Poems Page 9

isattheleft.Ahigh vox

humanasomewherewails:

Thegrayhorseneedsshoeing!

It’salwaysthesame!

Whatareyoudoing,

there,beyondtheframe?

Ifyou’rethedonor,

youmightdothatmuch!

Turnonthelight.Turnover.

Onthebedasmutch—

black-and-goldgesso

onthealteredcloth.

Thecatjumpstothewindow;

inhismouth’samoth.

Dreamdreamconfronting,

nowthecupboard’sbare.

Thecat’sgonea-hunting.

Thebrookfeelsforthestair.

Theworldseldomchanges,

butthewetfootdangles

untilabirdarranges

twonotesatrightangles.

Sandpiper

Theroaringalongsidehetakesforgranted,

andthateverysooftentheworldisboundtoshake.

Heruns,herunstothesouth,finical,awkward,

inastateofcontrolledpanic,astudentofBlake.

Thebeachhisseslikefat.Onhisleft,asheet

ofinterruptingwatercomesandgoes

andglazesoverhisdarkandbrittlefeet.

Heruns,herunsstraightthroughit,watchinghistoes.

—Watching,rather,thespacesofsandbetweenthem,

where(nodetailtoosmall)theAtlanticdrains

rapidlybackwardsanddownwards.Asheruns,

hestaresatthedragginggrains.

Theworldisamist.Andthentheworldis

minuteandvastandclear.Thetide

ishigherorlower.Hecouldn’ttellyouwhich.

Hisbeakisfocussed;heispreoccupied,

lookingforsomething,something,something.

Poorbird,heisobsessed!

Themillionsofgrainsareblack,white,tan,andgray,

mixedwithquartzgrains,roseandamethyst.

FromTrollope’sJournal

[Winter,1861]

Asfarasstatuesgo,sofarthere’snot

muchchoice:they’reeitherWashingtons

orIndians,awhitewashed,stubbylot,

Hiscountry’sFatherorHisfostersons.

TheWhiteHouseinasad,unhealthyspot

justhigherthanPotomac’sswampybrim,

—theysaythepresentPresidenthasgot

agueorfeverineachbackwoodslimb.

OnSundayafternoonIwandered—rather,

Ifloundered—outalone.Theairwasraw

anddark;themarshhalf-ice,half-mud.Thisweather

isnormalnow:afrost,andthenathaw,

andthenafrost.Ahuntingman,Ifound

thePennsylvaniaAvenueheavyground…

Thereallaroundmeintheuglymud

—hoof-pocked,uncultivated—herdsofcattle,

numberless,wond’ringsteersandoxen,stood:

beeffortheArmy,afterthenextbattle.

Theirlegswerecakedthecolorofdriedblood;

theirhornswerewreathedwithfog.Poor,starving,dumb

orlowingcreatures,nevertochewthecud

orfilltheirmawsagain!Th’effluvium

madethatdamnedanthraxonmyforeheadthrob.

Icalledasurgeonin,ayoungman,but,

withasorethroathimself,hedidhisjob.

WetalkedabouttheWar,andashecut

away,hecroakedout,“Sir,Idodeclare

everyone’ssick!Thesoldierspoisontheair.”

VisitstoSt.Elizabeths

[1950]

ThisisthehouseofBedlam.

Thisistheman

thatliesinthehouseofBedlam.

Thisisthetime

ofthetragicman

thatliesinthehouseofBedlam.

Thisisawristwatch

tellingthetime

ofthetalkativeman

thatliesinthehouseofBedlam.

Thisisasailor

wearingthewatch

thattellsthetime

ofthehonoredman

thatliesinthehouseofBedlam.

Thisistheroadsteadallofboard

reachedbythesailor

wearingthewatch

thattellsthetime

oftheold,braveman

thatliesinthehouseofBedlam.

Thesearetheyearsandthewallsoftheward,

thewindsandcloudsoftheseaofboard

sailedbythesailor

wearingthewatch

thattellsthetime

ofthecrankyman

thatliesinthehouseofBedlam.

ThisisaJewinanewspaperhat

thatdancesweepingdowntheward

overthecreakingseaofboard

beyondthesailor

windinghiswatch

thattellsthetime

ofthecruelman

thatliesinthehouseofBedlam.

Thisisaworldofbooksgoneflat.

ThisisaJewinanewspaperhat

thatdancesweepingdowntheward

overthecreakingseaofboard

ofthebattysailor

thatwindshiswatch

thattellsthetime

ofthebusyman

thatliesinthehouseofBedlam.

Thisisaboythatpatsthefloor

toseeiftheworldisthere,isflat,

forthewidowedJewinthenewspaperhat

thatdancesweepingdowntheward

waltzingthelengthofaweavingboard

bythesilentsailor

thathearshiswatch

thatticksthetime

ofthetediousman

thatliesinthehouseofBedlam.

Thesearetheyearsandthewallsandthedoor

thatshutonaboythatpatsthefloor

tofeeliftheworldisthereandflat.

ThisisaJewinanewspaperhat

thatdancesjoyfullydowntheward

intothepartingseasofboard

pastthestaringsailor

thatshakeshiswatch

thattellsthetime

ofthepoet,theman

thatliesinthehouseofBedlam.

Thisisthesoldierhomefromthewar.

Thesearetheyearsandthewallsandthedoor

thatshutonaboythatpatsthefloor

toseeiftheworldisroundorflat.

ThisisaJewinanewspaperhat

thatdancescarefullydowntheward,

walkingtheplankofacoffinboard

withthecrazysailor

thatshowshiswatch

thattellsthetime

ofthewretchedman

thatliesinthehouseofBedlam.

TranslationsfromthePortuguese(1969)

Seven-SidedPoem

( CarlosDrummonddeAndrade)

WhenIwasborn,oneofthecrooked

angelswholiveinshadow,said:

Carlos,goon!Be gaucheinlife.

Thehouseswatchthemen,

menwhorunafterwomen.

Iftheafternoonhadbeenblue,

theremighthavebeenlessdesire.

Thetrolleygoesbyfulloflegs:

whitelegs,blacklegs,yellowlegs.

MyGod,whyallthelegs?

myheartasks.Butmyeyes

asknothingatall.

Themanbehindthemoustache

isserious,simple,andstrong.

Hehardlyeverspeaks.

Hehasafew,choicefriends,

themanbehindthespectaclesandthemoustache.

MyGod,whyhastThouforsakenme

ifThouknew’stIwasnotGod,

ifThouknew’stthat
Iwasweak?

Universe,vastuniverse,

ifIhadbeennamedEugene

thatwouldnotbewhatImean

butitwouldgointoverse

faster.

Universe,vastuniverse,

myheartisvaster.*

Ioughtn’ttotellyou,

butthismoon

andthisbrandy

playthedevilwithone’semotions.

Don’tKillYourself

( CarlosDrummonddeAndrade)

Carlos,keepcalm,love

iswhatyou’reseeingnow:

todayakiss,tomorrownokiss,

dayaftertomorrow’sSunday

andnobodyknowswhatwillhappen

Monday.

It’suselesstoresist

ortocommitsuicide.

Don’tkillyourself.Don’tkillyourself!

Keepallofyourselfforthenuptials

comingnobodyknowswhen,

thatis,iftheyevercome.

Love,Carlos,tellurian,

spentthenightwithyou,

andnowyourinsidesareraising

anineffableracket,

prayers,

victrolas,

saintscrossingthemselves,

adsforabettersoap,

aracketofwhichnobody

knowsthewhyorwherefore.

Inthemeantimeyougoonyourway

vertical,melancholy.

You’rethepalmtree,you’rethecry

nobodyheardinthetheatre

andallthelightswentout.

Loveinthedark,no,love

inthedaylight,isalwayssad,

sad,Carlos,myboy,

buttellittonobody,

nobodyknowsnorshallknow.

TravellingintheFamily

( CarlosDrummonddeAndrade)

toRodrigoM.F.deAndrade

InthedesertofItabira

theshadowofmyfather

tookmebythehand.

Somuchtimelost.

Buthedidn’tsayanything.

Itwasneitherdaynornight.

Asigh?Apassingbird?

Buthedidn’tsayanything.

Wehavecomealongway.

Heretherewasahouse.

Themountainusedtobebigger.

Somanyheaped-updead,

andtimegnawingthedead.

Andintheruinedhouses,

colddisdainanddamp.

Buthedidn’tsayanything.

Thestreetheusedtocross

onhorseback,atagallop.

Hiswatch.Hisclothes.

Hislegaldocuments.

Histalesoflove-affairs.

Openingoftintrunks

andviolentmemories.

Buthedidn’tsayanything.

InthedesertofItabira

thingscomebacktolife,

stiflingly,suddenly.

Themarketofdesires

displaysitssadtreasures;

myurgetorunaway;

nakedwomen;remorse.

Buthedidn’tsayanything.

Steppingonbooksandletters

wetravelinthefamily.

Marriages;mortgages;

theconsumptivecousins;

themadaunt;mygrandmother

betrayedamongtheslave-girls,

rustlingsilksinthebedroom.

Buthedidn’tsayanything.

Whatcruel,obscureinstinct

movedhispallidhand

subtlypushingus

intotheforbidden

time,forbiddenplaces?

Ilookedinhiswhiteeyes.

Icriedtohim:Speak!Myvoice

shookintheairamoment,

beatonthestones.Theshadow

proceededslowlyon

withthatpathetictravelling

acrossthelostkingdom.

Buthedidn’tsayanything.

Isawgrief,misunderstanding

andmorethanoneoldrevolt

dividingusinthedark.

ThehandIwouldn’tkiss,

thecrumbthattheydeniedme,

refusaltoaskpardon.

Pride.Terroratnight.

Buthedidn’tsayanything.

Speakspeakspeakspeak.

Ipulledhimbyhiscoat

thatwasturningintoclay.

Bythehands,bytheboots

Icaughtathisstrictshadow

andtheshadowreleaseditself

withneitherhastenoranger.

Butheremainedsilent.

Thereweredistinctsilences

deepwithinhissilence.

Therewasmydeafgrandfather

hearingthepaintedbirds

ontheceilingofthechurch;

myownlackoffriends;

andyourlackofkisses;

therewereourdifficultlives

andagreatseparation

inthelittlespaceoftheroom.

Thenarrowspaceoflife

crowdsmeupagainstyou,

andinthisghostlyembrace

it’sasifIwerebeingburned

completely,withpoignantlove.

Onlynowdoweknoweachother!

Eye-glasses,memories,portraits

flowintheriverofblood.

Nowthewaterswon’tletme

makeoutyourdistantface,

distantbyseventyyears…

Ifeltthathepardonedme

buthedidn’tsayanything.

Thewaterscoverhismoustache,

thefamily,Itabira,all.

TheTable

( CarlosDrummonddeAndrade)

Andyouneverlikedparties…

Oldman,whataparty

we’dgiveforyoutoday.

Thesonsthatdon’tdrink

andtheonethatlovestodrink,

aroundthewidetable,

gaveuptheirgrimdiets,

forgottheirlikesanddislikes;

itwasanhonestorgy

endinginrevelations.

Yes,oldman,you’dhearthings

toshockyourninetyyears.

Butthenwedidn’tshockyou,

because—whatwiththesmiles,

andthefathen,andthewine,

goodwinefromPortugal,

aswellaswhatwasmade

fromathousandingredients

andservedupinabundance

inathousandchinadishes

—we’dimpliedalready

thatitwasallinfun.

Yes.Yourtiredeyes

usedtoreadingthecountry

indistancesofleagues,

andinthedistanceonesteer

lostintheblueblue,

lookedintoourverysouls

andsawtheirrottenmud,

andsadlystaredrightthroughus

andfiercelysworeatus

andsweetlypardonedus

(pardonistheusualritual

forparents,asforlovers).

Andthen,forgivingall,

youinwardlycongratulated

yourselfuponsuchchildren…

Well,thebiggestscoundrels

haveturnedoutalotbetter

thanIbargainedfor.Besides,

chipsofftheold…Youstopped,

frowningsuddenly,

inwardlygoingover

someregrettedmemory,

andnotallthatremote,

smilingtoyourself,seeing

thatyouhadthrownabridge

fromthegrandfather’scrazydance

tothegrandsons’escapades,

knowingthatallflesh

aspirestodegradation,

butonafieryroad

ben
eathasexualrainbow,

youcoughed. Harrumph. Children,

don’tbesilly.Children?

Greatboysinourfifties,

bald,who’vebeenaround,

butkeepinginourbreasts

thatyoungboy’sinnocence,

thatrunningofftothewoods,

thatforbiddencraving,

andtheverysimpledesire

toaskourmothertomend

morethanjustourshirts,

ourimpotent,raggedsouls…

Ah,itwouldbeabig

mineiro*dinner…Weate,

andhungergrowswitheating,

andfoodwasjustapretext.

Wedidn’tevenneed

tohaveappetites;everything

wasdisposedof;themorningafter,

we’dtaketheconsequences.

Neverdisdain tutu. †

Theregoessomemorecrackling.

Asfortheturkey? Farofa*

needsanicelittle cachaça†

tokeepitcompany,

anddon’toverlookthebeer,

agreatcompanion,too.

Theotherday…Doeseating

holdsuchsignificance

thatthebottomofthedish

alonerevealsthebest,

mosthuman,ofourbeings?

Isdrinkingthensosacred

thatonlydrunkmybrother

canexplainhisresentment

andoffermehishand?

Toeat,todrink:whatfood

morefragrant,moremysterious

thanthisPortuguese-Arabian,

andwhatdrinkismoreholy

thanthisthatjoinstogether

suchagluttonousbrotherhood,

big-mouths,goodfellowsall!

Andthesister’stherewhowent

beforetheothers,andwas

arosebyname,andborn

onadayjustliketoday

inordertograceyourbirthday.

Hernametastesofcamelia

andbeingarose-amelia,

amuchmoredelicateflower

thananyoftherose-roses,

shelivedlongerthanthename,

althoughshehid,insecret,

thescatteredrose.Besideyou,

see:ithasbloomedagain.

Theoldestsatdownhere.

Aquiet,craftytype

whowouldn’tmakeapriest,

butlikedlowlove-affairs:

andtimehasmadeofhim

whatitmakesofanyone;

and,withoutbeingyou,

strangely,theolderhegrows,

themorehelookslikeyou,

sothatifIglimpsehim

unexpectedlynow

itisyouwhoreappear

inanothermanofsixty.

Thisonehasadegree,

thediplomaofthefamily,

buthismorelearnedletters

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