War of the Beasts and the Animals

twostep at arm’s length

freight trains loaded

with gold and frankincense

those hard done hard won

those barely alive

down on your bare knees

a head against your thigh

tea twinkles in the strainer

steams in the room

bulbous iron knobs

where a cheap dress is thrown

remember how she stood

weeping on the porch

when they hunted him down

caught him in the church

smiling, he was led

looked back as if to say

then a round in the head

and a truck sped away

at the crack of fire

you turned and left

and cranked up your life

and lived it cleft.

*

my brother said you’re a fascist

you sing up, and I’ll sing loud

we’ll be back when the trees are in leaf

but I’ll stand my ground

when the leaves are in fist

and the deer dances past the oak

the antifascist flips to fascist

and the wood goes for broke

words are attached to things

with old twine

and people lay down with their tubers

in the ground for all time

but them, they cross yards

with lists and chalk

and lick the paint off window sills

with tongues that fork

fascist fattish fetish

flatfish, flippery, facetious

but the air knows we’re not of them,

none of you or us

untie the words

let them drop in a corner

and the wood will call back its men

non omnis moriar.

*

across the vast rippling sound

under the evening star

from the furthest shore

floated a wooden box

you couldn’t hear any captain aboard

you couldn’t see any sailors

all you could see            a faint flickering light

(it floats closer to our home)

all you could hear           a faint scratching

as if something was awake in the case but crumbling

shifting handful by handful

all you could hear          the dripping and crackling of wax

and water psalm by psalm

read then washed away

then read and washed away

forgive me forgive me my friend

let me perish

it isn’t about that

don’t run along the shore after me

along a path that doesn’t exist

legs collapsing under you

don’t look for my wooden box

bobbing in the shallows

caught in the reeds

and most of alclass="underline" don’t take off the lid

turn your back on the old world

don’t take off my lid

don’t go back to mother

don’t wander the villages speaking

from lips chalky white petrified

dear comrades brothers and sisters we happy few

*

depart from me for I am a sinful man

said the eagle to the headwind

depart from me for I am an infirm man

said the red clay to the hands

depart from me

I am not man at all

I am a recording device

trrrrrr chirr churr

bring a jug bring a jug

*

and snow fell, and it was kind of:

the azure light disappeared like a cataract

*

under the spindle of a low sky

a dust trail on the near shore

two cars, a jawa motorbike

a woman in a scarf, her face hidden

the young are beautiful, the old are more so

a shop without a signboard

loaves of bread on the shelf

in rows like soldiers on parade

still warm to the touch

each loaf reluctantly cooling

by the factory gates

a briar rose in raspberry cuffs

points in its madness

to where the sickening smell comes from

where did you get to, mr speaker

from the regional office

how long, my dear

have we been travelling

over this bridge in our little car

will we ever leave this place

*

the high towers are lit up red

and on them tall flags are talking

in the skies the stars assemble in rows

and jet planes, rising

tanks on parade with heavy paunches

armoured chariots

dolphin-heroes

swallow-martyrs

lions picked for their stature, their roar

people people and people

above them floats apple blossom

scented buds of white acacia

crinkle-edged paper poppies

heads

on poles

*

apparition of these faces in the metro

lamps on a wet black wire

*

Instead of scribbles in soft pencil lead:

Spinnrade         the brook          the mill weir,

You find the homunculus stone dead

His foetal hands pressed to his ears,

And guards to the left and the right of the door

And the party spirit in proletarian literature

You’ll stand in the entrance hall to read your verse

The stitches drawn so tight you’ll forget all the words.

—

Plush Soviet rose

Drilling the briar shoot

But the shoot sows

Itself silently, hides deep among the roots

You beat to death those without babble

And honour those without grace

But if you look with a gaze that is level

The spines have grown on your face.

—

See how Pushkin’s cobbler

Measures the foot with a sole

The litigant follows his example

And the author is tied to a pole.

But it’s Pushkin’s miller!

The auditorium is slowly filling

A re-educated pine tall as a pillar

Stretches            confesses it was once a willow

*

………

<insert hole in bagel here>

*

and so I decided

it was told to me that I should think back

so I thought back

and remembered

and it upset me

so I went and died

I died

and nothing came of it

apart from books

which came at some point

after fifty years

and former men

lost the form they once had

*

tell her to come out and say something

(coo-ey! calls war)

and the dog-heart growls and shrinks

and the son is born on the barracks floor

two friends lived like ya and you

and if one of them said yes

the underground water rose in the darkness

I’ll sing of that soon

no says the other

no and that is an end

there are no children in the army

which is made up of many men

but the friends could say nothing

when I sprang forth

between tree bole and gun bore

my cradle was caught

*

before the great war the apples were so fine

you might have heard that once at market – but who’s left alive

*

click

trigger (shutter) cocked

chink     viewfinder       sight

the photographer takes the picture

(things are taken from their places)

trans-ferr-al

and trans-ition trans-lates the space anew

(where corpses lie alongside the quick)

trans-humans transhumance

ex-isled con-sumers

jesters creatives

students

peasants

(great-grandfather grigory with his two hands

factory machine will chew off the right hand, but later,

great-grandfather whose face I never saw)

gawpers and gazers, proceeding arm-in-arm

and jews unassigned scattered

(we-jews)

o what bewildering confusion

from wild profusion

click

springtime, green garden, maytime

brooch at her throat, hair gathered in a bun

my grandmother (only a little older than me)

feeding a squirrel in a park on the outskirts of moscow

lonely soldier drinking mineral with syrup

school uniform, fitting room, apron-winged, unhemmed

festive streets, the houses and pavements illuminated in tiny lights

five-year-old mother flicks her silken ribbon

looks

click

click

wide-hipped rowing boats drawn up on the shore

their hulls bright in the sun

gondola swings flying over the abyss