  Snake Bull, my namesake, man of wrath, By no expense of knives or cloth, Only by work of muttered charms Could draw all woman to his arms; None whom he summoned might resist Nor none recall whom once he kissed And loosed them from his kiss, by whom This mother-shame had come. The power of his compelling flame Was bound in virtue of our name, But when in secret he taught me Like him a thief of love to be, For half his secret I had found And half explored the wizard ground Of words, and when giving consent Out at his heels I went. Then FessÉ, jungle-god whose shape Is one part man and three parts ape, Avenger of misuse by man Of lust that by his art began, And master of all mimicries Made tittering laughter in the trees. With girlish whispers, sighs and giggling Set the Bull prancing, the Snake wriggling; Where leaves were broadest and light dim, FessÉ ambushed him. Up through the air I saw him swung To bridal bowers with red flowers hung; He choked for mercy like a maid By his own violent whim betrayed; I heard his hugged ribs creak and break, But what the tree-top rites might be How should I stay to see? In terror of the Ape God’s power I changed my person in that hour, Cast off the livery of my clan, Over unlawful hills I ran, I soiled me with forbidden earth. In nakedness of second birth I scorched away the Snake’s red eyes Tattoed for name about my thighs, And slew the Sacred Bull oppressed With passion on my breast. The girls of my new tribe are cold, Amazon, scarred, not soft to hold. They seek not men, nor are they sought, Whose children are not theirs, but bought From outlaw tribes who dwell in trees— Tamed apes suckle these. The young men of the tribe are such That knife or bow they dare not touch, But in close watching of the skies And reckoning counts they dim their eyes. Closed, each by each, in thoughtful bars They plot the circuits of the stars, And frozen music dulls their need Of drink and man-flesh greed. They hold that virtue from them slips When eye greets eye or lips touch lips; Down to the knee their broad beards fall And hardly are they men at all. Possessions they have none, nor schools For tribal duties, nor close rules, No gods, no rites, no totem beasts, No friendships, no love feasts. Now quit, as they, of gong-roused lust, The leap of breasts, the scattering dust, In hermit splendour at my glass I watch the skies’ procession pass, Tracing my figures on the floor Of planets’ paths and comets’ lore; In calm amaze I cloak my will, I gaze, I count, until Harsh from his House the Bull roars out, Forked lightning leaps his points about, Tattoos his shape upon the sky: Night anger fills the Serpent’s eye With desolating fire for one Who thought the Serpent’s days were done, And girlish titterings from the trees Loosen my firm knees. |
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