See
now. There all the
time
without you:
and
ever
shall
be,
world
without end.
Spouse
and
helpmate
of
Adam Kadmon: Heva,
naked
Eve.
She
had no navel. Gaze.
Belly
without blemish, bulging big,
a
buckler
of
taut
vellum, no, whiteheaped corn, orient
and
immortal, standing
from
everlasting
to
everlasting.
Womb
of
sin. Airs romped round him, nipping
and
eager
airs.
They
are
coming, waves. The whitemaned seahorses, champing, brightwindbridled, the steeds
of
Mananaan. I mustn't
forget
his
letter
for
the press.
And
after? The Ship, half twelve.
By
the
way
go
easy
with
that
money
like
a
good
young
imbecile. Yes, I must.
His
pace slackened. Here.
Am
I going
to
aunt
Sara's
or
not? My
consubstantial
father's voice.
Did
you
see
anything
of
your
artist
brother
Stephen lately? No?
Sure
he's not
down
in
Strasburg
terrace
with
his
aunt
Sally? Couldn't
he
fly
a
bit
higher
than
that, eh?
And
and
and
and
tell
us, Stephen,
how
is
uncle
Si? O,
weeping
God, the things I married into!
De
boys
up
in
de
hayloft. The
drunken
little
costdrawer
and
his
brother, the
cornet
player.
Highly
respectable gondoliers!
And
skeweyed Walter sirring
his
father, no less! Sir. Yes, sir. No, sir. Jesus wept:
and
no wonder,
by
Christ! I
pull
the wheezy bell
of
their
shuttered cottage:
and
wait.
They
take
me
for
a
dun,
peer
out
from
a
coign
of
vantage. —It's Stephen, sir. —Let
him
in.
Let
Stephen in.
A
bolt
drawn
back
and
Walter welcomes me. —We
thought
you
were
someone else.
In
his
broad
bed
nuncle Richie, pillowed
and
blanketed, extends
over
the
hillock
of
his
knees
a
sturdy
forearm. Cleanchested.
He
has washed the
upper
moiety. —Morrow, nephew. —Yes, sir? —Malt
for
Richie
and
Stephen,
tell
mother.
Where
is
she? —Bathing Crissie, sir. Papa's
little
bedpal. Lump
of
love. —No,
uncle
Richie... —Call
me
Richie.
Damn
your lithia water.
It
lowers. Whusky! —Uncle Richie, really... —Sit
down
or
by
the
law
Harry
I'll
knock
you
down. Walter squints vainly
for
a
chair. —He has
nothing
to
sit
down
on, sir. —He has
nowhere
to
put
it,
you
mug.
Bring
in
our
chippendale chair. Would
you
like
a
bite
of
something?
None
of
your damned lawdeedaw airs here. The
rich
of
a
rasher
fried
with
a
herring? Sure?
So
much
the better.
We
have
nothing
in
the
house
but backache pills.
His
tuneful
whistle
sounds again, finely shaded,
with
rushes
of
the air,
his
fists bigdrumming
on
his
padded knees.
This
wind
is
sweeter.
And
at
the
same
instant
perhaps
a
priest
round the
corner
is
elevating it. Dringdring!
And
two
streets
off
another
locking
it
into
a
pyx. Dringadring!
And
in
a
ladychapel
another
taking housel all
to
his
own
cheek. Dringdring! Down, up, forward, back. Dan Occam
thought
of
that,
invincible
doctor.
A
misty
English
morning
the
imp
hypostasis tickled
his
brain. Bringing
his
host
down
and
kneeling
he
heard
twine
with
his
second
bell the first bell
in
the
transept
(he
is
lifting his) and, rising, heard (now I
am
lifting)
their
two
bells (he
is
kneeling) twang
in
diphthong.
What
about
what?
What
else
were
they
invented for?
Reading
two
pages apiece
of
seven
books
every
night, eh? I
was
young.
You
bowed
to
yourself
in
the mirror, stepping forward
to
applause
earnestly, striking face. Hurray
for
the Goddamned idiot! Hray! No-one saw:
tell
no-one. Books
you
were
going
to
write
with
letters
for
titles.
Have
you
read
his
F? O yes, but I
prefer
Q. Yes, but W
is
wonderful. O yes, W.
Remember
your epiphanies written
on
green
oval
leaves,
deeply
deep, copies
to
be
sent
if
you
died
to
all the
great
libraries
of
the world, including Alexandria? Someone
was
to
read
them
there
after
a
few
thousand
years,
a
mahamanvantara. Pico della Mirandola like. Ay,
very
like
a
whale.
When
one
reads
these
strange
pages
of
one
long
gone
one
feels
that
one
is
at
one
with
one
who
once... The
grainy
sand had gone
from
under
his
feet.
His
boots trod
again
a
damp crackling mast, razorshells, squeaking pebbles,
that
on
the unnumbered pebbles beats,
wood
sieved
by
the shipworm, lost Armada.
Unwholesome
sandflats waited
to
suck
his
treading soles, breathing
upward
sewage breath,
a
pocket
of
seaweed
smouldered
in
seafire under
a
midden
of
man's ashes.
He
coasted them, walking warily.
A
porterbottle stood up, stogged
to
its waist,
in
the cakey sand dough.
A
sentinel:
isle
of
dreadful thirst.
Broken
hoops
on
the shore;
at
the
land
a
maze
of
dark cunning nets;
farther
away
chalkscrawled backdoors
and
on
the higher
beach
a
dryingline
with
two
crucified shirts. Ringsend: wigwams
of
brown steersmen
and
master
mariners.
Human
shells.
He
halted. I
have
passed the
way
to
aunt
Sara's.
Am
I not going there? Seems not. No-one about.
He
turned northeast
and
crossed the firmer sand
towards
the Pigeonhouse. —Mother dying
come
home
father. The
aunt
thinks
you
killed your mother. That's
why
she
won't.
His
feet marched
in
sudden
proud
rhythm
over
the sand furrows,
along
by
the boulders
of
the
south
wall.
He
stared
at
them
proudly, piled
stone
mammoth
skulls.
Gold
light
on
sea,
on
sand,
on
boulders. The
sun
is
there, the
slender
trees, the
lemon
houses. The blue
fuse
burns
deadly
between
hands
and
burns clear.
Loose
tobaccoshreds
catch
fire:
a
flame
and
acrid
smoke
light
our
corner.
Raw
facebones under
his
peep
of
day
boy's hat.
How
the
head
centre got away,
authentic
version. Got
up
as
a
young
bride, man, veil, orangeblossoms,
drove
out
the
road
to
Malahide. Did, faith.
Of
lost leaders, the betrayed, wild escapes. Disguises, clutched at, gone, not here.
Weak
wasting
hand
on
mine.
They
have
forgotten Kevin Egan, not
he
them. Remembering thee, O Sion.
He
had
come
nearer the
edge
of
the
sea
and
wet
sand slapped
his
boots. The
new
air greeted him, harping
in
wild nerves, wind
of
wild air
of
seeds
of
brightness. Here, I
am
not walking
out
to
the Kish lightship,
am
I?
He
stood suddenly,
his
feet
beginning
to
sink
slowly
in
the quaking soil.
Turn
back. Turning,
he
scanned the
shore
south,
his
feet sinking
again
slowly
in
new
sockets. The cold domed
room
of
the
tower
waits. Through the barbacans the shafts
of
light
are
moving ever,
slowly
ever
as
my feet
are
sinking, creeping duskward
over
the dial floor. Blue dusk, nightfall,
deep
blue night.
In
the
darkness
of
the
dome
they
wait,
their
pushedback chairs, my
obelisk
valise,
around
a
board
of
abandoned platters.
Who
to
clear it?
He
has the key. I
will
not
sleep
there
when
this
night
comes.
A
shut
door
of
a
silent
tower, entombing their—blind bodies, the panthersahib
and
his
pointer. Call: no answer.
He
lifted
his
feet
up
from
the
suck
and
turned
back
by
the mole
of
boulders.
Take
all,
keep
all. My soul walks
with
me,
form
of
forms.
So
in
the moon's midwatches I pace the
path
above
the rocks,
in
sable silvered, hearing Elsinore's tempting flood. The flood
is
following
me. I
can
watch
it
flow past
from
here.
Get
back
then
by
the Poolbeg
road
to
the
strand
there.
He
climbed
over
the
sedge
and
eely oarweeds
and
sat
on
a
stool
of
rock, resting
his
ashplant
in
a
grike.
A
point,
live
dog, grew
into
sight running
across
the
sweep
of
sand. Lord,
is
he
going
to
attack
me?
Respect
his
liberty.
You
will
not
be
master
of
others
or
their
slave. I
have
my stick.
Sit
tight.
From
farther
away, walking shoreward
across
from
the crested tide, figures, two. The
two
maries.
They
have
tucked
it
safe
mong the bulrushes. Peekaboo. I
see
you. No, the dog.
He
is
running
back
to
them. Who? Galleys
of
the Lochlanns ran here
to
beach,
in
quest
of
prey,
their
bloodbeaked prows riding
low
on
a
molten
pewter
surf. Dane vikings, torcs
of
tomahawks aglitter
on
their
breasts
when
Malachi wore the collar
of
gold.
A
school
of
turlehide whales stranded
in
hot
noon, spouting, hobbling
in
the shallows.
Then
from
the starving cagework
city
a
horde
of
jerkined dwarfs, my people,
with
flayers' knives, running, scaling, hacking
in
green
blubbery whalemeat. Famine,
plague
and
slaughters.
Their
blood
is
in
me,
their
lusts my waves. I moved
among
them
on
the frozen Liffey,
that
I,
a
changeling,
among
the spluttering
resin
fires. I
spoke
to
no-one:
none
to
me.
A
woman
and
a
man. I
see
her skirties. Pinned up, I bet.
Their
dog
ambled
about
a
bank
of
dwindling sand, trotting, sniffing
on
all sides. Looking
for
something
lost
in
a
past life. Suddenly
he
made
off
like
a
bounding hare, ears flung back, chasing the
shadow
of
a
lowskimming gull. The man's shrieked
whistle
struck
his
limp ears.
He
turned, bounded back, came nearer, trotted
on
twinkling shanks.
On
a
field
tenney
a
buck, trippant, proper, unattired.
At
the lacefringe
of
the
tide
he
halted
with
stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears.
His
snout
lifted barked
at
the wavenoise, herds
of
seamorse.
They
serpented
towards
his
feet, curling, unfurling
many
crests,
every
ninth, breaking, plashing,
from
far,
from
farther
out, waves
and
waves. Cocklepickers.
They
waded
a
little
way
in
the
water
and, stooping, soused
their
bags and, lifting
them
again, waded out. The
dog
yelped running
to
them, reared
up
and
pawed them, dropping
on
all fours,
again
reared
up
at
them
with
mute bearish fawning. Unheeded
he
kept
by
them
as
they
came
towards
the drier sand,
a
rag
of
wolf's tongue redpanting
from
his
jaws.
His
speckled
body
ambled ahead
of
them
and
then
loped
off
at
a
calf's gallop. The
carcass
lay
on
his
path.
He
stopped, sniffed, stalked round it, brother, nosing closer, went round it, sniffling rapidly
like
a
dog
all
over
the
dead
dog's bedraggled fell. Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes
on
the ground, moves
to
one
great
goal. Ah,
poor
dogsbody! Here lies
poor
dogsbody's body. —Tatters!
Out
of
that,
you
mongrel! The
cry
brought
him
skulking
back
to
his
master
and
a
blunt
bootless
kick
sent
him
unscathed
across
a
spit
of
sand, crouched
in
flight.
He
slunk
back
in
a
curve. Doesn't
see
me.
Along
by
the
edge
of
the mole
he
lolloped, dawdled,
smelt
a
rock
and
from
under
a
cocked hindleg pissed against it.
He
trotted forward and, lifting
again
his
hindleg, pissed
quick
short
at
an unsmelt rock. The
simple
pleasures
of
the poor.
His
hindpaws
then
scattered the sand:
then
his
forepaws dabbled
and
delved.
Something
he
buried there,
his
grandmother.
He
rooted
in
the sand, dabbling, delving
and
stopped
to
listen
to
the air, scraped
up
the sand
again
with
a
fury
of
his
claws,
soon
ceasing,
a
pard,
a
panther, got
in
spousebreach, vulturing the dead.
After
he
woke
me
last
night
same
dream
or
was
it? Wait.
Open
hallway.
Street
of
harlots. Remember. Haroun
al
Raschid. I
am
almosting it.
That
man
led me, spoke. I
was
not afraid. The
melon
he
had
he
held against my face. Smiled: creamfruit smell.
That
was
the rule, said. In. Come.
Red
carpet spread.
You
will
see
who. Shouldering
their
bags
they
trudged, the
red
Egyptians.
His
blued feet
out
of
turnedup
trousers
slapped the
clammy
sand,
a
dull
brick
muffler strangling
his
unshaven neck.
With
woman
steps
she
followed: the
ruffian
and
his
strolling mort. Spoils slung
at
her back.
Loose
sand
and
shellgrit crusted her
bare
feet.
About
her windraw face
hair
trailed.
Behind
her lord,
his
helpmate,
bing
awast
to
Romeville.
When
night
hides her body's flaws calling under her brown
shawl
from
an archway
where
dogs
have
mired. Her fancyman
is
treating
two
Royal Dublins
in
O'Loughlin's
of
Blackpitts. Buss her, wap
in
rogues'
rum
lingo, for, O, my dimber wapping dell!
A
shefiend's
whiteness
under her
rancid
rags. Fumbally's
lane
that
night: the tanyard smells. Passing now. Here.
Put
a
pin
in
that
chap,
will
you? My tablets.
Mouth
to
her kiss. No.
Must
be
two
of
em.
Glue
em
well.
Mouth
to
her mouth's kiss.
His
lips lipped
and
mouthed fleshless lips
of
air:
mouth
to
her moomb. Oomb, allwombing tomb.
His
mouth
moulded issuing breath, unspeeched: ooeeehah:
roar
of
cataractic planets, globed, blazing, roaring wayawayawayawayaway. Paper. The banknotes,
blast
them.
Old
Deasy's letter. Here. Thanking
you
for
the
hospitality
tear
the
blank
end
off. Turning
his
back
to
the
sun
he
bent
over
far
to
a
table
of
rock
and
scribbled words. That's
twice
I forgot
to
take
slips
from
the
library
counter.
His
shadow
lay
over
the rocks
as
he
bent, ending.
Why
not
endless
till
the farthest star?
Darkly
they
are
there
behind
this
light,
darkness
shining
in
the brightness,
delta
of
Cassiopeia, worlds.
Me
sits there
with
his
augur's
rod
of
ash,
in
borrowed sandals,
by
day
beside
a
livid
sea, unbeheld,
in
violet
night
walking beneath
a
reign
of
uncouth
stars. I throw
this
ended
shadow
from
me, manshape ineluctable,
call
it
back. Endless, would
it
be
mine,
form
of
my form?
Who
watches
me
here?
Who
ever
anywhere
will
read
these
written words? Signs
on
a
white
field. Somewhere
to
someone
in
your flutiest voice. The
good
bishop
of
Cloyne took the
veil
of
the
temple
out
of
his
shovel
hat:
veil
of
space
with
coloured emblems hatched
on
its field.
Hold
hard. Coloured
on
a
flat: yes, that's right.
Flat
I see,
then
think
distance, near, far,
flat
I see, east, back. Ah,
see
now! Falls
back
suddenly, frozen
in
stereoscope. Click does the trick.
You
find my words dark.
Darkness
is
in
our
souls
do
you
not think? Flutier.
Our
souls, shamewounded
by
our
sins,
cling
to
us
yet
more,
a
woman
to
her
lover
clinging, the
more
the more.
Touch
me.
Soft
eyes.
Soft
soft
soft
hand. I
am
lonely here. O,
touch
me
soon, now.
What
is
that
word
known
to
all men? I
am
quiet
here alone.
Sad
too. Touch,
touch
me.
In
long
lassoes
from
the
Cock
lake
the
water
flowed full, covering greengoldenly lagoons
of
sand, rising, flowing. My ashplant
will
float
away. I
shall
wait. No,
they
will
pass on, passing, chafing against the
low
rocks, swirling, passing.
Better
get
this
job
over
quick. Listen:
a
fourworded wavespeech: seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss, ooos.
Vehement
breath
of
waters
amid
seasnakes, rearing horses, rocks.
In
cups
of
rocks
it
slops: flop, slop, slap: bounded
in
barrels. And, spent, its
speech
ceases.
It
flows purling, widely flowing, floating foampool, flower unfurling.
Five
fathoms
out
there.
Full
fathom
five
thy father lies.
At
one,
he
said. Found drowned. High
water
at
Dublin bar. Driving before
it
a
loose
drift
of
rubble, fanshoals
of
fishes,
silly
shells.
A
corpse
rising saltwhite
from
the undertow, bobbing
a
pace
a
pace
a
porpoise
landward. There
he
is. Hook
it
quick. Pull. Sunk though
he
be
beneath the
watery
floor.
We
have
him.
Easy
now.
Bag
of
corpsegas sopping
in
foul
brine.
A
quiver
of
minnows,
fat
of
a
spongy titbit, flash through the slits
of
his
buttoned trouserfly.
God
becomes
man
becomes
fish
becomes
barnacle
goose
becomes featherbed mountain.
Dead
breaths I
living
breathe, tread
dead
dust,
devour
a
urinous
offal
from
all dead. Hauled
stark
over
the gunwale
he
breathes
upward
the
stench
of
his
green
grave,
his
leprous
nosehole snoring
to
the sun. My handkerchief.
He
threw it. I remember.
Did
I not
take
it
up?
His
hand
groped vainly
in
his
pockets. No, I didn't.
Better
buy
one.
He
laid the
dry
snot
picked
from
his
nostril
on
a
ledge
of
rock, carefully.
For
the
rest
let
look
who
will. Behind.
Perhaps
there
is
someone.
He
turned
his
face
over
a
shoulder, rere regardant. Moving through the air high spars
of
a
threemaster, her sails brailed
up
on
the crosstrees, homing, upstream, silently moving,
a
silent
ship. +