Стихи и эссе

About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters; how well, they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just
walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the
torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.
In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how
everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman
may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the
sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into
the green
Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must
have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

ARCHAEOLOGY

     The archaeologist's spade
     delves into dwellings
     vacancied long ago,

     unearthing evidence

     of life-ways no one
     would dream of leading now,

     concerning which he has not much

     to say that he can prove:
     the lucky man!

     Knowledge may have its purposes,

     but guessing is always
     more fun than knowing.

     We do know that Man,

     from fear or affection,
     has always graved His dead.

     What disastered a city,

     volcanic effusion,
     fluvial outrage,

     or a human horde,

     agog for slaves and glory,
     is visually patent,

     and we're pretty sure that,

     as soon as palaces were built,
     their rulers

     though gluttoned on sex

     and blanded by flattery,
     must often have yawned.

     But do grain-pits signify

     a year of famine?
     Where a coin-series

     peters out, should we infer

     some major catastrophe?
     Maybe. Maybe.

     From murals and statues

     we get a glimpse of what
     the Old Ones bowed down to,

     but cannot conceit

     in what situations they blushed
     or shrugged their shoulders.

     Poets have learned us their myths,

     but just how did They take them?
     That's a stumper.

     When Norsemen heard thunder,

     did they seriously believe
     Thor was hammering?

     No, I'd say: I'd swear

     that men have always lounged in myths
     as Tall Stories,

     that their real earnest

     has been to grant excuses
     for ritual actions.

     Only in rites

     can we renounce our oddities
     and be truly entired.

     Not that all rites

     should be equally fonded:
     some are abominable.

     There's nothing the Crucified

     would like less
     than butchery to appease Him.

ROMAN WALL BLUES