
into the light of the sun through the resource in his mind;
not if you could be false and make falsehood look like honesty,
not if you had fair speech like Nestor the almost-divine,
not if in the speed of your feet you outran the flying
Harpies or the North Wind’s two sons in the storm of their feet.
None of these; but all men must understand when I tell them:
Money, and nothing but Money, holds all the power in the world.

Translated by Richard Lattimore in Greek Lyrics.

Nov 192010
 

Lament

When I was a windy boy and a bit
And the black spit of the chapel fold,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of women),
I tiptoed shy in the gooseberry wood,
The rude owl cried like a tell-tale tit,
I skipped in a blush as the big girls rolled
Nine-pin down on donkey’s common,
And on seesaw sunday nights I wooed
Whoever I would with my wicked eyes,
The whole of the moon I could love and leave
All the green leaved little weddings’ wives
In the coal black bush and let them grieve.

When I was a gusty man and a half
And the black beast of the beetles’ pews
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of bitches),
Not a boy and a bit in the wick-
Dipping moon and drunk as a new dropped calf,
I whistled all night in the twisted flues,
Midwives grew in the midnight ditches,
And the sizzling sheets of the town cried, Quick!-
Whenever I dove in a breast high shoal,
Wherever I ramped in the clover quilts,
Whatsoever I did in the coal-
Black night, I left my quivering prints.

When I was a man you could call a man
And the black cross of the holy house,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of welcome),
Brandy and ripe in my bright, bass prime,
No springtailed tom in the red hot town
With every simmering woman his mouse
But a hillocky bull in the swelter
Of summer come in his great good time
To the sultry, biding herds, I said,
Oh, time enough when the blood runs cold,
And I lie down but to sleep in bed,
For my sulking, skulking, coal black soul!

When I was half the man I was
And serve me right as the preachers warn,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of downfall),
No flailing calf or cat in a flame
Or hickory bull in milky grass
But a black sheep with a crumpled horn,
At last the soul from its foul mousehole
Slunk pouting out when the limp time came;
And I gave my soul a blind, slashed eye,
Gristle and rind, and a roarers’ life,
And I shoved it into the coal black sky
To find a woman’s soul for a wife.

Now I am a man no more no more
And a black reward for a roaring life,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of strangers),
Tidy and cursed in my dove cooed room
I lie down thin and hear the good bells jaw–
For, oh, my soul found a sunday wife
In the coal black sky and she bore angels!
Harpies around me out of her womb!
Chastity prays for me, piety sings,
Innocence sweetens my last black breath,
Modesty hides my thighs in her wings,
And all the deadly virtues plague my death!

Nov 192010
 

three poems inspired by George Herbert
TLS 2007.01.11

Host

I heard it was for sale and thought I’d go
     To see the old house where
He lived three years, and died. How could I know
     Its stones, its trees, its air,
The stream, the small church, the dark rain would say:
     “You’ve come; you’ve seen; now stay.”

“A guest?” I asked. “Yes, as you are on earth.”
     “The means?” “… will come, don’t fear.”
“What of the risk?” “Our lives are that from birth.”
     “His ghost?” “His soul is here.”
“He’ll change my style.” “Well, but you could do worse
     Than rent his rooms of verse.”

Joy came, and grief; love came, and loss; three years –
     Tiles down; moles up; drought; flood.
Though far in time and faith, I share his tears,
     His hearth, his ground, his mud;
Yet my host stands just out of mind and sight,
     That I may sit and write.

Flash

Bright bird, whose swift blue wings gleam out
As on the stream you dip and rise,
You, as you scan for parr and trout,
     Flash past my eyes.

Bright trout, who glints in fin and scale,
Whose whim is grubs, whose dream is flies,
You, with one whisk of your quick tail,
     Flick past my eyes.

Bright stream, home to bright fish and birds,
A gold glow as the gold sun dies,
You too, too fast for these poor words,
     Flow past my eyes.

But such drab words, ah, sad to say,
When all that’s bright has fled and gone,
Praised by dull folk, dressed all in grey,
     Live on and on.

This

Hearts-ease, hearts-bane; a balm that chafes one raw;
   The soul in splints; graph with no grid or gauge;
   A fort, a house on stilts, a hut of straw;
A tic, a weal, the flu, the plague, the rage;
Bug swept in through the net; moth with a sting;
   Two planes in fog jammed blind; a mailed kid glove;
   A dance on coals that makes us yelp and sing;
A rook or roc or swan or goose or dove;
A beast of light; a blaze to quench or stoke;
   Bread burst and burnt; sweet wind-fall; storm-cloud-milk;
   Hope raised and razed; skin-ploy; sleep-foil; steel-silk;
Hands held in lieu of breath; our genes’ sick joke;
   The sea to drink or sink in; the gods’ sty;
   What we must have or die; or have and die.