Baudelaire's Liver (translated by Jarvis Belchard)

When the bellowing sky lowers herself, a sick cow 
On my tedious heart (prisoner in a house of dying men)
And gathering her skirts, the circumference of the flat earth,
Evacuates her gloomy bowels on a world of gloomy men;

When earth is a condemned lavatory by a deserted dock, 

In which Hope, like a poisoned bat over a dying fen,
Flies blind and drunk and breaks her stinking black wings
And smashes her rotten head against the damp ceiling;

When the rain hangs like ragged curtains from a nasty sky,
Or like the rusty bars of a plague-infested prison,
And a gibbering army of loathsome, hopeless spiders
Comes to build black webs inside our empty skulls,


All at once the church-bells roar with pain and anger  
And fling long-unpealed curses at deaf heaven,
Like refugees who, starving far from home
Burst into one last despairing chorus of a native ditty.

Rationing In Wartime

The tea is warm: surprising.

The cup is full, the spoon lies here
Upon the saucer; on the French toast the icing
Clings as on a bun; the marmalade jar stands,
Sticky and blue, there, on the tranquil tray.
Come to the table, you take the nice chair!
Behind that dark ring of browny-grey
Left on the white linen by the teapot-stand,
Look! you see the grated raw
Dry carrots which the nurse brought in, and flung,
On a ghastly whim, in with the canned
Pilchards. Biscuits and cheese begin
Our tremulous moonlit supper, and bring
The eternal taste of madness in.

Sophocles long ago
Ate pilchards on the Aegean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid chubb and roe
Of inland fisheries; we
Find also in the can a thought,
Eating pilchards with a cup of tea.

This pickled egg
Was once, too, seen by Aristotle, what’s more,
Or one very like it: white, and softer than a pearl.
But now only I hear
His melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Suffering half to death
With the wind, after a night on Greek beer,
And all the baked potatoes in the world.

Ah, love, let us tea brew
For one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a sea of breams,
And salmon, halibut, and crabs of blue,
Hath really neither lobsters, nor delight,

Nor mackerel, nor cod, nor Dover sole;
And we shall have canned pilchards in a bowl
Topped with grated carrots. Though there is no delight,
Let’s eat, drink tea, and fuck. I’m much too tired to fight.

The Messiah

What’s this, what’s this ye’re sayin’ tae me—

Young Archibald Robertson’s coming tae tea?

Weel, get oot tha scones and dinna stint on tha relish,

A reckon his hunger’ll be mighty hellish

By the time he arrives

Frae St Ives.

Och, dinna fret, seid tha auld wife o’ Muchtie,

He’ll be comin’ wi’ Hannah an’ Dorothy Huchtie—

And they ne’er let a man gae frae Glasgee tae Rummach

Wi’out making shooer there’s good food in his stomach.

But he arrives

Frae St Ives,

Ye daft auld bat!

     Seid Willie McPhee.

A canna be responsible

For that,

Michty me!

     Replied tha auld wife o’ Muchtie.

Wee Archibald Robertson duly arrived,

His entrance wa’ grandiloquent, a trifle contrived.

What’s it like in St Ives?—they asked him wi’ a leer.

Fair to middlin’—he seid—A cuid murder a beer.

Blake And Convenience

William Blake had no idea that a rude Tesco

Would be erected near where he wrote London; indeed,

Few people appear to have predicted the growth –

Nay, the sprawl – of these inconvenient stores

(None of Hogarth’s paintings feature them and they are never

Mentioned in any volume of Scott’s not inconsiderable                             body of work). 

But Sir William Siggins (1782-1839), in a poignant                                     piece of pastoral

Entitled Asda, My Asda, conceived “A cavernous hall

“In which the populace quailed in thrall”,

A frightening foretaste of what (given half a chance) man                           will  do to man,

Which he penned after reading Kubla Khan.

Valleys turned into funnels, dales hardening into car parks

In Siggins’s horrific vision, presaged the death

Of the cottage industry – wherein the world spun

On leisurely looms and old men smiled in peace.

And so it is with weapons.  The reluctant soldier

Sheathed his cutlass when picking his nose; Alexander

Would never have dreamt of taking his sword to bed with him

(His boys being allergic to sharp metal) and conquered

A goodly swathe of the known world with elegance,

Always appearing in person.  Not so in this age

Of digital destruction.  Men with unseeing eyes

Can raze communities with the appliance

Of software.  And so peace must too embrace

The new technology.  The movement is a broad church,

All faiths and races and every known

Peccadillo are catered for.  Simply download

Details of the war you want brought to an end,

Double click on the dove icon, type in “No more

“Brown trousers, please” and click OK.

A special site for the use of the deaf

Is under construction.

March 19, 2003 (translated from the English by Rod McKuen)

Eleven a.m. arrives

On Fifty-seventh Street.

Uneaten marmalade

Is hissing on the fire,

With a dentist’s bill unpaid.

My second glass of beer

Froths over the white

Tablecloth of the earth,

Saturating our private lives

With the yeasty smell of death:

Oh God, I’m already a bit tight.

Alcoholism can

Often cause offence—

From Luther's time until now

It has driven vicars mad,

And also a good few women.

From what bottle sprayed

This unwholesome geyser, God?

I’m in a low dive now

With a lowlife called Burn,

I'll have another one

And then we might adjourn.

Thucydides liked a brew—

That’s all I’m prepared to say

About Democracy.

I’m going to the loo

When I’ve finished this piece of pork.

While I'm in the lav

I’ll try, my love, to read your book—

And oh, while I’m away,

I’ll have the same again.

This pork tastes like beef.

I think someone’s pulling my chain.

In the front bar

They don’t tolerate my abuse.

I suppose I can’t complain;

It’s a reasonable ban.

My life is down the drain

And I have no excuse.

Have I told you how I long

For a nice piece of bream?

From behind the bar they stare.

I have an awful face;

I think I’ll sing a song.

Ah, here comes Jack Tar—

He’ll be here all day:

His trousers make men pout,

But I always have to pay.

I’m starting to perspire;

I’ll put on some perfume;

I might take him home,

Or we might go to another bar—

It depends on his mood.

He also looks a bit tight

I’m going to say something lewd.

I’ve got a nasty rash—

I’ll have a glass of stout

And perhaps some fried fish

(And as for what mad Nijinsky wrote

About Diaghilev

I don’t give a flying fart).

My words, you say, are too close to the bone.

Each woman and each man

Craves what I cannot have:

Not universal love,

But to be left alone.

I’m in the bloody dark.

I've kissed goodbye to life.

I’ve got polyps up my arse,

And a face like a dying cow;

“I will take my fork and knife

And do justice to some pork.”

My helpless bowels quake;

They cry justice for well-practiced fouls:

Who dares release them now?

I’m going slightly deaf—

Will anyone hear my clamorous bowels?

That is now my voice.

I’ll have a slice of pie.

I met a man on the D-Train

Who had the most remarkable feet.

We walked to the Port Authority

And he began to cry.

I had a piece of skate;

He preferred to eat alone;

Hunger allows no choice;

He threatened to call the police;

I must have bream or die.

I rarely go out at night,

I rarely wear socks or ties—

And never underwear.

I still need that shite—

I’ve unleashed another gust:

These are messages.

May I, composed like them

Of Thanatos and rust,

Beleaguered by new shame,

Denial and despair,

Have another glass of the same?

Waving The Cosmos Goodbye

“The telescope tells us so little,”
He said, applying a gobbet of unhealthily viscous spittle

To a grubby rag and wiping it vigorously into the eyepiece,

“But every jot and tittle

“Contributes something, however nugatory, to my peace

“Of mind. Now, hand me my veal-and-ham pie please.”

Remember, this was fifty years ago and more.

That day, I walked out through the observatory door

A sadder and a more stupid man

Than I had ever been before.

The great astronomer seemed determined to scupper my plan

And paid me less attention than his flan.

That day I burned my research papers and resolved

To buy a farm. With my hopes dashed and dissolved

What greater comfort could I find

Than to be alone with a few sheep? My mind revolved

No more with the cosmos. I felt my terrors unwind

As I walked among lambs. I left the stars behind.

And yet, as I walk under the clear skies of Devon,

I feel something far more deeply interfused begin to leaven

My contentment. The lambs are white

On the dark tor, like snowflakes on the back of a sleeping raven,

Or intimations of a better heaven in the long night

That once robbed me, thanks to the great astronomer, of all my           delight.

It Seems So Long Since An Old Partisan Called Me Nancy

I was cautioned to rise up by the guards,

So I took my gun and vanished across the water.

They said, “The shade is wont to be baneful to singers

Who smoke cigarettes as they sing of the slaughter.”

All I can say to you, Marianne,

Is the shade cast by the juniper is baneful

And your body is open like a prayer

And the nightingale is tuneful.

They are harvesting in darkness

The wheat that was drowned by the blood of poets.

Now let us kneel together naked while the Evening Star is rising,

So go now, go, my she-goats. Go now, go, my she-goats.

To A Loved One Abused Electronically By Strangers

The tedium is our shared and constant solace

(Your page is not a fine or private place), 

My memories are a failure to forget;

I never tire of looking at your face.

 

You fear the sneering cruelty of trolls  

Who fear the sneering cruelty of the sun.

We all confound the tedium for the message

(Visitors to my website: 41).

 

The interface is a distorting lens

(When you mean confound, you say confess);

My fury is imperfectly conveyed—   

We’re all alone: the medium is a mess.

A Late-Night Cheese Episode In A Restaurant, With Some Comic Deafness And A Passing Reference To Footwear

The waiters stood by in the empty salon,

Waiters indeed, for it wasn't quite empty…

There was cheese on their plates, and the long night grew longer,

His passion was strong, but the Stilton was stronger.

“More, my dear… ?”  “Wine? I’ve already had plenty.”

“Try this Clond roux Rouy – it comes from Dijon.”

His ardour was hot as a Colby Jack Longhorn

(That’s a cheese from Montana with blazing black peppers).

Her lusty Pálpusztai lay untouched on the platter.

That word ‘Longhorn’ tickled him – he gave vent to the matter:

“Fermented from lactate of one year-old heifers… ”

And she said, “I believe it could have been Pangbourne.”

He roared to the waiters, “Come bring me Scamorza!

With olives and chutney and fine ratatouille!”

The yawning old servants lurched to attention

(One was a corporal, retired on half-pension,

Another had gone for a well-needed pee.)

“But why - ?” (Of Destino he felt the full Forza!)

“ – do you want gumboots at this hour?” she wondered.

“I didn’t say gumboots! I asked for some chutney,

To go with a cheese of sterling nobility!

I hear it is made in the Alps of north Italy.”

“Did you just announce that you wanted to fuck me?”

She asked. “Did you,” he roared, “just say you don’t 
          like Olomoucké syrečky?”

Sir Robert Walpole Decides To Stay At Home

“That day, Charles, I turned my back on society.”

I knew of and respected the general’s decision.
“I disliked its frivolity, its general lack of sobriety

And its utter lack of military precision.”

The Indian clock under its dusty bell-jar chimed four

And a man in a pugaree came in quietly with a tray of tea

And stale scones. “We may be needing more,”

Said the general, pouring a cup for me.

The general favoured Darjeeling

With – “To put a shine on its boots” – a dash of rooibos.

I developed a tolerance for this brew, but couldn’t help feeling

The Darjeeling’s boots would have been better without this                     unpalatable gloss.

The general’s scones were like little crusty slippers

And he used a rancid ghee instead of butter.

He’d dunk them in his tea – “I call this ‘dippers’, ”

He would say with a grin, or rather mutter.

“I learned to do this in Bahawulpur, when I was a subaltern

“In the King’s Own Royal Unmounted Hussars.

“Pah!” His exclamation was like a bubble torn

Untimely from a bubble-pipe. “The local bazaars

“Were full of things like this—an array of teas

“On every stall. Refreshin’ after too much fizzy gin,

“I may say. But those markets were overrun with fleas

“And the stallholders had no bally discipline.”

When he came home, it was to an England he no longer                          recognised.

People had forgotten how to warm the pot

And some had taken to using tea-bags. Pyjamas were sanforised.

The general took one look and said, “I think not.”

Another Old Compleynt

“Too much information,”

She said and ended the conversation. 

He heard a click

But continued to detail his symptoms:

“Things like this happen to aging bottoms.

It’s not really a question of being sick

So much as anno domini, if you will…”

– He got no reply – “… but I’m not really ill.”

“I’m afraid I’m not here

To take your call,” she said. “When you hear

The beep, leave your name

And number… ” “Are you there, Rosalind?”

He asked. “I’m still passing a lot of wind,

But my colon’s not to blame –

That’s the good news! But it’s not all

As good as that. Give me a call.”

She stared at her phone.

She was not good at living alone

But living with him would be worse.

It would, she thought, be like

Sharing her life with an old dog who could talk.

Oh, she was fond of him of course!

But he was old enough to be her dad,

And in the end, she knew, he’d drive her mad.

She made herself a cup of tea

And sat down to watch the news on TV.

Berlin Zoo’s polar bear Knut was one year old.

That’s the good news! But it’s not all

As good as that. Give me a call.”

Seize the initiative, try to be bold

For once, Rosalind! Don’t give way to the blues!

“Jack? Oh good, you’re there! So… give me the bad news.” 

Caspian Sea Shanty (For Three Voices)

O the Caspian Sea

Has been mighty good to me.

I said the Caspian Sea

Has been mighty good to me.

You know, the Caspian Sea

Has been mighty good to me,

Yes, siree,

Let’s hear it for the Caspian Sea.

May I enter a plea

On behalf of that sea –

As do Murray, Mike and Meredith,

Letitia, Luke and Lee.

We all love to go there

With our sandwiches of brie.

Where do we like to go to?

Why, the Caspian Sea!

I’ll admit my heart’s a-racin’

When I’m by that Caspian Basin

With my friend, Yehudi Kogsov –

We can’t wait to get out togs off

And go dipping skinnily

In that salty Caspian Sea.

And we all like to fish

In the Caspian Dish:

Sturgeon, roach and bream –

I tell you, fishing there’s a scream!

There’s no place we’d rather be

Than beside the Caspian Sea!

God, I feel bad about the city!

On the condom-strewn streets in the sweltering heat, an old horse and a donkey

Look confused. 

The scaffolding on the terraces opposite the brothel are looking a bit wonky

And the tramps are sick of being abused

By natty Italian men in grey suits on their Vespas, singing snatches

From Aida and picking their noses.

The ugly egg of frustration hatches

In this squalor so far from peace and roses.

    In the city there is only pain;

    This is urban – not, my dear, urbane.

A Sentimental Journey

Bournemouth you say?  Wasn’t I there just thirty years ago?
I remember it like yesterday—or is my memory playing the fool?

I went there by train.  All the way, I sat beside a stranger who said          nothing

Until we got off: “I’ve got my car here. I’m going in the direction of         Poole

If that’s any help to you.” I was, I confess, a little stand-offish with         the fellow.

His conversation might have been a blessing on my long, sad                    journey,

But now his offer, though sincerely meant, was an impertinence.

I thanked him and said no. He gave me his card. His name was                Raymond Gurney.

The funny thing is, the other day I was going through some things

And I found that card in an old mackintosh that I wasn’t wearing at      the time,

So God alone knows how it got there.  Imagine a thing like that

Turning up again after thirty years. I felt a curious sense of shame.

Waving Goodbye To The Cosmos

“The telescope tells us so little,”
He said, applying a gobbet of unhealthily viscous spittle

To a grubby rag and wiping it vigorously into the eyepiece,

“But every jot and tittle

“Contributes something, however nugatory, to my peace

“Of mind. Now, hand me my veal-and-ham pie please.”

Remember, this was fifty years ago and more.

That day, I walked out through the observatory door

A sadder and a more stupid man

Than I had ever been before.

The great astronomer seemed determined to scupper my plan

And paid less attention to me than to his flan.

That day I burned my research papers and resolved

To buy a farm. With my hopes dashed and dissolved

What greater comfort could I find

Than to be alone with a few sheep? My mind revolved

No more with the cosmos. I felt my terrors unwind

As I walked among lambs. I left the stars behind.

And yet, as I walk under the clear skies of Devon,

I feel something far more deeply interfused begin to leaven

My contentment. The lambs are white

On the dark tor, like snowflakes on the back of a sleeping raven,

Or intimations of a better heaven in the long night

That once robbed me, thanks to the great astronomer, of all my             delight.

Military Air

In the mist of the slaughter, it’s justice that suffers;

In the bright face of Justice we waggled vague fingers.

Judgments were issued by hopeless old buffers

Who looked in their wigs like old cabaret singers

(They’re all long dead now, but the melody lingers).

I stood up in court and spilled the beans blithely.

The men had abandoned their horses, oh blimey!
I mentioned by name Corporals Stutely and Hytheleigh,

(Hytheleigh was British—the slang term is “Limey”)

And I let the court know that young Stutely was slimy.

 “You’ll look back on these days as on splendour and magic,”

Said General Hooter (his message in Morse);

That day he was slaughtered—his death was not tragic

(Time healeth no ills and can’t act without force);

He trod on a land-mine, and so did his horse.

The Politics Of Arse-Envy

In this fog of fiscal drag

As tax and growth divorce, I see

The state is making a tidy sum

Out of our poverty and I feel in my bum

A boiling anger, uncontrolled,

As demand, though stable,

Fails to supply food on the table

Except in the house of Lord and Lady

Hench.

When anger turns to power

This is the hour, indeed the very second,

Of revolution.

There is no hate when there is love

Returned; but love looks after hate

When neither love nor hate can find

Anchor in the heart or mind.

My own view, speaking as a liberal, is that change

Needs wheels, otherwise society simply

Goes off the rails and gardeners become lairds,

The poor become rich, Lady Hench

Becomes the footman’s bitch and the order of things

Is disturbed.

The people’s righteous anger must be curbed.

Here is my recipe.  Val Doonican on a stool,

Surveying the tumult and making it pacific,

Like stout Cortez and his eagles and his friend, Darien .

No deaths will be recorded on this day,

All children will be free to laugh and play,

All dumb, downtrodden diggers will have their say

And fiscal drag will take a hint,

After its sadistic stint,

And pack its bags and go away.

And now the anger in my bum

Boils over, the ring splutters, goes out

And gas spreads like clotted cream

Till all is dead and all

Is serene.