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.

Reliana Craciun

Carol Rumens
 

Brau de foc, cununa de frunze
(Pentru Maryl Pugh si James Manlow)

Am visat la simplele fapte umane:
Doi barbati in lupta. Unul era spuma insangerata,
Al doilea plutea deasupra-i ca o flama,
Incercand frenetic sa curme zvarcolirea omului de sange,
Patul armei isi balansa in jos.
Vocea mea din vis imi spune
Ca cei doi sunt camarazi de arme: atacul omului in flacari
Era de fapt un ultim act de mila, desi putea parea furie oarba.
Si am avut convingerea
Ca scufundandu-se-mpreuna, foc si sange,
Vor deveni o singura substanta, pecetluind un singur spirit.
Dar trezindu-ma am realizat ca am mintit.
Cei doi sunt prinsi intr-un razboi fara sfarsit, ca-n iad.
Luptand pana la moarte, vor continua si dup-aceea.

Luptand pana la moarte, vor continua si dup-aceea,
Luptand in transee si-n tufisuri,
Si-n cafenele, in pesteri si pe poduri:
Luptand cu teama ce n-o vor gasi.
Luptand pe table de la facultate,
Luptand pe culmile stiintei. Pe luna,
Usor albiti de stralucirea ei, dar la fel de inclestati,
Al lor steag rigid tipand: “Acum e-a noastra, camarazi.”
Poate daca ne-am naturaliza, am invata cumva
Maniere selenare in lipsa de atmosfera,
Am gasi o cale sa ne amestecam, suspendati
In mutabilitate. Cu calcaiele desprinse de la sol,
Jucause si inaripate ca cele ale lui Hermes,
Ne-am hrani cu stele, gata cu agricultura.

Incepem noua dieta! Gata cu agricultura -
O rasa fericita de oameni genetic recodati,
Impartind proviziile exact si nefurat. Si-atunci?
Cum vom organiza acest viitor nepamantean?
Fara campuri de macel, fara lagare de concentrare,
Fara zone neutre – dar unde se va duce viziunea
Fara un pamant pe care sa te lupti, impanzit
De forturi si de oase? Vom muri, cei care-am invatat
Sa fim frumosi si umani. Ti-amintesti o data cand
Drapelele din vest n-aveau nici dungi, nici stele,
Ci doar mere? Cand am cantat ca n-avem nevoie
Decat de dragoste, si-am visat ca se vor conforma guverne?
Sunt vremuri femeiesti, scandaram, razboiu-i de barbati,
Nemernicii sunt de pe Marte, am spus mereu.

Nemernicii sunt de pe Marte, am spus mereu,
Dar multi stiau ca-i dinspre Venus razboiul: tatii,
Fratii, iubitii, fiii purtand glorioase cicatrici azi
Poarta lespezi. Au plans trupurile goale
Si cand au prins ocazia au iesit in fata
Stiind ca totul e minciuna, teama de sange,
Moralul delicat, conventia materna.
Altele au stat brave in solidaritate,
Simtind braul de foc tesandu-se-nlauntru
Unde inceput-a plansul. S-au incins cu el,
Purtandu-l pentru morti, insemnul lor razboinic,
Din saluri si din fuste au ridicat un rug
Dedicat astfel suferintei lor:
Au ars si-au sangerat precum orice barbat.

Au ars si-au sangerat precum orice barbat
O data aprins. Diferentele au fost minore:
Oase batrane si fragile, palidele riduri
Si pielea molesita pe alocuri
Sugerand ca au fost facute pentru mai mult de-atat
Sau poate mai putin – dar era cam la fel
In anii lor cei gloriosi. Vroiau putere,
Caci intelepciunea lipsita de putere e doar o forma
A ignorantei. Si astfel creste monstrul,
Asteptand orice mana ce-i insemneaza crucea:
Demos, prostul hermafrodit al casei,
Sau Theos, promitand mult mai putin.
O, vremuri femeiesti! O, vaduve, surori, mirese,
N-ati condus lumea spre mai bine.

N-ati condus lumea de la boala,
Nici voi, barbatii sfinti. Un intelept a spus:
“Religia-i ca vremea: e cand buna,
Cand absolut ingrozitoare.”
Ingrozitoare. Prea mic cuvantul Craciunul trecut
Cand vremea a tasnit din mare in vartejuri
Hidraulice, auto-propulsate, stanjenii sai
Zdrobind obiecte omenesti fragile ca si pielea. Dar asta
Face razboiu-n orice noapte, fie ca e sau nu la stiri,
Marcat de stiinta, de zei, de garantii.
Jelim ce fac valurile oarbe, dar suportam
Distrugerile bombelor sfaramatoare.

Focurile galopande ce ne-au cucerit votul si privirea.
Religia-i mai rea ca vremea. La fel suntem si noi.

“Religia-i mai rea ca vremea. La fel suntem si noi.
Sa ne oprim?” Omul in flacari si omul de sange zabovesc.
“Suntem meniti sa ne luptam: e doar o fabula, folclor.”
Si fiecare-si insfaca iarasi oponentul.
Cu sange rece am stat sa scriu trista poveste
Intr-un limbaj in care nu pot sa ma-ncred.
Cerul afara deveni mai palid.
Candva priveam la curcubeul infipt
Mandru printre nori. Visam din nou –
Acum la doi giganti, Ploaie Rapaitoare
Si Soare Arzator lovindu-si capetele pana ce unul cedeaza
Si varsa sange verde frumos mirositor. Apoi fu primavara.
Fiica gravida a fiicei mele mi-a dansat.
Am visat la simplele fapte umane.