Coda: Eight poems in black, after Goya

[N.B. What began for me with 50 Caprichos after Goya & has continued with variations on “The Disasters of War” will end with this Coda, first sketched in Madrid 2007, in the shadow of his darkest works. (J.R.)]

 

1/

two women watch

a man    his hand

under his cloak

or in his pants    the act

that causes one

to grin, the other

wryly looking on

as in a dream

 

 

2/

a procession of

old whores & madams

toothless

bearing fardels

& a gallant

from a former time

lined up along the base

of a grey mountain

holy crones

& well-laced fathers

of the inquisition.

 

 

3/

A Pilgrimage for San Isidro

 

who but the dead

can scream so

with their eyes rolled back

their mouths

like black holes

whom a blind man leads

strikes a guitar

& to his left

two men in black

two women in half-white

without a face

 

 

4/

Saturn

devouring his sons

whites of his eyes

as brilliant as

the red blood flowing

from the severed

neck

blood on his hands

his penis hot

& throbbing

 

 

5/

man fighting man

with cudgels

drawing blood

a stream of red

across his face

& sinking

ever deeper

into the mud

 

 

6/

a poor dog

hidden in the brown

& yellow mud

that could be clouds

– the way they suffer

without sound –

 

 

7/

The Witches Sabbath (1)

 

Satan as a great

goat    black

& holding court

before a ring

of men & women,

too deformed

from watching

the small figure

crouching

covered with

white shroud,

& at the edge

a young boy,

almost cut

from sight

the only

gentle soul,

whose screaming

mother hollers

at the assembled

crones

 

 

8/

The Witches Sabbath (2)

 

red more brilliant

than her eyes,

the blanket set across

her mouth,

poor doll & witch,

& yet the eyes

are turning backwards

in her head,

the one who flies with her,

a rock between

his teeth, a tongue

made stone,

the yellow wind

spiking his hair,

who has no choice

but points a finger

at a hill in space,

a city on a hill,

that vanishes.

Nothing has changed

since then,

try as we will,

nor will it please you,

friend & father,

the ragged soldiers

aiming guns,

the line of pilgrims,

barely seen,

circling the lonely fell,

the old witch

like a sibyl

arisen from your dream

ready to tell it all.

 

* Originally published in J.R., Concealments & Caprichos, Black Widow Press, 2008.