Collected Poems Anthony Burgess (best pdf reader for ebooks txt) 📖

of yours, it is an

Abomination before the Lord.’ – ‘Which Lord?’ she asked.

Zimri said: ‘There is only one – our God,

The creator and sustainer of the world,

The God of Israel, the God of mankind.’

She smiled ‘The God of a madman on a donkey –

That is how he appears to the Moabites.

But you must see what we mean by love. Come with me.’

He cried out: ‘No. Blasphemy. Filth.’ She said:

‘It is blasphemy and filth to know that ecstasy

Which divides men from the beasts of the field? It is

Blasphemy and filth to know oneself

In the very living presence of the god?

The ecstasy is sent by the god: it is blasphemy

To reject it. The cleanness of the spirit,

From which all earthly dross is purged away –

To reject that is the sin of wallowing

In the filth of animals.’ But Zimri cried: ‘No. No.’

But he suffered himself, saying no no the while,

To be led to the inner temple, drawn there

In his own despite. The priestess ordered, with a gesture,

Two servants to open the portal. Then he saw.

He saw, before an effigy of Ba’al

As god of love, votive lamps burning. He heard

Flutes and a harp, incense-boats clanging, smelt

The richness of roasting herbs. Above all, he saw.

His eyes throbbed at the sight of the men, exalted

In a kind of holiness of lust, prostrating themselves

Before the prospect of love, before the flesh

Of the temple houris. He saw them, evil beauty,

And saw eyes on himself. They stood there, naked,

Before unseeing Ba’al. Zimri moaned, fled, blinded.

And the priestess said, as he fumbled at the portal:

‘Well, Israelite – are you prepared

To become not an Israelite but merely

A worshipper at the shrine? You are heartily welcome.’

But he cried out: ‘No. No.’ Blindly stumbling

Down the steps of the temple, jostled and jostling

Along a street of the city (no no), followed by laughter,

Obscenity, out of the city by its gate,

Back to the camp, hearing ring in his head

Moabite voices crooning about love.

He lay alone in his tent, writhing (no

No), and, pale in the morning, went to Joshua

To render a report. Joshua said:

‘Filthy pagan rites. Any evidence

Of our people indulging in filthy pagan rites?’

Zimri said: ‘I thought I saw – but no matter.

Nothing as yet really to report.

Wait. I am watchful.’ – ‘We know are watchful, Zimri.

We call you Zimri the incorruptible.’

Was there a sneer in the voice? He went again,

That night, to the temple. The priestess greeted him:

‘The Israelite. Is this more official business?’

Zimri said: ‘I come with a warning.

Any of our people – engage – in your rites,

You yourselves will be in danger.’ She smiled:

‘You mean the Israelite god of love and justice

Will wipe us all out with the sword?’ Zimri said:

‘Admit none of our people. You who talk of love

Should not desire to see love followed by pain.

But they will be punished, I warn you. I am watching.’

She said: ‘Well, if your priests and priestesses

(Do you have priestesses? I am somewhat ignorant

About your faith) – if, I say, they are willing

To persuade us of the superior attractions

Of your god, then we will be ready to listen.

Conversions are made in men’s hearts and men’s loins.

They are not easily enforced with armies and thunder.’

Zimri said: ‘I warn. It is a warning.’

From out of the temple two men came with obeisances

To the priestess. They recognized Zimri, being Israelites,

But he had his eyes to the ground, unwilling

To meet hers, despite his ‘Warning, a solemn warning’.

The Israelites rushed away, and Zimri, emerging,

Saw men running, but did not know who they were.

So, watchful Zimri, he wandered the town in torment,

Not knowing his feeling – anger, lust, envy –

Not knowing what he felt but knowing its violence,

And he came to a tavern and drank of the wine of Moab,

Hearing song, drank of the wine till a girl came

To ask if he would drink yet more of the wine,

Of the wine more, more of the, Moab the wine of,

More. But no. He shook his head and could not

Stop shaking it. No. I warn. A warning. Solemn.

‘So’ the priestess said, ‘you are very persistent.

Another solemn warning?’ For he was back there,

His tongue thick, tottering, shaking his head,

Not able to stop shaking it, hearing laughter,

Then hearing the laugher cease, hearing himself

Fall to the floor, hearing, feeling nothing.

Servants came forward, solicitous to raise him.

He was helped away to a bed somewhere, and the priestess,

Smiling with the sadness of long knowledge,

Said: ‘As so often happens, he finds his way

Through the little god of wine towards the great god:

Blessed then be the little god,’ seeing him there,

Smirking on the wall, crowned with vine-leaves,

The great god waiting apart, master and servant,

Humbly on Zimri’s awakening. Most blessed be he.

17

ABOMINATIONS BEFORE THE LORD

Zimri emerged from the cave and saw bright morning

Beyond the casement – a fountain, oleanders –

And flooding the chamber, wondering where he was

And then remembering the waking in the night,

Her beside him. She now, with eyes laughing,

Poured from a pitcher into a cup. She said:

‘You have slept long and deep. Take this’, bringing it.

‘Take. It is no poison.’ Herbs, achingly pungent,

View with dried rose-petals on the bed where he lay.

He drank, tasting herbs and petals, seeing the cup

Cunningly embossed with arms and bosoms,

Then probed in his mind for shame but found none. She

Lay by him in a loose robe, her eyes laughing,

Her hair loose, a torrent of bronze. ‘Your name’, he said.

‘I forget your name, or did I hear your name?’

She told him he had heard it – Cozbi, daughter

Of a minor prince of Moab whose name did not matter,

Servant of Ba’al. ‘Daughter of a prince’,

He said, ‘and you are here.’ – ‘But this is holy work’,

She told him. ‘We are not street-girls. What we do

Is in honour of the god. We call it holy work –

To bring men closer to the god.’ She kissed him then,

Holy work. ‘We are the chosen ones.

Not every woman can take her place in the temple.

Today you are specially blessed, I also,

For today is a feast-day of the god. You came to us

On the eve of his feast-day: it was as if you knew.’

Ba’al, genially ferocious, in a hammered