246 Mythology poems

His heart is like a boat that sets forth alone on the ocean and goes far out from him, as Aphrodite proceeds on her pleasure journeys. He pours the gold down the runnels into a great mystery under the sand. When he pulls it up by the feet and knocks off the scale, it is a god. What is it she finds with those men that equals this dark birthing? He makes each immortal manifest. The deities remain invisible in their pretty gardens of grass and violets, of daffodils and jasmine. Even his wife lives like that. Going on yachts, speaking to the captains in the familiar. Let them have it, the noons and rain and joy. He makes a world here out of frog songs and packed earth. He made his wife so she contains the green-fleshed melons of Lindos, thalo blue of the sea, and one ripe peach at five in the morning. He fashioned her by the rules, with love, made her with rage and disillusion.

It lies not in our power to love or hate, For will in us is overruled by fate. When two are stripped, long ere the course begin, We wish that one should lose, the other win; And one especially do we affect Of two gold ingots, like in each respect: The reason no man knows; let it suffice What we behold is censured by our eyes. Where both deliberate, the love is slight: Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?

I. ANCIENT OVERTURE OF HÉRODIADE The Nurse (Incantation) Abolished, and her frightful wing in the tears Of the basin, abolished, that mirrors forth our fears, The naked golds lashing the crimson space, An Aurora—heraldic plumage—has chosen to embrace Our cinerary tower of sacrifice, Heavy tomb that a songbird has fled, lone caprice Of a dawn vainly decked out in ebony plumes… Ah, mansion this sad, fallen country assumes! No splashing! the gloomy water, standing still, No longer visited by snowy quill Or fabled swan, reflects the bereaving Of autumn extinguished by its own unleaving, Of the swan when amidst the cold white tomb Of its feathers, it buried its head, undone By the pure diamond of a star, but one Of long ago, which never even shone. Crime! torture! ancient dawn! bright pyre! Empurpled sky, complicit in the mire, And stained-glass windows opening red on carnage. The strange chamber, framed in all the baggage Of a warlike age, its goldwork dull and faint, Has yesteryear’s snows instead of its ancient tint; And its pearl-gray tapestry, useless creases With the buried eyes of prophetesses Offering Magi withered fingers. One, With floral past enwoven on my gown Bleached in an ivory chest and with a sky Bestrewn with birds amidst the embroidery Of tarnished silver, seems a phantom risen, An aroma, roses, rising from the hidden Couch, now void, the snuffed-out candle shrouds, An aroma, over the sachet, of frozen golds, A drift of flowers unfaithful to the moon (Though the taper’s quenched, petals still fall from one), Flowers whose long regrets and stems appear Drenched in a lonely vase to languish there… An Aurora dragged her wings in the basin’s tears! Magical shadow with symbolic powers! A voice from the distant past, an evocation, Is it not mine prepared for incantation? In the yellow folds of thought, still unexhumed, Lingering, and like an antique cloth perfumed, Spread on a pile of monstrances grown cold, Through ancient hollows and through stiffened folds Pierced in the rhythm of the pure lace shroud Through which the old veiled brightness is allowed To mount, in desperation, shall arise (But oh, the distance hidden in those cries!) The old veiled brightness of a strange gilt-silver, Of the languishing voice, estranged and unfamiliar: Will it scatter its gold in an ultimate splendor, And, in the hour of its agony, render Itself as the anthem for psalms of petition? For all are alike in being brought to perdition By the power of old silence and deepening gloom, Fated, monotonous, vanquished, undone, Like the sluggish waters of an ancient pond. Sometimes she sang an incoherent song. Lamentable sign! the bed of vellum sheets, Useless and closed–not linen!—vainly waits, Bereft now of the cherished grammary That spelled the figured folds of reverie, The silken tent that harbored memory, The fragrance of sleeping hair. Were these its treasure? Cold child, she held within her subtle pleasure, Shivering with flowers in her walks at dawn, Or when the pomegranate’s flesh is torn By wicked night! Alone, the crescent moon On the iron clockface is a pendulum Suspending Lucifer: the clepsydra pours Dark drops in grief upon the stricken hours As, wounded, each one wanders a dim shade On undeciphered paths without a guide! All this the king knows not, whose salary Has fed so long this ag è d breast now dry. Her father knows it no more than the cruel Glacier mirroring his arms of steel, When sprawled on a pile of corpses without coffins Smelling obscurely of resin, he deafens With dark silver trumpets the ancient pines! Will he ever come back from the Cisalpines? Soon enough! for all is bad dream and foreboding! On the fingernail raised in the stained glass, according To the memory of the trumpets, the old sky burns, And to an envious candle it turns A finger. And soon, when the sad sun sinks, It shall pierce through the body of wax till it shrinks! No sunset, but the red awakening Of the last day concluding everything Struggles so sadly that time disappears, The redness of apocalypse, whose tears Fall on the child, exiled to her own proud Heart, as the swan makes its plumage a shroud For its eyes, the old swan, and is carried away From the plumage of grief to the eternal highway Of its hopes, where it looks on the diamonds divine Of a moribund star, which never more shall shine!

I am that which began; Out of me the years roll; Out of me God and man; I am equal and whole; God changes, and man, and the form of them bodily; I am the soul. Before ever land was, Before ever the sea, Or soft hair of the grass, Or fair limbs of the tree, Or the fresh-coloured fruit of my branches, I was, and thy soul was in me. First life on my sources First drifted and swam; Out of me are the forces That save it or damn; Out of me man and woman, and wild-beast and bird; before God was, I am. Beside or above me Nought is there to go; Love or unlove me, Unknow me or know, I am that which unloves me and loves; I am stricken, and I am the blow. I the mark that is missed And the arrows that miss, I the mouth that is kissed And the breath in the kiss, The search, and the sought, and the seeker, the soul and the body that is. I am that thing which blesses My spirit elate; That which caresses With hands uncreate My limbs unbegotten that measure the length of the measure of fate. But what thing dost thou now, Looking Godward, to cry "I am I, thou art thou, I am low, thou art high"? I am thou, whom thou seekest to find him; find thou but thyself, thou art I. I the grain and the furrow, The plough-cloven clod And the ploughshare drawn thorough, The germ and the sod, The deed and the doer, the seed and the sower, the dust which is God. Hast thou known how I fashioned thee, Child, underground? Fire that impassioned thee, Iron that bound, Dim changes of water, what thing of all these hast thou known of or found? Canst thou say in thine heart Thou hast seen with thine eyes With what cunning of art Thou wast wrought in what wise, By what force of what stuff thou wast shapen, and shown on my breast to the skies? Who hath given, who hath sold it thee, Knowledge of me? Hath the wilderness told it thee? Hast thou learnt of the sea? Hast thou communed in spirit with night? have the winds taken counsel with thee? Have I set such a star To show light on thy brow That thou sawest from afar What I show to thee now? Have ye spoken as brethren together, the sun and the mountains and thou? What is here, dost thou know it? What was, hast thou known? Prophet nor poet Nor tripod nor throne Nor spirit nor flesh can make answer, but only thy mother alone. Mother, not maker, Born, and not made; Though her children forsake her, Allured or afraid, Praying prayers to the God of their fashion, she stirs not for all that have prayed. A creed is a rod, And a crown is of night; But this thing is God, To be man with thy might, To grow straight in the strength of thy spirit, and live out thy life as the light. I am in thee to save thee, As my soul in thee saith; Give thou as I gave thee, Thy life-blood and breath, Green leaves of thy labour, white flowers of thy thought, and red fruit of thy death. Be the ways of thy giving As mine were to thee; The free life of thy living, Be the gift of it free; Not as servant to lord, nor as master to slave, shalt thou give thee to me. O children of banishment, Souls overcast, Were the lights ye see vanish meant Alway to last, Ye would know not the sun overshining the shadows and stars overpast. I that saw where ye trod The dim paths of the night Set the shadow called God In your skies to give light; But the morning of manhood is risen, and the shadowless soul is in sight. The tree many-rooted That swells to the sky With frondage red-fruited, The life-tree am I; In the buds of your lives is the sap of my leaves: ye shall live and not die. But the Gods of your fashion That take and that give, In their pity and passion That scourge and forgive, They are worms that are bred in the bark that falls off; they shall die and not live. My own blood is what stanches The wounds in my bark; Stars caught in my branches Make day of the dark, And are worshipped as suns till the sunrise shall tread out their fires as a spark. Where dead ages hide under The live roots of the tree, In my darkness the thunder Makes utterance of me; In the clash of my boughs with each other ye hear the waves sound of the sea. That noise is of Time, As his feathers are spread And his feet set to climb Through the boughs overhead, And my foliage rings round him and rustles, and branches are bent with his tread. The storm-winds of ages Blow through me and cease, The war-wind that rages, The spring-wind of peace, Ere the breath of them roughen my tresses, ere one of my blossoms increase. All sounds of all changes, All shadows and lights On the world's mountain-ranges And stream-riven heights, Whose tongue is the wind's tongue and language of storm-clouds on earth-shaking nights; All forms of all faces, All works of all hands In unsearchable places Of time-stricken lands, All death and all life, and all reigns and all ruins, drop through me as sands. Though sore be my burden And more than ye know, And my growth have no guerdon But only to grow, Yet I fail not of growing for lightnings above me or deathworms below. These too have their part in me, As I too in these; Such fire is at heart in me, Such sap is this tree's, Which hath in it all sounds and all secrets of infinite lands and of seas. In the spring-coloured hours When my mind was as May's, There brake forth of me flowers By centuries of days, Strong blossoms with perfume of manhood, shot out from my spirit as rays. And the sound of them springing And smell of their shoots Were as warmth and sweet singing And strength to my roots; And the lives of my children made perfect with freedom of soul were my fruits. I bid you but be; I have need not of prayer; I have need of you free As your mouths of mine air; That my heart may be greater within me, beholding the fruits of me fair. More fair than strange fruit is Of faiths ye espouse; In me only the root is That blooms in your boughs; Behold now your God that ye made you, to feed him with faith of your vows. In the darkening and whitening Abysses adored, With dayspring and lightning For lamp and for sword, God thunders in heaven, and his angels are red with the wrath of the Lord. O my sons, O too dutiful Toward Gods not of me, Was not I enough beautiful? Was it hard to be free? For behold, I am with you, am in you and of you; look forth now and see. Lo, winged with world's wonders, With miracles shod, With the fires of his thunders For raiment and rod, God trembles in heaven, and his angels are white with the terror of God. For his twilight is come on him, His anguish is here; And his spirits gaze dumb on him, Grown grey from his fear; And his hour taketh hold on him stricken, the last of his infinite year. Thought made him and breaks him, Truth slays and forgives; But to you, as time takes him, This new thing it gives, Even love, the beloved Republic, that feeds upon freedom and lives. For truth only is living, Truth only is whole, And the love of his giving, Man's polestar and pole; Man, pulse of my centre, and fruit of my body, and seed of my soul. One birth of my bosom; One beam of mine eye; One topmost blossom That scales the sky; Man, equal and one with me, man that is made of me, man that is I.

Hold, memory, a vision out of Greece: The west wind breathes a ripening breath As each pear, pendant and golden, brushes Another, where four tilled acres glisten Winter and summer: fig, olive, currant, And the heavy succulent pomegranate —Sunstruck for the plucker’s hand. All this a stranger sees, palm on lintel, Sees the stately women of the royal rooms Murmuring over linen, looms humming; Sees boys, on pedestals, shine torches Which fire the eyes of Alkinöos’s hounds. So much of heroism wondrously found (Like a glinting pebble in a child’s hand, Borne upward to imagination’s shallows), As I’d gaze at snow blanketing West End, Hearing the story my father burnished Over a month of nights, so that the voyage Of the telling faded into the hours lived Beside that voice—whiskey rough—again Taking up the exile’s lament:hekatomb, Distaff, honeyed wine . . .

To look at this fictitious steed You’d think some mixed-up farmer Had crossed an eagle with a horse. It carries knights in armor Through cloud fields at terrific speed. I wish the Hippogriff Would take me for a ride. Of course It’s not real. But oh, if . . .!

( a myth of consequences ) The ivy across our back fence tangles gray into a green evening light. How a second emptiness un-punctuates the first. Disloyal, we attempt to construct. An ache will tighten but not form. Making impossible even this upsurge of crows across our sightline. The Mayans invented zero so as not to ignore even the gods who wouldn't carry their burdens. Too slippery as prayer, too effortless as longing. Our problem was preparation. Premeditation neutered any rage potential. Years later, the spine of our backyard appears to have always been crooked. White jasmine, dove-calm in the lattice, is not a finely crafted lure.

Here, where the world is quiet; Here, where all trouble seems Dead winds' and spent waves' riot In doubtful dreams of dreams; I watch the green field growing For reaping folk and sowing, For harvest-time and mowing, A sleepy world of streams. I am tired of tears and laughter, And men that laugh and weep; Of what may come hereafter For men that sow to reap: I am weary of days and hours, Blown buds of barren flowers, Desires and dreams and powers And everything but sleep. Here life has death for neighbour, And far from eye or ear Wan waves and wet winds labour, Weak ships and spirits steer; They drive adrift, and whither They wot not who make thither; But no such winds blow hither, And no such things grow here. No growth of moor or coppice, No heather-flower or vine, But bloomless buds of poppies, Green grapes of Proserpine, Pale beds of blowing rushes Where no leaf blooms or blushes Save this whereout she crushes For dead men deadly wine. Pale, without name or number, In fruitless fields of corn, They bow themselves and slumber All night till light is born; And like a soul belated, In hell and heaven unmated, By cloud and mist abated Comes out of darkness morn. Though one were strong as seven, He too with death shall dwell, Nor wake with wings in heaven, Nor weep for pains in hell; Though one were fair as roses, His beauty clouds and closes; And well though love reposes, In the end it is not well. Pale, beyond porch and portal, Crowned with calm leaves, she stands Who gathers all things mortal With cold immortal hands; Her languid lips are sweeter Than love's who fears to greet her To men that mix and meet her From many times and lands. She waits for each and other, She waits for all men born; Forgets the earth her mother, The life of fruits and corn; And spring and seed and swallow Take wing for her and follow Where summer song rings hollow And flowers are put to scorn. There go the loves that wither, The old loves with wearier wings; And all dead years draw thither, And all disastrous things; Dead dreams of days forsaken, Blind buds that snows have shaken, Wild leaves that winds have taken, Red strays of ruined springs. We are not sure of sorrow, And joy was never sure; To-day will die to-morrow; Time stoops to no man's lure; And love, grown faint and fretful, With lips but half regretful Sighs, and with eyes forgetful Weeps that no loves endure. From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no life lives for ever; That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea. Then star nor sun shall waken, Nor any change of light: Nor sound of waters shaken, Nor any sound or sight: Nor wintry leaves nor vernal, Nor days nor things diurnal; Only the sleep eternal In an eternal night.

i The Story of him who knew the most of all men know; who made the journey; heartbroken; reconciled; who knew the way things were before the Flood, the secret things, the mystery; who went to the end of the earth, and over; who returned, and wrote the story on a tablet of stone. He built Uruk. He built the keeping place of Anu and Ishtar. The outer wall shines in the sun like brightest copper; the inner wall is beyond the imagining of kings. Study the brickwork, study the fortification; climb the great ancient staircase to the terrace; study how it is made; from the terrace see the planted and fallow fields, the ponds and orchards. This is Uruk, the city of Gilgamesh the Wild Ox, son of Lugalbanda, son of the Lady Wildcow Ninsun, Gilgamesh the vanguard and the rear guard of the army, Shadow of Darkness over the enemy field, the Web, the Flood that rises to wash away the walls of alien cities, Gilgamesh the strongest one of all, the perfect, the terror. It is he who opened passes through the mountains; and he who dug deep wells on the mountainsides; who measured the world; and sought out Utnapishtim beyond the world; it is he who restored the shrines; two-thirds a god, one-third a man, the king. Go to the temple of Anu and Ishtar: open the copper chest with the iron locks; the tablet of lapis lazuli tells the story. ii There was no withstanding the aura or power of the Wild Ox Gilgamesh. Neither the father's son nor the wife of the noble; neither the mother's daughter nor the warrior's bride was safe. The old men said: "Is this the shepherd of the people? Is this the wise shepherd, protector of the people?" The gods of heaven listened to their complaint. "Aruru is the maker of this king. Neither the father's son nor the wife of the noble is safe in Uruk; neither the mother's daughter nor the warrior's bride is safe. The old men say: 'Is this the shepherd of the people? Is this the wise shepherd, protector of the people? There is no withstanding the desire of the Wild Ox.' " They called the goddess Aruru, saying to her: "You made this man. Now create another. Create his double and let the two contend. Let stormy heart contend with stormy heart that peace may come to Uruk once again." Aruru listened and heard and then created out of earth clay and divine spittle the double, the stormy-hearted other, Enkidu, the hairy-bodied wild man of the grasslands, powerful as Ninurta the god of war, the hair of his head like the grain fields of the goddess, naked as Sumuqan the god of cattle. He feeds upon the grasslands with gazelles; visits the watering places with the creatures whose hearts delight, as his delights, in water. iii One day a hunter came to a watering place and saw Enkidu; he stood expressionless, astonished; then with his silent dogs he went home to his father's house, fear in his belly. His face was as one estranged from what he knows. He opened his mouth and said to his father: "Father, I saw a hairy-bodied man today at the watering place, powerful as Ninurta the god of war; he feeds upon the grasslands with gazelles; he visits the watering places with the beasts; he has unset my traps and filled my hunting pits; the creatures of the grasslands get away free. The wild man sets them free. Because of him I am no longer a hunter." His father said: "Go to Uruk and there present yourself to Gilgamesh the king, who is the strongest of all, the perfect, the terror, the wise shepherd, protector of the people. Tell him about the power of the wild man. Ask him to send a harlot back with you, a temple prostitute, to conquer him with her greater power. When he visits the watering place, let her show him her breasts, her beauty, for his wonder. He will lie with her in pleasure, and then the creatures, the gazelles with whom he feeds upon the grasslands, and the others with whom he visits the watering places, will flee from him who ranged the hills with them." So the hunter went to Gilgamesh in Uruk and told him about the power of the wild man, and how he had unset the traps and filled the pits, so that the creatures got away free. The lord of Uruk said to the hunter then: "When you return, a temple prostitute will go with you and with her beauty conquer the wild man. He will lie with her and then the gazelles with whom he feeds upon the grasslands, and the others with whom he visits the watering places, will flee from him who ranged the hills with them." iv The harlot and the hunter traveled together, taking three days, back to the watering place. For three more days they waited, and finally Enkidu came with the creatures that love the water, the gazelles and the others, so as to drink their fill. The temple prostitute looked at him, Enkidu, the hairy-bodied wild man of the grasslands, the hair of his head like the grain fields of the goddess, naked as Sumuqan the god of cattle. "That is Enkidu, Shamhat, show him your breasts, show him your beauty. Spread out your cloak on the ground. Lie down on it. The wild man will look at you. Show him your body. The hairy-bodied man will come to you and lie down on you; and then show him the things a woman knows how to do. The gazelles and with them all the other creatures will flee from him who ranged the hills with them." And so the harlot, Shamhat, showed him her breasts, showed him her body. The hairy-bodied man came over to her, and lay down on her, and then she showed him the things a woman knows how to do. For seven days Enkidu in his wonder lay with her in pleasure, and then at last went to seek out the company of the creatures whose hearts delight in feeding upon the grasslands, and visiting the watering places, and ranging the hills. But seeing him, they fled. The creatures were gone, and everything was changed. His body that loved to range the hills was now unable to follow; but in the mind of the wild man there was beginning a new understanding. Bewildered, he turned, and sought out the company of the temple prostitute. He sat down beside her, and looked into her face, and listened to her: "Enkidu, now you are beautiful as a god. Why do you seek the company of beasts? Come with me to the city, to Uruk, to the temple of Anu and the goddess Ishtar. Gilgamesh is the ruler, the strongest of all, the terror. The aura and power of his desire can be withstood by no one." Then Enkidu, whose heart was beginning to know about itself and longed for a companion, cried aloud: "Take me to Uruk, the city of Gilgamesh, whose aura and power cannot be withstood. I will cry out in Uruk, challenging him: 'It is I, Enkidu. The strength of the wild man born in the wilderness cannot be withstood.' " The temple prostitute replied: "Come then to Uruk, where the processions are, and music, and let us go together through the dancing to the palace hall where Gilgamesh presides, the favorite of the gods, the beautiful, strongest of all, the terror, the most desired. Look at his radiant face, the favorite of Shamash and Enlil, Ea, and Anu. While you were grazing beastlike with gazelles, before your mind had any understanding, his mind, a gift to the gifted of the gods, had a dream of you before you knew of him. In the early morning Gilgamesh arose and told his mother his dream: 'I had a dream. A star fell from the heavens, a meteorite, and lay on the empty plain outside Uruk. The men and women came and wondered at it. I strove with it to lift it but could not. I was drawn to it as if it was a woman.' All-knowing Rimat-Ninsun spoke to him, the lord of Uruk, Gilgamesh. His mother, All-knowing Rimat-Ninsun, spoke and said: "The star that fell from the heavens, the meteorite that lay on the empty plain outside Uruk, the star you could not lift when you strove with it, the star you were drawn to as if drawn to a woman, is the strong companion, powerful as a star, the meteorite of the heavens, a gift of the gods. That you were drawn to it as if drawn to a woman means that this companion will not forsake you. He will protect and guard you with his life. This is the fortunate meaning of your dream.' Then Gilgamesh the lord of Uruk said: 'May the dream as you interpret come to pass.' " The temple prostitute thus told the tale.

i Gilgamesh spoke and said to the old man then: "When I looked at you I thought that you were not a man, one made like me; I had resolved to challenge you as one might challenge a demon, a stranger-adversary. But now I see that you are Utnapishtim, made like me, a man, the one I sought, the one from whom I might find out how death can be avoided. Tell me then, father, how it came about that you were admitted to the company of gods, who granted you eternal life." The father Utnapishtim spoke and said: "I will tell Gilgamesh the king the story; a secret of the gods I will disclose. There was an ancient city, Shuruppak— you know of it—most fortunate of cities, god-favored, on the banks of the Euphrates. The gods in heaven decided in their council to bring the flood down on the fortunate city. They sat in secret council together, deciding. Anu was there, the councilor Enlil, Ninurta of the Silence, and there also was the god Ennugi, monitor of canals. And there was Ea, cleverest of the gods. The voice of Ea telling me the secret came whispering through the reed walls of my house: 'You reed house walls, listen and hear me whisper; listen and be attentive to what I tell you. Utnapishtim, son of Ubartutu, abandon your house, abandon what you possess, abandon your house and build a boat instead. Seek life instead of riches, save yourself. Take with you, on the boat you build, an instance of each thing living so that they may be safe from obliteration in the flood. Perform the construction of the boat with care. Let the length of the boat and the width of the boat be equal. Roof over the boat as the abyss is roofed.' The whispering voice spoke through the rustling walls: You reed house walls, listen and hear what I say.' I listened and heard and spoke to the whispering voice: 'I hear what you say. What will I tell the others? What will I tell the old men and the people?' Ea the god whispered to me, his servant: 'Tell them you can no longer live in the city, because you are out of favor with Enlil. The city is the city of Enlil, and therefore Utnapishtim, whom he hates, must find another domicile and another god who will be his patron and protector, and you have therefore decided to depart from Shuruppak and seek another home. Tell them Ea the god will be your patron, whose domicile is Apsu the abyss. Under the roof of Apsu is where you go. As for the city, fortunate Shuruppak, in the morning dawning, abundance will then rain down: there will be plenty, a flood of bounty, the city teeming with heaven's profusion, game birds falling, fishes unheard-of before in song or story, tumbling loaves of fresh-baked morning bread; grain will come showering in from all the grain fields; a harvest of everything, yes, more than enough. These are the things to tell the elders and people.' ii "In the first hours of the early morning dawning, all the people came out for the boat-building, the little children, the weak as well as the strong, everyone carrying something: asphalt, and oil, and pitch, the best of timber with which to build. Day after day I labored building the boat. Ten times a dozen cubits were the walls; ten times a dozen cubits was each deck. There were six decks; the cabin was divided into nine compartments. I made up the plans; I drew a picture of them for our guidance. I hammered the boat together, and plugged the holes with water plugs to keep the water out. I made the bitumen pitch in the pitch kiln, three sar of bitumen pitch to caulk the hull and, to be certain, three sar to caulk the inside. I counted punting poles and put them aboard; I had the basket bearers stow the supplies of oil and foodstuffs, everything I needed. As for the people who came to help in the work each day was like a New Year's holiday: I slaughtered sheep and bullocks for their feasting; for drinking there was wine and beer, plenty, as if there was a river overflowing. On the seventh day I finished building the boat. I opened a bowl of ointment for my hands. I commanded the loading of everything I owned that could be carried, silver, and gold, and all the instances of living things to be saved from obliteration in the flood; and all my household people I took with me. At sunset on that day I launched the boat. The launching was very hard to manage. It took much shifting and much maneuvering on the ways to get the unwieldy boat down into the river, and two-thirds of its weight under the water in order to prevent it from capsizing. As darkness was coming on I heard the god: 'Abundance will rain down, more than enough! Get yourself inside, and close the hatch!' I saw the signs of morning in the sky. 'Abundance will rain down, more than enough!' I got myself inside, and closed the hatch. To Puzuramurri the caulker, who, outside, caulked up the hatch with pitch, I gave my house. iii "In the early hours of the next morning dawning there was the noise of Adad in the clouds that rose and filled the morning sky with blackness. Shullat the herald of the dread Adad moved out over the mountains and over the valleys, bellowing; Hanish the herald of the dread Adad moved over the plains and over the cities; everything turned to darkness as to night. From time to time the Annunaki blazed terrible light. Then rain came down in floods. Beneath, the god of the Underworld, Nergal, broke down his own doorposts and opened the earth. Ninurta god of chaos and of war opened the dikes, and other floods burst forth. The South Wind rushed in flooding over the mountains. Brother could not see brother in the welter; none of the gods in heaven could see the earth; the land was shattered like a shattered pot; confusions of dread Adad were everywhere. Terrified gods got themselves up as high as they could go, nearest the highest heaven, cringing against the wall like beaten dogs. Ishtar cried out like a woman in her birth pangs, the sweet-voiced lady cried: "The days that were have now become as featureless as clay because of what I said when I went to the gods in heaven, bringing calamity down on those whom now the sea engulfs and overwhelms, my children who are now the children of fish.' The Annunaki sat and wept with her, the cowering gods wept, covering their mouths. Six days and nights the storm went on this way, the South Wind flooding over the mountains and valleys until the seventh day when the storm birth labor subsided at last, the flood subsided at last. I opened the hatch. The daylight touched my face. I looked outside. Nothing was moving at all. It looked as flat as a flat clay roof looks flat; and all the human beings had turned to clay. I fell to my knees and wept. The tears ran down the sides of my nose. I wept in the total silence. I looked outside and looked as far as I could, trying to find, looking across the world, something. And then, far off, something was there. What looked like signs of an island could faintly be seen; and then the boat was caught and held from under by the peak rock of a mountain under the water. It was Mount Nisir the boat was grounded on. A first day it was held, and a second day; a third day the boat was held from under, and a fourth day, and a fifth; a sixth day, and then on the seventh day I freed a dove. The dove flew free and flew away from the boat, seeking a place for its little feet to alight, and finding none, flew back to the boat to perch. I freed a swallow then and it flew free and flew away from the boat, seeking a place for its little feet to alight, and finding none, flew back to the boat to find a place to alight. I freed a raven then and it flew free and flew away from the boat, and never returned. It had found a place to alight, and circled about the place, and alighted, and settled itself, and ate, and never after that returned to the boat. Then I set free all the other birds in the boat and they flew free, scattering to the winds. iv "I went ashore and offered a sacrifice. I poured out a libation; I set out seven vessels of offerings on a stand, and then set seven more; I made a fire of wood of myrtle, wood of cane, and wood of cedar. I lit the fire. The odor touched the nostrils of the Igigi gods and gave them pleasure. I slaughtered a sheep to make a sacrifice; the gods collected like flies about the altar. The great goddess progenitrix Ishtar came down from heaven wearing about her neck the pendant Anu gave her for her adornment, of lapis lazuli ornately made. She said: 'Just as this pendant never shall forgotten be by the goddess, so the goddess never will forget calamitous days. The gods may come to the ritual but forbidden is the presence of Enlil, by whose command the flood was peremptorily brought down on the heads of all my children, engulfing them.' When the god Enlil came to the sacrifice he saw the boat, and the sight filled him with rage. He spoke in anger to the gathered gods: 'How is it that one man has saved himself? No breath of life was meant to be kept safe from its obliteration in the flood.' Ninurta opened his mouth and said to the god: 'Ea, the cleverest of the gods, deviser, let Ea speak and give Enlil his answer.' Then Ea opened his mouth and said to the god: "The punishment should always fit the crime. Let him who has performed an evil act be punished for that act. Let not the flood be brought down on the heads of all for what one man has done; and he who has transgressed, show pity to him, lest he be cut off from all his fellows. Better that a lion should come into the village and prey upon it, taking a few, than that the flood drown all. Better a wolf should find its ravening way into the fold, devouring some, much better than that the flood turn all that breathes to clay. Better that famine starve a few of them than that a harvest of waters obliterate all. Better that Erra the plague god, better that he take hold of some, seize them and bear them away to the Underworld, than that the flood drown all. I did not tell the secret to the man. He listened to the wind and guessed the secret. Let the gods sitting in council now decide how to reward the wise man for his wisdom.' The god Enlil then went on board the boat. He took me by the hand and made me kneel; he took my wife by the hand and made her kneel. The god then touched our foreheads, blessing us, and said: 'You were but human; now you are admitted into the company of gods. Your dwelling place shall be the Faraway, the place which is the source of the outflowing of all the rivers of the world there are.' And so they led us to the Faraway, the place we dwell in now, which is the source of all the rivers flowing through the world." Then scornful Utnapishtim said to the king: "Tell me, who would bring all the gods together so that for you they might in council decide what your deserving is, that you be granted admittance into the company of gods? Let there be now a test of Gilgamesh. Let him but keep himself awake for a week, six nights and seven days, to show his worth." So Gilgamesh sat down to begin the test. v Almost as soon as Gilgamesh the king sat down to test himself, a mist of sleep, as ocean mist comes over the shore from the waters, came over his eyes, and so the strongest slept. Then Utnapishtim spoke to his wife and said: "See how this hero sleeps who asks for life. As ocean mist blows over the land from the waters, so the mist of sleep comes over the eyes of the king." The wife of Utnapishtim answered him: "Touch and awaken him, so that he may return in safety to his native city, entering through the gate of his departure." But Utnapishtim said: "Man is deceitful. Therefore he will deceive us. Every day, as he lies sleeping, you must bake a wafer and place the wafer near him, making a mark upon the nearby wall for every day this hero sleeps who seeks eternal life." She baked a wafer every day, of bread, for every day that Gilgamesh lay sleeping. The first wafer was dry as dust; the second only less so than the first; the third was soggy and rotten; the fourth wafer was white in the crust; there were spots of mold on the fifth; the sixth wafer looked almost as if it was fresh; and the seventh—Gilgamesh started and waked up as Utnapishtim touched him on the forehead. Gilgamesh said: "I had almost fallen asleep when you reached out and touched me and kept me awake." But Utnapishtim said to Gilgamesh: "Look at the wafers and look at the marks on the wall: a mark and a wafer for every day you have slept. The first wafer is dry as dust; the second is only less so than the first; the third is soggy and rotten; the fourth wafer is white in the crust; there are spots of mold on the fifth; the sixth wafer looks almost as if it is fresh; and the seventh—but it is then that you awoke." Then Gilgamesh said to him: "What shall I do? Who takes us away has taken hold of me. Death is in my chamber when I sleep; and death is there wherever I set foot." vi Utnapishtim said to the boatman then: "Though your delight has been to cross the waters, the harbor now is closed, the crossing forbidden. The waters and the shore now shun the boatman. The hairy-bodied man you brought across the perilous waters, wearing the skin of a beast that hides his beauty, let Urshànabi take him to the washing place. There let him wash his body, washing away the filth that hides his beauty. Manifest be the beauty of Gilgamesh. Take the skin of a beast he wore on the journey and throw it away in the sea. Let Gilgamesh bind up his shining hair with a new fillet. Let him put on a spotless festal robe. Let him return to his native city in honor in the royal garments appropriate to himself." The boatman led the king to the washing place. Gilgamesh washed his body, washing away the filth that obscured his beauty; then Urshànabi took the skin of a beast and threw it away. Manifest was the beauty of Gilgamesh. He bound up his shining hair with a new fillet; he put on a festal robe, utterly spotless, a royal garment appropriate to himself. Then he and the boatman boarded the little boat and the boat began to move away from the shore. But the wife of Utnapishtim said to her husband: "This man has undergone a terrible journey. What will you give him for his return to his city?" Gilgamesh, hearing, took up his punting pole and brought the little boat back to the shore. Utnapishtim spoke and said to him: "Gilgamesh, you who have made the terrible journey, what shall I give you for your return to your city?" Then Utnapishtim said to Gilgamesh: "A secret of the gods I will disclose. There is a plant that grows under the waters, thorny to seize, as a rose is thorny to seize. How-the-Old-Man-Once-Again-Becomes-a-Young-Man is the name of the plant that grows under the waters. Descend into the waters and seize the plant." So Gilgamesh tied heavy stone weights to his feet to bring him down through the waters of the abyss to the place where he could find the magic plant. He seized the thorny plant that cut his hands; he cut the stone weights loose from his heavy feet; and the waters cast him up upon the shore. vii Gilgamesh said to Urshànabi the boatman: "Urshànabi, this plant is a wonderful plant. New life may be obtained by means of it. I will carry the thorny plant back to my city. I will give some of the plant to the elders there, to share among them, telling them it is called How-the-Old-Man-Once-Again-Becomes-a-Young-Man. And I will take my share of the magic plant, once more to become the one who is youngest and strongest." viii At twenty leagues they stopped only to eat; at thirty leagues they stopped to rest for the night. Gilgamesh found a spring, a pool of pure water. He entered the water, to refresh himself. In the reeds nearby a serpent of the place became aware of the fragrance of the plant, breathed its perfume, desired it, and approached, and stole away with it among the reeds. As it disappeared the serpent shed its skin. When Gilgamesh found out what the serpent had done he sat down weeping by the pool of water. He took Urshànabi by the hand and said: "What shall I do? The journey has gone for nothing. For whom has my heart's blood been spent? For whom? For the serpent who has taken away the plant. I descended into the waters to find the plant and what I found was a sign telling me to abandon the journey and what it was I sought for." ix At twenty leagues they stopped only to eat. At thirty leagues they stopped to rest for the night. And so they traveled until they reached Uruk. There Gilgamesh the king said to the boatman: "Study the brickwork, study the fortification; climb the great ancient staircase to the terrace; study how it is made; from the terrace see the planted and fallow fields, the ponds and orchards. One league is the inner city, another league is orchards; still another the fields beyond; over there is the precinct of the temple. Three leagues and the temple precinct of Ishtar measure Uruk, the city of Gilgamesh."