D.M. Black: Selected poems

The Red Judge

We shut the red judge in a bronze jar
-By "we", meaning myself and the black judge -
And there was peace, for a time.  You can have enough
Yowling from certain justices.  The jar
We buried, (pitching and swelling like the tough
Membrane of an unshelled egg), on the Calton Hill.
And there was peace, for a time.  My friend the black
Judge was keen on whisky, and I kept
Within earshot of sobriety only by drinking
Slow ciders, and pretending
Unfelt absorption in the repetitive beer-mats.  It was a kind of
Vibration we noticed first - hard to tell
Whether we heard it or were shaken by,
Whether the tumblers quivered, or our minds.  It grew
To a thick thudding, and an occasional creak
Like a nearby axle, but as it were
Without the sense of "nearby". - The hard flag-
stones wriggled slightly under the taut linoleum.
I supported the black judge to the nearest door
- Detached his clutched glass for the protesting barman -
And propped him against a bus-stop.  Maybe
It was only a pneumatic drill mating at Queen Street,
Or an impotent motor-bike - the sounds grew harsher.
My gestures stopped a 24 that spat
Some eleventh commandment out of its sober driver,
But I was more conscious of the rocking walls,
The pavement's shrugging off its granite kerb...

Quite suddenly the night was still: the cracks
In the roadway rested, and the tenements
Of Rose Street stood inscrutable as always. The black judge
Snored at his post.  And all around
The bright blood filled the gutters, overflowed
The window-sills and doorsteps, soaked my anyway
Inadequate shoes, and there was a sound of cheering
Faintly and everywhere, and the Red Judge walked
O thirty feet high and scarlet towards our stop.



Kew Gardens
(in memory of Ian A. Black, died January 1971)

Distinguished scientist, to whom I greatly defer
(old man, moreover, whom I dearly love)
I walk today in Kew Gardens, in sunlight the colour of honey
which flows from the cold immaculate blue of the heavens to light these tans and golds,
these ripe corn and leather and sunset colours of the East Asian liriodendrons,
of the beeches and maples and plum-trees and the stubborn green banks of the holly hedges -
and you walk always beside me, you with your knowledge of names
and your clairvoyant gaze, in what for me is sheer panorama
seeing the net or web of connectedness.  But today it is I who speak
(and you are long dead, but it is to you I say it):

"The leaves are green in summer because of chlorophyll
and the flowers are bright to lure the pollinators,
and without remainder (so you have often told me)
these marvellous things that shock the heart the head can account for;
but I want to sing an excess which is not so simply explainable,
to say that the beauty of the autumn is a redundant beauty,
that the sky had no need to be this particular shade of blue,
nor the maple to die in flames of this particular yellow,
nor the heart to respond with an ecstasy that does not beget children.
I want to say that I do not believe your science
although I believe every word of it, and intend to understand it;
that although I rate that unwavering gaze higher than almost everything
there is another sense, a hearing, to which I more deeply attend.
Thus I withstand and contradict you, I, your child,
who have inherited from you the passion which causes me to oppose you."



Translated from Goethe:

Anacreon's Grave

Here where the roses bloom, where vines intertwine with the laurel,
  Here where the turtle-dove sings, here where the cricket shrills,
To what grave have we come, that every God has delighted
  Thus to festoon with life?  - Here Anacreon lies.
Spring, and summer, and fall enchanted the fortunate poet;
  Now from winter the earth keeps him secure in the end.


Permanence in Change


Could these early blossoms last, O
Even for one single hour!
But already from the West the
Wind blows and the petals shower.
Shall I love the kindly green leaves
Which so lately gave me shade?
Storms come soon and send them streaming
When in fall they curl and fade.

Quickly, if I may advise you,
Grasp your share of life's rich fruit.
While these here begin to ripen,
Those already root and shoot.
Your sweet valley is forever
Altered with each gust of rain,
And, alas, the swimmer never
Enters the same stream again.

You yourself!  What in those former
Days seemed like a rock to rise,
Strong like walls, strong like a fortress,
Now you see with other eyes.
Dim and wasted is the lip which
Kisses once refreshed with heat,
And that foot, which on the cliff-face
With the chamois could compete!

That hand too! so gladly stretched to
Offer help, or give delight,
That well-jointed, supple structure,
Now presents a different sight.
What now bears your name, replacing
All you knew yourself to be,
Has come by here like a wave, and
Hastens on to find the sea.

Let the end with the beginning
Draw together and unite!
Quicker than the world of things, let
You yourself outspeed their flight! -
Thankful, that the generous Muses
Grant one constant thing to inherit:
Meaning, found within your bosom,
Form, the action of your spirit.