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Prism international 7:1 / Summer 1967
Prism international
112 Pages
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PRISM international Summer, ig6y $1-25 STAFF editor-in-chief Jacob Zilber acting editor-in-chief /. Michael Yates associate editors Robert Harlow Prose Douglas Bankson Poetry Drama art editor Clive Cope advisory editor Jan de Bruyn subscriptions Cherie Smith distribution Andreas Schroeder cover photo Steve Cummings illustrations by Vancouver School of Art Students: Brian Brown Albert Fuhre Alan Nakano Ebba Meija Frank Pokorny PRINTED BY MORRISS PRINTING COMPANY LTD., VICTORIA, B.C. PRISM international is a journal of contemporary writing, published three times a year by the University of British Columbia. Annual subscriptions are $3.50, single copies $1.25, obtainable by writing to PRISM, c/o Creative Writing, U.B.C, Vancouver 8, B.C. MSS should be sent to the Editors at the same address and must be accompanied by a self-addressed envelope and Canadian or unattached U.S. stamps, or commonwealth or international reply coupons. PRISM international VOLUME SEVEN NUMBER ONE CONTENTS FICTION The Dream House ugo betti 4 (translated from the Italian by MICHAEL BULLOCK) Two Girls and a Man Coming and Going michael bullock io Oh,Come,AUYouFaithfull jack graves 14 The Pilgrimage jack Matthews 58 The Fool connie irvine 82 Enterprise Lionel kearns 98 POETRY To Keep From Aborting MARGARET NORDFORS 9 Admiral Bluebeard on the Place Ville Marie WILLIAM C. BLOME 26 Five Sonnets JAN H. DE GROOT (translated from the Dutch by FREDERICK W. TAMMINGA) 30 Five Poems DAVID HELWIG 38 Two Poems W. DOBBINS ULRICH 44 Two Poems JOHN TAGLIABUE 46 Two Poems D. H. SULLIVAN 48 Two Poems GUNNAR EKELOF 50 [translated from the Swedish by muriel rukeyser and LEIF SJOBERG) Four Poems rainer schulte 54 Two Poems Stanley radhuber 56 Two Poems Frederick candelaria 67 An Answer salvadore Quasimodo 70 (translated from the Italian by HAROLD ENRICO) To Cesare Pavese harold enrico 72 Five Poems Stanley cooperman 73 Two Poems ingred tedford 95 Three Poems peter huchel 100 (translated from the German by henry beissel) Three Poems Walter bauer 106 (translated from the German by henry beissel) Two Poems hans Magnus enzensberger iio (translated by ingo seidler) Books and Periodicals Received 112 NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS APPEAR BESIDE THEIR WORK Uoo Betti was a lawyer by profession. Before his death in 1953, he had become accepted as the leading dramatist in Italy in the generation that followed Pirandello. He also published three collections of short stories, three collections of poems, and a novel, michael bullock : see page 11. The Dream House UGO BETTI Translated from the Italian by Michael Bullock. I know that people may regard with disfavour, in a man of my age and in my position, the habit which I have developed of wandering around, after leaving the office, all on my own, through all sorts of districts, often a long way away from the centre of the town. Sometimes I have run into acquaintances who have stopped me, surprised to see me there. They quickly noticed that I was embarrassed at having met them and they began to look at me questioningly, even walking along beside me, to find out where I was going. But at the first corner I mumbled an excuse and left them standing. In reality I have no special destination, I simply like walking about the streets, particularly the deserted, rather misty streets on the outskirts; above all I enjoy looking at the well-kept little detached houses, with never anyone at the window, that can be seen in the upper-class districts of any town. The houses that interest me most are those which, are not too large, suitable for a single family, but comfortable to live in. A square of gravelled garden at the front, a fence with brass knobs, a shiny gate give them an atmosphere of respectability. Lately I have been spending my free time in choosing one of these houses and I make a point of exercising great care and attention, since I shouldn't like to discover later that I have made a mistake! To tell the truth, I have already made an initial choice; I refer to a house which I often go to look at, in the lonely Via X, a grave yet friendly looking building, especially the top floor, with its harmoniously spaced, serene-looking windows, and the entrance, approached by a few noble steps and covered by a kindly arch intended to shelter from the rain visitors ringing the bell, or the cat, if it happens to get left out one evening. One thing I don't quite like about the house, however, is the first floor, which seems to be weighed down by an over-ornate balcony; therefore I am still looking for a more "serious" first floor, and perhaps also a less minute garden, with a few real, leafy trees, although trees often make a house damp. You will all have understood immediately that I shall never really buy this house and that the whole thing is only a kind of game, a childish game, fundamentally the sort of thing a man with greying hair, like myself, hesitates to talk about, especially to members of his family. No one in the world, in fact, knows that for some years this has been my pastime; and that if at the office there are times when I begin to feel a certain impatience, and occasionally real desperation, as I listen to the chief engineer, this is probably solely due to my desire to be out in the mist, alone with my thoughts and my house. Above all I would be ashamed of anyone knowing that my preference is for the expensive-looking residences which suggest to one's imagination a life of comfort and even of a certain luxury. It's petty and childish, I know; perhaps it is due to the fact that I have always had to exercise strict economy, to think several times before the least expenditure, which makes me think of my life as a series of rather cold seasons, always devoid of the breath of spring that comes from a charming heedlessness. I should certainly blush if I had to confess that I have dreamed of many vain little luxuries for my house, for instance of those long strips of carpet that give a house such an aristocratic look, and also of a crackling open fire in the winter, and of so many other far from original details. But that's the way I like it; and nobody can raise any objections to what is in my mind, that's the best thing. The open fire I have just mentioned would be placed in a rather large room with all its walls covered by shiny bookcases full of books, a library in fact, not because I have a great passion for reading, but I have always thought that it must be a great solace to have surroundings like this, noble and calm, in which to spend the afternoons or chat with my friends. I would like to hear the ticking of a grandfather-clock and at intervals to see appear discreetly at the door one of those old and trusted manservants in a striped jacket. The furniture too should be trusted and old, so to speak, solid- looking and full of highlights as walnut is. I sometimes see in the houses of friends certain ornaments that are to my taste — old portraits in delicate oval frames, for example — and then my attention wanders. People have no idea that I am wondering whether or not these objects would look well in my house, and in which corner I could put them. At a certain hour in the afternoon, the manservant appears in the library and announces that my father has arrived and, as usual, is taking off his galoshes in the hall. There he is in the doorway. Today his face doesn't wear that half frightened, half dazed expression it used to have during the last period of his life; on the contrary he looks gay, lively, almost youthful, as he did when we were living together in the house on the sea-front at P. What a pleasure it is to talk to him, to listen to his dear, cheerful voice, to see his loyal, protective eyes! In the meantime the room has filled with people and we all feel warm and good-humoured, happy to be together. Aunt Ines comes in; she died when I was a baby in nappies. As I was told later, Aunt Ines adored me, her greatest joy was to carry me in her arms and fondle me. When I was a boy I used to think about this as I looked at the photographs of her, half forgotten in various rooms of the house, from which she looked down at me affectionately and a little thoughtfully. She looked pretty in those portraits, and when some injustice had been done to me, I would go and sob in secret close to her. Now she walks in, a little shyly, and we all welcome her and give her a seat in the midst of us. Various friends of my youth also come, good, warm-hearted lads with their same old smile. How many dead gather in my house in the lonely street, in the cosy library where the open fire burns so cheerfully in the grate! The reason is that fundamentally I have never managed to feel at ease with living people; I feel somehow intimidated when I talk to them; perhaps it is because I read in their eyes a certain hostility, I know that they misconstrue my feelings. I force myself with a certain anguish to be friendly, but how can I be so in reality, when it is clear that they derive a kind of amusement from seeing me suffer? And in fact, little by little, I feel a sense of pain and a desire to go away. The visitors to my house, on the contrary, look at me with great affection in their eyes, because they know all about me, and I about them. With them, it is enough to exchange a smile and at once we feel our hearts fill with confidence, we have a festive feeling and begin to joke almost without wishing to. We laugh, too, in my house, because it's not the case that only the old or buried come to visit me there. For instance, now and then we have with us the little girl from whom last year I used to buy the newspaper on the corner of the Via Seneca. What a lovely smile she had! I think she must be going to school now, because there's someone else in her place. Occasionally I instruct my servant to let in a stray dog I once found along the river, a miserably neglected, ownerless dog that followed me for a long time, looking at me every now and then with eyes full of hope. I disappointed this hope in the most cowardly way by suddenly jumping on a bus. I have often remembered the incident with a feeling of remorse. But now I have it brought in and make a fuss of it. How joyfully our afternoons pass! From time to time the master of the house, knowing the little weaknesses and greeds of his dear ones, persuades them to stay for dinner and what joy it gives him to see the simple pleasure on their faces as certain dishes are placed on the table. They jest, their faces are lit up and laughing, as the grandfather-clock ticks on quietly in the background. "What a lovely evening," my guests say as they go out one by one into the cold night-time street; but they promise to come back and keep me company the following day. Now I am alone, in bed; around me is my house and all the things I love. I don't go to sleep yet. I have always liked to lie like this, I wouldn't say thinking, because perhaps I don't tbink of anything, but hearing the time quietly passing, in a gentle, absolute calm, while I know in my heart that all is well and that there is nothing to worry about. I assure you, it is a delightful sensation and a thrill of happiness runs through my breast. And as I he like this, almost lost in thought, why should I not hear that sound? Always, ever since I was a child — this too I have never told anyone — I have cherished this odd desire: to be able to hear, just once, unexpectedly, from far, far away, a sound, the most beautiful sound that can be heard, something like the note of a horn, long-drawn- out, strange, supremely pure, a sound to fill you with enchantment. Sometimes, at certain moments of great peace, my heart begins to race as if any moment now this might actually happen. TO KEEP FROM ABORTING MARGARET NORDFORS You have a face, stream floater that we've named. My curled inch, tilt back with me, slick and alive. Your brother again walks in my shoes, too large to wear. He brings me blocks the color of blood to help me build you. It's cold, not clear. Wait, if you can, to wail my protest. Margaret Nordfors has appeared in Prism international, Southwest Review, December, and others, and will be included in a Seattle anthology, A Poet's Dozen, to be sold for Friends of the Pike Place Market. "I like Galway Kinnell's remark that he tries to write in some kind of previously undevised progression of thought and observance until he can make a statement on a major subject, and also William Stafford's aspect of caring about the things in his poems as well as what he says." TWO GIRLS AND A MAN COMING AND GOING / • / j b. If > Michael Bullock is the author of four volumes of poetry, Transmutations (1938), Sunday is a Day of Incest (i960), World Without Beginning, Amen.' (1963) and Zwei Stimmen in Meinem Mund (Bilingual, 1967). He has translated over seventy books and plays, chiefly from German. He is a member of the Committee of Management of the Society of Authors and of the Executive Committee of the English Centre of International P.E.N. He lives in London. MICHAEL BULLOCK The two girls live in an old Victorian house by the river. I love the girls, I love the house, I love the river. The garden runs down to the river bank, ending in a thicket of laurels whose dark green leaves stand out against the paler green of the flowing water. At night, when there is no sound but the swirl and ripple of the river and the rustle of the smooth and shiny laurel leaves, the garden is full of ghosts and memories. Some have been there for a century and rise up out of the ground when darkness falls; others have been brought by the girls, brought from Japan and China and Africa, where the girls have spent parts of their lives; yet others I bring with me when I come to stay. The girls are painters and their pictures fill what would otherwise be a half-empty house. One of them has fair hair, blue eyes and white skin; I call her Blanche. The other has black hair, dark-brown eyes and golden skin; I call her Noire. When I step through their garden gate I enter a different world. It seems to belong to the past, to my childhood or even to some time that existed before I was born but had a great influence on my life. It also seems to belong to a country that is very far away from here, somewhere in the East — China or Japan perhaps. When I hear the river gurgling beyond the laurel thicket it sounds to me like the Yellow River or any river with junks and sampans floating on it, with families living on board and paper lanterns hanging from the mast. The girls are unaware of all this; to them the house is here and now and the river is the Thames. But when we get back late at night and the house is empty and their two cats come in with us as we open the door, perhaps they catch a fleeting glimpse of this other world that fills and surrounds the house for me and that goes on existing after they have lit the gas and made cocoa and we sit drinking it and eating fruit and looking at their paintings. 11 When we wake in the morning and the sun is streaming in through the window and we lie in bed drinking coffee, we talk geography and voyages. Greece, India, China, Japan — we are going to all of them. I wonder if the girls notice that I am no longer lying in the bed, but floating in the air close to the ceiling? I decide to come down again and back between the sheets (I'm afraid of spilling my coffee while I'm flying, and although the girls are not very tidy they might object to me spilling coffee from the ceiling). I don't think they have noticed. One of the windows is open, so I decide to be a little more adventurous. This time I fly out of the window and settle in the branches of a peach tree in the garden. I wonder whether the girls have noticed I have gone, and I look in through the bedroom window. But there I am in bed with them; Noire is just passing my cup to Blanche to fill. This is confusing, because I am also perched in the branches of the peach tree, but I realize that the possibilities open to me are even greater than I thought. However, I don't want to over-exploit them, so I fly back in through the window and slip back in between the sheets just in time to take the cup which Noire is handing to me. We stay in bed for a long time because we have a lot of places to go to and most of them are very far away. We get up eventually, however, because lunchtime is approaching and we are getting hungry. We take the car and have lunch in a Chinese restaurant overlooking the river. The food is very good, but I am more interested in the wallpaper, which is dark-red with a pattern of chrysanthemums in white. Later that day I have the feeling that this wallpaper was important, but this is no more than a vague presentiment, and it may not have been the wallpaper at all. After lunch we drive along by the river and finally stop the car in the sun in a park and talk about love and jealousy. We don't get anywhere really. In the late afternoon I offer to paint the downstairs back room which opens onto the conservatory and through that into the garden. The woodwork has already been painted, but the walls remain to be done. After I have given all the walls one coat of white emulsion paint I see to my surprise that the Chinese character for mountain has appeared on one wall and the character for tree on another, both of them dark-red in the centre shading off into pinkish-brown at the edges. I am quite baffled by this phenomenon and so are the girls, who have never noticed these signs on the walls before. I decide to give the walls a second coat at once, and do so. When I put the paint over the characters they disappear, but as soon 12 as it dries they come back again. This is quite illogical: emulsion paint is more transparent when it is wet than when it is dry. But not in this case. I am reminded of the wall in the Chinese restaurant, but of course I can't really see any connexion. I decide that to paste a laurel leaf on each of the walls would somehow solve the problem, but I really don't know why I have this belief. I'm not clear whether I expect it to make the Chinese characters disappear or merely balance the composition and so render them innocuous. In any case, I leave it for the moment. Next day I do paste laurel leaves on the walls. This certainly creates an interesting artistic effect, but it has no influence whatever on the Chinese characters. So we live for the moment between a mountain and a tree, with a laurel leaf beside each. The girls and I have recently bought a small motorboat and today we decide to go for a trip up the river. We set off at three o'clock and head upstream. The sun is shining, the grass on the bank is green and the trees are sprouting new spring leaves. The little islands that dot the river are particularly verdant — I imagine the green water of the river soaking into their soil and up into the grass and plants, the bushes and trees. The occupants of the house-boats moored along the banks are out with scrubbing brushes and paint pots, giving a spring look to their floating homes. Once again reality grows faint and blurred and I begin to see junks and sampans where there were cabin-cruisers and old landing-craft; and I only have to half close my ears to hear the wailing of bamboo flutes and the twanging of samisens. Unexpectedly the sky clouds over and rain begins to fall in long streaks that are coloured blue, green, black and brown like the stripes of an Italian shirt. Suddenly I realize that the rain is made of long nylon threads, very thin but very tough. Grasping several of these threads in each hand I swing myself up out of the boat, over the bank and the garden and in through the window of the house. I ero down the stairs and into the back room. The Chinese charac- O ters on the walls look blurred and shifting, like a landscape seen through a haze of rain or mist. I think about this but come to no definite conclusion as to its meaning. I go upstairs again and lean out of the window and see the two girls and myself approaching up the garden path. I wave to them and they wave back, apparently not in the least surprised to see me. I am very pleased about this — it opens up an entirely new range of possibilities and I feel profoundly gratified. 13 Wallace Graves teaches in the English Department at San Fernando Valley State College. His stories have appeared in Kenyon Review, Western Humanities Review and many other journals in the United States. "Remarks on the Literary Scene, 1966: In 2,000 years, when they dig down to find our remains, whatever you wrote better be wrote on lead, that's all I can say (signed) Jack Graves." W, <Zm liiffi JACK GRAVES III tell you : one of the nicest places to spend Chrismess is Pismo Beach, California. What you do is get on the phone to some good friends in the Lodge like Leon & Sibel (who owns a Used Pink Thunderbird) & say: Lets take your car & shag on up to Pismo Beach for the holiday. Sibel will be all teeth to get out of her pad for a day or two, because ever since Leon had his coronary stroke, which more-or-less put him on the siding, Sibel has been itching at the bit to do something to bring back old times. Sibel practicly eats up the telephone in your ear. "Jack, Baby, This will bring back old times! We can have a Chrismess tree & Leon can play Santy Claus, just what he needs!" You think to yourself, what poor Leon needs is some religious miracle, not just to play Santy Claus, and you go to the kitchen where your wife Lotty is frying kidneys, & over the smell of pig & sizzle, and the whine of the kitchen fan, she says, "Who was that?" And you say, "Sibel & Leon, they want to go up to Pismo Beach for Chrismess." And then she gives you one of them "Oh?" without ever her eyes off the kidneys, & the next thing you know (after about 15 49 hours of talking her into it) youve done your Chrismess shopping, the boxes are tucked safe & sound in Sibels pink trunk, & your zooming up U.S. 101 about 75 mph, with Leon at the wheel & Sibel looking around from the front seat grinning at you & saying, "This sure is bringing back old times!" "You ... can... say... that... again..." Leon halters out, the way he talks since his stroke, smiling on the good side of his face. The car is full of spirits, songs, & the pint of burbon warm where Sibel has just grabbed it & tipped her head back for a short jolt. The lines of her very white neck disappear as her Adams Apple bobs with the shot, leaving a ring of pinkpeach on the lip, which you then hand to Lotty who wipes it off with a Kleenex before she puts her mouth to it, for a snippety sip that woudent hardly kills a mans breath. Lotty is very wise, because burbon quickly effects her brains, & the first thing you know you cant tell her from Lady Godiva, whereas in everyday life she is not at all subnormal. Sibel, on the other hand, is a practised drinker, especially since Leons stroke. She wears considerable makeup to hide her misery, with that purple grease on her eyelids & peachpink polish on her long, nervous nails. Her overall golden hue is set on fire by her hot blue eyes looking at you harder & harder, while the burbon melts your guts. You have to take your mind off your guts to be fair to Leon, so you say to yourself, Lotty has some very good points too: her feet are not horsey, whereas Sibel wears high heel boots no doubt to give you the allusion that its the boots, & not her feet, that take up all that room. Lotty trims her nails, & smells good because she is clean, not because she is saturated with purple-smelling perfume that reminds you of chewed gumdrops. And Lottys chests dont look like they are about to explode, like Sibels. Of coarse, Lotty sighs less then Sibel, because she has less to sigh about, & its them deep breaths that tend to call attention to the massive shape Sibel is in, & that you woudent mind being in yourself. But your guts still melting because Sibel has accidentally touched your leg, & it turns a locomotive loose inside. So you shift your leg over against Lotty & start smelling the car instead. It is a very nice, leathery car, & Leons pink one is hooked up special so if his right leg goes bad, like his left one already is, he can stop it with his hands, ever since his stroke. Both Lotty & me rode in back, on account of on a Used Thunderbird, you cant sit 3 in front because theres a gearshift & clothes hamper, ect, in the middle. Then Sibel makes another grab for your pint, & those fingernails 16 like to put vampire bites in the back of your hand as you pass it over, so instead of grabbing her here & now, thus putting a hole in Chrismess, you observe, "Well, well, we are nearly to Santa Maria," with a pretty good tailwind rippling the wheat stubble in the rolling fields, rows of tall gray Eucalyptus leaning south as the sun fruitlessly tries to thaw a cold blue sky. Then, with Lottys knee against yours, your guts gradally firm up, & at last you break through the hills to the ocean just south of Pismo. The sudden onshore wind makes Leon grab his wheel tighter with his good hand. The car swerves back to normal. You can taste that salty-rotten air in your mouth & feel the heavy hand of Mother Nature laying her mist on you. "Ahhhh," you moan, because you like seeing the Ocean, its so big you can actally see the world curve. "Dig that crazy bathtub," you say. And Sibel says, "Jack, Baby, you can say that again." Our housekeeping motel was down where the sand keeps rearranging itself amongst the green ice-plant, but Sibel & me dident stay there long, because she managed to discover almost right away we hadent brought us a nutcracker along to crack that big bowl of nuts all the way from L.A. We could manage the almonds & hazelnuts O.K. with Leons plyers from his T-bird toolkit, but the phil- berts & brazilnuts just plain disintegrated all over the linoleum, &, as Sibel said, whats Chrismess without cracking nuts? "Come on, Jack, nutpicks dont grow on Chrismess trees, lover, lets jazz up to the store & see what we can uncover." So we left Lotty in the can thawing the steaks we had paid $i .98 a pound for in the basin, & Leon softly ensconsed in the one comfortable chair, which he was in because of his condition, which was old orange mohair with padded arms, & cut out in Sibels pink T-bird. Sibel has a very heavy foot. She started her engine & took off in one move, & we were uptown Pismo before my organs got settled back. Pismo is 1 street about 1J/2 blocks long running up the hill from the pier. It has a quite nice dance hall, a few bars, & hardly anybody in the street. Naturally you cant buy a nutcracker in Pismo Beach on Chrismess Eve, so instead of wasting time, we took the overpass east across U.S. 101 to the hill back of town to see the view, & to check on a little deli & meat market up there which a bartender said might be open. And what a view! The highway on one side, the Southern Pacific tracks on the other, & warm gum- drops rampant on purple eyelids, with the feel of peachpink fingernails, all tangled up in the gearshift & that darn box they got between the front seats of a T-bird, which wasent the softest flying buttress I ever tryed to lay down on. So after about 5 minutes of 17 worming her way around the machinery, moaning "Jack, Baby ..." she sank back exhausted in her hot leather seat. Meanwhile, this little meatmarket across the road & the butcher peeking out between his displays. "We ought to of brought our car," I said. "It may only be a Nash Rambler, but at least we got a whole front seat." "I cant stop now," Sibel moaned. "Chrismess woudent be Chrismess." She searched around at her back seat, which was about as little as a crib, then said, "We rented a motel, dident we? Well, by god we'll use it." I asked her what about Santy Claus & Lady Godiva, they wasent likely to spend the night in the T-bird, so she said, "Leave that to me, lover. I got an idea," and with hardly no thought or even em- barassed she concocted up, Step one: go home & burn the beefsteaks. Step two: load Leon & Lotty with burbon so theyll fall asleep on their empty stomachs in the side bedrooms. Step three: that will leave the big middle room to ourself for a Merry Chismess & Happy New Year. "But those steaks cost $1.98 a pound," I said. "Screw the steaks, Jack, you cant have everything." So we zoomed down the hill to put the plan in operation. When we got to the motel it was very homey like Grandmothers house. Lotty had put up our collapsible aluminum tree on the round table in the middle room under the narrow beam of the ceiling light, looking like it was lit from heaven festooned with red balls special for the occasion, & was now feeding Leon the last of some canned oysters, with his chin tucked up like a hungry owls, & his cheeks as red as cherries. His good hand gripped a drink in one of them motel glasses crusted white on the inside from hard water, & the other sort of half drapped around Lottys fanny. "Merry... Chrismess," he said. "Did you get the nutcracker?" Sibel said "Lotty, in Pismo Beach on Chrismess, are you looney? This town is deader then St. Peter. Deary, you done such a grand job decorating the room! Look at that tree under the light! What a grand idea to pile the presents around it on the table! And you took good care of my Leon all the while. Let me fix you a nice big shot & you just take a load off while I burn the steaks." This sudden display came as no small tidings to Lotty, who usally did all the work when Sibel was around, but she figured it must have been Chrismess Spirit, so her eyes flickered with emotion & she 18 took the drink Sibel give her the color of molasses. Meanwhile, I entertained poor Leon by helping him crack his nuts. I put an almond between his plyers & said, "Go to it, boy," as Sibel refilled his drink with a big wink. She managed to burn the steaks, alright. She turned the gas up till the griddle practicly buckeled double, & them fat, juicy red beefsteaks shriveled down till they was about as tender & black, and as big, as the brazilnuts. "I think your burners too high," Lotty suggested. "Leon likes his meat crisp!" "Not... that... crisp " Meanwhile the smoke lowered down to where Leon sat cracking nuts. Lotty closed our bedroom door because she dident want our bedclothes smelling like burnt meat. Another roar & a sizzle while Sibel flipped the steaks, and 2 minutes later they was cremated. "May they rest in peace," Sibel said, putting the griddle in the sink. "You must not be used to cooking with gas," Lotty said. "You can say that again," Sibel said. "Its been a long, long time. Boy, I really wrecked them." She cast a hot blue glance over the heads of Leon & Lotty. "I made... it... ! Leon said, showing a lapful of shells and, sure enough, he had finely cracked a whole almond. "Nice going, boy," I said, "now try a philbert." I put one in his hand, & arranged the plyers around it, & he gave me one of them half smiles. "Congratulations," Lotty said. "You look like your on the road back." " "He still plays golf, you know," Sibel said, "one-handed from a cart. He shoots a 90 for nine holes, but one of these days he'll be back to par, & then wont I have to hop over the bed!" Leon lobbed her an affected look, but he wasent getting very far with the philbert. They have slippery shells. A noticeable lull developed, now the steaks was gone. Lotty pecked away at her molasses, & evry now & then I tipped Leons drink to his pink lips,, but neither one of them looked like they was on the verge of collapse. "Isent it about time for bed?" Sibel said. Leon dropped his nut & looked at his watch. "Its ... only ... five ... thirty ... !" "Well, whats so early about that? We have to get an early start tomorrow, having the tree, & all," but Lotty said, why dont we have 19 the presents tonight? "Because Chrismess just isent Chrismess if you dont wait to open your presents." "You can say that again," I said. "I'm ... hungry...." "Feed him a nut, Jack." "I'm ... sick ... of ... nuts...." Leon said. "Me too," Lotty said, "dosent Pismo have a restaurant?" "All closed for the holidays," Sibel lied. "How about another drink? (I knew there was a place open that sold clam juice by the pier, but feeding clam juice to Leon would be too high octane. So I nursed another slug of burbon down his throat & said, "Ho Hum." "That just the way I feel," Sibel, taut as a zither, "lets all hit the sack." "I'm ... Hungry... !" "Maybe theres some food in the packages," Lotty suggested. "We could just open the ones with food. Here. We gave you this." From among the pretty pile on the table under the collapsible tree she handed Sibel a round blue one. "Go on, open it." "Its not Chrismess yet." "Well, just one wont hurt." "That's what the boys used to tell me." "Go ... On ..." Leon said, "I'm...." That did it. You cant just open one present under a tree, because as soon as the crinkle of unwrapping paper fills the air, Chrismess has come, & that was the way it turned out. Lotty had made Leon & Sibel a lovely round rummy fruitcake for Chrismess, but as soon as we nibbled into that, Leon wanted to give us what they got, which turned out to be a bottle of Cherry Licqueur, which nothing would serve that we nibbled it, too. Everybody was getting slightly vomity on the diet, so the next thing we knew, Leon was hooking packages off the table with his gold-tipped cane under the ribbons, and calling out names, so before anybody decided on him playing Santy Claus for sure, we was knee deep in Chrismess. Also, slightly potted too, because I recall the clock come unglued about then. I remember 3 or 4 trips to the sink & suddenly it was 9 p.m. That was the uglyest griddle I ever saw. Evry glance at those little black cremations made my stomach grip up another notch. Santy Claus was having trouble reading the packages, so it soon became evry man for himself. Such a heap of Chrismess you never saw! I would list it all, except it nauseates me to think of die shuck- ings piling up from the ripped-open boxes in that dry Chrismess heave of blue & silver & gold & red & green amongst earrings & 20 black niteys, plaid underwear, & a red wool coat with a fur collar for Sibel as if Leon was making up for a whole year of drought. Sibel got Leon a pink cashmere sweater & some leather covers for his clubs, amongst other do-dads, none of which was edible. I & Lotty exchanged the usual. Besides stuff for the kitchen which she bought with S & H Green Stamps & pretended it was Chrismess, I got her a three piece blue knit suit with white piping on it, & a pair of blue snake shoes that I saved the sales slip so she could take back. She give me the usual shirts & sox, but as I recall, I came out shorter then the rest, gift for gift. But whose counting? I'm a man, & Chrismess basicly is for wemen anyhow. Sibel let out a chaotic whinny from down amongst the paper somewhere, hugging her new coat with the fur collar as if she coudent care less about our secret plan, with Leon grinning sickly from the orange mohair because he'd thrilled her. Boxes & ribbons evrywhere you walked. Another round of fruitcake & Cherry, & suddenly No More Packages. It was all over. Then Lotty said, "You just think its over, Jack. Theres a real special one for you under our bed. Bring it out, honey." She'd stripped off her sweater, so I knew the burbon was making its play. I brought out what she said, a flat, gold box heavy at one end, & she clanked a brazilnut against the wooden bowl for an announcement: "wah dee dee dooh to dooooo! Ladies & Gentlemen, Hark the Harold Angel Sings!" Leon said he thought he was getting sick. This called for a Big Four to decide where was the best place, but Leon said if he could lay down it ought to wear off, so he & Sibel felt his way into their dark bedroom with his cane. I looked at Lotty. The instant Sibel left she had that Lady Godiva glow in her pupils which gives you the notion the mare was about to jump the fence, but then Sibel reported back quick that Leon was in the Land of Nod from too much drink. But Lotty said it wasent the drink, it was the nuts, & that she felt sort of the same way. "It the nuts, all right," Sibel said, with a deep gurgle. "We ate a lot while you was gone. I cracked Leons for him. Open your package, honey.". I undid the gold wrappings as Lotty started swaying in her chair. What my present turned out to be was slightly incredible. Lotty give me a toy electric train. "Jesus," I said. I thought it was a joke. But Lotty said, no, its no joke, you always said you wanted a toy train for Chrismess cause you never had one as a boy. As a matter of fack, I had jokingly 21 said that about twice, but hadent meant it. "It was on special." She hiccuped. "$n.88. Reglar $25, but the box was beat up & it was in layway, but the people who layed it away coudent unlay...." "A terrific price, Lotty," Sibel said. "Probly wont even work." Sibel said, "Look at that funny yellow giraffe sticking out of that boxcar!" She pushed its horny head down with her fingernail & giggled softly. It bobbed up. "Imagine, a toy train for Jack." The picture of me playing with a train put her to whinnying again so she buried her chin in her fur collar & started fondeling the little cars. You have to admit they was cute. There was a little coal car that said B & O, and the white cattle car with a yellow giraffe bobbing through the roof, and a red one that said Danger, Explosive, and a blue flat car & orange caboose. H O gauge. "Jack, honey, the clerk in the store said, how old is your little boy? Imagine, 'your little boy'! I said eight." They both cracked up on this. Lotty nearly fell off her chair. "He said this is good for a little boy eight on account of the engine ... short & easy to put on. I said my little boy likes longer engines, but the clerk said ... too hard to handle...." Sibel giggled in an undertow. "He is just a little boy, you know. Look at him. Now he's got a little engine to prove it." She fondled my ear with her fingernails. "... girl at checkout said, Ho Ho Ho, bet you want this wrapped up good when you walk... your house, so little eyes cant see, an' I said, You c' Say That Again, Sister." "I would of, too." Sibel cradled my engine. "But has it got any power? Its fairly heavy." I said, "Oh, they have power, alright." I used to hang around the stores watching. "We better not run it though, or Freddy'll wake up." Then Lotty started to snore gentily. Sibel lobbed me a blue dart & I felt my guts seeping on the inside. Our time had come. My lips moved toward her gumdrop mouth, but she backed off, nodding toward tired-out Godiva, so I eased poor Lotty to her rubbery feet & half-carried her to our bedroom. I took her little shoes off so she'd sleep better, then come back & really kissed hell out of Sibel. Her coat fell open showing her red satan lining enough to set you on fire. "Let's go," I said. "Calm down, loverboy." 22 "In the T-bird & drive to Santa Maria," but she reminded me of that thing between her seats & it was a long drive, so I said, Down on the beach, then, but she said not in her new red coat, and all of a sudden / was the seductress for the first time since we left L.A., not her. Thats the sort of miracles dames do. "Like my new coat?" She brushed her collar across my diin- whiskers, soft as oil. A couple of tails hung down her back, & some feet with fingernails. I told her it was beautiful. She said, "I like your train, too." She still had ahold of the little black engine. "But I dont see how it could pull anything." It'll pull, all right, I said. Its H O gauge. "Its so dinky" she said. I tryed to lower her down into the shuckings but she said, sshhh, not yet, we want to hear them both snoring first, so I whispered, oh, come on, Sibel, you want to be a dame, or play choo choo?" "Angel, we got time for both. Lets hook it up while we're waiting," but I told her I coudent wait that long for the good tidings, which made it even harder, because getting there was half the fun according to her latest idea, now the coast was finely clear. "Whats the rush?" Leon had made quite some impression with all them presents. No rush, I sighed.... O.K. Hand me that gol-blessed track. So we put it together on the floor. It made the usual circle about 3*/2 feet. So much wrappings on the floor, though, & Leons orange mohair chair in the middle, Sibel got the glorious idea it would be easier to slip the whole halo down over the point of the Chrismess tree on the table, which we managed without knocking any of the red balls off, peace on earth. The track just fit around the tree. She put the engine on while I hooked up the transformer. She coupled the cars. Then come the big moment for the juice. "Bet it wont work," she said. "Bet it will." We held our breath as I turned the red handle. Buzzzz, and ... and ... the engine strained, then click-ety... click ... it took off, its little headlight beamed, and around it went looking realer then hell. I fed it more juice. It was a damn cute little train. "Hey, that giraffe bobs up evry time around." "Its supposed to." "That red car looks broke." "Its supposed to. Explosive. It blows up when you press this button." "How come you know so much about it?" "I'm a man." 23 "Lets blow it up." "O.K." We scrooched down eye level, pretending the engine was coming at us with its ray out of the night. "Ready on the explosive car?" "Ready!" Sibel said. "Fire one." "Fire one!" I pushed the button. The plastic sides & top of the little red car blew off & clattered all over the linoleum completely realistic. "Crazy!" Sibel giggled. "Let me try it." "Not till we lay something on the floor to break the fall." "Here, use this." She laid her red coat out, satan side up, while I put the explosive car back together. I turned the juice up & my engine started jazzing around the track again. "Ready?" "Ready." I put her hand on the button. "Fire two!" "Fire two!" Kablooey! The car exploded again & the parts lit in her coat. It was such a crackup we both giggled all over the place this time, & being on our haunches, when she grabbed me I fell back on her coat. "Lookoutforyourparts!" She tryed pushing me off, but that blessed female only managed to push me right on. Crunch! My bottom hit those poor plastic red parts & they disintegrated with Sibel on top. I reached around & picked them up in a handful, Sibel nose to nose. "Did it hurt? Angel, I'm so sorry." She wrapped a consoling arm around me at last & I thought, praise the Lord, our time has come, when suddenly Leon's voice from the dark, while we layed there, "What... the... Hell... " "Oh, Jesus," Sibel said. "On ... Your ... New ... Coat... !" "Sort of," Sibel said. "Why ... you ... sack-religious ... Son ... of ... a ... a .. . My ... Own ... Brother ... !" He lurched into the light & grabbed my hair with his good hand. "No," Sibel said. "Just playing with Jacks engine. See?" "On ... the ... floor?" "On the table." "You ... were not! And ... All over ... your New Coat!" "For Chrise Sake, Leon." 24 "Let go of Jacks hair, Leon." "He cant or he'll fall over," I said. "He walked clean over here without his cane." That struck the fear of God in us, including me, because it was True. "I... did?" "Yes, you did, now let go of my hair." Then evrybodys lips fell open at once. "Its... a miracle!" Leon lobbed himself into Sibels arms. She was struck dumb. Leon had walked over, all right. "Baby," she whispered, "you made it without your cane. Your on the road back!" Leons eyes filled with light. "I... was scared ... you & Jack talking ... about... firing off... " "Now, now, turtledove," poor Sibel stroked his cheek which had turned ash from shock. Then the next thing the room was glorious with hugging Leon as Lotty drifted her way into the light to hear the good tidings, with Chrismess kisses all around, dancing amongst the torn presents & Leon haltering out, "Oh ... Come, all you ... Faith-full." "Joy-full & triumph-full," around & around till we nearly knocked the rest of my train off. By then Leon pooped out without his cane so we pulled the orange mohair chair into the light & I put my transformer on his overstuffed arm so he could play train from there. We finished off the fruitcake, taking turns running that looney little train till about midnight, with some good kissing & Halleleuliahs in between. Evry- body likes toy trains, just like Lotty figured. That funny little engine had so much power we found out it could push 5 uncracked hazel nuts around the tracks in front of the cowcatcher. Then we loaded the blue flatcar with Leon's drink & it carried that around twice till it fell off & broke all over his foot, but it was one of them glasses with the white crust in it so I dont think the motel missed it much. So thats how Chrismess is at Pismo Beach, California. You have to admit it was one swell ball in spite of the fack Sibel & me never, you know, made history, so to speak. Most stories would of ended that way, but not this one. We drove home the next morning singing & wearing our new things, with my train packed safe & sound in its original box. I pulled it out when we got home & set it up in our front room for a while, but you get tired of trains after the holiday like you do everything else. That was last winter. Leons golf game is much better now, though I cant say how far 25 down the line the miracle cured him. I heard from Sibel the other day in a somewhat taut voice that another trip to Pismo next year might bring back old times & complete the cure. But I sort of doubt it. You can only push religious miracles so far, & none of us is getting any younger, including yours truly. But on the other hand, if we took our car this time.... ADMIRAL BLUEBEARD ON THE PLACE VILLE MARIE WILLIAM C. BLOME Sister Anne, it wasn't precisely the case, but I choose to believe I first saw her within five or ten minutes of emerging from the terminus. 1. Oh dominoes, black bones, the names pop out, Such girls as are not to be found today By my moccasins or on posters of things To come, the national leaf in clearest water Gives everyone medicine and both of us spirits. Where were you the night of my first suppository, When my rump was bare, my belt on my knees, And I dreamt of paisley sharks with fins Near freezing in the brine? You never saw me Seek your scent on the benches after you got up And rolled it over the magazines. Now the flags Of the place move like sharp clouds in a square; The autobus brings us the players on foot, And the public gets lost in your jeans. 26 Very clearly we have held the stars in A regard too great, too red. The bantam moon, Reduced in the eye's equation to pinks, violets, And baby's breath, gets bloodied here like all My wives. We once wove strips of painted paper Together in the nursery, while outside the magic Rain blew down and our wooden shoes became Strange basins. Knowing the pains of older people, I pushed your head down and taught you nothing, That you might stay fixed at ten. Believe me If I say the herbal was all you ever got to read, And if I slew the single witch whose heaven Had letters in place of stars: The stellar blooms Hang down tonight, too large and way too red. For years I drew a drunken lottery Of all my very best friends, the pals of port And what's between the thicker lips. Now the god- Damned thing's been outlawed, the bluebottles Feel free to bite your belly and nip your tender Neck. In cold harbors — lobsters green before. The boil — I'll miss her there as one would miss an Alphabet in writing out the diary's needs. And my Raffle never won anyone anything except a bugger Who wasn't too chique or else a god- Damned martinet. Nighttime just cannot scare me here; Your darkest skin gives up the ghost, the boats Pull free to steam our way, and thank a god They do. 27 4. Silly shepherds drove me mad, then made me give My keys away. Sunburn on my neck Kept me from bending my head, and at all times Prevented my being a witness to your curiosity Shooting marbles here to screw you blue, A member of the merchant navy comes up A winner: I fled to chambers at that. Long are the coasts of my sure girls, and sure Their names I've called — they came to Montreal to pitch and flap like many sails, And now the island sinks like lead shellacked With sweat and sea. My diamonds, if red, let's Call them rubies; once you kissed me sweet good- Night; I kept true counts of precious sheep. Her longest letter in which she tells us She slept beside the copper statue In the park of a small Canadian town, The grass was clipped and from her vantage, Saw the metal hero move — dear, I'm reading in The chips of all my broken plates. Beside me In the little lounge your bare black arm Defends my ears, my spittle's in your price- Less hair, and we are of sound mind enough To draw the perfect will. The links of storm And plastics of heaven where my fathers made Yours the gods of myth — for one thrill Of our life and some glory for man, I'll Write her to say: Let's roger in silence. 28 6. The essence of midnight is all too often: Daisy chain, anyone? Little Neptune himself Got scared like hell and paced the docks For cargo craft to float him to his mom. The boys and girls you brought along, entourage Of bones and blisters, don't know me so well As you; please tell them the beard's of manganese And won't come off for love or money. If I Were you — hell, go duck hunting on the ice Next spring and bag yourself a death of cold; Pluck plumes to stroke my rusty chin And save the webs to scratch my back, But I dare you to dry your downy hips Behind my smallest, pantry door. The boilers behind me put me in hell, The brig as you know is where I live, And I glow the red of every rogue Whose skin goes prune-like in the heat. Your Final summer we played roulette, sneaking in The cupola, while daddy put it gently to The cook — then and there I knew what facts My life would yield for yarns. What crews could Never grasp in me was the welcome I'd give St. Elmo's fire or the embracing slobber I Lavished on banshees. But you, swelling there in Wool so French I swear they'll spook you nude, Some day you mount my sons at sea and prove I reckoned people well. William G. Blome is an Ottawa poet. 29 If Five Sonnets by Jan H. De Groot Translated from the Dutch by Frederick W. Tamminga. SIGNALS AGAINST THE SKY "One has to live in the now, compose poems in the never." —Jan Greshoff "... the day of the Lord so cometh as a thief in the night..." i Thess. 5:2 THE HOUR IS HIDDEN The hour is hidden, you and I don't know when the earth shall be devoured by the flame. The switch is set, just one unbalanced brain need laughingly and by mistake say: Go! There must be many fools in search of fame. And pride: a thriving business, never slow. And who, by God, are we our horn to blow, or bind or loosen anything again? We live among the might of atomates. They seldom count beyond the number three — zooming the facts through brains of metal plates. But what is frightening in their demonry is that between the switches, tubes and states, there are no feelers tuned to phantasy. 30 SIGNALEN TEGEN DE HEMEL Een aantal sonnetten uit een reeks die onder dezelf de titel zal worden gecompleteerd. 'Men moet leven in het nu, dichten in het nooit.' Jan Greshoff 'De dag des Heren komt als een dief in de nacht.' i Thess. 5:2 IK WEET HET UUR NIET . . Ik weet het uur niet, net zo min als U, waarop het vurr de aarde zal verslinden. De knop is aangelegd en een ontzinde kan lachend, bij vergissing zeggen: 'nu!' En hoeveel dwazen zijn er niet te vinden? De hoogmoed: een bedrijf in continu En wie ben ik en wie bij God, bent U, dat wij iets zouden binden of ontbinden? Wij leven bij de macht van atomaten. Zij tellen niet veel verder dan tot drie en gonzen in hun brein van stalen platen. Maar de verschrikking van hun demonie is, dat zij tussen knoppen, buizen, staten, de voelspriet missen van de fantasie. 31 BY THE VILLAGE PUMP Two women came along, feet moving slowly — the evening-hour heat was now about — they carried watercrocks with lip-like spouts; they had not buttoned up their jackets wholly. They were not saying anything outloud, until there came a belly-crawling collie: "his eyes are bloodshot," one of them said slowly, but the other one stayed mute, as if in doubt. The younger woman raised the handle high — prepared to fight the pump's resisting suck — it squeaked and dropped; its joints had gone awry. And when the other woman, terror-struck, began to make the screeching handle fly, the hinge exploded, fragments ran amuck. I TELL YOU . . . I tell you it is true, all that I say, for poems are not servants to the lie; the poet sees with an enlightened eye much farther than the borders of his way. He sees beyond the hope of one more try, beyond negotiation's negligee — ("Just go to sleep and all will be okay.") The world loves a fraudulent lullaby. But who am I, the prophet scared of doom, the olive tree who never did bear fruit? Before the Morning comes, hack down the barren tree. "Hold back that blow, I am the judge of bloom. What do you know of flowers in the root? Once more he's in my care and custody." 32 BIJ DE DORPSPOMP Twee vrouwen kwamen langzaam aangelopen. Het uur was heet tegen de avondstond. Zij droegen kruiken met een tuiten mond, hun zwarte jakken tot het borstbeen open. Zij spraken niet. AUeen toen er een hond op buik en poten nader was gekropen zei een: 'zijn ogen zijn met bloed doorlopen'. Maar de ander zweeg, alsof ze't niet verstond. De jongste trok de zwengel naar omhoog en dacht hem zwaar omneer te zullen drukken maar hij viel dol en piepend uit zijn boog. En toen de ander radeloos in rukken, de zwengel knarsend op en neer bewoog, sprang plots'ling in de kop 't scharnier aan stukken. IK ZEG U . . . Ik zeg u date het waar is war ik zeg want verzen hebben nimmer nog gelogen, de dichter ziet met voorgelichte ogen veel verder dans de grenzen van zijn weg. Hij ziet het einde van het durend pogen, het slinkse pad van menslijk overleg. 'Ga nu maar slapen, alles komt terecht'. De wereld wil het liefste zijn bedrogen. Maar waar ben ik, uw bange boetprofeet. De vijgeboom die nimmer vruchten droeg? wel, hak hem om, voor 't licht der nieuwe morgen. 'Houd in de slag, Ik ben 't die alles weet. Wie zijt gij, die van hem al vruchten vroeg? Ik stel hem nog een jaar onder mijn zorgen.' 33 SONG OF SONGS After that night, in which she showed him in, and both were ravished fully as they gave (he said: "your breasts are lovely dunewhite waves, your saucer belly has a silverling"), the day unclosed as cupflowers roll up sleeves; the light shone out upon their conquering. She kissed liim as she was remembering; "a greater joy," he said, "I can't conceive ..." It was a prayer when mouth in mouth they met, a prayer never prayed so well before — the organ had begun a canzonet. But as they inched towards the altar floor, red fire burst from the white of her toilette and smote the roof down as it ripped and tore. 34 " HOOGLIED Toen, na de nacht, waarin zij hem ontving en beiden gans verrukt can beiden waren (hij zei: 'je borsten zijn duinwitte baren je buik een schotel met een zilverling') toen zong de dag zich open, kelkenblaren en 't licht ging uit op een verovering. Zij kuste hem om de herinnering, hij zei: 'ik kan niet meer geluk vergaren.' Zij sloten mond in mond tot een gebed, zoals het nooit te voren was gebeden. Het orgel had het voorspel ingezet. Maar toen zij langzaam naar het altaar schreden, brak rood vuur uit het wit van haar toilet en sloeg het dak in stukken naar beneden. 35 THE QUAKE The parent storks killed off their half-grown young so calmly that you'd almost think it was their habit. Then they glided from the brush, as if an order said to move along. And foxes started running through the grass, wild animals roared, the deer now jumped and flung across the roads — the gongs had just begun their subterranean growl of rubble and ash. I know that this is just repeating what the press and film already sent abroad: the earth at Skoplje bulges and recedes. But what I further want to say is that man used to keep receivers tuned to God whenever winds went raging through the reed. note: In the summer of 1963, the city of Skoplje, Jugoslavia, was struck heavily by an earthquake. 36 DE BEVING De ooievaars doodden hun halfwas jongen zo rustig of het hun gewoonte was. Toen vlogen zij op uit het struikgewas of een bevel tot hen was doorgedrongen. En later renden vossen door het gras, de wilde beesten brulden, herten sprongen over de wegen, toen begonnen gongen hun onderaards gegrom om puin en as. Ik weet wel dit is navertellen wat in krant en film ons reeds werd doorgezonden van Skoplje, dat de aarde van zich stiet. Maar wat ik nader zeggen wil is, dat de mens't orgaan mist dat hem God aankondde in't toornen van de winden door het riet. Jan De Groot, the distinguished Dutch author, has published twenty volumes of poetry, four novels, and five plays. He has also edited the prominent Dutch newspaper Het Vrije Volk, and several literary magazines and anthologies. In 1946 he received the Amsterdam Poetry Prize for his contributions to Resistance Poetry. The five sonnets which appear in this issue of Prism international are from Signalen Tegen De Hemel (Signals Against the Sky), a sonnet-series which shall be completed under that title. His poems have not been translated into English previously. Frederick Tamminga was born in the Netherlands, emigrated to Canada, and is presently a Teaching Assistant at Simon Fraser University. 37 Five Poems by David Helwig THE BUGBEAR A kind of fuzzy shambling beetle, he can be heard at night fumbling his way upstairs in the dark blundering down hallways chuckling in closets mumbling and fumbling around the dark house. He is blind, no-eyed and cannot hear only fumbles, fumbles with his hairy paws. Adam naming the multitude of beasts left him unnamed and tried to forget him but when the two children left the garden the bugbear was waiting for them at the gate and shambled and bounded after their feet as they walked on through the disconsolate wood of unknown trees. Still he runs behind us. When the wind parts his hair we see beneath it the shell shining and turn away from his soft hug. 38 He is blind, no-eyed and cannot hear. Our tears and our pleas are useless, unseen unheard. We may lock the closet, but the fuzzy creature giggles and appears beside the bed in a shambling dance seeking praise he cannot hear. A hundred times we wish that Adam had named him so that he might be real and die. Always he is near, ninning at our heels, deathless, no-eyed, fumbling, fumbling. 39 FOR EDWARD HICKS At least a hundred times, there's the marvel, a hundred times as you travelled the green country, you had to put away your sign painting or turn from preaching the inner fight to the one picture, the stiff animals gentle, children among them, men good. You must have had violent hands to have needed so often, a hundred times at least, the magic, the talisman, the peaceable kingdom made by your hands. Edward Hicks was a nineteenth-century Quaker preacher and sign painter who also painted a large number of primitive pictures, most of them of one subject, the peaceable kingdom of the branch. 40 EPILOGUE The fingers of Giacometti are blinded by earth but the thin man walks as the heron walks stiff as an obsession through the tangled swamp. The heron, the thin man walks through the tangle of his body, his journey. Rebel against the flesh pilgrim of the bones and the tattered conscience the thin man walks. We avoid his eyes when we see him passing avoid the touch of his long fingers. But the day will come when even Falstaff is a thin man, his laughter lost in the brambles that scrape the bones as he walks like a heron in the swamp of decay. 41 STILL LIFE The chrome kettle holds the kitchen dishes, towels finished, still. The winter evening quiet, patiently waits for the final cup of tea. The towels are folded. I am folded away, the children sleep. I sit here, am an empty cup. I am my heartbeat. I hear the water pour from your body as you stand up in the white enamel tub. 42 FOR HENRI MATISSE Who can forget the photograph? The old painter, mustached, solid as Joffre at the Somme, sitting fat with his legs spread (dying slowly of intestinal cancer) as he painted from a nude model with an out-of-date hair-do. It's hard to believe that he had models, that some girl with other things on her mind took off her clothes, hung them up and sat where she was told. The women he painted are mindless as their rooms, sinuous bright plants curling beneath the Mediterranean sun, while France the cold weather of the photograph pain and the night melt into colour and even cancer is bright and beautiful. David Helwig lives in Kingston, Ontario. His poetry has appeared in many Canadian journals. In February his drama, A Time of Winter was produced in Kingston. 43 Two Poems by W. Dobbins Ulrich AN ENDING There are things I shall never see, Music I shall never hear, now, Places I shall never be. I found once (and lost soon after) A round green stone Divided by a white quartz band: In its roundness and one white ring, There was sufficiency. Dim corners And empty chairs Contain for me, always, Something I can never name. 44 WHO WRITES THIS There is someone I do not see Near me, always. And on nights When there are No shadows, He becomes me With a nose slightly larger. I know I will never See him. He becomes The who he cannot abandon Who writes this. W. Dobbins Ulrich is a young poet currently writing in Edmonton. His poems appear in West Coast Review, Canadian Forum, Quartet, The Quest, Quixote, Voices International and many other magazines. 45 -J Two Poems by John Tagliabue APOLLONIA'S HOUSES They are very still during the day but they fly away every night and are painted white by God when they fail to fly it means they have failed to love in some way or gather brightness from God it means to put it unmetaphorically they have died sometimes when they fail to return after a night with the Essential it means they are (perhaps pretending to be Doctrine of Ideas?) from afar, as far as doves or dreams can go, painting new white houses that visit them; the startled bride in white flew carrying her husband a dark yokel, a cousin of God, and from the lavishing heights they gave to the community at stillness and noon sumptuous clarity; the sparkling sea like a young green dancer at the wedding contributed his share to the White Chapel the dove's divine couplet. 46 SOMETIMES THE OWL DISGUISED ITSELF AS THE LITTLE PARTHENON AND SAT ON THE SHOULDER OF THE RESTING TOURIST, THE SKY Wise is the artist who is a bit ruined, in runes, as the resting place for many days, many gods, many photographers, and forerunners of Hermes. The owl on the shoulder of Picasso is not a stranger to the tricks of the Mediterranean, to wooing and to clarity. The sky resting by the tourists and by the obvious mystery of that 5th century B.C. Beauty whispered to a Certain professor "Classicism." Classes began when the skies gathered by the wit of that Owl. John Tagliabue teaches at Bates College. His poems have appeared in The Massachusetts Review, Poetry, Chicago Review, Prism international, The Saturday Review, The Atlantic Monthly and elsewhere. Harper published his first book, Poems, in 1959. His A Japanese Journal was published by the Kyak Press in 1966. 47 Two Poems by D. H. Sullivan THAT THE BIRTHDAY OF ROBERT W. SERVICE SHOULD NOT PASS UNNOTICED Not large, the party and some fell off near the crest of Mt. McKinley Yet, every kid south to White Horse glowed to the celebration of those little pink candles we held out there in our frozen ears and in your honor the blood of this warmer generation shall be more quickly frozen at the Vista Vision of you, Robert W. Service, emasculating a grizzly with your bare teeth 48 GREEN our place green even the sides green and green even our socks but black the day our grandfather rode out to meet the elevator on the coal he'd cut even the pit bull English as Gladstone bawled like he meant it, even he but joy called out in his wake love rose so high it blistered the shamrocks on our walls and broke my father's fist D. H. Sullivan teaches at Simon Fraser University and is Poetry Editor of West Coast Review. "... Irish by breeding and persuasion — hair slightly green; poetry and 'fictions' and criticism published or forthcoming in Canadian Forum, Edge, Evidence, Quarry, Northwest Review... and as for my pearl of wisdom — Ezra Pound is indeed the undisputed Father of Modern poetry, but, as such, 9,141 of his 9,259 offspring were born deaf and dumb." 49 Two Poems by Gunnar Ekelbf Translated from the Swedish by Muriel Rukeyser and Leif Sjoberg. AYIASMA The black image under silver kissed to bits The black image under silver kissed to bits Under the silver the black image kissed to bits Around the image the white silver kissed to bits Around the image the very metal kissed to bits Under the metal the black, image kissed to bits Darkness, O darkness kissed to bits Darkness in our eyes kissed to bits All that we desired kissed to bits All we did not desire kissed and kissed to bits All that we escaped kissed to bits All we desire many times kissed. 50 AYIASMA Den svarta bilden under silver sonderkysst Den svarta bilden under silver sonderkysst Under silvret den svarta bilden sonderkysst Under silvret den svarta bilden sonderkysst Runt kring bilden det vita silvret sonderkysst Runt kring bilden sjalva metallen sonderkysst Under metallen den svarta bilden sonderkysst Morker, o morker sonderkysst Morker i vara ogon sonderkysst Allt vad vi onskat sonderkysst Allt vad vi inte onskat kysst och sonderkysst Allt vad vi undsluppit sonderkysst. Allt vad vi onskar flerf aldiga ganger kysst. 5i YOUR BROKEN SHOES Your broken shoes look out through your feet your broken windows look through your eye lined with sawdust stopped up with newspaper smarting at the eyelid's edge swelling at the instep But I see you inside there O blaze in a flaming lamp-bowl O lamp in the heart! You do not change with me standing in the night seeing you from the outside — You do not change and that was what I knew what I wanted to know. 52 DINA TRASIGA SKOR Dina trasiga skor tittar ut genom dina fotter Ditt trasiga fonster tittar ut genom ditt oga fodrat med sagspan tilltappt med tidningspapper svidande i ogonlockskanten svullnande i vristen Men jag ser dig darinnanfor O laga i en flammig Lampkupa O lampa i hjartat! Du byter inte med mig som star i natten och ser dig utifran — Du byter inte och det var det jag visste det jag ville veta. Gunnar Ekelof, poet, essayist, translator (Petronius, Rimbaud, T. S. Eliot) was born in Stockholm in 1907. He is a member of the Swedish Academy. Muriel Rukeyser is a well-known American poet and translator. Leif Sjoberg co-translated Dag Hammarskjold's Vagmarken (Markings); his studies have appeared in various journals; presently he is a lecturer at Columbia University. Twayne Publishers will publish Selected Poems of Gunnar Ekelof translated by Muriel Rukeyser and Leif Sjoberg in 1967. 53 Four Poems by Rainer Schulte AT NOON Bald peaks beneath The stones of whitest heat. Sun at its dagger-point Strikes to the axis of the earth — And sleeps upon palm leaves Dying in the absence of breeze. In the vacant air: Vast cemeteries of cactus with Smells of dead animals between the spines. Presences toiling shadowless bodies Toward the shadeless trees. At night, dogs with jaws moving Full of the moon And in between the time of silence Echoing through the air. FROM A HIGH BALCONY, THE DREAM The shrill notes of light — Clearly, bubbles in the crystal of my eyes. Absence whistles back The curs that follow But never find me. Nailed against the dissonant air, Two mammoth hands of stone. 54 ARCHIVE Ear, The narrows between these sounds I cannot enter And that other I cannot elude. I break into more distant music Which is more and more impossible. And which engraves more indelibly Which. The continuous sound carved Across the polished back of my watch: I am sheer remembrance of myself. THE PIANO KEYS Certain days, the keys Of my piano breathe What it is that breathes At the end of my fingers. These are the precious days. The dissonance is there, always waiting. Other days: they breathe against me like mountains Beneath the feeble press of my fingers. Mine only is the moment: when the key-mountain collapses, And I, total pianist, awake. Rainer Schulte's poems, criticism, and translations have appeared in various journals in Europe, the U.S., and Canada. German by birth, he writes in German, English, and French. Presently he teaches Comparative Literature at Ohio University where he is editing a volume of contemporary European short-fiction for the Norton Press. 55 Two Poems by Stanley Radhuber MALT DOES MORE THAN MILTON CAN We couldn't find a way of meeting all the talk Over the thick rug, under the muddy oils. There was too much coffee, wagging of fingers, Shifting of cups, talk of war and politics. The air we needed was mined with wit; Had a giraffe appeared at the window I would have slid down his neck, Into the soft rain, throat raised, eyes closed. Coffee and some words at four, A poet touched the muddy air, But coffee closed the reading — And closed the day. The air was flat. Then into streets of endless montage We took our withered tastes, Our tired eyes. Not wanting to go any place We traced the grains of the circled, celestial bar, Took that first beer like air, Wet air blown up the Amazon before rain, And in a cool shock we were restored, And, ah, we danced, we danced that night. 56 WAKING Morning lark, morning wren, some bird calling Keys me out of sleep. A magic note repeated (Remember Stravinsky's Orpheus before gold curtain Rippled by breezes from a Hades' passage Reached ... and touched her hand.) Chime. Flesh heals itself with magic. But who lays now the cracking hammer on the day, Nails parting a path in what sap remains, Houses on the first sheaf of dawn Already tumbling down? Stanley Radhuber won two Major Hopwood Award's at the University of Michigan. His fiction and poetry appear in many North American reviews. Presently he teaches at Portland State College. 57 i ft Jack Matthews is Director of Creative Writing at Ohio University. His book of short stories, Bitter Knowledge, was published by Scribner's in 1964. His first volume of poems, An Almanac for Twilight was published by the University of North Carolina Press in 1966. And his first novel, Hanger Stout, Awake.', will appear in Harcourt, Brace & World, this August. the pilgrimage JACK MATTHEWS Even though it was only ten o'clock in the morning, the temperature had climbed above ninety. The glare was so bad at the Texaco station that the attendants were wearing sun glasses and moving about with their heads held high and stiff, like men trying to resist fatigue. A pale and tired-looking old man and his wife sat in the front seat of a Buick sedan, with the windows rolled up, and the air conditioner on. The man was smoking a cigarette as he watched the attendants at the Texaco station. "This is the last cigarette I'll smoke here," he said, stubbing it out in the ashtray. "I think that's a good idea," his wife said. She hardly opened her mouth as she spoke and she didn't turn her head. She wasn't watching the filling station attendants. She was looking past the filling station at nothing. One of her hands played with a button on her skirt, twisting it first in one direction and then in another. "Isn't he supposed to be here by now?" she asked. "In a few minutes." "Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?" 59 "Positive, Elsie. Now don't start fussing." "Well, I'm sorry. Only ..." "You just don't understand," her husband said, reaching for another cigarette and then stopping the movement as he remembered his resolution. But his wife didn't notice anything. "No, I don't understand," she said. Then she sighed deeply. She was suddenly aware that she was sitting with one shoulder higher than the other, the way old people do. And she didn't care ... didn't bother to move, and she guessed that was still another sign of old age. Sometimes she sat like something thrown down, and she just didn't have the energy or the volition to adjust the weight of her body more comfortably. "All right," her husband said. She saw his hands tense at the top of the steering wheel, where he had been holding them together. "Just say I'm crazy, then. But it's what I'm going to do." "I'm not trying to stop you, Bill," she said. "I haven't said one word against it. Now have I?" "No. Not exactly." "Not in any way," she said, shaking her head back and forth as if to convince the distance. "At least, I'm glad nobody has recognized you." "After what... fifty-eight years? Who would recognize me?" "Why, you've been here more recently than that," she said, turning her head to look at his profile. "Only on quick visits. An afternoon, or maybe overnight. But it's not the same, Elsie." "Nothing's the same," she said. Her husband was going to ask her what she meant by that, but he decided not to. For one thing, he was too tired and weak. Maybe from having to overcome the spirit of his wife's skepticism and incomprehension. "Promise you'll let him drive," she said a few minutes later. "I've already promised that," he said. "I don't want to drive." "I just hope its worth it." "It can't hurt anything. The doctors haven't done much good, have they?" "Do you suppose he's a careful driver?" she asked, starting to twist the button on her skirt even harder. Her husband took a deep breath and stared at her, trying to control a feeling of irritation. "Don't worry about me," he said. "Will you be all right in the motel?" "Of course I will. But do you suppose he's a good driver? Some 60 of those roads in the hills just scare me to death." "Forget it," her husband said. "Here he comes now." The two of them watched a man dressed in a green work shirt and trousers approach the car. He was about fifty years old. He had a sunburned face and bulging eyes. Mr. Fisher pressed the window button and held his hand out. "Are you Clyde Washburn?" he asked. "Right," the man said. "You're Mr. Fisher?" Bill Fisher nodded and said, "And this is my wife. Come on and get in. You can drive past the Twenty Winks Motel and let Mrs. Fisher out. She isn't going with us." "Sure," Clyde Washburn said. He edged behind the steering wheel and Mr. Fisher pulled himself slowly over toward his wife. He heard her say, "Oh, dear, I pulled this button off my skirt; I knew that would happen." But he didn't pay much attention to her fussing because he was thinking ahead. After they let her off at the motel, the two men drove silently along the highway and then turned off on a bumpy gravel road that crossed a flat field and then disappeared in the trees that flanked the first hill. "Does this all look familiar to you, Mr. Fisher?" Clyde asked. "In some ways," the older man said. He crossed his legs and folded his hands in his lap and he watched the trees and weed- smothered fences rock silently by. The whirr of the air-conditioner felt a little chilly on him, but he didn't adjust it. There was something else, something beyond and behind that needed all his attention. Whatever it was, it wouldn't be possible with talk. In the way he had just now answered the man he had hired to drive, he had made it clear that he wanted silence. And poor Elsie... her bewilderment had been as apparent as a sound or an odor. Even now she was probably sitting in the motel room with the television going filing her nails and worrying about him ... and about this "pilgrimage," as he had once referred to it with gentle, self-directed irony. Coming abruptly over a hill. Clyde Washburn pressed the brakes and Mr. Fisher put his hand against the dash board as his body eased forward. There was a big, rangy Holstein cow standing with her hind quarters on the road. Down in the gully below was her calf, mostly black, standing shoulder deep in thistles. Clyde tapped his horn lightly as the car moved past, and then 61 they started rising on the next hill. The road was almost choked off, here and there, by the thick undergrowth, but Clyde knew every dangerous turn and bend, and they progressed steadily until the woods began to thin out near the summit of the hill. Mr. Fisher felt the strangeness of it — the deep muted sense of both recognition and discovery that lies at the heart of time. His mouth eased open and he took a deep breath. "Your ears pop?" Clyde asked. "No. That usually happens only when I go down a hill fast." "That's the way with me. If I go down fast, they pop like firecrackers." "It should be right along here someplace." "Right, if it was the next place beyond the old Hardaker farm. In fact..." Clyde leaned forward over the steering wheel and narrowed his eyes. "In fact, there's the fence line right up there. You can still see it. And that field beyond has been state land for twenty years or more." "But at one time, it was ours," Mr. Fisher said, reaching for a cigarette, remembering, and then just patting his pocket. Clyde pulled the car well off the road, up into what had once been a wagon track leading into the field. Mr. Fisher eased the door open and felt the hot air, insect noises and sour grass smells slap against his face... indistinguishably one, as if all sensations had melted into a single, palpable substance. Clyde handed him his cane, and then held his arm as Mr. Fisher paced slowly up through the old gate area, into a field of thick weeds and saplings. "It looks like something's been grazing here," Mr. Fisher said a few minutes later, when they stopped. "Goats," Clyde said. "There was an old Swiss who raised goats here years ago, and some of them went wild. They're as wild as deer, now. You can't even get close enough to shoot. Wilder than deer, as a matter of fact." "Strange," Mr. Fisher said. He was standing now with both hands on the cane, his head thrust forward as if he were trying to hear distant footsteps in the grass. "Is this far enough, Mr. Fisher?" The sick man swallowed and seemed to listen to the silence for the duration of two heart beats, and then he nodded. "Yes. This is far enough, thanks. I can make it from here. Why don't you go back to the car and wait. I don't know how long I'll be. I might be a long time." 62 "All right. If you need any help, just call out. I'll hear you." "No. You close the window and keep the air conditioner going. I don't want to think of you sitting there Iktening for me. I'll be all right." "Whatever you say," Clyde Washburn said. He stepped back and wiped a gray wet handkerchief across his forehead. Then he started walking toward the car. Eventually, the sound of his footsteps ceased, and a few seconds later Mr. Fisher heard the heavy, solid sound of the door closing. He just stood there for a while, looking all around and listening. Somewhere up on the hickory ridge, a blue jay was squalling. But his racket merely seemed to italicize the deep, warm silence of the land. Mr. Fisher started to walk forward, leaning heavily on his cane and turning his head this way and that. These trees and shrubs that surrounded him now were younger than he — had not even existed in that time long ago when, as a boy, he had made hay on this crooked, steeply-gabled hill, driving the mules to each hay row, and then getting off to pitch the hay onto the wagon. After several minutes of walking, Mr. Fisher stopped to catch his breath and get his bearings. By now, he should be able to turn to Hie left and see the huge old beech tree that stood by the spring. Maybe it was still there. And indeed, after he had walked a few steps, he could see the top of the old tree jutting far above the tops of the scrub elm and honey locusts that had sprung up all over the meadow. There was a strange and sudden sadness in seeing that old tree. Perhaps it was because he had prepared himself to believe that it had died years ago, and now that it still stood it was as old for a tree as he was for a man ... and death waited for both of them, alike. As if the tree had been waiting, too, for some such moment of ceremonial recognition as this. But of course this was silly, fanciful. And at any rate, it wasn't the tree itself, but rather the spring from whose depths the roots of the tree had drawn life over this half-century of waiting and survival. Mr. Fisher stepped carefully over some thistles, tangled like green starfish in the sod, searching warily for copperheads. When he looked up once more, he saw the glossy dark ferns that bordered the spring. And when he took one more step, he heard a deep gulp of water as a frog dropped into the spring and plummeted toward the cold leaves at the bottom. Still, there was the little rill 63 of water that curled smoothly and subtly down over the rocks, past the massive roots of the beech tree, and then slipped underground. Seeing such a rivulet as this, he understood how ancient men could attribute femininity to streams and rivers... as well as sweetness and guile, mystery and the forgotten melodies of a dream. Slowly, Mr. Fisher knelt to the ground, smelling the cool mint leaves that flourished about the pool of water before him. With one hand, he dusted aside some cobwebs that lay in a delicate, transparent canopy a foot above the water. A gnat fell upon the surface of the spring, scarcely trembling the surface of the water. And as he leaned forward to drink, Mr. Fisher saw his mirrored image turning toward him... as if in acceptance and recognition. He looked, he thought afterwards, like a man leaning over to pray, not to drink water from a spring. "And was that all?" she asked, a look of concern on her face. "You just drank from that spring you've remembered all these years, and nothing else?" "Practically nothing," Mr. Fisher said. The two of them were sitting by the window of their room in the Twenty Winks Motel. Mr. Fisher reached up and pulled the cord to open the Venetian blinds. "I can't understand," his wife said. "Can't you tell me what you thought about?" "It was something I've been thinking of for a long time ... going up to that spring. It had been so long since I had worked in that field, and so long since I had drunk from the spring, that I wasn't even sure they were there at all. I mean, it seemed unreal, like a dream instead of a memory." "But coming down here in your condition, all these miles, and spending money for a motel and restaurants ..." "Please," Mr. Fisher said. "Don't talk like that. You don't understand. What is there that's more important than that spring — so cold and clear and ... well, part of what I remember from fifty- eight years ago?" "I can understand that it is a lovely spring and that it reminds you of your boyhood. I can understand that the water is cold and pure, and that anyone would enjoy drinking from it. But there's something else. And that's what I don't understand." "Well, maybe I can't explain it." "Maybe not. I don't want to worry you. I know there are things 64 that can't be explained. I suppose I should leave you alone." She got up and walked into the bedroom. Mr. Fisher heard her opening the drawer of the vanity, and then he heard the clatter of combs and brushes as she made preparations for fixing her hair. She would find comfort in such a ritual. In another twenty minutes they would be getting in the car, turning on the air conditioning and driving downtown to the Maple Inn. And no one would recognize him, because they were all dead, or had moved away ... or had quite simply forgotten. Mr. Fisher breathed deeply and sat absolutely still in his chair as he thought of the afternoon. He remembered the way in which Clyde Washburn had kept his silence, refraining from making any comment about a sick old man's pilgrimage to a spring he had drunk from half a century before. After all, he was being paid for his day's work, and it shouldn't have mattered to him what crazy things the old man did. But of course he couldn't help wondering. And on the drive back to the motel, he had said, "Sometimes these old springs have good water. I mean, a lot of minerals in them that are good for the body." Mr. Fisher was willing to have him understand it in that way, so he nodded his head and said, "Yes, they're good for the system." Clyde Washburn nodded vigorously. He was happy that there was a reason for the trip. The twenty dollar fee he'd earned for the day was now rendered clear and comprehensible as profit, as money earned for time and work whose value was apparent and real. It made Mr. Fisher feel better to see Clyde satisfied, and he said, "Yes, that water is better than anything you'll find in the big city." "I never did like city water," Clyde said. Then they had come to the highway, and a few minutes later Mr. Fisher had let the other man off at the Texaco station and started back toward the Twenty Winks Motel. Even she had wanted to understand, but with all her old prejudices and reasons had come at the thing parabolically, much as Clyde Washburn had done. And not being able to understand what it was he could never have expressed, she had felt alienated, shut out. But there it was. There were no explanations beyond the primal truth of his need, and the potency of this thirst and hunger that carried him through all the social difficulties of the approach, and saddened him to shut so many out of what was surely part of their own truth, too, if they could only have known. Perhaps there was only one who could have understood. And 65 that was the boy he had once been, fifty-eight years before, and to whom he had wanted so much to return on at least one day before the ultimate, deeper and uncompromising return. That boy needed and deserved this pilgrimage, this torning back to greet a truth that was once and for all rendered mute and ineffective. Somewhere in the dark woods near the spring, he and that innocent lost child he had once been had passed each other. How could he have explained this to anyone? 66 Two Poems by Frederick Candelaria BESTIARY run rat r a o d u n mounds of redtape race without beginning middle or end about this heap that's papercrap turned tapeworm that swallows its own tail feeds on itself & excretes carbon copies indelible and triplicated past razing best bite your way through it with your rat-white teeth before the snake shits on you and the waiting cat claws and straitjackets you in the insane asylum of its jaws 6? THE GEOGRAPHY LESSON Along about there on the map, south on the river once speckled with trout and silvered with salmon leaping in season, there's a how-now-brown-cow type of town, distinguished — almost — by a few good buildings all but strangled by unfriendly halls called Science, English, Business, and mostly Administration — not of gospels, medicine, or the giving of mysteries — just Administration, 68 where good taxpayers gather to go directly onto Officious Paper with Orders (badly copied from parts of Plato - for scholarship's sake, of course) saying which poet will be banished this fortnight or which editor be believed — or relieved — the next forty days or fiscal year. The river still flows full but of chemicals and filth where once leaped intrepid fish. Frederick Candelaria teaches at Simon Fraser University and is Editor of West Coast Review. His work has appeared in many Canadian and U.S. journals. Recently, Morriss Printing Company Ltd., published his first book of poems, Dimensions. "A poem to endure as a real poem must obviously transcend the immediate moment that provoked it into being. Presumably the poem will mean in terms of its causes, but it will only be as it outlasts them." 69 AN ANSWER SALVATORE QUASIMODO Translated from the Italian by Harold Enrico. If the anchor of Ulysses burns in the mind ... If on the shore of the sea of Aci, here among the fishing boats with the black eye against bad luck painted on the prows, from the nothingness of air, from the nothingness that lets out a piercing scream and grapples like the spear of the sword-fish, from the nothingness of hands that change like the sea of Aci, I could shape from nothingness a five ant and flinsr it into the cone of sand of its labyrinth, or a virus that would give perpetual youth to my most faithful enemy, then I could perhaps be like God — in the equal constancy of life and death that reflect each other: the wave here and the lava, phantoms of the light of tomorrow's clear winter morning — the answer to an earthly question and the anguish that flashes like lightning upon the milestone's number, the first one on the torrid road plunging like a wedge into the air beyond. 70 UNA RISPOSTA Se arde alia mente l'ancora d'Ulisse ... Se in riva al mare di Aci, qui f ra barche con Pocchio nero a prua contre la mala sorte, io potessi dal nulla dell'aria qui dal nulla che stride di colpo e uncina come la fiocina del pesce-spada, dal nulla delle mani che si mutano come Aci, viva formare dal nulla una formica e spingerla nel cono di sabbia del suo labirinto o un virus che dia continua giovinezza al mio piu fedele nemico, forse allora sarei simile a Dio — nell'uguale fermezza della vita e della morte non contrarie: onda qui e lava, larve della luce di questa gia futura chiara mattina d'inverno — risposta a una domanda di natura e angoscia che folgora su un numero miliare, il primo della strada torrida che s'incunea nell'al li la. Salvatore Quasimodo won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1959. Poems and translations by Harold Enrico have appeared in Botteghe Oscure, Commentary, The Nation, and New York Herald Tribune. He is an instructor of French and German at Gray's Harbor College, Aberdeen, Washington. "Every age has the poetry that its social conditions demand. Ours should be a poetry that consists of more than 'idyls or lyric horoscopes' in Quasimodo's words. If poems can be made of an abhorrence of man's present condition, let them be made! Let them be translated from other languages! We need them." 71 TO CESARE PAVESE HAROLD ENRICO Cesare Pavese, Death had your eyes, not the eyes of an American starlet, blue, blank. The road, green transparent, covered by alder trees, emerges at the gate of Sovana. The wind whines in the canebrake, hisses in the vineyard, and you weren't afraid ... the little viper of Italy, so much more venomous than the American rattlesnake. Picture Rome in the Rockies, hollyhocks against a gray board fence. "Hemingway, did you ever see the green hills of Piemonte?" "So many countries, so many portents.' And your extreme equation: "Stoicism is suicide." "Americans are not realists." Imagine Moby Dick in Italian, Captain Ahab, his eyes, fierce, blue. Your sea is wine-dark, the hawk hovering at its edge. The root of fire grips the ultimate rock. 72 Five Poems by Stanley Cooperman THE CANNIBAL Everything I do is a kind of eating: I swallow you, and spit out green flowers, the shape of your nose becomes a syllable planted deeper than the roots of trees, and when I cry, my tears are chocolate sodas sucked through the straw shape of a poem. Never trust a man with a typewriter between his lips: when we kiss, I watch the meaning of your secret breath in a mirror; I make love on glass, and sprawl in a hundred ways to learn the truth about the back of your head while my tongue plunges full into your mouth. 73 Watch me squint when I suffer or laugh: my feet find razor-blades in happy grass, and broken bones are jokes, toothpicks goosing a giraffe ... Don't go through my wallet: I've been sleeping with all your best friends, their fathers, and the neighbor's pregnant dog; when I leave the house I point in every direction, like a crazy compass, a sun-dial always at high noon. 74 WALLACE STEVENS IS A FINK Poetry is the supreme fiction, Madame. — w. stevens Supremacy? look: I hold on to my eyeglasses with both hands, like a man dying on roller-skates, or a lover swallowing his own seed, nauseated by the cannibal inside his mouth. I once knew a man taller than the top of his head; he spent the secret coins of all his days on slot- machines, waiting for the jackpot, a poem to leap yellow and singing out of his face ... he was killed tripping on a hockey stick, and when they carried him out of the world, ice-cubes fell from his pockets like used books. 75 APPARITION ON THE SECOND NARROWS BRIDGE A man walked on the bridge with a green umbrella, and his eyebrows were on fire, and he looked at my headlights dancing (the man with the green umbrella) between drops of grease falling from the sky. In one hand he carried a dead salmon sheltered from the night by the green umbrella, and he walked on the bridge while clouds fell into the river with a poc pocpoc like very small black teeth. 76 Why was he on the bridge? why did he carry a green umbrella when the rain came up from the river to wet his feet? why was he burning on a bridge in the middle of the nightmare city, over a river filled with policeman and dead fish? 77 THE SOUND GALLERY There is no substance here, only a room with laughter strung on wire, mirrors rattling like bottles, and Batman swinging from the balcony packaged to sell. Projectors without film giggle white light, charliechaplin war, and the MARCH around armpits: maybe a poet denying his birthday, or looking for magic fleas behind his knees. 78 Seriously the Soul with hairy eyes sits down to play the organ with her public fingers, and a machine squeals, having LOVE stuck up its gears. But always behind the Coca-Cola is GOD, lotus-legged and waiting to wet everybody's lips with blue spit, like music combed down the mouths of Druids or boys, ecstasy majors, and the joyous pilgrims of group despair. 79 WEST OF VANCOUVER When the moon is yellow, wolves and skinny animals point their noses at the stars, and husbands wait behind geraniums for strange girls, thin as fight. When the rain stops in the Northwest flowers grow thick every night: spring comes late, a cluster of grapes seeded with kisses, a kind of orange cropped from the snow. When yucca plants tickle the sky, their white smell filling the spaces between fir-trees, 80 a man can look at himself and count the petals growing like hair from the nape of his dream It's a restless season, long delayed: Alaska is far away on a night like this, and if you hold your ear close to your skin, you can hear the rush of a continent, a year of forgotten rivers, and salmon like fat tongues in the sea. Stanley Cooperman's collection of poems, The Day of the Parrot, will appear in University of Nebraska Press toward the end of 1967. Another collection, The Owl Behind the Door, is scheduled for release by McClelland & Stewart in March 1968. His World War I and the American Novel (Johns Hopkins University Press) was released in April. He teaches at Simon Fraser University. 81 x> i Connie Irvine is presently an M.A. candidate in the Creative Writing Department at the University of British Columbia. THE FOOL CONNIE IRVINE Tonight i went to a late movie downtown and got home late. I'm still not used to the big city and like to walk instead of taking buses so I can see everything. The movie was stupid and monolithic. At least it seemed so to me. I'm usually mistaken. It consisted entirely of an old man staggering around an empty beach collecting junk. He loaded it all onto a cart — splayed umbrellas, lipstick tubes, driftwood, pop-bottles — and wheeled it home to his shack. Inside there he unloaded everything onto a jungle of stuff he'd already collected. Then he'd sit down and run his gnarled (of course gnarled) hands over each piece in his collection and smile to himself. He even died in the end, smiling and stroking driftwood. There were no sound effects at all except the wind blowing and a harmonica playing. It was all so splendid and gratuitous and inevitable, it was literally cheap. I hate inevitability. Fate is there alright but I like to think that people can sneak by. Anyway when I eventually get it, there won't be wind and piano concertos, there'll just be a snicker. But then I'll discover that actually I'm mistaken and wake up, to find that Daddy is still Vice-President of Consolidated. If the movie really bothered me Daddy would buy it. If I would write a polite letter to him, he would buy me immortality, and it would say NEW! on the package. If I'd written that movie script I'd have the old fool find fifty dollars in the sand and go out whoring in the end, 83 or at least find some company. The whole thing made me nervous and I started sneezing. People who live by themselves voluntarily like that are out of their minds. In reality the old man would be lynched by itinerant teenage gunmen in 48 hours. I've seen them — in Oregon they ride up and down the tidal flats on motorbikes for kicks. They look ready to strangle you for eight cents. When they get bored and ride off at dusk their bikes leave long tracks winding back and forth through the sand. High tide coming in flows along them in grey ribbons. Beaches make me nervous. When I got back to my apartment I took out my key but the door was already open with a light on in the bedroom. Typical. I'm absentminded to the point of literal disorientation. Last year I was supposed to take allergy shots for sneezing but I forgot them all. Once I even forgot my shoes when I went to a wedding reception. But I hated the people who were getting married so it didn't matter. Actually the whole thing was a case of sublime indifference. The door was open so I stepped in and stood in the front room sneezing. I'd swear on a stack of bibles I heard the closet door in the bedroom close but eveiything got drowned out in another gigantic sneeze. When I'd finished sneezing I went in the kitchen and opened the icebox door. When I'm confused I sometimes stand looking into the icebox for as long as five minutes without seeing the food. I hate living alone because there's nobody around to establish a routine and make me get organized. Also I have an innate tendency to hear footsteps and living alone brings this out. I stood in front of the icebox thinking gloomily about how distinctly I had heard someone step into the bedroom closet and shut the door, turning the knob very quiedy. My eyes finally focused on a tasty piece of cake. I wasn't hungry but I stuffed it down in three mouth- fuls. I'm a compulsive eater. My psychiatrist says I use food as a substitute. For what? Reality? People who discuss reality are just babbling to kill time. After all, what is there besides reality? Philosophical consideration of "non-reality" is like zoological field research on a "non-animal," or like my habit of opening closet doors and looking under beds for psychotic rapists. I was a non-animal myself before I cured myself of it. My thoughts were running in this vein because I'd just finished reading a novel called Nausea by J. P. Sartre. Now the hero of this novel is a classic example of someone who looks under every bed for psychotics. He kills time siting all day in a restaurant looking at the dirt under his fingernails and thinking how unreal it all is and how nervous it makes him. If HIS front door was open one 84 night and someone in his closet, he'd call the police and the fire department and the inhalator truck, and spend Hie rest of the night searching for footprints on the ceiling. His frantic appeals for help would immortalize him on police listings as "crank call." Then as soon as all the officials had departed snickering, the lid of his cigarette carton would spring open and a fiend would rush at him with a seven foot rapier honed to the fineness of a spiderweb. I thought, "My God I'm twenty-five and a spinster and I still can't sober up." But after all, foolishness is everywhere. It's the human condition. I sat down with the newspaper and sure enough on page one there was an account of an animal trainer showing his friend around the circus where he worked. He unlocked the lions' cage door and stepped in, saying, "Look Jim they're actually very friendly," and the three lions mangled him. The lions' names were Caesar, Jupiter and Leonard. Who would name a lion Leonard? Was it Jewish? I suddenly felt deeply depressed by the folly in my own head and everyone else's. On page three there was an account of a lady in Los Angeles who was mangled (slain, the newspaper calls it) by a psychotic rather ostentatiously named "The molester." She ran from room to room for almost a half hour fighting. "Many housewives in California cities are now purchasing tear-gas pistols to ward off such attackers." How mad. Women who have to own tear gas are so cut off from reality they are dead from the neck up. They fill the night with anthropomorphisized phantoms, whereas in reality there are just indifferent sidewalks, indifferent trees, indifferent molecules, swilling around in some kind of indifferent harmony. What do the Sages say? "The only thing to fear is fear itself." Someone knocked on the front door. I jumped up, ripping the newspaper in two and biting my tongue so hard I grunted. I marched over to the door and flung it open. It was three boys, about 20, in tuxedos and smelling of gin. "Can we use your window?" "My window?" "We're locked out." I'd never seen boys giggle before. I led them through the bedroom because the window there is big enough to climb through easily. Everything was in perfect order. The closet door was closed. Hadn't I left it open when I went out to the movie? Nope. The three boys crawled out one by one and walked along the balcony outside to crawl through another window three apartments away. After the last boy had stumbled through and caught his foot on the window ledge and been retrieved by the other two, a strange thing 85 happened. I crawled out myself. I'm a little on the heavy side and wear glasses and spike heeled shoes, and the three drunks were a bit shook up. They came back and pulled my arms to help me, yelling, "Heave! Heave! Coming to join the party?" I said, "No thank-you, I'm just keeping in shape." Actually I just didn't feel like being in the bedroom alone. When it was quiet I proceeded to pry the kitchen window open and crawl in. It was much narrower and higher than the bedroom one and I got inevitably stuck. One foot dangled inside. I thought "Somebody get me some tear gas and some Metrecal!" What was I doing there hanging like a bulgy fourteen-year-old? "The forces of incipient madness are stronger than I am." Hysteria was a recognized malaise in women of medieval times. The remedy was removal of the entire reproductive tract, a procedure subsequently called "hysterectomy." Daddy would pay, and send a telegram saying "Good girl." If only I could call the police and be dismissed as a fool and go to bed. If only, if only I could just once be right about something. How much would it cost? $499.99. I once flunked a college science course — I loved doing the experiments and writing out the results, but I couldn't draw any conclusions to hand in for a grade. After all, who is to say who is "right"? In a figurative sense, no one can ever know if there is really a murderer in their bedroom closet. Drawing conclusions is merely pretentious, and human. If only I was human enough to scream for help. The three drunks would come staggering back, look in the closet for me, give me a kindly slap on the buttocks, and hand me a check for $500, signed simply, Daddy. I was starting to shake all over when a huge sneeze saved me from inertia. It made me smash my head on the windowledge and go numb. "What the Hell" — I heaved myself through without even feeling the skin rip off my knee, and the sound of the doorbell was natural and even anti-climactical. It was Chester, a boy I met on the Sutter Street bus. His baggy trousers and soft fat never attracted me much, but we were both equally unmanageable and foolish, and after all why not? He usually dropped in after his night school class rather than drive all the way back to San Mateo. He said, "Hi," with his eyes wandering as usual over everything in the room except myself. When he took off his coat and started into the bedroom I said, "Don't." "What's the matter?" "Nothing." "Shall I leave?" "No! I'm fine, let's just stay in here." 86 "I'll leave." He started to put his coat back on glancing all around at the ceiling. The carpet, the plastic fruit on the side table. "There's somebody in here." "Of course there isn't! There's only little old me!" "Have you got something to eat?" We went in the kitchen and he examined the walls and ceiling while I got out some cold roast chicken. "Look!" He was pointing at a little spot under the open window — from my scraped knee. "Who's been crawling through the window?" "Just me!" He finally looked straight at me. "What's going on? You're scared! There's somebody else in here and you don't want me to know!" "You're out of your mind!" "Are you being attacked or something?" "Well, now that you mention it, there's a mad strangler in the bedroom closet." He poured a glass of milk and asked, "Does he have a nylon stocking pulled over his face?" "I don't know, he hasn't raped me yet." "Well, when he does, kick him in the groin." The tendons made a grinding noise when he ripped a leg off the chicken. "What fools we both are!" "Have you seen your psychiatrist since the last time you told me about?" He looked directly at me again and saw my red knee. "No." "Well maybe you should. You've been crawling through the kitchen window." I felt like crying but I didn't want him to think I was too sincere. "But that's how I get my thrills." "Hey!" "What?" "You're scared!" "Yes." How I hate the conversations we used to have! We had to be honest and succinct and overwhelming, like the dialogue in Tarzan movies. If I started rambling the way I do to myself he would start flipping through magazines and eating. If I tell the truth he tells me to see my psychiatrist. This is all he does for himself, too. He knows we're both fools. "Are you scared of me?" He smiled with pleasure but I know he expected to be disappointed. 87 "No. I'm having trouble." "What?" (I had to wait for that What or he wouldn't listen. He's smarter than I am.) "I have a delusion that there's a man in my bedroom closet." "What's the date?" Sure enough he was smarter than I. He remembered that it might be my time of the month — when I act nervous and he usually doesn't call. I told him the date and he made a whole series of mental equations, staring at the window. The whole thing was hopeless because we're both so absent-minded. The only date I can remember is Christmas because then I get a letter from home. The only date he can remember is his birthday. Blah blah blah blah. I ramble and he thinks: It was funny to think that perhaps my fife depended on what he was thinking; maybe he'd think something that would make him go look in the bedroom closet. But he was too practical. Instead of giving in to delusions — and he has them too — he looks for a cure. I look in the closet and he goes to a psychiatrist. My methods are so degrading compared to his, or they were until I quit. As usual, we were both standing, in silence, in the kitchen, thinking about what the other was thinking. He suddenly moved and our eyes met. He said, "Your eyes are shiny. Who are you thinking about?" He expected to be disappointed. "The man in my closet." I started giggling. Maybe it was that time of the month. Or more likely just exhaustion. He slammed the icebox door. "I'm leaving." "You're jealous!" "You're making me nervous, that's all!" He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes. His eyes water when he gets upset. With his glasses off his eyes look naked. "You look like one of those hysterical female prophets in Greek drama! The ones with the stringy hair who forestall national destruction! What's all this about the closet, anyway? Clean off your knees!" My eyes started pouring with water from pure humiliation. He wiped the chicken fat off his hands on a towel and came over to kiss me. "You're crying!" He smiled — not because he's unkind but because we're both humiliated by the way we feel nothing for each other. My tears looked like a real moment of sincerity. Sometimes we get drunk together and sit and cry because we feel we are complete strangers, with nothing in common but our trivial delusions. It's disgusting and soothing. We kissed each other for awhile by the sink, but I was as limp and cold as seaweed. He was starting to get insulted again because I kept thinking about something else. He knows that he's seldom on my mind, but sometimes it gets less 88 than usual. It was so obvious that I absentmindedly left the door open when I went out for the show. And the lights on and the closet door closed, not open. Open closed open closed open closed — babble babble babble babble. There was nothing I could say to incite him to go look in the closet. There's nothing a man dislikes quite so much as a woman who has the affront to: (i) be, and remain overweight, and (2) sit and tell him her troubles instead of laughing and getting into bed. It's not unkind, it's merely well organized. It's necessary for the continuation of the race. Adults can't go around slobbering about their tiniest, weeniest, inmost doubts. We kissed again and I said, "My name is Tiny and yours is Weeny." He said, "Guess what!" "What?" "We do have something in common!" "What?" "No self-respect!" I was unnerved. He's usually too disciplined to go in for vast generalizations. When he does it's usually profound. It usually seems dreadfully simple and commonplace to me, but seeing as he never makes statements until he's somehow arrived at them as conclusions, I'm always respectful when he does come up with something. To be agreeable I said, "I'll go see my psychiatrist tomorrow if you'll see yours." "Good." "Then we'll be more fun next week." "I'm going." He put on his coat and did up the zipper. I was dreadfully embarrassed. He's always saying he'll go but he never actually WENT before, unless I actually said No. If I bore Chester, I must be a drag indeed. How unfair! It's my babbling that makes him ponderous. Who ever said he was dull? I must have been more overtired than I realized. I stood and stared while he put on his scarf. He knew I was miserable and wanted to know why he was leavinsf. He also knew I didn't care where he went. But I must have looked pathetic because he explained, "You look like you're waiting for somebody. I better go." I got annoyed. "You'll read about it in the morning paper." He winced and walked out. We seldom insult each other openly. I heard him close the front door quietly. I knew he was standing outside the apartment door, listening. If he heard me cry he would rush back in feeling proud and contrite. He expected me to cry and so did I, but I didn't. I was too distracted by a sudden mental picture 89 I had — a "still-life" — of three people, all standing listening; trying not to make a sound; hardly even breathing; trying to predict what the others were about to do and what they were thinking; or about what they could do to whoever it was waiting a few feet off. Anyway I can't cry when I'm expected to, who can? Only the most perverse, highly motivated people. If only I could have faked just one rich sob, he would have reappeared and I would have said "Go look in the closet!" and he would have led me in by the hand and shown me the empty closet and we'd have gone to bed. After that when he referred to me in his thoughts he'd preface my name with the adjective "poor." But what on earth would be the point? There are certain self-evident truths, i.e. the one about the bedroom closet, which need no explaining. I even smiled at the word "closet." "Closet closet closet closet closet closet closet." It makes it funny when a word is repeated. The only word as weird as "closet" is "bladder." Bladderbladder- bladderbladder. I was exhausted. Chester walked away very quietly on his rubber shoes. If only I could be one of those women who can throw themselves around like an acrobat. People say of them, "Isn't Rebecca a fool? Isn't she a scream? Don't you just love her?" If anyone said that about me I'd kick them in the groin. I must have been hysterical with exhaustion. It was one-thirty. There was my warm bed thirty feet away and my sleeping pills and hot shower and a new unopened novel to not open and clean sheets and my pyjamas, in the (ho ho) closet. I stood in the kitchen like a piece of junk somebody's mislaid in an empty room. Chester had left behind him a wake of unbreakable silence. I have always been unutterably nauseated by his undeniable way of putting things. "You're waiting for somebody." In a way that was a cruel remark. He's clever — he obviously noticed that I was going overboard in all directions and cared only that he be precise about it. His brand of truth froze the whole place into a death chamber. If he had said nothing I could probably have gone to bed in peace. As it was, all I could do was sweat. Ha ha. If I even turned on a tap something would shatter. Standing just exactly as I was when Chester left, I came to some understanding of what was the matter. (Standing standing standing standing standing). I realized that for some reason or other I was cracking up and it no longer had any importance whatsoever, whether there was or was not, a man in the closet. The only real thing was, that for me to go and open the closet door was an infinitely painful thought that I couldn't possibly endure for another ten minutes. There was something happening in- 90 side of me that was so incredibly foolish that it was even literally respectable. I thought, "Jesus I'm crazy!" and could have sobbed with relief since that meant that I was no longer a fool, but a fanatic, blessed with real delusions. In other words, I was no longer responsible for what happened, i.e., nothing. At last I began to cry, thinking "Insanity is the privilege of being afraid." Walking soundlessly over to the telephone (which I keep on the kitchen table) I dialed the number of my psychiatrist, Ma-1-9177. He told me several times that if ever I got confused I should phone him and he would come over — and I'd laughed to myself, "Pshaw! Piff piff to that!" That set me to thinking about my smart talk. If a man said "piff piff" it would be funny, but when a woman said it it was only smart. Maybe the man in the closet had the power and motivation to cure me of sneering. Once I started indulging myself I might as well go whole hog so I kept my back to the wall while I dialed the number. At the same time I allowed myself to think, "Maybe the man in the closet likes me — he's been waiting so long. Chester wouldn't wait so long even if I were dying, and he was the only one who could deliver the container of rare type blood to save my life. If the plane was delayed for one half-hour he'd give the bottle to some passer-by and go home. This man in the closet had been waiting for three-quarters of an hour. Too bad he wasn't there or he'd be a faithful swain. While I cried out loud the phone rang for awhile until a very very sleepy cold voice said, "Hello, Dr. Richards speaking." There was a long obscene moment of silence while I thought, "How ostentatious this is! How obscene! Only people with real, sincere illusions, are entitled to telephone psychiatrists in the middle of the night." The silence apparently caught Dr. Richards' interest. He said, "Hello, this is Dr. Richards. Can I help you?" in a wide-awake voice. I said, "This is Becky Thomas speaking" in the horrible little-girl voice I always use around strangers. He said, "How are you Becky?" How awful! He was pretending it was quite natural that I should phone him in the middle of the night. As if there was REALLY something the matter with me. I said, "Please, tell me what to do. I've gotten overtired and nervous and I've developed some kind of mental block." "Is there anyone with you Becky?" I thought I'd better get it over with quickly. "Well this is the problem. Of course there's no one with me, but I feel as if there is." "Have they said anything to you Becky?" "OF COURSE NOT! How could he? There's no one there!" "Becky, how would you like to come over tomorrow and talk 9i about it? I have an eight o'clock appointment I can caned." (What a fool! He always uses my first name to pretend that we're not strangers.) I heard a noise somewhere in the apartment and hissed, "SHHHHHHHH!" into the phone. Not a sound. Pipes creaking. Water dripping. Wind blowing. I loved him for not hanging up. I sobbed vaguely into the phone, "This is the happiest moment in my life — I'm finally cracking up sincerely." He said, "Becky why don't I come over and see you and we can talk about this?" How embarrassing! Talk! I thought he'd suggest sending an ambulance or something. He must have thought I was half-baked after all. I said coldly, "There's really nothing to discuss." Maybe he'd eventually come over and bring a hypodermic. It would have sugar water in it I'd throw up on his shoe, the ass. He said, "Well why don't I come over, and we can sit and have some coffee? Why don't you make some coffee Becky?" "I forget where the can is!" "Is it in a cupboard in the kitchen?" "Just a minute I'll go and look." How unreasonable! I put my hand over the receiver and stood there so he'd think I was going to look. But of course — I didn't put the thing down, so he'd know I was just standing there. How confusing! If he knew that I knew that I knew he knew I was just standing there he'd think I was a fool. But maybe my standing like that would convince him that I was sincere. Christ! Why did I want to convince him of anything? He knows I think he's a fool. I took my hand off the receiver and listened to it. He said, "Hello? Becky? Becky? How are you?" "Fine." (How fascinating. I'd never known that I was so interesting.) "Becky, I'll be over in fifteen minutes. You stay by the telephone and wait for me. Sit down so you'll be comfortable. I'll be over in fifteen rninutes." "DON'T HANG UP!" There was a short silence that came over me like a razor slash. Silence was flowing out of the bedroom door like cold green water that numbed my humiliation. I realized that I was literally dying of words. If I would only stop theorizing for three consecutive minutes everything would be all right again. "Becky, I have another line here. I can keep this one open and call—" "Don't hang up! If you do I'll go open the closet door and if there's no one in there I don't know what I'll do but if there is I know what he'll do!" (The closet again! The ever-recurring closet!) 92 . That made me stop and think rationally. If there was really a man in there, why did he wait for all this time? Either, (i) There was no one there, or (2) The man in there was so unutterably mad I couldn't bear to be alive another minute. HE MUST be mad, to stand there for three-quarters of an hour. But if I just ran for the front door he'd come out and then I'd have to know that there really was someone there. But as long as I kept fiddling around (as I'd been doing for three-quarters of an hour since I got home) he'd keep right on waiting. He wanted me to either run or go and open the closet door. "Becky I have another line here. I'll keep this one open while I use the other to call someone who will come and see you. You can talk to me while we're arranging it. You'll hear every word. How would you Eke that?" Pretty ingenious. His competent tone didn't sound as nauseating as usual. But I was getting into this pretty deep. He's a failure at dealing with mere neurosis, but now that I was faking psychosis he was doing alright. "Becky?" I didn't say anything. I kept swallowing with my mouth open and trying to stop theorizing. I considered how I hate, loathe, and despise my first name. Then to my absolute horror I heard him dialing another number. He really thought I was mad! I knew he was dialing because it made a clicking noise that I've heard before when I was talking to Chester only we weren't saying anything so my party line thought no one was there and started dialing a number. More and more babble. I'll take $500 worth, please. I hung up. It started ringing instantly and kept on ringing. I kept swallowing as if I were masticating air. I stared at my watch for six minutes that seemed to rush by in one. It was seven minutes until 2:00 a.m. The phone was still ringing. By now he had told the "someone" my address — another psychiatrist probably — who had already or was just now starting out on the way here. How far was this person away? Ten minutes at the very least. San Francisco is so huge and so many one-way streets to slow down even a late night driver. I knew I was going to put an end to this foolishness. I had ten minutes to walk into the bedroom, open the closet door, take out my pyjamas, hang up my clothes, and get into bed. But I forgot — I wouldn't change my clothes until the man coming had arrived and I'd explained to him that this was a temporary upset due to it being my time of the month (how embarrassing), and everything was all right now. Suddenly I felt some kind of understanding with 93 the man in the closet. I was acting EXACTLY like he was! We were both continually waiting. I wondered if he were theorizing. I don't know what mad people think about. For the first time in my life I threw up but nothing came. My hands were wet. How disgusting— the telephone receiver was literally dripping where I'd held it. I was scared because I knew I had the guts to walk into the bedroom. How piddling! I was the bravest coward on earth — strong enough to walk into a room and do battle with nothing! Then with a wave of bilious nausea and intoxicating self-respect I knew I was really crazy because I had a thought that went like this: "Just think — I must be for real — how could I be a fool if I want myself so badly I'm willing to lose everything else? To never read another novel or walk again in Union Square at noon when women in mink parade up and down through the pigeon shit and old men read their newspapers and business men exchange technicalities in the sun." (Rhetoric, yet!) "Now, I'm going to bed. I WILL get changed — it'll be perfecdy suitable to wear my dressing gown over my pyjamas when I answer the door and tell the doctor everything is all right." The phone was still ringing. I walked into the bedroom and opened the closet door. 94 Two Poems by Ingrid Tedford And after the Jacobs and the Dons but there was only one of each marxist Don black you screwed by beautiful a priest and good hated the World until I could not love you High on pot could only give he said to the Chinese butcher you snow at dawn and ice perceiving purple spider-webs and thanks among green trees I love you fled on slow unreal feet crying What have I done What have I done For Ronald neither High nor black I cry 95 A MAP OF SORTS Berlin a wooden whirling top on Linden streets if we collect more bones for glue than all the others we'll get an extra day off from school we did I recalled what it was like on the toilet at the Vier Jahreszeiten in Hamburgi shutting him out with fingers, bitten, in my ears the bombs he threw later I left and then we left Nanaimo for Oslo goodbye, my uncle who took my god and cousins mourning with me better to go the German chauffeur said he made more sense than Father phoning from New York and then we left New York Pineapple and cheese unthinkable & purple bobby sox with furry capes chicken & beans & angel cake the Highest in Town thus after my fame Heft Seattle Robert back from Korea drunk for his 9 o'clock class & my Phi Bet key under his pillow? 96 one could not flee only reflect the glistening pavement down near Central Park from the suite in which He screamed at her you cannot squeeze money from a stone & Ride, ageing & frightened professor from Oxford on the steed I will draw bringing you here. places pillows concierges giving keys to guys named everything but Paul my son who drew a dying hippopodamus for Aunt Loraine clinician East Bay Mental Hygiene Clinic where else? Ingrid Tedford is studying for her Ph.D. in Scandinavian at Berkeley. In 1961, the University of Oslo published her Henrik Ibsen Bibliography, /02S-52. 97 Lionel Kearns teaches at Simon Fraser University. His work appears in numerous Canadian journals. ENTERPRISE LIONEL KEARNS When Charley was old enough to get his driver's licence he bought an old Chevy sedan and set Betty his girl-friend up in the back seat for three dollars a crack among his school chums and after a while he started to get a few outside customers as well and this gave him the idea of trading the jalopy in on a used hearse, a move which just happened to co-incide with a new morality campaign brought in by the City Council, the effect of which closed down most of the existing cat-houses for some months and WOW business boomed for Charley to such an extent that soon he'd got enough financial backing to establish a city-wide fleet of "lay-on- the-way" cars, or to use the vulgar term, "whore-hearses," each of them a big shiny black Caddy with uniformed driver and foam mattress and miniature bar, and Charley had all the cars equipped with two-way radios so the Central Office could dispatch them to your door within minutes of a call. At first most of the action took place at night, but after Charley switched to another PR firm the thing really began to catch on, with business men ordering Charley's cars to get to luncheon appointments or executive conferences so they could screw away their tensions without feeling guilty about losing time. Eventually, Charley cashed in on the commuter market in all the major cities, and after introducing special rates for short inter- 98 I urban hops, he ended with a vast network of mobile bordellos speeding from coast to coast across the nation. As you probaby recall, Charley's letterhead used to bear a flying ram encircled by the motto: Come As You Go and Arrive Satisfied. Yes, Charley played it smart and made a pile while it lasted, because in those days no one had thought of legislating against, for example, "keeping a disorderly automobile," though once Charley got into a scrape for having red lights on top of his vehicles instead of at the rear. But strangely enough Charley's real trouble came from the "Professional Brotherhood of Smiling Morticians" who were being increasingly plagued by people who would flag down funeral processions and try to climb in with the stiff. As could be expected with that sort of opposition the enactment of stringent anti-sex road laws finally put an end to the era of the travelling orgasm, but by that time Charley had already sold out and invested in the munitions industry, where profits were ten times as high and the future unequivocally secure. After that Charley found himself rich enough to slip easily into high-level politics (I suppose it was still the spirit of public service that prompted rum), and today few people remember when Charley was the imaginative young entrepreneur who brought in the innovation that almost revolutionized one of our most backward social institutions. Though I've got a hunch that it was as a kind of tribute to Charley's remarkable background that the Prime Minister first made him Minister of Transport before switching him to Defence. And incidentally I've heard it said that even today Old Charley shows a passing interest in the social, as well as the military, potential of helicopters and hovercraft. 99 Three Poems by Peter Huchel Translated from the German by Henry Beissel. THE POPLARS Time, it was late when you left With your rusty scythe Up the lane through the hollow And past the two poplars. They swam In the thin water of the sky. A white stone drowned. Was it the moon, the eye of desolation? By the cemetery shrubs dawn Wraps a shawl Crudely woven from grass and fog Around helmets and bones. In a crust of ice the earliest hour Threw shiny fragments among the reeds. In silence the fisherman slid His boat into the river. The water lamented with freezing voice Raftine dead after dead downstreams. x5 But who buried, in chilly clay In ashes and in mud, The old footprints of distress? In the clear felling of war glows rich soil, The swelling power of the stalk stirs. Where the disc plow turns And stubble falls, Stand on a slope the two poplars. They are feelers of the earth Probing the light. 100 DIE PAPPELN Zedt mit rostiger Sense, Spat erst zogest du fort, den Hohlweg hinauf Und an den beiden Pappeln vorbei. Sie schwammen Im diinnen Wasser des Himmels. Ein weisser Stein ertrank. War es der Mond, das Auge der Odnis? Am Grabergebusch die Dammerung. Sie hunt ihr Tuch, Aus Gras und Nebel grob gewebt, Um Helme und Knochen. Die erste Friihe, umbrustet von Eis, Warf blinkende Scherben ins Schilf. Schweigend schob der Fischer Den Kahn in den Fluss. Es klagte Die frierende Stimme des Wassers, Das Tote um Tote fldsste hinunter. Wer aber begrub sie, im frostigen Lehm, In Asche und Schlamm, Die alte Fussspur der Not? Im Kahlschlag des Kriegs glanzt Ackererde, Es drangt die quellende Kraft des Halms. Und wo der Schalpflug wendet, Die Stoppel stiirzt, Stehn auf dem Hang die beiden Pappeln. Sie ragen ins Licht Als Fiihler der Erde. 101 Home is beautiful When over the green brass disc Of the pond the cranes cry And gold heaps up In the blue vaults of October; When grain and milk sleep in the shed Sparks fly From the anvil of night. The sooty forge of the universe Begins to rake its fire. The red-hot iron of dawn Is struck. And ash falls Upon the shadows of bats. UNDER THE PINE Needles without ears, Where the fog threads Its white yarn. Fish bones Buried in the sand. With cat's paws The ivy climbs Up the trunk. 102 Schon ist die Heimat, Wenn fiber der griinen Messingscheibe Des Teichs der Kranich schreit Und das Gold sich hauft Im blauen Oktobergewolbe; Wenn Korn und Milch in der Kammer schlafen, Spriihen die Funken Vom Amboss der Nacht. Die russige Schmiede des Alls Beginnt ihr Feuer zu schuren. Sie schmiedet Das gliihende Eisen der Morgenrote. Und Asche f allt Auf den Schatten der Fledermause. UNTER DER KIEFER Nadeln ohne Ohr, Der Nebel zieht Die weissen Faden ein. Fischgraten, In den Sand gescharrt. Mit Katzenpfoten Klettert der Epheu Den Stamm hinauf. 103 -J PSALM That from the seed of man No man And from the seed of the olive No olive-tree Shall grow, This can be measured With the ell of death. Those who dwell Under the earth In a sphere of cement, Their strength is like The stalk In the lash of snow. Wasteland becomes history. Termites write it With their mandibles Into the sand, And what will never be explored Is a species Eagerly bent On self-annihilation. 104 1 PSALM Dass aus dem Samen des Menschen Kein Mensch Und aus dem Samen des Olbaums Kein Olbaum Werde, Es ist zu messen Mit der Elle des Todes. Die da wohnen Unter der Erde In einer Kugel aus Zement, Ihre Starke gleicht Dem Halm Im peitschenden Schnee. Die ode wird Geschichte. Termiten schreiben sie Mit ihren Zangen In den Sand. Und nicht erforscht wird werden Ein Geschlecht, Eifrig bemiiht, Sich zu vernichten. Peter Huchel is a well-known German poet. He edited Sinn Und Form in East Germany (Berlin), and brought it to fame, then was dismissed as editor and had to leave East Germany due to his opposition to the Ulbricht regime. Henry Beissel is an assistant professor of English at Sir George Williams University in Montreal. He has published poetry in Canadian magazines and abroad. His first book, New Wings for Icarus, has just been published by the Coachhouse Press in Toronto. IO5 Three Poems by Walter Bauer Translated from the German by Henry Beissel. STILL Movements sweep across the face of the earth, nations flee, tribes are uprooted, god's faithful hunt down the faithless and the recusant. Still we two declare these to be the first days of the world. Somewhere shots ring out every night, laws stop up the breath of freedom, injustice is done in the name of justice, every morning executions, eyes breaking in the gloom. Still we awake every morning, we two, in perfect harmony. It is uncertain how long we shall live, and whether we shall have time for farewells; plans no longer work out, armies are poised at borders, monstrous clouds foreshadow secret means — all the old bitter stories of the world. Still we take joy in each other as if joined for eternity, and we live in a good secret, and still we love each other. Walter Bauer has published several volumes of poems in German. He has lived in Canada since 1954. He teaches at the University of Toronto. Henry Beissel: see note page 105. 106 DENNOCH Bewegungen gehen fiber die Erde, Volker fliehen, Stamme werden umgesiedelt, Glaubige jagen Unglaubige und Widerwillige wie Wild. Dennoch erklaren wir beide diese Tage zu den ersten der Welt. Jede Nacht erschallen irgendwo Schiisse, Gesetze zerpressen den Atem im Namen der Freiheit, Unrecht wird gesprochen im Namen des Rechtes, jeden Morgen im Dammerlicht brechen die Augen Hingerichteter. Dennoch wachen wir morgens auf, wir beide, in schonem Einverstandnis. Es ist nicht sicher, wie lange wir leben werden und ob wir Zeit haben, voneinander Abschied zu nehmen, keine Rechnung geht mehr auf, Armeen stehen an den Grenzen, ungeheure Wolken sprechen von verborgenen Mitteln — alle die alten bitteren Geschichten der Welt. Dennoch haben wir Freude aneinander, als blieben wir ewig beisammen, und leben in einem guten Geheimnis. Dennoch lieben wir uns. 107 TO SING IN OLD MEASURES To sing in old measures and pretend that still there are harps — where do people find the courage? And why do they speak of gods? Are we not alone here now? Yes, whisper — one might do that, as if speaking to oneself, or with words keen as a plow break open the soil of this charnel age — that may be it, we may be allowed that. When we sing, too many graves lie on our tongues, too many dead make bitter fun of us in their decay. Almost inaudible, I whisper to myself or to you ... who knows ... the word of a smile, sudden and unevoked, on the face of a stranger. Or of the unspeakably delicate and bold fine which a birdflight writes upon the blackboard of the sky. FOR THE PRECIOUS BLUE For the precious blue of the sky Flying like flags of hope: One plate of soup. For the chaste beauty of winter's snow, For the immense flaming of the sun: One plate of soup. For all philosophy, all libraries, all Disputations on the Rights of Man: One plate of soup. For the crucifixion of Christ, for all the burnings Of heretics, For the sum total of human history — Ladies and Gentlemen, just think: This man relinquishes even the Immortal Dignity of Man For one plate of soup. 108 SINGEN IN ALTEN MASSEN Singen in alten Massen und tun, als gabe es immer noch Harfen — woher nehmen die Leute den Mut? Und wieso sprechcn sie immer noch von Gottcrn? Ist hier nicht alles einsam geworden? Ja, vielleicht flustern — das kann man, als sprache man mit sich selber, oder mit Worten von der Scharfe des Pflugs den Acker aufreissen dieser verrotteten Zeit — das mag es sein, das ist uns erlaubt Zu viele Graber liegen auf unsern Stimmen, zu viele Tote machen sich fiber uns bitter lustig in ihrem Verf all, wenn wir sagen: wir singen. Und so, kaum horbar, Austere ich zu mir selber oder zu dir ... ich weiss nicht... dieses Wort vom Lacheln im Gesicht eines Fremden, das plotzlich ungerufen erschien wie der Gruss eines in sich selber Ycrschutteten. Oder von der Linie unbeschreibfich zart und kiihn, die ein Vogelflug an die Tafel des Himmels schreibt. FUR DAS KOSTLICHE BLAU des Himmels Wie Fahnen der Hoffnung wehend: Einen Teller Suppe. Fur die keusche Schonheit des Winterschnees, Fur das ungeheure Flammen der Sonne: Einen Teller Suppe. Fur alle Philosophic, alle Bibliotheken, alle Erorterungen der Menschenrechte: Einen Teller Suppe. Fur die Kreuzigung Christi, fur alle Verbrennungen Von Ketzern, Fiir die Summe der menschlichen Geschichte — Meine Damen und Herren, bedenken Sie: Dieser Mann verzichtet sogar auf die Unsterbliche Wiirde des Menschen Fiir einen Teller Suppe. 109 Two Poems by Hans Magnus Enzensberger Translated by Ingo Seidler CHANCE OF AMORTIZATION how we have come down! what a sad state! leaning out of my window i still see the houses i saw yesterday, is time, then, at a standstill? not even a smell of carrion, not even a milkman suffocating in the air like a flounder! no wonder that people begin to make fun of progress! the sirens, (if things go on like this) will rust on us. the officers are eating whipped cream, for what did we school brains of wire, brainier than our own? to solve cross-word puzzles? in front of their ominous bombers the crews are playing cricket, inventors openly threaten to switch to machines serving the prolongation and not the obliteration of life. where (perhaps into the cellar?) are we to put our rockets and all that glory — it's bound to turn rancid! you nations, take heart! already the commander-in-chief has ordered a shipment of red map flags. those who (for us) untiringly wear black hats and responsibility already are napping in their air-caravels: a summit conference has been called to prevent the worst, as holderlin had it: "where there is danger, the saving forces grow strong." already they mark out on ingenious maps new fields of honour. on which, dying for a good price, you'll all get a chance to scratch yourselves some immortality under your blue and bloody finger-nails. no ON THE GRAVE OF A PEACEFUL MAN this one was not a philanthropist, shunned meetings, department stores, arenas; did not eat the flesh of his like. in the streets brute force was walking with a smile, not naked; yet there were screams in the sky. people's faces were not distinct; they seemed smashed even before the blow had struck. one thing that he always had fought for, with words and his teeth angrily, cunningly, all by himself: the thing that he called his peace, now that he has it, there is, to taste it, no mouth left on his bones. Hans Magnus Enzensberger is probably the most controversial of living German poets. In recent years he has lived in Norway. Ingo Seidler's translations and studies in Modern German Literature have appeared widely. He teaches at the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. Ill BOOKS AND PERIODICALS RECEIVED candelaria, fred, Dimensions, poems, Morriss Printing Company Ltd., 1745 Blanshard Street, Victoria, B.C., $4.00. ferlinghetti, Lawrence, Starting From San Francisco. New Directions, Norfolk, Conn. Collections of poems. 79 pp. $2.35. fowler, gene, Shaman Songs, Dustbook, Box 123, El Cerrito, California, poems, $1.00. futoransky, luisa. El Corazon de los Lugares, collections of poems in Spanish. Coleccion Nuevo Mundo, Buenos Aires, Argentina. hoskins, katherine, Excursions. New and selected poems. Atheneum. 133 pp. $2.45. layton, irving, Periods of the Moon. Poems. McClelland & Stewart. 127 pp. $2.50. patchen, kenneth, Hallelujah Anyway. New Directions, Norfolk, Conn. A book of picture-poems. $ 1.50. sheldon, michael, The Personnel Man. McClelland & Stewart. 173 PP- novel. $4-95- stein, david lewis, Scratch One Dreamer. McClelland & Stewart. $2.50. 200 pp. novel. symons, scott, Place d'Armes. McClelland & Stewart. $2.50. Autobiographical novel. yates, j. michael, Hunt In An Unmapped Interior. Poems. Golden Quill Press, Francestown, New Hampshire. $5.00. yates, j. michael, Canticle for Electronic Music. Poems. Morriss Printing Company Ltd., 1745 Blanshard Street, Victoria, B.C. $4.00. Dhara, a quarterly review of Hindi literature in English. Edited and published by R. S. Yadav, 88, Gupta Colony, Delhi-9, India. $3.00. Iron— /, c/o English Dept., Simon Fraser University, Burnaby 2, B.C. Editors: Brian Fawcett and Henk Suijs. Small poetry and prose magazine. La Loca Poesia, Casilla correo central 4139, Buenos Aires, Argentina. 6 issues $3.00. Argentinian literary magazine. Up The Tube With One I (Open)—Pomes, 4875 Albert Street, North Burnaby, B.C. Small poetry magazine. 112 west coast ■ rcVI" W A Tri-Annual Magazine of the Creative Arts publishes EngUsh and French poetry, fiction, drama, essays, and reviews that focus on creativity, as well as a continuing bibliography of avant-garde writing. Modern music, painting, and photography will appear regularly. "The theme is creative and has vista." — WHITMAN. Forthcoming in Volume II: Fiction by Burns Raushenbush, Albert Drake, Margaret Randall, and others Poetry by Jean Royer, Henry Beissel, Padraig O Broin, Ralph Salisbury, and others Play by Sylvan Karchmer Drawings by Elizabeth Haeseker Black Essays by Wayne Burns, Gloria Osborne, Eugene Webb Reviews Music by Barbara Pentland Bibliographies on Charles Olson and on Surrealism Address subscriptions and manuscript to: WEST COAST REVIEW Simon Fraser University Burnaby 2, B.C. Subscription rates effective April 1, 1967: single copy $1.50 one year $4.00 two years $6.00 PRISM Coming issues of international DRAMA PRISM INTERNATIONAL 7 : 3 will be a special drama issue. THE POOR RELATION by Ernst Barlach PROSE DUEL OF TWO HORSES by Georg Britting THE DEATH OF DON QUIXOTE by Georg Britting WILL YOU GO HUNT, MY LORD by Brian Schein THOBQUEH by Jack Matthews POETRY Selection of East African Poetry edited and introduced by John Roberts. A selection of Pacific Coast poetry edited and introduced by Jack Gilbert. POEMS by Irving Layton, Hans Magnus Enzensberger, Gottfried Benn, Karl Krolow, George Amabile, Elizabeth Gourlay, Eric Foster, Robin Skelton, Raymond Queneau, Ralph Gustafson, and many others. To subscribe for one year (three issues), complete and return the following. PRISM, international DEPARTMENT OF CREATIVE WRITING UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA VANCOUVER 8, CANADA I enclose $3.50 for a one-year subscription to PRISM international, beginning with issue 7:2. NAME ADDRESS.
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