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.

Carmen Dumitru

Carol Rumens
 

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

Am visat cel mai simplu lucru omenesc:
Doi barbati luptandu-se. Unul in spuma sangerie.
Al doilea, fluturandu-si mainile, mistuit de foc,
Frenetic incercand sa-i curme zvarcolirea omului insangerat.
Iar si iar, in fata sufocata,
Patul pustii se pravalea. Vocea din vis mi-a spus
Ca barbatii erau camarazi de arme: atacul violent al inflacaratului
A fost un ultim act de milostivire
Desi parea mai degraba furie. Si eram sigura
C-atunci cand se vor cufunda impreuna, sange si foc
Vor forma o singura materie, vor pecetlui un singur spirit.
Dar cand m-am trezit mi-am dat seama ca ma amagisem.
Acestia doi era damnati la un nesfarsit, infernal razboi.
Se luptasera pana la moarte: inca si dincolo de ea.

Se luptasera pana la moarte: inca si dincolo de ea.
Aveau sa lupte-n transee, in garduri vii
Si cafenele si pesteri, si pe poduri:
Au luptat cu frica ca n-or s-o mai gaseasca nicicand.
Aveau sa lupte pe cele mai inalte culmi
Ale invatamantului. Pe luna,
De-abia ablita de razele lunii, dar nesfasiat,
Steagul lor rigid inca mai striga, ‘A noastra e reduta.’
Poate dac-am lua obiceiurile bastinasilor, am invata cumva
Manierele lunare de la lipsa de atmosfera,
Am fi gasit un mod de a ne asocia cu ei, suspendati
In mutabilitate. Cu calcaiele neimpamantenite,
Jucause si inaripate ca ale lui Hermes,
Aveam sa ne hranim cu astri: la ce buna agricultura.

Cura noastra incepe! La ce buna agricultura -
O rasa fericita de oameni re-codificati genetic,
Imparteam resurse exacte, ne-furate. Si-atunci?
Cum oare sa lucram acest viitor ne-parcelat?
Nu tu camp de masacru, nu tu lagar de concentratie,
Nu tu tinuturi sterpe – dar unde va ajunge imaginatia
Daca nu exista un pamant pentru care sa te zbati, sa-l strivesti
Cu fortarete si oseminte? Vom muri, noi ce-am invatat sa crestem
Umani si frumosi. Ti-aduci aminte acele timpuri,
Cand steagurile de la apus nu purtau nici dungi nici stele,
Ci mere? Cand cantam c-avem nevoie doar
De dragoste, si visam ca guvernele noastre vor nu vor incuviinta?
Vremuri femeiesti, scandam, razboiul e-al barbatilor,
Dintotdeauna am spus ca ticalosii aia-s de pe Marte!

Mereu am spus – ticalosii aia-s de pe Marte,
Dar altii stiau si razboiul din partea lui Venus: ai lor tati,
Frati, iubiti, fii purtau cicatrici stralucitoare,
De piatra. S-au mahnit la propriile trupuri secatuite,
Si cand aveau ocazia, si-au luat seama
Si au realizat ca totu-i o minciuna, frica de sange,
Moralurile delicate, conventiile materne.
Altii inca vehementi in solidaritatea lor feminina
Simteau braul de foc impletindu-se inauntrul lor unde
Jeluirea incepuse. S-au incins cu el,
S-au impaunat in fata mortilor, gablontul de razboi,
Si si-au facut din saluri si fuste un rug funerar,
Si astfel si-au dedicat suferinta:
Arzand si sangerand la fel ca orice alt barbat.

Arzand si sangerand la fel ca orice alt barbat,
Odata aprinse. Inc-o mica variatie:
Oasele fragile cu varsta, stersele striatii
Pielea flescaita in cateva zone
Marturiseau c-au fost meniti pentru mai mult
Sau mai putin – dar mai mult sau mai putin era la fel
In anii lor cei mai numerosi. Voiau putere
Din moment ce intelepciunea fara putere ramane o forma
De ignoranta. Si astfel monstrul prolifereaza,
In asteptarea fiecarei maini care sa-i insemneze crucea:
Demos, had nebun hermafrodit,
Sau Theos, promitand si mai putin
Oh timpuri femeiesti, oh, vaduve, surori, mirese,
Intr-adevar nu ati reusit sa izbaviti universul.

Intr-adevar nu ati schimbat lumea de la rau,
Nici voi, oameni sfinti. Un intelept a recunoscut
‘Religia-i ca vremea: foarte frumoasa
Cateodata, alteori absolut ingrozitoare.’
Ingrozitoare. Un cuvant prea infim pentru ultimul Craciun
Cand vremea a iesit din mare in cascade
De hidro-beton, propulsat de curent, a sa cantitate
Prabusindu-se peste lucrurile umane cu pielea plapanda. Dar asta e
Ce face razboiul fiece noapte, tot timpul la Stiri,
Strivit de stiinta, zeii, garantiile noastre.
Plangem faptele valurilor oarbe, dar rezistam
Disectiei strivirilor facute de bombe,

Flacarile curgatoare ce ne-au furat voturi si priviri.
Religia-i mai rea ca vremea. Si noi la fel.

‘Religia-i mai rea ca vremea. Si-asa suntem si noi meniti
Sa-ncetam?’ inflacaratul si insangeratul s-au oprit. ‘Suntem destinati
Luptei: e doar un mit – un teren comun.’
Si fiecare-si inclesteaza adversarul.
Infrigurat, stau si le astern trista poveste
Intr-o limba in care stiam ca nu ma pot increde,
Orizontu-n departari pali treptat,
Indata ce priveam curcubeul cum isi infige
Tulpina in nori. Am visat din nou –
De data asta, doi giganti. Ploaia Nimicitoare,
Si Soarele Nebun si-au spart capetele pana ce unul s-a rostogolit,
Si varsa sange verde parfumat. Apoi s-a facut primavara.
Fiica insarcinata a fiicei mele a dansat pentru mine.
Am visat cel mai simplu lucru omenesc.