Collected Poems by Anthony Burgess (best e ink reader for manga txt) 📕

That formless shifting world,

Whistling and singing nonsense. There is no

Solidity, no certainty in the desert.

Reality is here, cousin. For a thousand years

We Egyptians have been the masters of reality.

We have an exact and perfect, an exquisite,

An almost painful knowledge of the nature of

Power, power. The means of its acquisition,

Its growth, its maintenance. Power is here and for ever.

This is the real world, and you belong to it.

You, who know reality, have been whoring too long

After dreams of the desert. You are recalled to

Reality.’ But Moses, softly, ‘Called, not

Recalled.’ And his eyes were lost an instant

Among the effigies, and Pharaoh did not

Well, for an instant, understand. But then he

Looked up, showing pleasure, for into the chamber

His queen came, and also a nurse, and in the nurse’s arms…

‘My son,’ cried Pharaoh in joy. ‘My first-born.

Is he not beautiful?’ Moses nodded sadly. ‘Beautiful.’

Pharaoh took the child in his arms, saying in joy:

‘My son. He will reign after me.

The unbroken and unbreakable chain of rule.

The strength which sets the desert winds

Howling in impotence. And you, and you

Choose these empty voices out of the dead sand.

This I cannot comprehend.’ Moses said:

‘It is a simple matter, majesty. It is a

Matter of one’s race. One’s people. The

Destiny of that people. I have discovered

Where I belong.’ The child cried, putting out arms

Towards his mother, and Pharaoh kissed and

Hugged him, handing him reluctantly over,

The queen saying: ‘He is ready to sleep,

Now he has seen his father.’ And she left,

Looking curiously at Moses, whom she did not know.

‘Where you belong?’ said Pharaoh. ‘You belong to us.

To me. Bemused by the fable of your birth,

You ignore the truth. And the truth is that you are of Egypt.

Of the blood. For the blood is not what passes

From mother to son. That belongs to

The order of the beasts. It is rather what is of the soul,

Whatever the soul is. The woman who

Made herself your mother – she was the substance. She

Remains the substance, even in death. You, Moses

You are of Egypt, and one of my tasks

Is to confirm that truth – in your own life,

In that bigger life called history.’ But Moses,

Impatient: ‘This is the. Mysticism. I must

War against. The voices of the. Desert spoke hard

Metal. The shifting. Swirling. Insubstantial.

Those are in your words. I reject Egypt.

I embrace my people.’ And Pharaoh, harder now,

Metal: ‘Your people, as you call them,

Belong to Egypt. They are the tough skin of the

Hands and feet of Egypt, no more, but the

Body does not disown them.’ And Moses, urgent:

‘Beware of such. Images. The reality is that

We are a. Different animal. We scent our.

Own destiny. We must be free. To track it.’

And Pharaoh, hard, metal: ‘Never. Never.’ Moses said:

‘I know. You will never be. Persuaded by.

Entreaties. Egypt is locked against

Voices from the desert. It must be signs, signs.’

‘Signs from whom or what or where?’ asked Pharaoh. –

‘From the Maker of the World who is the

God of my people. The God. Of what he has made.’ –

‘Signs?’ cried Pharaoh. ‘Tricks? The Egyptian conjurers

Know them all. You are being more Egyptian

For thinking of signs. What will you do, cousin Moses –

Turn that stick to a snake? My sorcerers

Can do that yawning. Make your snake swallow theirs?

We must from Moses, must we not, expect

Big magic? I should be appalled if Moses let mere

Magicians, salaried nameless men of trickery,

Beat him at that game.’ But Moses shook his head.

‘My Lord Pharaoh. Highness. Majesty. There must be

None of that manner of. Commerce between us. No

Ambiguity in your mind. You must believe that the

Signs and the demands. Come from a true. Israelite.’

But Pharaoh could smile, saying: ‘You are an Egyptian.

Will always be an Egyptian.’ Moses did not smile.

‘So you will believe. Until the signs

Persuade you otherwise. Let the tale begin now.

I shall not at first be in it. I am not qualified.

Being so. Slow of speech.’ And Pharaoh, smiling again:

‘Another of your fallacies, cousin Moses.’

But Moses was troubled at having to hate this man.

5

THE PLAGUES

THUS the tale beginning, the voice was Aaron’s.

And all was done, in the beginning to a

Strict pattern of decorum. For, to an official,

An overseer of overseers, Aaron brought the petition

That was partly a lie, but a lie was part of the pattern.

Saying, with proper humility: ‘Three days in the desert.

A small request, your honour. We have orders

To sacrifice to the God of our people.’ But the official

Stormed, according to the pattern: ‘Orders? Orders?

We give the orders. You interest me, little man.

Why in the desert?’ Aaron duly replied:

‘Since it was in the desert that my brother Moses

Heard the command.’ – ‘Whose command?’ – ‘The command

of Him who demands the sacrifice.’ The official said:

‘You talk round and round, round and round.’ –

‘Three days in the desert, your honour.’ The official said:

‘Request refused’ – ‘What request?’ spoke a voice.

It was in the open air, near a half-built wall

Of the new half-built treasure-city, and the voice

Was that of some peacock of the royal household,

Gorgeous, his face already an effigy,

On a horse sumptuously caparisoned. ‘My lord’,

Grovelled the overseer of overseers, ‘this slave here

Asks on behalf of other slaves permission to spend

Three days in the desert. Request refused, my lord.’ –

‘Who put you up to this nonsense?’ His lordship asked,

And Aaron: ‘With respect, we do not consider it

Nonsense. We must sacrifice in the desert.

You have your gods. We have our God. Only one.

We make no high pretensions.’ His lordship said:

‘You have not answered my question.’ So Aaron answered:

‘It was my brother Moses who in the desert

Heard the word of God.’ – ‘Why does your brother

Not make the request himself?’ And Aaron said,

True to the pattern, ‘My brother is slow of speech.’ –

‘And slow perhaps of understanding. When will you

Israelites realise what you are?’ Decorously, Aaron:

‘We are beginning to realise, sir.’ – ‘Take him back this answer.

And deliver it as slowly as you will.’ He raised his whip,

Its handle gorgeously patterned, and lashed. The blow was feeble,

Apt for the giver of the blow, but blood came,

Rippling through Aaron’s beard, first blood. Aaron bowed,

Humble, submissive to the pattern. But his word travelled

Quickly enough. Israelite insolence, to the palace,

And one