CAROL RUMENS

A Belt of Fire, a Crown of Leaves

(for Meryl Pugh and James Manlow)
 

I dreamed about the simplest human thing:
Two men fighting. One was bloody foam.
The second, flailing over him, in flame,
Frantically tried to end the blood-man’s writhing.
Time and again, into that gasping head,
His rifle butt swung down. My dream voice told me
The men were comrade soldiers: flame-man’s pitted
Onslaught was a last-ditch act of mercy
Although it looked like rage. And I was sure
That when they sank together, blood and fire
Would form one substance, seal a single spirit.
But when I woke I knew myself a liar.
These two were locked in endless, hellish war.
They’d fought it to the death: they’d fight beyond it.

They’d fought it to the death: they’d fight beyond it.
They’d fight it in the trenches, in the hedges
And coffee shops and caves, and on the bridges:
They’d fight it with the fear they’d never find it.
They’d fight it on the boards of advanced studies,
And on the heights of learning. On the moon,
Bleached faintly by moon-sunshine, but untorn,
Their rigid flag still cries, ‘It’s ours now, buddies.’
Perhaps if we’d gone native, somehow learned
Moon-manners from the lack of atmosphere,
We might have found a way to mix, suspended
In mutability. Our heels ungrounded,
Playful and feathery as those of Hermes,
We’d diet on stars: no need for agriculture.

Our diet starts! No need for agriculture -
A happy breed of gene-re-coded men,
We share exact, un-thieved supplies. What then?
How can we farm this un-territorial future?
No killing-field, no concentration-camp,
No no-man’s-land – but where will vision go
If there’s no land to struggle over, stamp
With forts and bones? We’ll die, who learned to grow
Human and beautiful. Remember, once,
When western flags bore neither stripes nor stars,
But apples? When we sang that all we needed
Was love, and dreamt our governments acceded?
Womanly times, we chanted, war is man’s,
We’ve always said those bastards were from Mars!

We always said - those bastards are from Mars,
But others knew war’s Venus side: their daddies,
Brothers, lovers, sons wore brilliant scars,
Wore stone. They sorrowed at their hollow bodies,
And when they got the chance, stood to attention
And knew it was all lies, the fear of blood,
Delicate morals, motherly convention.
Others still fiercer in their sisterhood
Felt the fire-belt weave inside them where
The crying had begun. They slipped it on,
Modelled it for the dead, their army bling,
And swept their shawls and skirts into a pyre,
And dedicated thus their suffering:
They burned and bled as well as any man.

They burned and bled as well as any man,
Once lit. There was some minor variation:
The brittler bones in age, the pale striation
And limpness of some areas of skin
Suggested they had been designed for more
Or less – but it was more or less the same
In their ascendant years. They wanted power
Since wisdom without power remains a form
Of ignorance. And so the monster breeds,
In wait for every hand that marks its cross:
Demos, homely hermaphrodite-fool,
Or Theos, promising a good deal less
Oh womanly times, oh, widows, sisters, brides,
Truly you did not turn the world to well.

Truly you did not turn the world from ill,
Either, you holy men. A sage admitted
‘Religion’s like the weather: very good
At times, at others absolutely dreadful.’
Dreadful. It was too small a word last Christmas
When weather burst out of the sea in slews
Of hydro-concrete, jet-propelled, its fathoms
Crashing through frail-skinned human things. But this is
What war does nightly, on and off the News,
Stamped with our science, our gods, our warranty.
We cry at what blind waves do, but resist
Dissection of the shatter-work of bombs,

The running fires that have our votes and eyes.
Religion’s worse than weather. So are we.

‘Religion’s worse than weather. So are we
To stop?’ Flame-man and blood-man paused. ‘We’re bound
To fight: it’s just a fable - common ground.’
And each once more seized his antagonist.
Coldly, I sat and typed their dreary tale
In language that I knew I couldn’t trust,
The sky outside gradually grew pale,
Once I was staring as a rainbow thrust
Its stalk into the clouds. I dreamed again –
This time, about two giants. Hammer Rain,
And Mad Sun cracked heads till one rolled free,
And spilled green fragrant blood. Then it was spring.
My pregnant daughter’s daughter danced for me.
I dreamed about the simplest human thing.
 

Oana Cristina Andreoiu

Carol Rumens
 

Un brau de foc, o cununa de frunze
(Pentru Maryl Pugh si James Manlow)

Am visat cel mai simplu fapt omenesc:
Doi oameni luptandu-se: unul spuma sangerie.
Celalalt, fluturandu-si bratele, mistuit de foc
Frenetic incercand sa-i curme rasuflarea omului insangerat.
Iar si iar, pe chipul sufocat,
Patul pustii se pravalea. Vocea din vis mi-a soptit
Ca erau camarazi: atacul barbatului spuma sangerie
Era un ultim act de indurare.
desi, mai degraba furie parea a fi. Si eram sigura
Ca atunci cand se vor narui, sangele si focul
Se vor contopi, vor pecetlui un singur suflet.
Insa cand m-am trezit, era doar o amagire.
Cei doi erau inclestati intr-un razboi demonic, nesfarsit.
S-au luptat pe viata si pe moarte: se vor lupta si dincolo de moarte.

S-au luptat pe viata si pe moarte: se vor lupta si dincolo de moarte.
Se vor lupta in transee, printre maracini,
In cafenele, in pesteri, si pe poduri:
Aveau sa lupte cu teama ca n-o s-o gaseasca nicicand.
Vor lupta pe culmile studiilor academice
Si pe cele ale invatarii. Pe luna,
Vag decolorat de razelel lunii, insa intact,
Drapelul lor rigid inca mai striga: “A noastra e reduta.”
Daca ne-am fi aclimatizat, poate am fi deprins
Manierele de luna de la absenta atmosferei,
Poate am fi gasit o cale sa ne amestecam, suspendati
In mutabilitate. Calcaiele noastre dezradacinate,
Jucause si inaripate ca ale lui Hermes,
Am tine o dieta cu astri: ce rost sa aiba atunci agricultura?

Dieta incepe! ce rost sa aiba atunci agricultura?
O rasa vesela de oameni recodificati genetic,
Impartasim aceleasi resurse nefurate. Atunci?
Cum putem cultiva acest viitor fara piatra de hotar?
Nici un camp de batalie, nici un lagar de concentratie,
Nici un pamant al nimanui- incotro se va indrepta puterea vizionara?
Daca un exista patrie pentru care sa lupti, sa te zbati
Cu forturi si oseminte? Vom muri, noi, cei ce-am invatat sa cultivam
Omenia si frumusetea. Va amintiti odata
Cand drapelurile vestice n-aveau nici dungi, nici stele,
Ci mere? Cand cantam ca n-avem nevoie
Decat de dragoste, si visam ca autoritatile vor fi de acord?
Vremuri femeiesti, scandam, razboiul e-al barbatilor,
Mereu am zis ca ticalosii astia vin de pe Marte!

Mereu am zis- ticalosii astia vin de pe Marte!
Insa altii cunosteau razboiul si din partea lui Venus: parintii,
Fratii, iubitii, fii lor purtau scanteietoare rani,
Si pietre funerare. Rau s-au indurerat in fata trupurilor secatuite,
Si cand au avut sansa, au luat seama
Ca totul era doar o minciuna: teama de sange,
Moralurile delicate, conventiile materne.
Altii mai inversunati in solidaritatea lor feminina
Simteau braul de foc tesand in sufletele lor, acolo unde
Strigatul se inradacinase. S-au incins cu el,
Glabontul lor de razboi, armata lor a rasunat
Si-au aruncat salurile si fustele si au facut din ele un rug,
Si astfel, si-au inchinat suferinta:
Au ars si-au sangerat la fel ca un barbat.

Au ars si-au sangerat la fel ca un barbat
Odata aprinse. Insa, erau si mici variatii:
Oasele mai sfaramicioase de tercerea vremilor, strierea usoara
Si lipsa de suplete pe unele zone ale pielii
Pareau sa spuna ca au fost proiectate pentru mai mult
Sau mai putin- insa mai mult sau mai putin era la fel
In anii lor ce-aveau sa vie. Voiau putere
Caci fara ea, intelepciunea nu e decat o forma
De ignoranta. Si astfel, monstrul se naste
In asteptarea oricarei maini ce-i poarta semnul:
Demos, nebun hidos si hermafrodit,
Ori Theos, promitand mult mai putin.
O, vremuri femeiesti, o, vaduve, surori, mirese,
Voi chiar nu ati facut lumea mai buna.

Voi chiar nu ati pazit lumea de rele,
Nici voi, barbati sfinti. Un intelept recunostea:
“Religia e ca vremea: foarte buna uneori
Alteori, absolut ingrozitoare.
Ingrozitoare, un cuvant pera mic pentru Craciunul trecut
Cand vremea a izbucnit din mare in gramezi
De ciment propulsat de current,
Zdrobindu-se de trupurile umane. Insa,
Noapte de noapte, razboiul cu asta se ocupa, cu stirea sau fara stirea cuiva,
Purtand amprenta stiintei noastre, a zeilor, a garantiei noastre.
Ne lamentam de ce provoaca valurile oarbe, insa rezistam
Nimicirii produse de bombe,

Focurile mocnind ce ne-au furat voturile si ochii,
Religia e mai cruda decat vremea: si-asa suntem si noi.

Religia e mai cruda decat vremea. Asa suntem si noi
Sa ne oprim? Barbatul mistuit de foc si cel insangerat s-au oprit. Menirea
Noastra e sa luptam. E doar o fabula- un loc comun,
Si fiecare si-a inclestat din nou adversarul.
Infrigurata, m-am asezat si-am scris povestea trista
In cuvinte in care nu ma puteam increde.
Afara, cerul a inceput sa paleasca treptat
De indata ce-am privit cum curcubeul si-a infipt
Tulpina in nori. Am visat din nou-
De data aceasta despre doi giganti. Ploaia Torentiala
Si Soarele Turbat si-au ciocnit capetele, pana ce unul s-a rostogolit
Si a varsat sange verde inmiresmat. Apoi s-a facut primavara.
Fiica insarcinata a fiicei mele dansa pentru mine.
Am visat despre cel mai simplu fapt omenesc.