one another under the lamplight,
And as they drew level, one of their number,
Recognising me, grabbed me by the sleeve,
And said: ‘Well I never!’
And I, as he stretched out his arm,
Fixed my eyes on his sun-tanned brow,
And bending my face down to look him
In the eye, exclaimed: ‘Is this really
You here, Dr Moss?’ And he, laughing,
Exclaimed: ‘We’ve been having a barbecue,
A whole crowd of us, it’s such a lovely evening.
Shall I join you for a walk, if I’m not
Too drunk to climb up the bank?’
‘Be my guest,’ I said, lending him a hand.
Once on the bank, we sat down on a bench,
Sharing a cigarette with Berrigan, my guide.
‘If you don’t mind me asking,’ he said,
‘What brings you down here at this late hour,
And who’s this one showing you the way?’
‘This is the poet, Ted Berrigan,’ I said,
‘I bumped into him by the cash machines,
And he’s giving me a tour. How’s things?
How’s the novel going?
The Book of Carthage,
Or was it Chiswick?’ ‘You remember that?’
He said. ‘Well, the title’s changed several
Times since then, but it’s pretty much done.
The market, though, is unforgiving these days.
If I’d finished it a few years back,
When novels about Muslims were still new,
It might have stood a chance – as things are,
I have my doubts.
How are things with you? Still doing poems?
How’s Ann? How’s the department?’
‘Oh, it’s OK,’ I said, ‘You know,
Nothing much changes.’ ‘Well, don’t let them drag
You down,’ he said, ‘these ungrateful
And malignant scholars will become,
For your good work, your enemies – and not
Without reason: among the bitter berries
Is no fit place for the ripe fig to bloom.
But if you keep writing, things will work out.
Steer a path between the mainstream and the
Experimenters, that way nobody can claim you,
You’ll always be your own man.’
‘Oh, if everything I wished had been granted,’
I replied, ‘they’d have made a chair for you.
My mind is still etched
With your early encouragement of my work,
When I showed you my first primitive efforts,
Playing about with Aesop – in fact I still have
Your copy of L’Estrange somewhere,
And I’m not about to give it back.
Your example first showed me how I might
Combine a job in teaching with the real
Work of writing, and while I live
I’ll always talk of my debt to you,
And of my gratitude. I’ll remember what
You tell me, and chew it over.’
Berrigan, hearing this, stood up, stubbing
Out his cigarette, then looked at me and said:
‘He hears the best who pays the closest heed.’
I didn’t answer him, but went on talking
With Dr Moss, asking him
Who of his company I might know of.
‘You might have heard of one or two of them,’
He said, ‘but I doubt it. About some of
Them, the less said the better.
Many are writers, some academics,
One of them’s a priest who works
Not far from me, in Kemptown.
Oh, and Jeff’s there, along with his partner –
Have you met that guy? I could go on, but
Time’s too short, there’s such a crowd.
Look, I’d better be making tracks,
I see another barbecue coming to an end,
And there are some people there I’d rather avoid.
Remember my
Pink Pagoda,
That’s one thing I ask of you, and don’t forget
The Secret Life and Mysterious Death of Mr Chinn!’
Then he turned back, and he seemed like
One of those who race for the green cloth
At Verona, through the open fields, and like
The winner of the group, not the last man in.
CANTO XVI
As we made our way along the steep bank,
Bordering the river of blood,
We passed through a second wood, and when we
Emerged, we found ourselves in a place
Where the burning
flakes of flame
Fell fiercer than ever.
Distant, I could hear the clanking of some
Infernal engine, like the banging that
Car mechanics make,
And as they drew level, one of their number,
Recognising me, grabbed me by the sleeve,
And said: ‘Well I never!’
And I, as he stretched out his arm,
Fixed my eyes on his sun-tanned brow,
And bending my face down to look him
In the eye, exclaimed: ‘Is this really
You here, Dr Moss?’ And he, laughing,
Exclaimed: ‘We’ve been having a barbecue,
A whole crowd of us, it’s such a lovely evening.
Shall I join you for a walk, if I’m not
Too drunk to climb up the bank?’
‘Be my guest,’ I said, lending him a hand.
Once on the bank, we sat down on a bench,
Sharing a cigarette with Berrigan, my guide.
‘If you don’t mind me asking,’ he said,
‘What brings you down here at this late hour,
And who’s this one showing you the way?’
‘This is the poet, Ted Berrigan,’ I said,
‘I bumped into him by the cash machines,
And he’s giving me a tour. How’s things?
How’s the novel going?
The Book of Carthage,
Or was it Chiswick?’ ‘You remember that?’
He said. ‘Well, the title’s changed several
Times since then, but it’s pretty much done.
The market, though, is unforgiving these days.
If I’d finished it a few years back,
When novels about Muslims were still new,
It might have stood a chance – as things are,
I have my doubts.
How are things with you? Still doing poems?
How’s Ann? How’s the department?’
‘Oh, it’s OK,’ I said, ‘You know,
Nothing much changes.’ ‘Well, don’t let them drag
You down,’ he said, ‘these ungrateful
And malignant scholars will become,
For your good work, your enemies – and not
Without reason: among the bitter berries
Is no fit place for the ripe fig to bloom.
But if you keep writing, things will work out.
Steer a path between the mainstream and the
Experimenters, that way nobody can claim you,
You’ll always be your own man.’
‘Oh, if everything I wished had been granted,’
I replied, ‘they’d have made a chair for you.
My mind is still etched
With your early encouragement of my work,
When I showed you my first primitive efforts,
Playing about with Aesop – in fact I still have
Your copy of L’Estrange somewhere,
And I’m not about to give it back.
Your example first showed me how I might
Combine a job in teaching with the real
Work of writing, and while I live
I’ll always talk of my debt to you,
And of my gratitude. I’ll remember what
You tell me, and chew it over.’
Berrigan, hearing this, stood up, stubbing
Out his cigarette, then looked at me and said:
‘He hears the best who pays the closest heed.’
I didn’t answer him, but went on talking
With Dr Moss, asking him
Who of his company I might know of.
‘You might have heard of one or two of them,’
He said, ‘but I doubt it. About some of
Them, the less said the better.
Many are writers, some academics,
One of them’s a priest who works
Not far from me, in Kemptown.
Oh, and Jeff’s there, along with his partner –
Have you met that guy? I could go on, but
Time’s too short, there’s such a crowd.
Look, I’d better be making tracks,
I see another barbecue coming to an end,
And there are some people there I’d rather avoid.
Remember my
Pink Pagoda,
That’s one thing I ask of you, and don’t forget
The Secret Life and Mysterious Death of Mr Chinn!’
Then he turned back, and he seemed like
One of those who race for the green cloth
At Verona, through the open fields, and like
The winner of the group, not the last man in.
CANTO XVI
As we made our way along the steep bank,
Bordering the river of blood,
We passed through a second wood, and when we
Emerged, we found ourselves in a place
Where the burning
flakes of flame
Fell fiercer than ever.
Distant, I could hear the clanking of some
Infernal engine, like the banging that
Car mechanics make,
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