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The steamer hove in,
                                 hooted,
                                              roared,
and,
       runaway convict,
                                  they've chained’er.
700
      humans on hoard.
Negroes —
              the remainder.
Out of a launch
                        to the steamer decks.
Popping
             up
                  for inspection,
the doctor squints
                            through tortoise-shell specs:
“Anyone got infection?”
Pimples well-powdered,
                                      features well-washed,
swaying and swaggering coyly,
the first class
                     filed
                             as the doctor watched
with smile
               urbane and oily.
From double-barreller nostrils
                                              exhaling
blue smoke
                  in a cunning ring,
headmost came
                         in a diamond halo
Swift —
         the porker king.
A yard
          from his snigger
                                    the stinkpipe stuck.
Go,
     pry into clients like these!
Under cambric vest,
                               under silken trunks,
go and discern
                       disease.
Island!
          To abstinence
                                take recourse.
Don’t let him beyond the docks.
But no —
          the captain
                            salutes, in due course,
and Swift is let loose
                               with the pox.
First class done with,
                                 the second class goes
in
  for examination.
The doctor pokes
                          into ear and nose,
the picture of irritation.
The doctor sneered,
                                and the doctor scowled,
jowls
       all askew
                      with spleen,
then sent three blokes
                                  from the second class crowd
for a couple of days’ quarantine.
After the second class
                                   loomed the third,
black
        with niggers
                            as ink.
The doctor
                 looked at his watch.
                                                 disturbed,
“Cocktail-hour,
                       I should think.
Off!
      and shut ’em up in the hold.
Ill —
    clear as day!”
                          he stated.
“Dirty vagabonds!
                            And, all told,
not one of ’em
                      vaccinated.”
Down
         in the hold
                          he sprawls, Tom Jackson,
hell of a pain
                    in his noddle.
Tomorrow
               they’ll jab him
                                     with smallpox vaccine
and home
                Tom Jackson’ll toddle.
Tommy,
           he’s got a wife on shore;
hair — like a soft black cushion,
and skin —
              the sleekest you ever saw,
just like
           Black Lion shoeshine.
While Tom
                 went tramping
                                        for work
                                                      abroad
— Cuba’s got eyes
                              for beauty —
his wife
            got sacked
                              for what the boss called
dodgin’ her nat’ral duty.
The moon chucks coins
                                      on the ocean bed —
dive in
          and all ills will mend.
No meat whole weeks,
                                   no meal 'n' no bread,
just pineapples
                        weeks on end.
Another steamer
                          screwed in by its screw —
’s weeks
              till the next’ll be coinin’.
I lunger’s no help
                           in pulling through.
Ah, Tommy don’t love me,
                                         Tommy ain’t true,
shares his mat with a white,
                                            does Tommy.
No way of earning,
                              no chance to steal —
police
         under parasols
                                 everywhere.
And Swift —
                those exotics make him feel
lascivious
               as a terrier.
Old Sallow
                perspired
                               under trunks and vest
at flesh
           so juicy and black.
He poked
               his bucks
                               at the face, the breast —
at the moons
                    with famine slack.
Then grappled
                       hunger,
                                    that lifelong foe,
with heavy-weight
                            faithfulness.
Inside
         was the clear decision
                                             NO,
yet lips
           broke huskily:
                                  YES. . . .
Already pushing
                          the door with his shoulder
was festering Mister Swift.
And time
              wasn’t
                          a minute older
when up they were whisked by the lift.
Tom
      turned up
                      in a week or so
and a fortnight through
                                    slept fast,
glad
      that they’d be
                            with bread and dough
and the smallpox bogy was past.
But there came a day
                                  when on Negro skin
ominous patterns
                           were etched
and children
                   their mothers’ wombs within
grew dumb,
                  blind
                          and wretched.
The calendar skimmed
                                    from day to day
crippling legs and arms,
eating
          half their bodies
                                    away,
stretching their palms
                                  for alms.
And special note
                          of the Negro
                                              was made
when the flock
                      collected for prayer.
Pointing towards
                          this visual aid
Parson Dry
                 would declare:
“It’s God
             who punishes
                                    man
                                            and wife
for her
           bringing visitors home.”
And rotting black flesh
                                   for the rest of life
peeled from rotting Negro bone.
Nosing in politics?
                            Not my vocation.
I just
       jot down
                     what I see.
Some folks
                  call it
                           CIVILISATION,
others —
            CO-LO-NIAL PO-LI-CY.

بیش از اینها، آه، آری
بیش از اینها میتوان خاموش ماند

**

میتوان ساعات طولانی
با نگاهی چون نگاه مردگان، ثابت
خیره شد در دود یک سیگار
خیره شد در شکل یک فنجان
در گلی بیرنگ، بر قالی
در خطی موهوم، بر دیوار

میتوان با پنجه‌های خشک
پرده را یکسو کشید و دید
در میان کوچه باران تند میبارد
کودکی با بادبادکهای رنگینش
ایستاده زیر یک طاقی
گاری فرسوده‌ای میدان خالی را
با شتابی پرهیاهو ترک میگوید

میتوان بر جای باقی ماند
در کنار پرده، اما کور، اما کر

میتوان فریاد زد
با صدائی سخت کاذب، سخت بیگانه
«دوست میدارم»
میتوان در بازوان چیرهٔ یک مرد
ماده‌ای زیبا و سالم بود
با تنی چون سفرهٔ چرمین
با دو پستان درشت سخت
میتوان در بستر یک مست، یک دیوانه، یک ولگرد
عصمت یک عشق را آلود

میتوان با زیرکی تحقیر کرد
هر معمای شگفتی را
میتوان تنها به حل جدولی پرداخت
میتوان تنها به کشف پاسخی بیهوده دل خوش ساخت
پاسخی بیهوده، آری پنج یا شش حرف

میتوان یک عمر زانو زد
با سری افکنده، در پای ضریحی سرد
میتوان در گور مجهولی خدا را دید
میتوان با سکه‌ای ناچیز ایمان یافت
میتوان در حجره‌های مسجدی پوسید
چون زیارتنامه خوانی پیر
میتوان چون صفر در تفریق و جمع و ضرب
حاصلی پیوسته یکسان داشت
میتوان چشم ترا در پیلهٔ قهرش
دکمهٔ بیرنگ کفش کهنه‌ای پنداشت
میتوان چون آب در گودال خود خشکید

میتوان زیبائی یک لحظه را با شرم
مثل یک عکس سیاه مضحک فوری
در ته صندوق مخفی کرد
میتوان در قاب خالی ماندهٔ یک روز
نقش یک محکوم، یا مغلوب، یا مصلوب را آویخت
میتوان با صورتک‌ها رخنهٔ دیوار را پوشاند
میتوان با نقشهائی پوچ‌تر آمیخت

میتوان همچون عروسک‌های کوکی بود
با دو چشم شیشه‌ای دنیای خود را دید
میتوان در جعبه‌ای ماهوت
با تنی انباشته از کاه
سالها در لابلای تور و پولک خفت
میتوان با هر فشار هرزهٔ دستی
بی‌سبب فریاد کرد و گفت
«آه، من بسیار خوشبختم»

Longer than this, ah, yes
one can remain silent longer than this

*

With a gaze fixed like the gaze of the dead
one can stare for long hours
into the smoke of a cigarette
at the shape of a cup
at the colorless flower in the carpet
at the faint line of writing on the wall

With withered fingers
one can draw aside the curtain and look
In the alleyway a heavy rain pours down
A child with his colorful balloons
is standing in a doorway
A worn-out cart makes a racket
as it hurries out of the empty square

One can remain in place
by the side of the curtain, but blind, deaf

With a voice utterly false, utterly foreign
one can cry out
“I love”
In the overpowering arms of a man
one can be a beautiful and healthy female
with a body like a leather tablecloth
with two big firm breasts
In the bed of a drunk, a crazy man, a tramp
one can contaminate the chastity of a love

One can belittle with cleverness
every wondrous riddle
Alone, one can do a crossword puzzle
Alone, one can amuse oneself with the discovery of a useless answer
a useless answer, yes, in five or six letters

One can kneel down for a lifetime
with head bowed, at the foot of a cold grille in a shrine
One can see God in an anonymous tomb (*)
One can find faith with a worthless coin
One can rot in the chambers of a mosque
like an old prayer-reader
Like zero in subtraction, addition, and multiplication
one can always get the same result
One can imagine your eye in its implacable cocoon
as a colorless button on a worn-out shoe
One can, like water in its hole, dry up

With shame one can hide the beauty of a moment
like a funny black-and-white snapshot
at the bottom of a trunk
In the empty frame of what remains of the day
one can hang the image of a man condemned, defeated, or crucified
One can conceal the crack in the wall with masks
One can mingle with images emptier than these

One can be just like mechanical dolls
and see the world with two glass eyes
In a cloth-lined box
with a body filled with straw
one can sleep for years in folds of lace and sequins
With every squeeze of a lecherous hand one can spontaneously cry out
“Ah, I’m very lucky!”

Sin

I sinned, a sin that was all pleasure,
Within the fiery warmth of his embrace
I sinned within his arms
That were like iron, ardent, fierce.

Within that intimately silent darkness
I stared at his mysterious eyes,
My heart convulsive in my trembling breast
As I perceived the longing in his eyes

Within that intimately silent darkness
I sat beside him in a turmoil of uncertainty—
His lips spilled their desire on mine
And I escaped my crazy heart’s long misery

I whispered in his ear the words of love,
“I want you, O my love,
I want your arms around me, giving life,
I want you, O my crazy love”

Desire’s flame flickered in his eyes
And red wine danced within the glass—
My body in the yielding mattress, drunk
With love, and trembling on his breast

I’ve sinned, a sin that was all pleasure,
Beside his body, trembling, hardly conscious—
O God, what do I know of what I did
Within that intimately silent darkness?

هدیه

من از نهایت شب حرف میزنم
من از نهایت تاریکی
و از نهایت شب حرف میزنم

اگر به خانهٔ من آمدی برای من ای مهربان چراغ بیاور
و یک دریچه که از آن
به ازدحام کوچهٔ خوشبخت بنگرم

Sin

I sinned a sin full of pleasure
in an embrace that was warm and fiery
I sinned in arms that were hot
and vindictive and made of iron

In that dark and silent sanctuary
I looked into his eyes full of secrets
My restless heart trembled in my chest
at the demands of his hungry eyes

In that dark and silent sanctuary
I sat agitated at his side
His lips poured violent desire across my lips
I was freed from my mad heart’s grief

I whispered words of love into his ear:
I want you, O my love
I want you, O life-giving embrace
You, O my mad lover

The passion in his eyes lit a flame
Red wine danced in the cup
In the soft bed my euphoric body
trembled on his chest

I sinned a sin full of pleasure
beside a dazed and trembling body
O Lord, what do I know about what I did
in that dark and silent sanctuary

باد ما را خواهد برد

در شب کوچک من، افسوس
باد با برگ درختان میعادی دارد
در شب کوچک من دلهرهٔ ویرانیست

گوش کن
وزش ظلمت را میشنوی؟
من غریبانه به این خوشبختی مینگرم
من به نومیدی خود معتادم
گوش کن
وزش ظلمت را میشنوی؟

در شب اکنون چیزی میگذرد
ماه سرخست و مشوش
و بر این بام که هر لحظه در او بیم فرو ریختن است
ابرها، همچون انبوه عزاداران
لحظهٔ باریدن را گوئی منتظرند

لحظه‌ای
و پس از آن، هیچ.
پشت این پنجره شب دارد میلرزد
و زمین دارد
باز میماند از چرخش
پشت این پنجره یک نامعلوم
نگران من و تست

ای سراپایت سبز
دستهایت را چون خاطره‌ای سوزان، در دستان عاشق من بگذار
و لبانت را چون حسی گرم از هستی
به نوازش‌های لبهای عاشق من بسپار
باد ما را با خود خواهد برد
باد ما را با خود خواهد برد