The Circle of Tyrants (selections from Caligulan)
Ernest Hilbert _________________ Siege of Fort Mifflin (Battle of Mud Island) A squadron of the vaunted British empire Fell prey to mud, to wind and vengeful fire. A ship-of-the-line ran aground and burned here, Bombed by batteries on shore. Seeking to retire, A sloop named Merlin stuck fast in the mire, As Isis, Roebuck, and Pearl circled near. Today, sparkling like swirls of fish spawn, Undulating armadas of plastic— Unsinkable cups, trays, strips, and bottles, Restless, as if alive. When we are gone, Will these tokens foretell drastic Efforts to win new kinds of battles? The air is heavy and wet, and I stand Uneasily in this humid marshland. I float in the aura of a gas giant, Cast in its corona, watching vacant Spacecraft cluster like trash into orbit, Like casings of shells that failed in flight. *** Save Earth We thought they came from distant moons. We couldn’t tell at first if they had eyes, But we learned they have mouths. Big ones. Good God! A storm of great worms squirms across the skies. We wondered if they were loosed by ancient runes Or slithered through some blurry dimensional door. Then we thought maybe earth, that they had clawed From a blistering crack in the seafloor. Now we know they were planted eons ago, Right here, and come to claim their rightful place. They pour into our wrecked cities and grow. They smash bridges, dams, and soon this very base. They’ve neutralized our weapons, but we’re one Step from being saved! Behold, Mr. President, One of these will save us. Just one, and they’re done. We’re ready. We need only your permission To deploy, and drive these things away, But we have to do it now, now, before they . . . *** Apparition at Moss-Hanne Ospreys orbit here, ruling as lords Their drowned domains. We row watercourses Through miles of lily pads, hoards Of hemlock, spruce groves, and grim fortresses Of alder swamp. Millions of years flood This place, where salamanders slide in mud. Our Depression-era log cabin warms When we return in rain. As the storm passes, We stir fire from damp wood. It squirms and thirsts In muggy air, struggles up and catches barks. The pit smokes. A winding helix of sparks Climbs when a wet log pops and bursts Its musty treasure of grubs to the furnace. Above, a colonnade of oak glows and forms Like candles on cathedral triforia. The flames are my phantasmagoria. Higher, a cloud, like a skull, with a grin Too mild to scare, masks the moon. It sheers Apart in light to frost, feather, fin— A thing that never slows and always nears. *** The Victory Stele of Narām-Sîn This lecture insults the king. Is he merely One more item to be addressed as if not Present or no longer alive? His force Is renewed by death. He knows what is yearly Replanted will grow best from mud and rot, What pours long enough returns to a source. The surly king storms out, eager for rebirth, Quick dawn from darkness, but this equinox Is one of misalliance, disarray. There is no eclipse. No magic is worth This much. No longer the waking and long walks, No longer the sun to etch the skies, weigh The hours with consequence, mark the slow End of things. Not now. His is a sour star, A sick land, thimble ziggurats by which flow Veins of black space, singing, and no longer far. *** Circle of the Tyrants Unscrew the metal pegs that spur the stock. The strings go slack and spool from courses, Unwind and curl useless as railway track Pulled up by an army. Embrace the neck And swab from fret to saddle, feel forces Vanished but yearning always to fly back. For now, tuneless, the black body stretches Like a swan murdered on a muddy bank, Songless until restrung. Unleash new strings. Pull high E to a finger joint. It etches Small lines in skin, thin enough to kill. Still lank, Low E, gold wound for kings, binds like a ring; The strings are tools, tribute to horse and swan, Till, tensed and tuned, transmuted to weapon. *** Caligulan Your bank calls. Events begin to register Some unwelcome forecast. The dreamy nurses Switch to Goodfellas on the overhead TV. The omens come and signs are sinister. Texts go unreturned. You’re out of coffee. The Olympian Jupiter curses. In sleep, a great toe kicks you back to earth. The slaves stage a play about the Under World. The smoke alarm fails, and your computer crashes. Your favorite gladiator is lashed For theft, lightning blackens your temple, thunder Sinks your song, because, like the day of birth, The day you’ll wake and have your death is set, But just hasn’t, just hasn’t happened yet. *** Unlorded Behind us all an ancient king gone blind, Who gropes at books, beside a queen who’s lost Her once-worshiped beauties, her taunting songs, And all her appetites, save that for sleep. Conceits as well have dimmed, lost hawk and hind, And what was spent is only felt as cost. They find they hear no more the wind that long Ago propelled their fields to drought, put sheep Into the earth, when rainfall loosened soil, And, if they still recall our names and days We took the games and shook the eaves with roars, And laughed until we were emptied of breath, They know we carried with us hurt and toil, And voyaged far to get where flocks could graze, Found humor, even happiness, in wars, And kindness, as well, and life, in kind, in death. *** Ice Dwellers Watching the Invaders The ship is locked beneath frozen mountains. It crunches by inches against white floes. Its masts are bare cold poles of long-stripped tents, Its silhouette a stalagmite, its rows Of furled sails, half-mast, sagging like bellies Over the black pedestal of the hull. Five seals splash and plunge near the icy shore.