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One writes telling me I am her guiding light And my poems her bible — on this cold morning After moss I smoke one cigarette And hear a magpie chatter in the paddock, The image of Hatana — he bashes at the windows In idiot spite, shouting — ‘Pakeha! You can be ‘The country’s leading poet’ — at the church I murmured, ‘Tena koe,' To the oldest woman and she replied, ‘Tena koe’— Yet the red book is shut from which I should learn Maori And these daft English words meander on, How dark a light! Hatana, you have gripped me Again by the balls; you sift and riddle my mind On the rack of the middle world, and from my grave at length A muddy spring of poems will gush out.

Into her mother’s bedroom to wash the ballooning body. “My mother is jelly-hearted and she has a brain of jelly: Sweet, quiver-soft, irrelevant. Not essential. Only a habit would cry if she should die. A pleasant sort of fool without the least iron. . . . Are you better, mother, do you think it will come today?” The stretched yellow rag that was Jessie Mitchell’s mother Reviewed her. Young, and so thin, and so straight. So straight! as if nothing could ever bend her. But poor men would bend her, and doing things with poor men, Being much in bed, and babies would bend her over, And the rest of things in life that were for poor women, Coming to them grinning and pretty with intent to bend and to kill. Comparisons shattered her heart, ate at her bulwarks: The shabby and the bright: she, almost hating her daughter, Crept into an old sly refuge: “Jessie’s black And her way will be black, and jerkier even than mine. Mine, in fact, because I was lovely, had flowers Tucked in the jerks, flowers were here and there. . . .” She revived for the moment settled and dried-up triumphs, Forced perfume into old petals, pulled up the droop, Refueled Triumphant long-exhaled breaths. Her exquisite yellow youth . . .

Lyth and lystyn, gentilmen, All that nowe be here; Of Litell Johnn, that was the knighees man, Goode myrth ye shall here. It was upon a mery day That yonge men wolde go shete; Lytell Johnn fet his bowe anone, And sayde he wolde them mete. Thre tymes Litell Johnn shet aboute, And alwey he slet the wande; The proude sherif of Notingham By the markes can stande. The sherif swore a full greate othe: "By hym that dyede on a tre, This man is the best arschére That ever yet sawe I me. "Say me nowe, wight yonge man, What is nowe thy name? In what countre were thou borne, And where is thy wonynge wane?" "In Holdernes, sir, I was borne, I-wys al of my dame; Men cal me Reynolde Grenelef Whan I am at home." "Sey me, Reynolde Grenelefe, Wolde thou dwell with me? And every yere I woll the gyve Twenty marke to thy fee." "I have a maister," sayde Litell Johnn, "A curteys knight is he; May ye leve gete of hym, The better may it be." The sherif gate Litell John Twelve monethes of the knight; Therfore he gave him right anone A gode hors and a wight. Nowe is Litell John the sherifes man, God lende vs well to spede! But alwey thought Lytell John To quyte hym wele his mede. "Nowe so God me helpe," sayde Litell John, "And by my true leutye, I shall be the worst servaunt to hym That ever yet had he." It fell upon a Wednesday The sherif on huntynge was gone, And Litel John lay in his bed, And was foriete at home. Therfore he was fastinge Til it was past the none; "Gode sir stuarde, I pray to the, Gyve me my dynere," saide Litell John. "It is longe for Grenelefe Fastinge thus for to be; Therfor I pray the, sir stuarde, Mi dyner gif me." "Shalt thou never ete ne drynke," saide the stuarde, "Tyll my lorde be come to towne:" "I make myn avowe to God," saide Litell John, "I had lever to crake thy crowne." The boteler was full uncurteys, There he stode on flore; He start to the botery And shet fast the dore. Lytell Johnn gave the boteler suche a tap His backe went nere in two; Though he lived an hundred ier, The wors shuld he go. He sporned the dore with his fote; It went open wel and fyne; And there he made large lyveray, Bothe of ale and of wyne. "Sith ye wol nat dyne," sayde Litell John, "I shall gyve you to drinke; And though ye lyve an hundred wynter, On Lytel Johnn ye shall thinke." Litell John ete, and Litel John drank, The while that he wolde; The sherife had in his kechyn a coke, A stoute man and a bolde. "I make myn avowe to God," saide the coke, "Thou arte a shrewde hynde In ani hous for to dwel, For to aske thus to dyne." And there he lent Litell John Gode strokis thre; "I make myn avowe to God," sayde Lytell John, "These strokis lyked well me. "Thou arte a bolde man and hardy, And so thinketh me; And or I pas fro this place Assayed better shalt thou be." Lytell Johnn drew a ful gode sworde, The coke toke another in hande; They thought no thynge for to fle, But stifly for to stande. There they faught sore togedere Two myle way and well more; Myght neyther other harme done, The mountnaunce of an owre. "I make myn avowe to God," sayde Litell Johnn, "And by my true lewté, Thou art one of the best sworde-men That ever yit sawe I me. "Cowdest thou shote as well in a bowe, To grene wode thou shuldest with me, And two times in the yere thy clothinge Chaunged shulde be; "And every yere of Robyn Hode Twenty merke to thy fe:" "Put up thy swerde," saide the coke, "And felowes woll we be." Thanne he fet to Lytell Johnn The nowmbles of a do, Gode brede, and full gode wyne, They ete and drank theretoo. And when they had dronkyn well, Theyre trouthes togeder they plight That they wolde be with Robyn That ylke same nyght. They dyd them to the tresoure-hows, As fast as they myght gone; The lokkes, that were of full gode stele, They brake them everichone. They toke away the silver vessell, And all that thei might get; Pecis, masars, ne sponis, Wolde thei not forget. Also they toke the gode pens, Thre hundred pounde and more, And did them streyte to Robyn Hode, Under the grene wode hore. "God the save, my dere mayster, And Criste the save and se!" And thanne sayde Robyn to Litel Johnn, Welcome myght thou be. "Also be that fayre yeman Thou bryngest there with the; What tydynges fro Notyngham? Lytill Johnn, tell thou me." "Well the gretith the proude sheryf, And sendeth the here by me His coke and his silver vessell, And thre hundred pounde and thre." "I make myne avowe to God," sayde Robyn, "And to the Trenyté, It was never by his gode wyll This gode is come to me." Lytyll Johnn there hym bethought On a shrewde wyle; Fyve myle in the forest he ran, Hym happed all his wyll. Than he met the proude sheref, Huntynge with houndes and horne; Lytell Johnn coude of curtesye, And knelyd hym beforne. "God the save, my dere mayster, And Criste the save and se!" "Reynolde Grenelefe," sayde the shryef, "Where hast thou nowe be?" "I have be in this forest; A fayre syght can I se; It was one of the fayrest syghtes That ever yet sawe I me. "Yonder I sawe a ryght fayre harte, His coloure is of grene; Seven score of dere upon a herde Be with hym all bydene. "Their tyndes are so sharpe, maister, Of sexty, and well mo, That I durst not shote for drede, Lest they wolde me slo." "I make myn avowe to God," sayde the shyref, "That syght wolde I fayne se:" "Buske you thyderwarde, mi dere mayster, Anone, and wende with me." The sherif rode, and Litell Johnn Of fote he was full smerte, And whane they came before Robyn, "Lo, sir, here is the mayster-herte." Still stode the proude sherief, A sory man was he; "Wo the worthe, Raynolde Grenelefe, Thou hast betrayed nowe me." "I make myn avowe to God," sayde Litell Johnn, "Mayster, ye be to blame; I was mysserved of my dynere Whan I was with you at home." Sone he was to souper sette, And served well with silver white, And whan the sherif sawe his vessell, For sorowe he myght nat ete. "Make glad chere," sayde Robyn Hode, "Sherif, for charité, And for the love of Litill Johnn Thy lyfe I graunt to the." Whan they had souped well, The day was al gone; Robyn commaunded Litell Johnn To drawe of his hosen and his shone; His kirtell and his cote of pie, That was fured well and fine, And toke hym a grene mantel, To lap his body therin. Robyn commaundyd his wight yonge men, Under the grene-wode tree, They shulde lye in that same sute, That the sherif myght them see. All nyght lay the proude sherif In his breche and in his schert; No wonder it was, in grene wode, Though his sydes gan to smerte. "Makeglade chere," sayde Robyn Hode, "Sheref, for charité; For this is our ordre i-wys, Under the grene-wode tree." "This is harder order," sayde the sherief, "Than any ankir or frere; For all the golde in mery Englonde I wolde nat longe dwell her." "All this twelve monthes," sayde Robin, "Thou shalt dwell with me; I shall the teche, proude sherif, An outlawe for to be." "Or I be here another nyght," sayde the sherif, "Robyn, nowe pray I the, Smyte of mijn hede rather to-morowe, And I forgyve it the. "Lat me go," than sayde the sherif. "For saynte charité, And I woll be the beste frende That ever yet had ye." "Thou shalt swere me an othe," sayde Robyn, "On my bright bronde; Shalt thou never awayte me scathe, By water ne by lande. "And if thou fynde any of my men, By nyght or by day, Upon thyn othe thou shalt swere To helpe them that thou may." Nowe hathe the sherif sworne his othe, And home he began to gone; He was as full of grene wode As ever was hepe of stone.

I have known great gold Sorrows: Majestic Griefs shall serve me watchfully Through the slow-pacing morrows: I have knelt hopeless where sea-echoing Dim endless voices cried of suffering Vibrant and far in broken litany: Where white magnolia and tuberose hauntingly Pulsed their regretful sweets along the air-— All things most tragical, most fair, Have still encompassed me . . . I dance where in the screaming market-place The dusty world that watches buys and sells, With painted merriment upon my face, Whirling my bells, Thrusting my sad soul to its mockery. I have known great gold Sorrows . . . Shall they not mock me, these pain-haunted ones, If it shall make them merry, and forget That grief shall rise and set With the unchanging, unforgetting suns Of their relentless morrows?

A baby is borne us blis to bring; A maidden, I hard, “Loullay,” sing: “Dere son, now leive thy wepping, Thy fadere is the King of Blis.” “Nay! Dere modere, for you weppe I noght, But for thinges that shall be wroght, Or that I have mankind iboght. Was ther never pain like it, iwis.” “Pes! dere sone, say thou me not so. Thou art my child, I have no mo. Alas! That I shuld see this wo: It were to me gret heivynis.” “My hondes, modere, that ye now see, Thay shall be nailed one a tree; My feit, also, fastned shall be: Full mony shall wepe that it shall see.” “Alas! dere son, sorrow now is my happe To see my child that soukes my pappe So ruthfully taken out of my lappe. It were to me gret heivynis.” “Also, modere, ther shall a speire My tendere hert all to-teire: The blud shall kevere my body there. Gret ruthe it shall be to see.” “A! dere sone, that is a heivy cas. When Gabrell knelled before my face And said, ‘Heille! Lady, full of grace,’ He never told me nothing of this. “Dere modere, pes! Nowe I you pray, And take no sorrow for that I say, But singe this song, ‘By, by, loullay,’ To drive away all heivynis.”

unlike you and I jesus knew he’d die some days a headache woke him it lingered nothing terrible but the word hung around his temples like this soul everyone wants but can’t find jesus knew he’d die he just didn’t know how & that bothered him sometimes & then he’d do one of his little bootleg tricks what the hell, didn’t hurt anyone didn’t make anyone disappear for- ever but the tricks stopped working he forgot why he did them & what for he confused a story about a guy named jesus with a story about a father he never knew & it all began to hang like a motheaten coat pulled out of a trunk on shaky days hey let’s return to the scene of the fucken tragedy at least we all know how it turns out instead of this end- less uncertainty hey let’s sell our souls a few more times no one’s really counting (those little papers you trade for your sins, what do you call them? anyone? no?) —anyway—jesus this jesus that god of nickel god of dime right, the real jesus he was lost he walked in- to the desert not far really his friends his disciples he told them he’d come back like us he said this every time he left but jesus never said wait never pointed to the sky never claimed he’d rise again never asked us to eat his flesh jesus never asked anything as far as I can tell he got tired everyday & then slept sometimes okay sometimes un- bearable, the dreams, the father pointing a finger at everyone a finger we can’t even look at.

Jesu Christ, my lemmon swete, That diyedest on the Rode Tree, With all my might I thee beseche, For thy woundes two and three, That also faste mot thy love Into mine herte fitched be As was the spere into thine herte, Whon thou soffredest deth for me.

Sometimes I wish I were still out on the back porch, drinking jet fuel with the boys, getting louder and louder as the empty cans drop out of our paws like booster rockets falling back to Earth and we soar up into the summer stars. Summer. The big sky river rushes overhead, bearing asteroids and mist, blind fish and old space suits with skeletons inside. On Earth, men celebrate their hairiness, and it is good, a way of letting life out of the box, uncapping the bottle to let the effervescence gush through the narrow, usually constricted neck. And now the crickets plug in their appliances in unison, and then the fireflies flash dots and dashes in the grass, like punctuation for the labyrinthine, untrue tales of sex someone is telling in the dark, though no one really hears. We gaze into the night as if remembering the bright unbroken planet we once came from, to which we will never be permitted to return. We are amazed how hurt we are. We would give anything for what we have.

After fighting with his dead brothers and his dead sisters he chose to paint the dead rooster of his youth, thinking God wouldn’t mind a rooster, would he?—or thinking a rooster would look good in a green armchair with flecks of blood on his breast and thighs, his wings resting a little, their delicate bones exposed, a few of the plumes in blue against the yellow naked body, all of those feathers plucked as if by a learned butcher, and yet the head hanging down, the comb disgraced, the mouth open as if for screaming, the right front chair leg, seen from a certain angle, either a weapon or a strong right arm, a screaming arm, the arm of an agitator; and yet at the same time the chair as debonair as any, the brown mahogany polished, the carving nineteenth century, the velvet green, an old velour, as if to match the plumes a little, a blue with a green. No rabbi was present, this he knew, and no dead butcher had ever been there with his burnished knife and his bucket of sand; this was the angry rooster that strutted from one small house to another, that scratched among the rhubarb, he is the one who stopped as if he were thinking, he is upside down now and plucked. It looks as if his eye can hardly contain that much of sorrow, as if it wanted to disappear, and it looks as if his legs were almost helpless, and though his body was huge compared to the armchair, it was only more horrible that way, and though his wings were lifted it wasn’t for soaring, it was more for bedragglement and degradation. Whatever else there was of memory there had to be revenge in there, even revenge on himself, for he had to be the rooster, though that was easy, he was the armchair too, and he was the butcher, it was a way to understand, there couldn’t be another, he had to paint like that, he has to scrape the skin and put the blotches on, and though it was grotesque to put a dead rooster in an armchair his table could have been full, or he just liked the arrangement, or he was good at painting a chair and it was done first—although I doubt it—or someone brought him the bird—a kind of gift—for food was cheap then, and roosters were easy to cook; but it was more than anything else a kind of Tartar, a kind of Jew, he was painting, something that moved from Asia to Europe, something furious, ill and dreamy, something that stood in the mud beside a large wooden building and stared at a cloud, it was so deep in thought, and it had tears in a way, there was no getting around that kind of thinking even if he stood in the middle of the room holding his paintbrush like a thumb at arm’s length closing one of his eyes he still was standing in the mud shrieking, he still was dying for corn, he still was golden underneath his feathers with freckles of blood, for he was a ripped-open Jew, and organs all on show, the gizzard, the liver, for he was a bleeding Tartar, and he was a Frenchman dying on the way to Paris and he was tethered to a table, he was slaughtered.

Your jewel box of white balsa strips and bleached green Czechoslovakian rushes stands open where you keep it shelved in the bathroom. Morning and evening I see you comb its seawrack tangle of shell, stone, wood, glass, metal, bone, seed for the bracelet, earring, necklace, brooch or ring you need. Here's brass from Nepal, a bangle of African ivory and chased silver for your wrist, a twist of polished sandalwood seeds, deep scarlet, gleaming like the fossil tears of some long-gone exotic bird with ruby crest, sapphire claws. Adriatic blue, this lapis lazuli disc will brighten the pale of your throat, and on this small alabaster seal-ring the phantom of light inscribes a woman tilting an amphora, clear as day, almost as old as Alexander. To the ebony velvet brim of your hat you'll pin a perfect oval of abalone, a dark-whorled underwater sheen to lead us to work this foggy February morning. We'll leave your nest of brightness in the bathroom between the mirror and the laundry-basket where my dirty shirts sprawl like drunks amongst your skirts and blouses. Lace- work frills and rainbow silk pastels, your panties foam over the plastic brim, and on the shower-rail your beige and talc-white bras dangle by one strap like the skinned Wicklow rabbits I remember hanging from hooks outside the victuallers' big windows. We've been domesticated strangely, love, according to our lights: when you walk by me now, naked and not quite dry from the shower, I flatten my two hands on your wet flank, and wonder at the tall column of flesh you are, catching the faint morning light that polishes you pale as alabaster. You're warm, and stay a moment still like that, as though we were two planets pausing in their separate orbits, pendant, on the point of crossing. For one pulse-stroke they take stock of their bodies before returning to the journey. Dressed, you select a string of chipped amber to hang round your neck, a pair of star-shaped earrings, a simple ring of jet-black lustrous onyx. Going down the stairs and out to the fogbound street, you light my way.