CRY, NAKED AND PERSONAL
Conversation in oak trees,
Better than the talk of men
Because it ends where they begin
Futilely.
Ferns, and invasion of moss,
Waiting for the conquest of words
To dwindle with the years
And find, in the doom of green,
A mute and sprightly correction.
These trees do not proclaim
That men are fools or geniuses.
Their rustling tolerance
Does not seek to intrude
Upon the indifference of time,
And it is appropriate
That their leaves should wait to contain
The discarded syllables
Of human erudition.
I have seen a man
Gaze upon an oak tree,
As one who hates a patient enemy.
Sensual desires and mental plots
Had marked his face not tenderly.
Combat of envy and pride
Gained the dilated prize of his eyes
As he looked upon the tree.
Then his voice achieved
The solace of admiration.
“The leaves are beautiful in Autumn.
This oak tree has a pleasant sturdiness.”
When confronted by a tree,
Or sunset prowling down the hills,
The sensual boast of men
Trembles with fear and raises
The shield of adoration.
Look upon the oak tree
Without that simulated courage
Falsely wrung from soothing sound.
The oak tree is a living prison
Where the thoughts and lusts of men
Dangle to the whims of winds
And learn an unexpected tolerance.
Seek revenge upon the tree;
Dress it in capricious metaphor;
Fling your costumes on its frame.
Or, better still, realize
That the oak tree does not
Demolish the souls of men.
I say that all of nature
Is only the mingled womb and tomb
With which an ancient illusion
Perpetuates the religions that keep it alive.
Before I leave the oak tree
Laughter captures my lips.
Newton, a dry and wavering leaf,
Has fallen to the earth.
FANTASY
“Geography locates actual mountains,
Rivers, and valleys, while critics
Of literature and art
Draw imaginary maps
Small as the nail of an infant’s thumb.
Then nouns and adjectives
Are purchased and arranged
To magnify and defend the size
Of exquisite differences
In altitude, position, and direction.
Trivially vociferous,
Your geographical critics
Display their little maps to men
Whose eyes are already convinced
Or turned in another direction.”
Torban, a scholar from Mars,
Dropped his speech and laughed.
His laugh was the sound of a mountain
Emancipated by humour
And cavorting over the plains.
The mountain fled, but Torban remained,
Made gigantic by its aftermath.
For size does not reside
In the legs and torsos
That men hug, frightened, or with glee.
He said: “Criticism in Mars
Resembles your hours of sleep.
Each night we leave creation;
Greet the steeply slanting beds;
And turn our large eyes inward
To a complicated cabaret:
Cabaret filled with relieving jigs;
Cabaret crammed with irascible magicians
Who persist in spoiling their little tricks
By proclaiming the honesty of their intentions;
Cabaret in which malice,
Dignified or torrential,
Turns creators into beetles
And slays them ingeniously;
Cabaret in which Erudition,
Tempted by emotional coquettes,
Swaggers greyly past the footlights;
Cabaret in which Lust
Defends itself with thoughtful monologues,
Stopping to expectorate
Into metaphysical cuspidors;
Cabaret in which the mind
Scorns the morphine of emotion
Until, exhausted, it is forced
Secretly to indulge in the drug;
Cabaret of toothless bickerings
That lisp like market-women
At an ancient Fair;
Cabaret in which Tolerance and Indifference
Sit on the floor below the banquet-table
And wait for crumbs that accidentally
Slip from the over-full plates;
Cabaret in which Logic
Swallows the whiskey of dogmas,
Reels to the little bed-chamber,
And gradually falls asleep;
Cabaret in which qualities,
Enlarged and beribboned, engage
In arguments with smaller qualities,
Each longing for the other’s size.”
Torban paused, and his smile,
A thread of quicksilver bettering his face,
Encouraged the purpose of my voice.
I said: “The cabaret that you describe
Reminds me of criticism on earth.”
He answered: “One difference exists.
We go to sleep before we criticize—
An excellent antidote for truth and lies!”