from The Qualmist’s Quair
i.
Vapor clouding
from coiled shit,
hot air from
mouths and lips —
face it, said the
dark’s harpist —
is the everything
everything is.
*
Sick of talk
we babble on,
one generation
lapping another.
Earth remains
unchanged forever,
shrugs the skeptic.
But does it?
*
Wisdom earned
learns vexation;
the more you know
you know it hurts.
*
Chaim Soutine, Landscape with Figure, c. 1918-1919. Oil on canvas. Barnes Foundation.
The fool (knows
all and) folds
his arms (closed)
then eats (angry)
his (hungry) heart out….
*
Better a handful
of calm than
two of clutching
at the wind…
two of grasping
for the wind…
two of chasing
after wind…
Pierre Soulages, Peinture, 74 x 165 cm, 10 juillet 2013, 2013. Acrylic on canvas. Art Basel.
ii.
Look around:
Chance and Time
have at all
again and again
and none know when
theirs will come
like schools of fish
near nets stretched out
or birds at snares
fate has baited,
their days in flight
(click) done.
*
R.B. Kitaj, If Not, Not, 1975-6. Oil on canvas. Independent.
Dead flies
rot and stink
up the finest
oil and ointment
i.e., a
little stupidity
goes quite far
when it comes
to spoiling what’s
been bequeathed
from eternity,
and one’s honor.
And so I started
to hate my life,
my failings and failure
under the sun
all that vapor
and clutching at wind,
and so I detested
all that I’d done,
out with the air
under the sun.
R.B. Kitaj, Micrographic Profile, 1963. Marlborough Fine Art.
iii.
I saw as well
a ruler’s face
(like his palace)
swell with corruption
and told myself
a god would judge
where evil existed
and what good was
though as we descend
to the issue of ends
the difference between
beasts and men
grows hard to discern,
or so it seemed
through darkness dispersing
thickened again
and then I thought
of those who were suffering:
Is oppressed a cardboard
term to avoid
when they’re everywhere
being deployed
and riven by forces
deaf to their cries?
Don’t be so surprised
at the poor man’s neck
crushed by a knee
come down from on high
and higher…. Is
that just vapor
under the sun?
His gasping for wind?
Moshe Gershuni, God Full of Mercy, 1995-1996. Industrial varnish, spray paint, charcoal powder and pencil on paper. Midnight East.
iv.
Thus the qualmist’s
harping— Dark
days will still
be many, and …
while the light
is sweet to the eyes
when all gets said
what will survive
but vapor rising
from mouths and lips,
hot air
from coiled shit?
So savor what
you see and drink,
and work itself—
not what it brings.
In time, the castle’s
masters will tremble—
the lines make it clear,
its servants will stoop;
its mills depleted,
the grinding will stop,
and onlookers’ views
dim from within.
Its double doors
to the street will shut,
the bustle gradually
growing still
as the sound of a bird
gives you a start
and song itself
dies away.
Walking uphill
becomes an ordeal;
every path is
lined with peril
as almond trees blossom
and the locust is bowed,
and capers budding
on bushes swell.
Everyone leaves
for the long dwelling,
as mourners gather
in the square—
before the silver
cord is snapped,
before the golden
bowl shatters
and the pitcher’s broken
beside the spring,
and wheels to the cisterns’
waters are crushed,
dust returns
to earth as it was,
breath to the place it
blew through us from.
v.
All this I
thought I’d learned
and tried to teach,
though wisdom remained
beyond my reach,
just beyond
and just as deep—
and truly, who
could grasp it?
after Qohelet
