Senlin : A Biography

By Aiken, Conrad

Book Id: WPLBN0000707205
Format Type: PDF eBook:
File Size: 0.1 MB
Reproduction Date: 2007

Title:	Senlin : A Biography
Author:	Aiken, Conrad
Volume:
Language:	English
Subject:	Fiction, Poetry, Verse drama
Collections:	Poetry Collection
Historic Publication Date:
Publisher:	World Public Library Association


Citation APA MLA Chicago Aiken, B. C. (n.d.). Senlin : A Biography. Retrieved from http://www.gutenberg.cc/

Description
Poetry

Excerpt
Excerpt: His Dark Origins - // Senlin sits before us, and we see him. // He smokes his pipe before us, and we hear him. // Is he small, with reddish hair, // Does he light his pipe with meditative stare, // And a pointed flame reflected in both eyes? // Is he sad and happy and foolish and wise? // Did no one see him enter the doors of the city, // Looking above him at the roofs and trees and skies? // 'I stepped from a cloud', he says, 'as evening fell; // I walked on the sound of a bell; // I ran with winged heels along a gust; // Or is it true that I laughed and sprang from dust?... // Has no one, in a great autumnal forest, // When the wind bares the trees, // Heard the sad horn of Senlin slowly blown? // Has no one, on a mountain in the spring, // Heard Senlin sing? // Perhaps I came alone on a snow-white horse,- // Riding alone from the deep-starred night. // Perhaps I came on a ship whose sails were music,- // Sailing from moon or sun on a river of light.' // He lights his pipe with a pointed flame. // 'Yet, there were many autumns before I came, // And many springs. And more will come, long after // There is no horn for me, or song, or laughter. // The city dissolves about us, and its walls // Become an ancient forest. There is no sound // Except where an old twig tires and falls; // Or a lizard among the dead leaves crawls; // Or a flutter is heard in darkness along the ground. // Has Senlin become a forest? Do we walk in Senlin? // Is Senlin the wood we walk in, -ourselves,-the world? // Senlin! we cry... Senlin! again... No answer, // Only soft broken echoes backward whirled... // Yet we would say: this is no wood at all, // But a small white room with a lamp upon the wall; // And Senlin, before us, pale, with reddish hair, // Lights his pipe with a meditative stare. // 2 // Senlin, walking beside us, swings his arms // And turns his head to look at walls and trees. // The wind comes whistling from shrill stars of winter, // The lights are jewels, black roots freeze. // 'Did I, then, stretch from the bitter earth like these, // Reaching upward with slow and rigid pain // To seek, in another air, myself again?' // (Immense and solitary in a desert of rocks // Behold a bewildered oak // With white clouds screaming through its leafy brain.) // 'Or was I the single ant, or tinier thing, // That crept from the rocks of buried time // And dedicated its holy life to climb // From atom to beetling atom, jagged grain to grain, // Patiently out of the darkness we call sleep // Into a hollow gigantic world of light // Thinking the sky to be its destined shell, // Hoping to fit it well!-' // The city dissolves about us, and its walls // Are mountains of rock cruelly carved by wind. // Sand streams down their wasting sides, sand // Mounts upward slowly about them: foot and hand // We crawl and bleed among them! Is this Senlin? // In the desert of Senlin must we live and die? // We hear the decay of rocks, the crash of boulders, // Snarling of sand on sand. 'Senlin!' we cry. // 'Senlin!' again... Our shadows revolve in silence // Under the soulless brilliance of blue sky. // Yet we would say: there are no rocks at all, // Nor desert of sand... here by a city wall // White lights jewell the evening, black roots freeze, // And Senlin turns his head to look at trees. // 3 // It is evening, Senlin says, and in the evening, // By a silent shore, by a far distant sea, // White unicorns come gravely down to the water. // In the lilac dusk they come, they are white and stately, // Stars hang over the purple waveless sea; // A sea on which no sail was ever lifted, // Where a human voice was never heard. // The shadows of vague hills are dark on the water, // The silent stars seem silently to sing. // And gravely come white unicorns down to the water, // One by one they come and drink their fill; // And daisies burn like stars on the darkened hill. // 2 // It is evening Senlin says, and in the evening // The leaves on the trees, abandoned by the light, // Look to the earth, and whisper, and are still. // The bat with horned wings, tumbling through the darkness, // Breaks the web, and the spider falls to the ground. // The starry dewdrop gathers upon the oakleaf, // Clings to the edge, and falls without a sound. // Do maidens spread their white palms to the starlight // And walk three steps to the east and clearly sing? // Do dewdrops fall like a shower of stars from willows? // Has the small moon a ghostly ring?... // White skeletons dance on the moonlit grass, // Singing maidens are buried in deep graves, // The stars hang over a sea like polished glass... // And solemnly one by one in the darkness there // Neighing far off on the haunted air // White unicorns come gravely down to the water. // No silver bells are heard. The westering moon // Lights the pale floors of caverns by the sea. // Wet weed hangs on the rock. In shimmering pools // Left on the rocks by the receding sea // Starfish slowly turn their white and brown // Or writhe on the naked rocks and drown. // Do sea-girls haunt these caves-do we hear faint singing? // Do we hear from under the sea a faint bell ringing? // Was that a white hand lifted among the bubbles // And fallen softly back? // No, these shores and caverns are all silent, // Dead in the moonlight; only, far above, // On the smooth contours of these headlands, // White amid the eternal black, // One by one in the moonlight there // Neighing far off on the haunted air // The unicorns come down to the sea. // 4 // Senlin, walking before us in the sunlight, // Bending his small legs in a peculiar way, // Goes to his work with thoughts of the universe. // His hands are in his pockets, he smokes his pipe, // He is happily conscious of roofs and skies; // And, without turning his head, he turns his eyes // To regard white horses drawing a small white hearse. // The sky is brilliant between the roofs, // The windows flash in the yellow sun, // On the hard pavement ring the hoofs, // The light wheels softly run. // Bright particles of sunlight fall, // Quiver and flash, gyrate and burn, // Honey-like heat flows down the wall, // The white spokes dazzle and turn. // 3 // Senlin, walking before us in the sunlight, // Regards the hearse with an introspective eye. // 'Is it my childhood there,' he asks, // 'Sealed in a hearse and hurrying by?' // He taps his trowel against a stone; // The trowel sings with a silver tone. // 'Nevertheless I know this well. // Bury it deep and toll a bell, // Bury it under land or sea, // You cannot bury it save in me.' // It is as if his soul had become a city, // With noisily peopled streets, and through these streets // Senlin himself comes driving a small white hearse... // 'Senlin!' we cry. He does not turn his head. // But is that Senlin?-Or is this city Senlin,- // Quietly watching the burial of the dead? // Dumbly observing the cortege of its dead? // Yet we would say that all this is but madness: // Around a distant corner trots the hearse. // And Senlin walks before us in the sunlight // Happily conscious of his universe. // 5 // In the hot noon, in an old and savage garden, // The peach-tree grows. Its cruel and ugly roots // Rend and rifle the silent earth for moisture. // Above, in the blue, hang warm and golden fruits. // Look, how the cancerous roots crack mould and stone! // Earth, if she had a voice, would wail her pain. // Is she the victim, or is the tree the victim? // Delicate blossoms opened in the rain, // Black bees flew among them in the sunlight, // And sacked them ruthlessly; and no a bird // Hangs, sharp-eyed, in the leaves, and pecks the fruit; // And the peach-tree dreams, and does not say a word. // ...Senlin, tapping his trowel against a stone, // Observes this tree he planted: it is his own. // 'You will think it strange,' says Senlin, 'but this tree // Utters profound things in this garden; // And in its silence speaks to me. // I have sensations, when I stand beneath it, // As if its leaves looked at me, and could see; // And those thin leaves, even in windless air, // Seem to be whispering me a choral music, // Insubstantial but debonair. // Regard, they seem to say, // Our idiot root, which going its brutal way // Has cracked your garden wall! // Ugly, is it not? // A desecration of this place... // And yet, without it, could we exist at all? // 4 // Thus, rustling with importance, they seem to me // To make their apology; // Yet, while they apologize, // Ask me a wary question with their eyes. // Yes, it is true their origin is low- // Brutish and dull and cruel... and it is true // Their roots have cracked the wall. But do we know // The leaves less cruel-the root less beautiful? // Sometimes it seems as if there grew // In the dull garden of my mind // A tree like this, which, singing with delicate leaves, // Yet cracks the wall with cruel roots and blind. // Sometimes, indeed, it appears to me // That I myself am such a tree...' // ...And as we hear from Senlin these strange words // So, slowly, in the sunlight, he becomes this tree: // And among the pleasant leaves hang sharp-eyed birds // While cruel roots dig downward secretly. // 6 // Rustling among his odds and ends of knowledge // Suddenly, to his wonder, Senlin finds // How Cleopatra and Senebtisi // Were dug by many hands from ancient tombs. // Cloth after scented cloth the sage unwinds: // Delicious to see our futile modern sunlight // Dance like a harlot among these Dogs and Dooms! // First, the huge pyramid, with rock on rock // Bloodily piled to heaven; and under this // A gilded cavern, bat festooned; // And here in rows on rows, with gods about them, // Cloudily lustrous, dim, the sacred coffins, // Silver starred and crimson mooned. // What holy secret shall we now uncover? // Inside the outer coffin is a second; // Inside the second, smaller, lies a third. // This one is carved, and like a human body; // And painted over with fish and bull and bird. // Here are men walking stiffly in procession, // Blowing horns or lifting spears. // Where do they march to? Where do they come from? // Soft whine of horns is in our ears. // Inside, the third, a fourth... and this the artist,- // A priest, perhaps-did most to make resemble // The flesh of her who lies within. // The brown eyes widely stare at the bat-hung ceiling. // The hair is black, The mouth is thin. // Princess! Secret of life! We come to praise you! // The torch is lowered, this coffin too we open, // And the dark air is drunk with musk and myrrh. // Here are the thousand white and scented wrappings, // 5 // The gilded mask, and jeweled eyes, of her. // And now the body itself, brown, gaunt, and ugly, // And the hollow scull, in which the brains are withered, // Lie bare before us. Princess, is this all? // Something there was we asked that is not answered. // Soft bats, in rows, hang on the lustered wall. // And all we hear is a whisper sound of music, // Of brass horns dustily raised and briefly blown, // And a cry of grief; and men in a stiff procession // Marching away and softly gone. // 7 // 'And am I then a pyramid?' says Senlin, // 'In which are caves and coffins, where lies hidden // Some old and mocking hieroglyph of flesh? // Or am I rather the moonlight, spreading subtly // Above those stones and times? // Or the green blade of grass that bravely grows // Between to massive boulders of black basalt // Year after year, and fades and blows? // Senlin, sitting before us in the lamplight, // Laughs, and lights his pipe. The yellow flame // Minutely flares in his eyes, minutely dwindles. // Does a blade of grass have Senlin for a name? // Yet we would say that we have seen him somewhere, // A tiny spear of green beneath the blue, // Playing his destiny in a sun-warmed crevice // With the gigantic fates of frost and dew. // Does a spider come and spin his gossamer ladder // Rung by silver rung, // Chaining it fast to Senlin? Its faint shadow // Flung, waveringly, where his is flung? // Does a raindrop dazzle starlike down his length // Trying his futile strength? // A snowflake startle him? The stars defeat him? // Through aeons of dusk have birds above him sung? // Time is a wind, says Senlin; time, like music, // Blows over us its mournful beauty, passes, // And leaves behind a shadowy reflection,- // A helpless gesture of mist above the grasses. // 8 // In cold blue lucid dusk before the sunrise, // One yellow star sings over a peak of snow, // And melts and vanishes in a light like roses. // Through slanting mist, black rocks appear and glow. // The clouds flow downward, slowly as grey glaciers, // Or up to a pale rose-azure pass. // Blue streams tinkle down from snow to boulders, // From boulders to white grass. // Icicles on the pine tree melt // And softly flash in the sun: // 6 // In long straight lines the star-drops fall // One by one. // Is a voice heard while the shadows still are long, // Borne slowly down on the sparkling air? // Is a thin bell heard from the peak of silence? // Is someone among the high snows there? // Where the blue stream flows coldly among the meadows // And mist still clings to rock and tree // Senlin walks alone; and from that twilight // Looks darkly up, to see // The calm unmoving peak of snow-white silence, // The rocks aflame with ice, the rose-blue sky... // Ghost-like, a cloud descends from twinkling ledges, // To nod before the dwindling sun and die. // 'Something there is,' says Senlin, 'in that mountain, // Something forgotten now, that once I knew...' // We walk before a sun-tipped peak in silence, // Our shadows descend before us, long and blue. // Conrad Aiken...