Jerome Rothenberg: Three Poems from “The Disasters of War” after Goya

He is a real man
when he murders,

is he not?

1/

 

 

Sad presentiments
of what must come
to pass   a rage
of shredded clothes 

the darkness

through which images

rain down

a ruined world

 

of bricks & walls

erased   or crumbled                      

shattered*                                         * splattered

on the broken ground

 

made present

by an unseen hand

like mine

the lines concealing

 

men & women
children
trees & gardens
grass gates gravestones 

shrines & temples
class rooms
radios & books
old dresses 

fifes & fiddles
heirlooms
bicycles
eyeglasses 

sidewalks
monuments
engagements
marriages 

employees
clocks & watches
street signs
works of art 

the man’s face

shows it

chest & forearms

swollen

 

stumps for legs

the cry of blood

so fierce

it stops his heart

 

his eyes see only

lines like knives

criss-crossing

blood or rain

 

the word is misery

that binds him*                               *blinds him

where the waters rush

& rage

 

 

2/

 

 

with reason
or without
the fate of real men
facing off
guns at the quick
or lances 

silently

the cries rise up

between clenched lips

the itch & thrill

of suffocation

driving them on

 

for which the mind

is never still

but races screaming

somewhere beyond

the zone

where real men go

 

theirs is the dream

of children

& old mothers

huddled masses

at their feet

the dream of where we go

 

& where the bayonet

enters the sad flesh

the dark device

explodes behind us

ready like them

to make its mark

 

the blood is like

a ribbon

where it leaves

his mouth

the knife his hand holds

hot to strike

 

the mind of Goya

falters   sightless

writing in a room

without a light

he feels the thrust

much like his own

 

the speed of thought

where thought ends

the rest is flights

of spirits

dibbiks who will never

find a home

 

how heavy

we have all become

trying to free our hands

to etch our names

still mindful that the dead

will never sleep

 

 

3/

 

 

the same thing

from the ax

as from the sword

the fury*                                *vengeance 

of the dead

against the quick

 

.

those who survive

remember

knives like lights

cutting through time

& leaving us

minus a hole to hide

 

.

swept into death

the boots

the men wear

when the feet

stop moving

stick out of the ground

 

.

beyond our sight

the earth

will swallow them

no hand upraised

to hold it back

or free us

 

.

 

if my hand

would thrust a knife

like yours

the blow would sever

head from throat

spreading the blood

 

.

 

down mirrors

it will flow

& when they cry

for sunlight

nothing

will answer

 

but the deadman’s

song