IX

The middle door is Judgement, (Alchimie),
judge this, judge me implacable;
there is yet time to crawl back

to security? no -- there is no time left;
almonds, pecans without salt,
scatter them near some sand-coast

for a wind-break, beyond is the wax flower,
the thyme, honeymyrtle and the coral heath,
these are new to me, different,

as you are new to me, different,
but of an old, old sphere;
there are some small wild dogroses, I think,

but all this is nothing
when the desert wind bears the white
gumblossom eucalypts' fragrance;

no, no, this is too much,
we can not escape to a new continent;
the middle door is judgement,

I am judged -- prisoner?
the reddest rose unfolds,
can I endure this?

13

XII

...but I must finish what I have begun
the tall god standing
where the race is run;

did the pine-cones in the flat dish
light an Olympic torch?
my fever, fervour was for one not born

when I wrote this;
the Red-Roses-for-Bronze
roses were for an abstraction;

now with like fervour, with fever,
I offer them to a reality;
the ecstasy comes through you

but goes on;
the torch was lit from another before you,
and another and another before that ...

23

III

I did not cheat
nor fake inspiration,
what I wrote was right then,

auguries, hermetic definition;
yet, I would have left initiates, many times,
for a red rose and a beggar,

the tale

but something sustained me,
and when you greeted me,
I was paid fully

for the long search
and the meagre lamp;
there was no ecstasy, vision, trance,

no years between,
only an end to the whole adventure,
it stops here;

there is no striving for strange ships,
Adamic delights;
I have tasted the apple;

my hand worn with endeavour,
our curious pre-occupation with stylus and pencil,
was re-born at your touch.

25

V

Is remembrance chiefly a matter
of twig, leaf, grass, stone?
that is as far as I see,

but twig, grass, stone,
a light silt of sand
are part of Aegina, the island,

and the island is herself, is her;
some say Hygiea is

<u>feeding a serpent from a cup,</u>

small, intimate, not so august
as the Athenian Parthenos,
may Athené Hygiea be our near,

personal patroness;
I scrape a small pine-cone
from the sparse sea-grass

that shows separate salt-spikes
in the dry sand-drift,
I need not turn my head

to assure myself of the sea-ledge,
it is indented like a shell;
I know this, since I came here

before everything was over,
and before I realized an intimacy
near as the air.

5/

26

VI

I breathe the aloes, the acacia
of your senses, tropic red spike,
trumpet flowers, indigo petal-drift

of your remembrance,
and in your *promesse d'îles*,
there was perhaps

Éloge, p 36

no such place as this,
which through antithesis,
may share super-abundance,

your phosphorescent inter-play
of gold-flecked or of rainbow-fish,
draws me to the weedy inlet

of my own *promesse*,
and a rock stark as this,
and only small crabs

and a crab-net;
sea-lavender, coriander?
no, these are camomile-daisies

that I crush as I reach out;
Arabian-gum fragrance?
no, that was the amber-beads

on the cherry-bark,
and the sticky pine-bark,
and sassafras-bark that we bit on,

and some dusty butter-and-eggs
(wild snap-dragon)
in a hot lane;

these are not here,
but I cherish my personal treasures,
now that I discover

how different yours are;
we meet in antitheses;
no need to speak, to heed one another.

in his factory

of Pene "Chamon": "Mon âme, grande fete, vous aviez vos facons qui ne sont pas les nôtres." (prologue Anature.)

37

XVIII

Seigneur, it is no good,
your perfection carried me along,
but it's gone; not your incomparable challenge

to time -- time -- time --
your sequence of invocations,
your magnificent rythms;

you showed me how I could cling
to a Greek rock and how I could slide away,
but did you show me how I could come back

to ordinary time-sequence,
neither insect, reptile
nor illimitable sun-ray?

I want my old habit,
I want to light candles;
Seigneur, you must forgive my deflection,

I can not step over the horizon;
I must wait to-day, to-morrow or the day after
for the answer.

45

VII

... only an end to the whole adventure,
it stops here,
I wrote in Academe,

but it had to go on the full time,
an emotional seizure?
ecstasy? fantasy? insanity?

no matter, it brought me back to the room
where we had first talked together,
it was informal and friendly,

only when I had no letter,
I felt cast out, I was thrown away,
and to recover identity,

I wrote furiously,
I was in a fever, you were lost,
just as I had found you,

but I went on, I had to go on,
the writing was the un-born,
the conception.

50

## II

May those who file before you feel
something of what you are -- that God is kept within

the narrow confines of a cage, a pen;
they will laugh and linger and some child may shudder,

touched by the majesty, the lifted wings,
the white mask and the eyes that seem to see,

like God, everything and like God, see nothing;
our small impertinence, our little worth

is invisible in the day; when darkness comes,
you will be no more a fool, a clown,

a white-faced Scops, a captive and in prison,
but noble and priest and soldier, scribe and king

will hail you, sacrosanct, while frail women
bend and sway between the temple pillars,

till the torches flicker and fail,
and there is only faint light from the braziers

and the ghostly trail of incense, and cries of recognition
and of gladness in the fragrant air.

51

### III

"O, look, he's comical, his baggy trousers
and his spindly legs -- you've still got half a bun;"

"he won't eat buns," the father says,
"but mice and such, look at his claws,

a vampire -- yes, he's comical, look at his nose
and whiskers -- proper make-up for a Guy;"

the child remembers something, draws away,
she thinks, "I never saw a farthing,

it's half a ha'pence," but she said, "teacher or somebody,
or Mr. Spence, that there were two, not owls,

some other birds, sold for a farthing -- and what else?"
He said, "*without your Father, no bird falls*,"

I don't know where or what it's all about;
I wish I could go home, get out of here;

He must be angry if he liked the birds;
I wish they wouldn't laugh, it isn't funny,

and this one's bigger than -- than a hundred others,
sparrows, I think it was.

52

## IV

An owl hooted out in the darkness,
so the angel came -- what angel and what name?

is it Tara, *Dieu fontaine de sagesse*
and the angel Ptébiou? it was his hour

or near his hour, what did he say?
a caller before noon, had spoken of owls here,

"Uhu", she said, "great owl, Waldkauz, the wood-owl,"
and she translated Kauz as a queer fellow;

I showed the picture and she said, "how beautiful;"
how strange, how wonderful, that last night

was the first night that it came,
the distant summons, the muted cry, the call,

and my bones melted and my heart was flame,
and all I wished was freedom and to follow

the voice, not very far, not very near,
a voice that changed our lake, the *Zürisee*,

into a mystery, the haunted mere of Märchen
and old legends, or even Lethe or Eunoë, now and here.

Märchen

53

V

Without your Father, without your Father --
what does that mean? my father's talking to the gardener,
or the man who sweeps the papers -- "yes, they're pretty, mum,
the deers" -- does it mean animals? does He run, too,

on little hooves like that one, does he jump
and stand (now) like that biggest one with horns,

straight up against the wire? he's looking over;
I wish I'd kept my half-bun,

not crumbed it for the pelicans -- birds, too?
I'd like to feel his tongue upon my hand;

that boy is frightened -- "let me help" -- he'll bite --"
"you can't reach up" -- "O yes, O yes, I can,

he's looking at us" -- "stand on the keeper's box,
he's busy talking" -- "but, but, you take it,

it's your piece of bun --" "no fear, you're welcome, miss --
but your dad's come" -- my father? my father?

but this deer is my father -- "a funny kid,
it's my fault, mister" -- "now, you hop down --"

"yes, yes, I'm coming" -- but I'm somewhere else,
He kissed my hand, we're somewhere in the forest...

I never thanked the boy, was he God, too.

VI

Goot -- Goed -- Dieu qui reçoit les pécheurs
and Dieu qui rejouit, the angel, Ptéchout

Schewestor Annie

and the angel, Aterchinis, and Sister Annie brings my coffee,
and I say, "how are you?" and she says, "gut -- gut;"

Goot and Goed, Scotch and Belgium, my book says,
Goot, gut and good and surely God, and so we play

this game of affirmations and of angels' names,
this Sunday, one week after Whitsun;

though I can not say Ptéchout and I must look again
to see if Aterchinis is spelt right, Goot, Goed seems easy

and the way direct; "gut -- gut," I'll say and Goot will surely answer;
God who receives sinners? what are we?

and Goed is "gut", actually some say "goed" here,
some of the simple people, they are sinless,

we have known the desperate day of Cain,
none of us blameless, but a proud angel says,

"I serve Him who receives the outcast," and another says,
"I bring happiness and serve God who rejoices."

57

IX

Germain said, "isn't it over-weighted?
can you have so many angels' names,

a list of dates, months, days,
a prose in-set? or is it poetry? Egypt,

hieratic rhythm, then the most ordinary association,"
but I said, "isn't that the whole point, anyway?"

what am I doing? am I swept into a cycle
of majestic Spirits, myself aspiring yet questioning

my right to mention even one of the seventy-two regents
of the great Temple of the _OEdipus AEgyptiacus_?

am I in some way, culpable? or does the magnetic sway
of the vast cycle require this space, this place,

this corner of this room, to prove the might
of the infinitely great to protect

the most minute, the almost invisible spark, from the extraneous chaos,
the impenetrable outer gloom?

X

Or is it a great tide that covers the rock-pool
so that it and the rock are indistinguishable

from the sea-self and are part of the sea-floor,
though the sea-anemone may quiver apprehensively

and the dried weed uncurl painfully
and the salt-sediment rebel, "I was salt,

a substance, concentrated, self-contained,
am I to be dissolved and lost?"

"It is fearful, I was a mirror, an individual,"
cries the shallow rock-pool, "now infinity

claims me; I am everything? but nothing;"
peace, salt, you were never as useful as all that,

peace, flower, you are one of a thousand-thousand others,
peace, shallow pool, be lost.

58

60

XII

Regent of distant fire and snow
and what is near, Senciner,

the Temple of our father, OEdipus AEGyptiacus,
the shadow of the portal on the sand, the lintel

and the painted walls, where any child may read
our fate in images of birds and bees,

while the scribe, the initiate and the desperate wait,
faltering before the threshold,

blinded by the Sun; where are we?
how do we meet here? where have you gone?

but this is Germain, fearing my abstraction,
"why are you trembling?

what are you thinking?
I don't know where you are;

you must come out, the car will come to-morrow,
you haven't been out for a week;

you loved the trees, like brides, you said,
verzaubert, you loved you said, the forest,

geisterhaft im Nebel, the Nebelzauberwald;
is five o'clock too late?"

62

XIV

What of the other Regents of the night? Lost?
no, Germain, hold me close, peach-blossom petals fall

outside a bamboo-shelter -- is it four? or five? or earlier?
what Trinity shall we call, to spread the silken covers

of our bed? here, the rain drips
and snow, just turned to rain, upon the windows,

and the window-panes are clouded with this winter-rain and snow;
this is our day -- the night? shall we renounce

the later fruit, the peach and pomegranate,
cleft open, ripe to be taken, eaten?

your pride, your dignity, my own reticence
demands perfection; not here, where we meet

in friendly talk, "I heard a symphony, Cherubini,
new to me, yesterday when you left,

I think that he knew Liszt;
funny, you were quite right,

Purcell is much, much earlier than Mozart;
to-morrow, then?" he bows and on my hand

peach-blossom petals fall,
this is the day, the one kiss that we know.

64

XVI

From Egypt first, how dark, how dark the night,
myself a mound of earth, shivering but inert,

and Germain says, "your weakness and your nerves
are due to apprehension; if you write like this, create,

you must expect reaction;" "but this is different,"
I say, "I know the symptoms, as you seem to call them,

but nothing like this happened when I wrote before;"
"are these poems more intense? I do not know,

I can not follow your degrees and angels;"
does he know what he is? I do not know,

but *Dieu sauveur* last night was manifest,
the attribute of Seket and her hour,

1.20 while we sleep;
no infant in the straw,

but simply Mary's flower,
"Marah," the *Grande Mer*, patron and protectress,

sword-lilies on their stalks,
*Créatrice de la Foi...*

XVII.

As Mary bowed before her Son, so I bow down,
not to Germain, but in a way, to you, Germain;

"german," the near-related, "german," first;
but that awaits the flower,

seed that creates the fruit;
"you should be happy that I'm tired and worn,

giving my life-force to these little songs,
instead of carping at me" -- "what is carping?"

"O, grumbling, scolding, urging this or that,
I can not take a trip to Sicily,

or even to Lugano, and talk of this is torture,
for you know, I can't go there,

I can't go anywhere, but you can go,
O, Germain, go, go, go -- I've yet to chart my way

to the mysterious Melindais or the Zaflanians,
or even find again

the Regents and the Decants that I know,
Illyrian or Bohemian..."

66

XVIII

Sombre Mère Sterile and Brillante Mère Féconde,
the light and dark; you hold the planets steady

in their course, you and your Son,
and there is no land where you are not found,

no hour, when you are not near,
and you are always here,

to spread the picture-book upon my bed,
to show me who you are, Tara, Miri, Mara,

with mountain-cherries like the mountain-snow,
or golden weed washed up on golden sand,

with shells like small rose-whorls,
and shells like hollow bowls,

and the one special shell you choose for me,
among the myriad-myriad others;

this is my shell, you hold it to my ear,
"listen, my child, fear not the ancient lore,

(Gymnosophes, Philosophes), this echo is for you,
listen, my child, it is enough,

the echo of the sea, our secret
and our simple mystery, Grande Mer ..."

Tara : angel with attribute "Dieu, fontaine de Saguené" - in
Ambertain, La Koffia et aliguis : Bantam, 285

Miri : angel of an hour - in "" 197

Mara : Satan & Buddhist atom 182

67

XIX

A thread, a strand, 72 angel's names...
how to go on? we have named 7 of these;

the seventh is Senciner, and then, three more,
and then another, Seket and her hour;

O mother-father, Seket-Senciner, at the end, we found
a bowl, a shell, at first, an owl, a deer,

that's how it started, the child compassed it,
began and closed the circle....

"now mum's fanciful," she thinks;
we're sitting in our kitchen, here in London,

"duckie, just put the kettle on," mum says,
if only she'd forget that day, last summer,

"you did come over queer," she says,
"what was the matter? four places, ducks,

Uncle Alf's coming in -- brr, winter --
real pea-soup outside, yes, draw the curtains,

nice, turkey-red, I always says,
I'm thinking of that screech-owl

and those deer -- my it was hot that day,
do you remember?"

68

XX

"It was twenty thousand, just in London,
funny, we're here ... that was the big Slitz,
there was more come after ...
those buzz-bombs and the chandeliers --"

"come, come, Alf, a cup of tea is what you want,
don't go on thinking of it -- dad said he might be late --
that was long over;" "I wake up in the night
and think, by Christ, it never was

or it was somewhere else or I was somewhere else,
Gawd only knows --" "don't swear so, Alf --"

"Swearing? how I could curse,
if duckie didn't look at me, like that --"

"O, duckie, all right -- go open for your dad,
that was his knock ...

how often must I tell you, Alf,
that our ducks sees too much and hears too much,

and calls out in the night,
maybe, she isn't bright or maybe, she's too bright,

praying-like or singing-like, I wouldn't know;
she screams or sings, *Father*, *Father*,

then I shake her up and wake her up
and call to Bert, and say,

'duckie, what is it dear?
what is it now? dad's here.'"

69

XXI

"The Slaughter of the Innocents, that's what it was;
I never look at ducks and her white face,

but what I see --" "O, Alf, shut up,
we can't go back --" "-- for you and me,

and tough blokes like me and Bert,
perhaps, it was coming to us,

but for such as she --" "they're coming, hush --"
"-- she'll help her dad off with his coat,

grown-up and proper, ask of the shop,
talks like a little lady, formal,

she'll take his scarf and lay it on the rack,
like she done just now for me -- I never see --"

"Alf, Alf, you'll drive me crazy --"
"O, I'm proper sorry, after all you done --"

"What did I do?" "O, you and such as you,
you kept us all going, kept the world,

if you get my meaning, on its feet,
you going out blitz nights for lost cats. --

"O you can laugh, and we laughed then, by golly,
you with the Blue Cross pinned on your old coat."

for animals
SPCA

70

XXII

Someone said, "poor little tyke,"
and a man from dad's shop who talks funny,

said, "Christkind," and mum said "hush" at him,
and said to me, "that's German for a good girl,

are you a good girl, duckie?"
I stack the dishes and I wring the dish-cloth,

like mum says; I clean the sink with rinso,
not too much; I shake the mat before the door,

I water the geranium -- is this being good?
mum says, "good girl;" I do this not for mum

or anyone; I do it for myself; if I go on,
I make a sort of track, I can't say what,

it's pebbles and hard stones, it's something in a story,
I can't say where it goes --

it goes from where I brush the carpet on the stair,
to the landing just above.

71

XXIII

Mum said I was took queer,
I don't know what I said,

I know I'll never say it any more,
only to myself, I say it over and over,

when I'm in bed ...

Let the child sleep, let the world sleep,
few can endure Teut, Agad, Hāna, Sila,

the names you share with God,
Grande Mer ... few can endure

the ecstasy, the fever,
the folding and unfolding of a flower;

can I endure your beauty and your favour?
the day moves on and you were here at dawn,

Sotis and Sothis; the day moves on toward dark,
I wait the after mid-night Messenger,

all day I wait for her, Seket from Egypt,
with the red Egyptian lily in her hand.

72

XXIV

Lady of chaste hands and the quiet mind,
we have neglected you, being faint and numb,

inert, resentful, at 10.40, of the day,
looking backward to the night that's past,

looking forward to the night to come;
Ouestucati, your decant brings the sea-wind

and the level plain of Leuké, that white sand;
you come from the Hesperides,

how can we greet you here?

how can we meet you there?

O chaste, immaculate, accept our feeble effort,
our faint prayer; in you, there is no conflict

with the hours, the seasons and the minutes;
we would bear a flickering taper to you,

O most fair; unworthy, we would pray
your intercession for us; grant us strength,

a little strength to serve your Power,

O Leuké-lily of this morning hour.

76

I

... ten years?
it was more than that, more than that;
your hand grips mine -- masterless?

I was masterless while men fought,
and I only found Spirit to match my Spirit,
when I met Achilles in a trance, a dream,

a life out-lived,
another life re-lived,
till I came back, came back ...

II

If I thought of you, I only thought
of something that endured, that might endure;
I did not know of Circe and her power,

I had not even heard Calypso named, nor Nausicaä,
Penelope was a far-off dream of home,
and others and the quarrel in the tents

(fight for Criseus, war for Briseus)
was only a local matter, far below
the turrets and the ramparts and the Wall;

I loved Achilles finally, in Leuké,
but I let him go, back to the sea,
back to his mother, Thetis;

so he was absorbed, re-claimed by his own element?
I do not know, Odysseus -- your name is unfamiliar;
I had not thought of it nor spoken it,

for ten years -- it is more than ten years;
then, you were in and out as they all were at the Palace,
it is more, more than ten years ...

79

VI

The-tis -- Sea-'tis, I played games like this;
I had long reveries, invoked the future,
re-invoked the past, syllables, mysteries, numbers;

I must have turned a secret key, unwittingly,
when I said Odysseus -- when did I say Odysseus?
how did I call you back, or how did I come back?

memory has its own strange Circe-magic,
and forgetting, stranger; forgetting utterly, I dropped
a screen, a shutter; a heavy door clanged

between Helen-Helen; "they have gone,"
"where have they gone?" "down to the Sea,
to send Odysseus off --" "Odysseus --"

"he was only waiting for his Ship,
a special Ship, ancestral,
the prow is painted with the ancient Eyes."

I was to meet you, I was to meet you
under the oleanders,
I was to meet you again;

"a special Ship, for festival," they said,
so Helen stared, a Maiden, still a Maiden,
though last night, escaped the grandam,

Helen was conceived under the oleanders,
that is, Helen, the future Helen
that wrecked citadels, was born.

was this the departure from
New York?

XI

Helen's breasts, it was always Helen's breasts,
and the wine-cup that they wrought,
called Helen's breast;

cover my shoulder
for the wind howls louder,
outside this hunting-lodge,

perched on Taygetus' cliff;
0, I was ready to leave Sparta,
a second time -- 0, I was ready enough

to escape -- to follow you,
and we will not starve;
you say there is dried fruit

in the amphora and the wine-jars,
but I would wander in the Elysian-fields
and find the Tree for myself -- for myself --

with a special low down-sweeping burdened bough,
low enough so that I could kneel
and savour the fragrance of the cleft fruit

on the branch, intoxicant;
I would be intoxicated with the scent of fruit,
0, holy apple, 0, ripe ecstasy ...

but believe me, believe me
I am grateful
that you came for me,

I am content,
besieged with memories,
like low-swarming bees.

XII

Every bone aches with the cold,
but I was glad to come,
glad to come with you here;

in my old hunting-cloak and hunting-boots,
I felt young as we plunged into the drift,
leaving that hateful palace

and the trophies and the tedious tales,
told over and over at the endless banquets;
I was waiting for something,

though I did not know what,
till you burst upon us,
with tangled hair and beard,

and salt-streaked seaman's cloak
and the old secret sly, wily undaunted look
that recalled me -- and I remembered

how you fondled my breast, and the moment
of fulfilment was broken by a voice,
Helen come home, and I went back;

I expected to know more, expected completion,
but they said, "he has gone,
he was only waiting for his Ship."

84

XIII

Comfort me, then, Odysseus, King of Men,
but do not turn, the cold seeps through
the fleeces and the furs; the pelts lie heavy on me

but I dare not move; this is reality;
I choose the spell, or enchantment,
stronger than my poor will, bore Helen far,

and then Achilles' eyes turned to the Sea,
and then I felt that Paris yearned
for his first love, Oenone,

and I was left to vanish like a ghost,
or seek the stony path, return,
the thorns, reality;

a wish, a whim and Menelaus came;
Theseus had long since found the gods,
for Theseus, Olympos -- but I knew no god but perseverance;

endure, endurance was to be my Saviour,
but why endure when Love closes the door
and one is left, locked in an empty fortress,

a soulless Palace, soulless till you came,
and there was yet another world to conquer,
or space or time, reality of a steep climb,

a mountain-path,
remembrance of narcissus-buds to come,
buried now, under the snow.

85

XIV

Half-hibernating under the pelts and furs,
till you break free, break away, replenish the fire,
count and re-count the wine-jars,

"there is one," I thought, "stuffed with dried fruit,
perhaps a trick to disguise, to hide
this exquisite Samian,"

Samos? Samian? it is not so cold,
and Odysseus tears the thick furs from the couch
to make mats and a rug to the fire-place,

and light dances on the walls,
hung with rich tapestries, it seems,
though they are only bear-pelts and wild-panther,

and the fire sings, and "there are more candles,
hidden in this oat-bin," he says;
who had ridden here?

who had prepared the lodge for future visits?
who had hidden candles,
and sealed the precious Samos

In an unpainted jar
to hide it from the others?
what Love, what Lovers' tryst?

87

XVII

Strophe

The first kiss and the last kiss and between,
the surging armies,
the swaying masts,
the shifting scene;

wake up, wake up in Leuké, Helen,
that was a dream; how could earth draw you back,
Sparta, Taygetus? why should Odysseus leave

unslaked adventure, boundless horizons,
unconquered citadels for home? no Ithaca, no Sparta
could recall him to the islands,

the small world of Greece;
but you, you thought of reparation and release,
and dreamed Odysseus "true," forgetting Paris;

wake up, wake up, Helen, recall Oenone
and restore their youth; no madness, no dissonance,
but reverence of old laws, no stolen bliss;

not Paris-Helen but Oenone-Paris;
song would redress the ancient grief,
the spear-thrust, death and loss,

the first kiss and the last kiss and between,
the surging armies,
the swaying masts,
the shifting scene.

89

XIX

Strophe

Odysseus' fretful brow,
Achilles' cunning steel,
and Paris' apple -- you have them now,

the adventure and the glory
and the seed of fruit to sow --
how many grains of pomegranate or apple?

conjure a magic circle of fruit-trees,
with roots to hold _Leuké_, the island-Helen,
in a firm embrace,

an inescapable net,
until the flowers are full
and waft and spill fragrance, enchantment;

who can break the will
of seed to grow?
Paris-Oenone?

Helen, commend their happiness
and so invoke the greater bliss
of Helios-Helen-Eros.

91

XXI

O ebony island, O tall cypress-trees,
now I am blessed anew as my dark veils
cling close and close and make an image of me,

a cypress-Helen, *vierge* and widow, the *femme noire*;
now I am wrapped about
with myrrh and incense,

Egypt's balm and savour
of the burnt Phoenix-nest,
*l'isle blanche* is *l'isle noire*;

tighten my bounds,
O unseen and unknown,
wrap me round and round

with Egypt's linen as the dead are wrapped,
mystically cut, cauterise
as with fire, the wound from which

the heart and entrails were drawn out;
a shell? a shattered heart?
no heart is left to heal.

92

XXII

There was a Helen before there was a war,
but who remembers her? O grandam, you, you, you,
with faded hair -- you answer, you descend,

ascend, from where? It was all over,
I was wrapped in a tight shroud,
but you appear; the death-bands fall away;

you have come, grandam, no toothless grin,
no corbeau sur une crâne;
"remember," you say, "Helen, remember?"

and it is yesterday and the sea-wind flutters my veil,
and my brothers stand side by side,
and my sister weaves the blossoms for my hair --

laughter? how we laughed together,
I had forgotten -- there was always stern command
or fear or loss with the others,

or treachery or guilt or subterfuge;
Odysseus had gone and my sister was to marry
or had married Agamemnon,

and "this is no great affair," she confided,
"only laughter, laughter,"
and Menelaus by the altar, whispering,

no stinging, honeyed sigh, but
"it's all right, it's no great matter,
this will soon be over."

q3

XXIII

Grande Dame, I will carry your crutch for you,
you needn't hobble, hobble any more,
You will tell me what was true,

what wasn't true,
we will walk miles over the sand;
they said, Menelaus came to me in Egypt,

was that true? they said, we lived
on an island somewhere -- where?
the legend lives in re-awakened ecstasy,

but I don't think I ever went back to the palace,
the trophies and the banquets, the meeting with Odysseus
when he snatched me away, a second time,

from a dreary round of worldly ceremony;
no, no, I never went back to the world, that world;
I lived in hope of simple consummation,

not a sword -- but the labyrinth of Troy
encompassed me -- then darkness -- Paris slain,
Achilles' heel, the deadly, rumbling chariots,

the shouts, the flames and a voice, Helen;
there was a Helen before there was a War,
Menelaus remembered her.

q4

XIV

Helios-Helen-Eros? Is that Menelaus?
is that the golden first love, innocence?
is that the Child before the Child was born,

imagined with the cap-crown of bright hair,
inheritance of the "golden Menelaus?"
not Menelaus, but myself gazed up at me,

In the veiled glance of Helen-Hermione;
they said there was a Child in Leuké,
they said it was the Child, Euphorion,

Achilles' Child, grandam,
or fantasy of Paris and a Child
or a wild moment that begot a Child,

when long ago, the *Virgo* breasts swelled
under the savage kiss of ravening Odysseus;
yes, yes, grandam, but actually and in reality,

small fists unclosed, small hands fondled me,
and in the inmost dark,
small feet searched foot-hold;

Hermione lived her life and lives in history;
Euphorion, *Espérance*, the infinite bliss,
lives in the hope of something that will be,

the past made perfect;
this is the tangible
this is reality.

XXV

The golden apples of the Hesperides,
the brushed-bloom of the pollen
on the wing of ravishing butterfly or plundering bee;

the gold of evanescence or the gold
of heavy-weighted treasure,
which will out-weigh the other?

grandam, great <u>Grande Dame</u>,
we will go on together,
and find the way to hyacinths by a river,

where a harp-note sounded
and a moment later ---
grandam, great <u>Grande Dame</u>, He is here with us,

in notes ascending and descending from his lyre,
your Child, my Child and Helios' Child, no other,
to lure us on, on, on, Euphorion, <u>Espérance</u>.

96

XXVI

There was a Helen before there was a War,
Odysseus remembered her, so the running away
and hiding in a cave or a forester's hut

was true too, and Taygetus' snow;
but you watched over that Helen, Grande Dame,
for Odysseus had his Princess and was never faithful,

and there was Menelaus waiting, for to fulfil
the ultimate decree, Helen must forget Odysseus
and be Sparta's queen;

there was a Helen before there was a War
and Achilles must have remembered her,
hardly a glance, but passing through the palace

with Patroclus, his indifference must have challenged her
with like indifference; for Paris,
there was only the ultimate recognition

and departure, but there was a moment,
standing on the water-stair in the darkness,
when Helen might have wavered,

turned ...
fighting for her kingdom,
like a tigress;

it was only a moment of indecision,
but there was a Helen before there was a War,
did Paris remember her?

XXVII

Grandam, midwife, <u>Sage-Femme</u>,
let me rest, let me rest,
I can't struggle any more;

far, far, let them beget their children
in the wastes or palaces; what is their happiness,
their bliss to this accomplishment?

Oenone, O, Oenone,
live your life, I need no longer chafe
in fantasy or remembrance or regret;

grandam, midwife, <u>Sage-Femme</u>,
I pray you, as with his last breath,
a man might pray, keep <u>Espérance</u>,

our darling from my sight,
for bliss so great,
the thought of that soft touch,

would drag me back to life
and I would rest;
grandam, great <u>Grande Dame</u>,

midwife and <u>Sage-Femme</u>,
you brought Him forth in darkness,
while I slept.

98

XXVIII

I am delirious now and mean to be,
the whole earth shudders with my ecstasy,
take *Espérance* away;

cruel, cruel *Sage-Femme*,
to place him in my arms,
cruel, cruel *Grande Dame*,

to pull my tunic down,
so Odysseus sought my breast
with savage kiss;

cruel, cruel midwife,
so secretly to steal my phantom self,
my invisibility, my hopelessness, my fate,
the guilt, the blame, the desolation,
Paris slain to rise again
and find Oenone and mortality,

Achilles' flight to Thetis
and the Sea (deserting *Leuké*),
Menelaus with his trophies in the palace,

Odysseus -- take the Child away,
cruel, cruel is Hope,
terrible the weight of honey and of milk,

cruel, cruel the thought of Love,
while Helen's breasts swell, painful
with the ambrosial sap, *Amrita*

that must be given;
I die in agony whether I give or do not give;
cruel, cruel *Sage-Femme*,

wiser than all the regents of God's throne,
why do you torture me?
come, come, O *Espérance*,

*Espérance*, O golden bee,
take life afresh and if you must,
so slay me.