Стихи и эссе

About suffering they were never wrong,The Old Masters; how well, they understoodIts human position; how it takes placeWhile someone else is eating or opening a window or justwalking dully along;How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waitingFor the miraculous birth, there always must beChildren who did not specially want it to happen, skatingOn a pond at the edge of the wood:They never forgotThat even the dreadful martyrdom must run its courseAnyhow in a corner, some untidy spotWhere the dogs go on with their doggy life and thetorturer's horseScratches its innocent behind on a tree.In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: howeverything turns awayQuite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman

mayHave heard the splash, the forsaken cry,But for him it was not an important failure; thesun shoneAs it had to on the white legs disappearing intothe greenWater; and the expensive delicate ship that musthave seenSomething 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