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

war – skirmishes

With dirty desert people, formal battles

With men in armour, their trumpets sweet and polished,

Encounters with barbarous hosts that spoke a language

Of growls and coughs. But, as time passed, the Israelite banners

Prevailed more. A matter of training. Stolen arms.

Even a matter of silver trumpets. There was a night

When the Israelite warriors, proud of being warriors,

Feasted and listened, full to a blind harpist

Who sang of their strength: ‘Woe to thee, Moab.

Thou are undone, O people of Chemosh.

We have shot at them. Heshbon is perished

Even unto Dibon. We have laid them

Waste even unto Nophah.’ Caleb, wine-flushed, said:

‘And yet there was a time, not long ago,

When we couldn’t win a single battle.’ Joshua,

Wine-flushed, said: ‘Discipline. Generalship.

Youth. New methods.’ The blind bard sang:

‘And we turned and went up by the way of Bashan.

And Og king of Bashan went out against us.

He and all his people, to the battle at Edrei.

And the Lord said unto Moses: Fear him not,

And thou shalt do unto him as thou didst

Unto Sihon, king of the Amorites.

So we smote them and his sons and all his people.

Until, halleluiah, none was left alive,

And we possessed his land.’ Warriors listening,

Scarred, patched, amputated, reminiscent,

Not above tears, cheering the end of the song.

‘Discipline’, Joshua said. ‘Generalship.

And God, of course. God is on our side.’

Wine-flushed, scarred, tough in the flare of the fires.

15

BALAAM

Woe to thee, Moab. That was a proleptic phrase.

They were hearing, in Moab, of a tough, scarred people,

Young, with a leader so aged as to be mythical

And hence unaging. In the royal palace at Moab

The king, Balak, listened to a minister saying,

In loud agitation to another minister:

‘Have I ever denied it? I said all along

They were, are a dangerous people.’ The king said:

‘Where are they now?’ The second minister pointed

To a crude map on sheepskin: ‘There. You see.

The side of Jericho. By Jordan river.

They have set up their tents on the plains of Moab.’

So the king cried: ‘My territory. Do you mark that?’

And the first minister: ‘As I said before,

They were, are, a dangerous people. Also they are

A breeding people. Babies scarce out of the cradle

Doing arms drill, or so we are told. And look what they did

To the Amorites.’ The king said: ‘What did they

Do to the Amorites?’ The second minister said:

‘Your majesty is presented with a comprehensive report.’

King Balak said: ‘Yes, yes, mass castration or something.

I know.’ And the first: ‘With respect, your majesty.

Slaughter, yes. But no atrocities. They are not a

Castrating people.’ The king said: “Slaughter is enough.

Slaughter will do very well. They’ll lick us up,

As the ox licks up the grass of the meadow. Eh?

Eh?’ An apt simile, they all agreed.

‘How many men can we put in the field?’ said the king.

‘Not enough’, he was told. ‘It’s a matter of numbers,

Not of courage or organisation. No,

Certainly by no manner of means enough.’

King Balak thought and at length said: ‘How about a curse?’

A curse, sir? ‘A curse, a malediction. Scare them off.

A religious people, are they? Very well,

They will know all about curses. Potent weapons.

Also economical. A curse.’ The second minister

Smiled wanly, and said: ‘Ah, Balaam. Balaam.’ –

‘Balaam, Balaam, a very powerful blesser

And an equally powerful, if not more so, curser.

Where is Balaam these days?’ The ministers knew.

‘In Pethor, your majesty. You know – by the river.’

Balaam was fishing happily in the river,

Singing a song of his youth. As he grew older

His youth grew clearer. A song of his childhood.

A fat short man, amiable, a powerful curser,

This being his profession. Fishing in the sun,

He scowled when he saw a shadow come over him

And yet the sun still there. Looking up,

He saw that the shadow was of four men, gentlemen,

Of high rank certainly, standing there. He said:

‘Ah, gentlemen. You I know, I think.

I am afraid the other gentleman – ’ Two elders from Moab:

These he knew. The others? ‘Greetings, Balaam’,

Said one of the Moabites. ‘We are come from the king.

These gentlemen are from Midian. We bear you word

From the court of Moab. The gentlemen of Midian

Wish to be associated with our mission.’

Balaam said: ‘Ah, come, come then, got you,’

Landing a carp. Then: ‘Mission? Message?’ A fine one.

The elder Moabite read aloud from a tablet:

‘Behold, there is a people come out of Egypt.

Behold, this people covers the face of the earth

And abides over against me. Come now, I pray you, therefore:

Curse me this people, for they are too mighty for me.

Then perhaps I shall prevail, drive them out of the land.

For I know well that he whom you bless is blessed,

And he whom you curse is cursed.’ Balaam heard that,

Complacent, then he said: ‘The king’s own words?’

The elder said: ‘You will recognise the style.’

Balaam rose and said: ‘Lodge here tonight.

Plenty of fish, as you see. I have to consult –

I must – You understand there are certain things

I shall have to do.’ They understood. ‘And in the morning

I hope you may take back word to – How is his majesty?’

Distressed, they said. Very fine carp, they said.

They ate them that night, sucking the bones,

And drank the thick black wine of Pethor. Balaam,

Expansive, told tales of cursings. ‘Ah, yes, gentlemen.

That was one of my better curses. It was

Extremely efficacious.’ The eldest Moabite:

‘I hope you can provide an even better one.

One worthy of this accursed people.’ – ‘Accursed?’

One of the Midianites said. ‘That is surely

A little premature.’ They laughed, finished the wine,

And Balaam said: ‘Now, I will go to my sanctum

And brew up my curse. Excuse me, gentlemen.’

In what he called his sanctum, reeking of mould,

Fish-glue, asafoetida, by a fish-oil lamp

He muttered over signs of old sheepskin, a skull,

A dried crocodile for company. Then the skull spoke.

Out of the sempiternal grin of the skull –

Or was it the crocodile’s? Words came,

Gentle enough: Who are those men with you?

Balaam gaped, gaped again, then answered:

‘Balak, the son of Zippor, king of Moab,

Sent them to me. But who are you, who are you?’

The voice said: With what word? ‘Who are you?’ gaped

Balaam. ‘Who?’ With what word? Balaam took the

Tablet and read from it, shaking: ‘Behold,

There is a people come out of Egypt, which

Covers the face