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.

Elena-Raluca Nebunoiu

Carol Rumens
 

O centura de foc, o coroana de frunze
 

(pentru Meryl Pugh si James Manlow)
 

Am visat cel mai simplu lucru omenesc.
Doi barbati luptandu-se. Unul era spuma insangerata.
Al doilea, falfaind deasupra lui, in flacari,
Incerca frenetic sa opreasca zvarcolirea omului-sange.
Repezind in nenumarate randuri patul pustii
Inspre capul care gafaia. Vocea din vis mi-a spus
Ca barbatii erau camarazi de arme: atacul violent
Al omului-flacara era un ultim act de mila
Desi parea a fi furie. Si eram sigura
Ca scufundandu-se, sange si foc împreuna
Vor crea o singura substanta, alcatuind un singur spirit.
Dar cand m-am trezit, stiam ca e minciuna.
Cei doi erau prinsi intr-un nesfarsit, infernal razboi.
Luptasera pana la moarte: vor lupta si dincolo de ea.

Luptasera pana la moarte: vor lupta si dincolo de ea.
Vor lupta in transee, in tufisuri
Si in cafenele si in pesteri si pe poduri:
Vor lupta cu teama ca nu o vor afla vreodata.
Vor lupta in institutele de cercetare avansata,
Si pe culmile invataturii. Pe luna,
Unde, albit de stralucirea soarelui, dar intact,
Steagul lor rigid inca striga, „E a noastra acum, prieteni.”
Poate daca am fi devenit nativi, am fi invaţat
Din lipsa atmosferei legile traiului pe luna,
Am fi gasit un mod de a ne incetateni, suspendati
In mutabilitate. Cu calcaiele desprinse de sol,
Jucause si usoare ca ale lui Hermes,
Ne-am fi hranit cu stele: nu mai era nevoie de agricultura.

Dieta noastra incepe! Nu e nevoie de agricultura-
O rasa fericita de oameni cu ADN-uri noi,
Impartim o cantitate nestirbita de provizii . Si apoi?
Cum putem cultiva acest viitor ne-teritorial?
Nici camp cu morti, nici lagar nu va fi,
Nici taram pustiu—ce se va intampla cu imaginatia
Fara pamant pentru care sa luptam, pe care sa-l pecetluim
Cu forturi si cu oase? Noi, care-am invatat sa crestem
Umani si frumosi, vom muri. Iti amintesti o vreme
Cand steagurile vestice nu aveau nici dungi, nici stele,
Ci mere? Cand cantam: avem nevoie doar de iubire
Si visam ca guvernele noastre sunt de aceeasi parere?
Vremuri ale femeilor, scandam, razboiul e al barbatilor,
Am spus mereu: acei nenorociti sunt de pe Marte!

Am spus mereu: acei nenorociti sunt de pe Marte!
Dar altii cunosteau latura razboinica a lui Venus: tatii lor,
Fratii, iubitii, fiii purtau stralucitoare cicatrici,
Se îmbracau in piatra. Ele isi regretau pustiul trupurilor,
Si cand gaseau ocazia, cereau atentie
Stiind ca toate sunt minciuni: frica de sange,
Moravurile delicate, maternitatea – doar conventie.
Altele, inca mai aprige luptatoare pentru feminitate
Simteau centura de foc tesandu-se in interiorul lor
Unde incepuse plangerea. Au imbracat-o,
Au modelat-o pentru cei morti, bijuterie de armata,
Au adunat salurile si fustele intr-un rug funerar,
Dedicandu-si astfel suferinta toata;
Au ars si au sangerat precum orice barbat.

Au ars si au sangerat precum orice barbat,
Odata aprinse. Exista o oarecare variatie:
Fragilitatea oaselor in varsta, palida striatie
Si moliciunea anumitor zone ale pielii
Sugerau ca fusesera facuti fiecare pentru mai mult
Sau mai putin—dar erau mai mult sau mai putin la fel
In anii batranetii. Voiau putere
Pentru ca intelepciunea fara putere ramane o forma
De ignoranta. Si astfel, monstrul se inmulteste,
In asteptarea fiecarei maini care-i marcheaza crucea:
Demos, nebun hidos si hermafrodit,
Sau Teos, promitand mult mai putin.
O, vremuri ale femeilor, o, vaduve, surori, mirese,
Intr-adevar nu ati facut lumea mai buna.

Intr-adevar nu ati indepartat lumea de rau
Nici voi, barbati sfinti. Un intelept a recunoscut:
„Religia e asemeni vremii: foarte buna
Uneori, iar alteori absolut îngrozitoare.”
Ingrozitoare. Era un cuvant prea modest de Craciun
Cand vremea a izbucnit din mare in mlastini
De beton si apa, valuri uriase impinse cu forta,
Stanjeni marini strapungand pielea fragila a oamenilor. Dar
Asta face si razboiul noapte de noapte, vazut la Stiri,
Cu avizul stiintei noastre si al zeilor nostri.
Deplangem ceea ce fac valurile oarbe, dar nu indraznim
Sa analizam opera de distrugere a bombelor,
Incendii devastatoare care au voturile si ochii nostri.
Religia e mai rea decat vremea. Si noi la fel.

„Religia e mai rea decat vremea. Deci trebuie
Sa ne oprim?” Omul-flacara si omul-sange se opresc. „Sa ne luptam
Este firesc: e doar un mit – ca ne asemanam.”
Si fiecare isi apuca iarasi adversarul.
Cu raceala m-am asezat si am scris trista poveste
Intr-un limbaj in care stiam ca nu ma pot increde,
Privind afara cum cerul se albeste,
Vedeam cum curcubeul isi infige
Tulpina in nori. Si iarasi am visat—
De data asta doi giganti. Ploaia-Ciocan
Si Soarele-Nebun lovindu-se pana cand unul se elibereaza,
Si varsa sange verde aromat. Si primavara vine.
Fiica gravida a fiicei mele danseaza pentru mine.
Am visat cel mai simplu lucru omenesc.