Louis Simpson

The man who married Magdalene Had not forgiven her. God might pardon every sin ... Love is no pardoner. Her hands were hollow, pale, and blue, Her mouth like watered wine. He watched to see if she were true And waited for a sign. It was old harlotry, he guessed, That drained her strength away, So gladly for the dark she dressed, So sadly for the day. Their quarrels made her dull and weak And soon a man might fit A penny in the hollow cheek And never notice it. At last, as they exhausted slept, Death granted the divorce, And nakedly the woman leapt Upon that narrow horse. But when he woke and woke alone He wept and would deny The loose behavior of the bone And the immodest thigh.

I wake and feel the city trembling. Yes, there is something unsettled in the air And the earth is uncertain. And so it was for the tenor Caruso. He couldn’t sleep—you know how the ovation Rings in your ears, and you re-sing your part. And then the ceiling trembled And the floor moved. He ran into the street. Never had Naples given him such a reception! The air was darker than Vesuvius. “O mamma mia,” He cried, “I’ve lost my voice!” At that moment the hideous voice of Culture, Hysterical woman, thrashing her arms and legs, Shrieked from the ruins. At that moment everyone became a performer. Otello and Don Giovanni And Figaro strode on the midmost stage. In the high window of a burning castle Lucia raved. Black horses Plunged through fire, dragging the wild bells. The curtains were wrapped in smoke. Tin swords Were melting; masks and ruffs Burned—and the costumes of the peasants’ chorus. Night fell. The white moon rose And sank in the Pacific. The tremors Passed under the waves. And Death rested. 2 Now, as we stand idle, Watching the silent, bowler-hatted man, The engineer, who writes in the smoking field; Now as he hands the paper to a boy, Who takes it and runs to a group of waiting men, And they disperse and move toward their wagons, Mules bray and the wagons move— Wait! Before you start (Already the wheels are rattling on the stones) Say, did your fathers cross the dry Sierras To build another London? Do Americans always have to be second-rate? Wait! For there are spirits In the earth itself, or the air, or sea. Where are the aboriginal American devils? Cloud shadows, pine shadows Falling across the bright Pacific bay ... (Already they have nailed rough boards together) Wait only for the wind That rustles in the eucalyptus tree. Wait only for the light That trembles on the petals of a rose. (The mortar sets—banks are the first to stand) Wait for a rose, and you may wait forever. The silent man mops his head and drinks Cold lemonade. “San Francisco Is a city second only to Paris.” 3 Every night, at the end of America We taste our wine, looking at the Pacific. How sad it is, the end of America! While we were waiting for the land They’d finished it—with gas drums On the hilltops, cheap housing in the valleys Where lives are mean and wretched. But the banks thrive and the realtors Rejoice—they have their America. Still, there is something unsettled in the air. Out there on the Pacific There’s no America but the Marines. Whitman was wrong about the People, But right about himself. The land is within. At the end of the open road we come to ourselves. Though mad Columbus follows the sun Into the sea, we cannot follow. We must remain, to serve the returning sun, And to set tables for death. For we are the colonists of Death— Not, as some think, of the English. And we are preparing thrones for him to sit, Poems to read, and beds In which it may please him to rest. This is the land The pioneers looked for, shading their eyes Against the sun—a murmur of serious life.

In the clear light that confuses everything Only you, dark laurel, Shadow my house, Lifting your arms in the anguish Of nature at the stake. And at night, quivering with tears, You are like the tree called Tasso’s. Crippled, and hooped with iron, It stands on Peter’s hill. When the lovers prop their bicycles And sit on the high benches That look across to eternity, That tree makes their own torsion Seem natural. And so, they’re comforted. 2 One of the local philosophers ... He says, “In California We have the old anarchist tradition.” What can he mean? Is there an anarchist tradition? And why would an anarchist want one? O California, Is there a tree without opinions? Come, let me clasp you! Let me feel the idea breathing. I too cry O for a life of sensations Rather than thoughts— “The sayling Pine, the Cedar proud and tall.” Like the girls in our neighborhood, They’re beautiful and silent. 3 As I was digging in the back yard I thought of a man in China. A lifetime, it seemed, we gazed at each other. I could see and hear his heartbeats Like a spade hurling clods. He pointed behind him, and I saw That the hills were covered with armed men, And they were all on the other side Of the life that I held dear. He said, “We are as various As the twigs of a tree, But now the tree moves as one man. It walks. And the earth trembles When a race of slaves is leaving.” 4 I said, “Yet, all these people Will fall down as one man When the entrails of a bomb are breathing. When we came down from Chosin Carrying the guns in dainty snow-wear And all the dead we had to, It was a time of forgetfulness, Like a plucked string. It was a river of darkness. Was it not so on your side, when you came To the sea that was covered with ships? Let us speak to each other, Let the word rise, making dark strokes in the air. That bird flies over the heads of the armed men.” 5 One part of the tree grows outward. The other I saw when, with a light, I explored the cellar—shattering roots. They had broken through the wall, As though there were something in my rubbish That life would have at last. I must be patient with shapes Of automobile fenders and ketchup bottles. These things are the beginning Of things not visible to the naked eye. It was so in the time of Tobit— The dish glowed when the angel held it. It is so that spiritual messengers Deliver their meaning.

I dreamed that in a city dark as Paris I stood alone in a deserted square. The night was trembling with a violet Expectancy. At the far edge it moved And rumbled; on that flickering horizon The guns were pumping color in the sky. There was the Front. But I was lonely here, Left behind, abandoned by the army. The empty city and the empty square Was my inhabitation, my unrest. The helmet with its vestige of a crest, The rifle in my hands, long out of date, The belt I wore, the trailing overcoat And hobnail boots, were those of a poilu. I was the man, as awkward as a bear. Over the rooftops where cathedrals loomed In speaking majesty, two aeroplanes Forlorn as birds, appeared. Then growing large, The German Taube and the Nieuport Scout, They chased each other tumbling through the sky, Till one streamed down on fire to the earth. These wars have been so great, they are forgotten Like the Egyptian dynasts. My confrere In whose thick boots I stood, were you amazed To wander through my brain four decades later As I have wandered in a dream through yours? The violence of waking life disrupts The order of our death. Strange dreams occur, For dreams are licensed as they never were.

Trees in the old days used to stand And shape a shady lane Where lovers wandered hand in hand Who came from Carentan. This was the shining green canal Where we came two by two Walking at combat-interval. Such trees we never knew. The day was early June, the ground Was soft and bright with dew. Far away the guns did sound, But here the sky was blue. The sky was blue, but there a smoke Hung still above the sea Where the ships together spoke To towns we could not see. Could you have seen us through a glass You would have said a walk Of farmers out to turn the grass, Each with his own hay-fork. The watchers in their leopard suits Waited till it was time, And aimed between the belt and boot And let the barrel climb. I must lie down at once, there is A hammer at my knee. And call it death or cowardice, Don’t count again on me. Everything’s all right, Mother, Everyone gets the same At one time or another. It’s all in the game. I never strolled, nor ever shall, Down such a leafy lane. I never drank in a canal, Nor ever shall again. There is a whistling in the leaves And it is not the wind, The twigs are falling from the knives That cut men to the ground. Tell me, Master-Sergeant, The way to turn and shoot. But the Sergeant’s silent That taught me how to do it. O Captain, show us quickly Our place upon the map. But the Captain’s sickly And taking a long nap. Lieutenant, what’s my duty, My place in the platoon? He too’s a sleeping beauty, Charmed by that strange tune. Carentan O Carentan Before we met with you We never yet had lost a man Or known what death could do.

Whatever it is, it must have A stomach that can digest Rubber, coal, uranium, moons, poems. Like the shark it contains a shoe. It must swim for miles through the desert Uttering cries that are almost human.

The dark streets are deserted, With only a drugstore glowing Softly, like a sleeping body; With one white, naked bulb In the back, that shines On suicides and abortions. Who lives in these dark houses? I am suddenly aware I might live here myself. The garage man returns And puts the change in my hand, Counting the singles carefully.