Dante's Inferno (6 page)

Love of my native city moved me to

Gather up the scattered leaves and give them

Back to him whose voice was already growing hoarse.

Then we reached a break

                                in the woodland

And came to a new place of pain.

We looked out over bare flatlands,

Stretching as far as the eye can see,

Where few plants grow,

Only reeds and wormwood,

       so barren                      is the earth;

The mournful wood borders them

Like a lonely wreath, and is

Bordered in turn

                            by the river of blood

Which runs beside a wide rim of sand,

Thick and burning, like that packed down

By coalition boots in Iraq.

The place was swarming with herds of souls,

Some who walked naked,

                                         like sun-lovers,

Some who were heavily dressed, as if for winter,

All cursing, or muttering incomprehensibly,

Or simply wailing,

So that the air was filled with their eerie music.

Of these, some lay sprawled across the sand,

Some sat crouched in the hollows

Of the marsh, while others roamed incessantly

Up and down, like dog owners

                            who had lost their mutts.

Over the sand, falling slowly,

Rained flakes of burning fire, like those

Of snow that fall in the Alps on a windless day,

Or those that Saddam Hussain saw raining

On his troops as they retreated across Iraq’s

Torrid lands, exploding

When they hit the ground, so that his men

And their vehicles

                             burned up as they fled;

Here

             sand and reeds were kindled,

Like tinder under flint and steel,

Redoubling pain. Ever restless was the dance

Of scorched fingers, now here, now there,

Shaking off the fresh burning.

‘Berrigan, my guide,’ I began, ‘you who

Can conquer all things (except those angry students

Who shut the gate on us at the tower)

Who is that great spirit, who seems to care not

For the fire, that lies disdainful and contorted,

As if the rain didn’t bother him?’

As I spoke, the man raised himself up unsteadily

On the sand, waving an empty bottle of Bushmills

In our faces, then spoke in a drawl:

‘What I was living, I am too dead,

A Fenian, an alcoholic and a junky,

Like James Clarence fucking Mangan,

And a better singer of the songs

You’ll not find this side of Lethe’s waters!

Up in the light I took my share of the shite:

I’ve been raped and spat on and shat on and abused,

Kicked in the teeth till the blood came out my ears

By Her Majesty’s men in the blue cloth.

There’s nothing this side of Hell’s gates

I haven’t seen before, I tell you;

But would you be having any cheap pills,

If you know what I mean,

Your fellow there looks like a man

After my own taste.’

Then Berrigan spoke back: ‘Shane MacGowan,

It’s you, isn’t it? You haven’t lost any

Of your blustering pride, have you?

But you’ve had a skinful already,

Perhaps that’s why you pay no attention

To these searing flakes, I’m not handing out

Any free pills to you.’ And then he turned

His face to me, saying: ‘That man was once king

Of the hit parade, one of the seven Pogues,

He blasphemed his way to the top of the charts,

Then all the way down again, till he ended

Up in the state you see him in now.

Now follow me, and see you don’t step

On the burning sand, but stick

To the straight track close to the wood.’

In silence we came to a spot where a

Thick concrete pipe carried toxic effluent

Off the farmland, spewing it into the

Waters of the river of blood (its stink

Still sticks in my nostrils!). As I gazed out

Across the estuary, a thought framed

Itself in my mind, and wishing to know

The answer I asked Berrigan why it was

That the river flowed red.

‘Not far from campus,’ said Berrigan,

‘There lies a place they call Colchester,

Where the British Army rest

Between tours of duty,

And under whose king, Cymbeline,

                     the world once knew peace.

Before that, the Romans built their capital here,

Camulodunum. North of there, the Iceni

Still ruled, a warrior race,

But when their king – I forget his name – died,

The Romans turned on his widow;

She was whipped publicly and her daughters raped.

This was a big mistake: Boudicca

Turned the might of her army on

Camulodunum and torched it.

The Romans, mostly retired veterans,

Took refuge in the Temple of Claudius,

But this didn’t do them much good.

Boudicca torched that too, and to this day,

If you dig down, you can still see a seam

Of burnt red clay, the destruction layer.

It’s the blood she spilt that makes the river

Colne run red, and it’s this river that

Encircles the campus and feeds the lakes,

One of which, as you have seen,

               she still sails

                         in her coracle.’

Then I asked another thing that had been

Puzzling me: ‘Where is the river Lethe, then,

Of which MacGowan spoke?’

‘Hold your horses,’ said Berrigan, ‘we’ve still

Got a long way to go. You’ll see your Lethe

In good time, if we get out of this abyss.

That’s where the shades go to wash themselves

When their guilt is taken off by penitence.

Now it’s time to move on,

See that you follow me, and stick to the raised track.’

As the Flemings between Wissant and Bruges,

In fear of the flood tides’ constant threat,

Build strong dykes to repel the sea;

And as Canvey islanders,

Fearful of another flood like in ’53,

Raise up barrages against the estuary,

In like fashion were these banks built,

Though not so high or so large,

By Roman hands, from mud and oyster shells.

We had left the wood behind us,

So far back, indeed, that had I turned

To look I couldn’t have seen it,

When we met a troop of spirits

Who walked beside the bank, on the sand;

From where they’d come from, in the distance,

The eye could make out barbecues,

Which lit up the water’s edge,

Flinging sparks high into the air;

As they approached, each one peered at us,

As in the evening clubbers

Look at 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.

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, when three shades together,

Running, broke away

                     from a group toasting on the sands.

They veered towards us and, shouting as one, cried:

‘You there! Stop!’ Then one of them added as

Coda: ‘From the look of you, you’re from New York –

I’d recognise that face anywhere!’

As they drew closer, what wounds I saw

By the flames burned in –

It pains me yet, as I write these lines.

My teacher listened to their cries, then

Turning towards me, said: ‘Hold it;

These guys deserve a little respect.

In fact, if it weren’t for those burning flakes

Raining down over the sands, I’d suggest

You ran to greet them, not vice versa.’

We stopped, as they came up to the foot of the bank,

Where they stopped too, forming themselves into

A wheel;

It made me think of Matisse’s dancers

Whirling in a ring,

As if they were trying to make of their lives,

Of their deaths,

                         a work of high art.

Spinning around in this way, each one

Flung his head towards us as he whizzed past

So that their necks and feet appeared

To move constantly in opposite directions.

As they continued spinning, one of them began:

‘Ted Berrigan, it’s been a long time!

If the misery of these sterile sands

And our blotched and scorched demeanour

Doesn’t scare you off, talk to us a while;

And you there, who seem to be a living shade,

Walking unpunished through these torrid zones,

Let our fame persuade you to tell us who you are.

He in whose footsteps you see me tread,

All naked and peeling though he is now,

Was of noble station, more than you may know;

He was the grandson of the physicist,

Henry Lawrence, his name’s John Ashbery,

And in his lifetime he did much as an

Editor, teacher and writer.

The other one, that treads the sand behind me,

Is Joe Brainard, who left the world

His memories to read. I’m James Schuyler,

You’ll find me in
New American Poetry,

I’m the one who taught these two to dance.’

If it hadn’t been for the burning sand

I’d have run down the bank to greet them;

As things were, I stood awestruck on the track.

Berrigan, my guide, then spoke:

‘That’s some dance you’ve got there, James,

Where did you pick that one up,

Is it Italian? This dude is another

Poet, I’m taking him on a tour of Hell,

He’s got AHRC funding –

That’s like having a Fulbright Scholarship.’

‘Is that so?’ said Schuyler, ‘Now, tell us about

New York, Ted, we were just talking about it.

David Plante, who recently joined our party,

Says it’s gone to the dogs. What’s the news?’

And Berrigan replied: ‘My companion’s

Been there more recently than I have,

He should be able to give you the low-down.’

At once I turned red with embarrassment.

If ever I regretted telling a lie

This was the moment.

Berrigan had asked me if

I’d ever been to the US, and ashamed

To admit I hadn’t, I’d said,

                                          er,

I recently went to New York.

Now my fib was coming back to haunt me

And I was going to have to bullshit my way out.

‘Well,’ I began, all of them hanging on

My every word, ‘I don’t know the city very well,

To tell the truth,

I’ve only been there for

                                         a long weekend,

But from what I hear people are a little

Bit jumpy since 9/11. And

The village isn’t what it used to be,

I’m told, it’s been taken over by

People in marketing and the media,

The new bourgeoisie,

And the artists have been priced out.’

I blurted out the words without thinking,

My mouth moving without my brain engaged,

As one does when asked a question at a conference.

‘Oh my God,’ said Brainard, ‘it’s just like David says.

If you always answer questions this easily,

Poet, then you’re a happy man!

Now listen, if you manage to get out of this

Place alive, and return to gaze on the

Beauteous stars, see that you speak of us to men.’

Then they broke up their wheel and fled across

The sand, and as they fled

Their nimble legs seemed like wings in flight.

When they were out of sight, Berrigan turned to

Depart, and I followed, close behind.

We had not gone very far along the track

Before our senses were overwhelmed with

The clanking of loud machinery,

As one hears outside the town of Carrara,

Or on the industrial estate at Harlow,

Yet as we advanced, now along a tarmac

Track, we soon found ourselves

Treading the rim of a vast and bottomless

Pit gouged into the earth

Without pity.

Here no trees grew, nor any scrub, and what remained

Of the earth was scorched and burned up;

Everywhere dust blew about

Whipped by a spiralling wind which

Rose from the depths of the pit.

Along the rim, a few houses still clung on,

Their gardens already devoured by the chasm.

When we had taken in our new surroundings,

Berrigan led me along a narrow spit of land

Flanked by the void on either side,

Which took us to a small island perched above

The hollow, where a few gravestones stood,

And the burning remains of a church.

I wore a bum-flap, clipped to my jeans,

Which I kept about me as a lucky charm,

And here Berrigan turned towards me

And asked me to unclip it; I did as

He suggested, then he hurled it out far into

The abyss, and winking: ‘It’s as I thought –

A punk and his bum-flap are soon parted,’

He said. ‘Now watch!’

It’s always better to hold one’s tongue

In circumstances where if you speak nobody’s

Going to believe you anyway, and I guess

That’s why Berrigan kept his silence now.

But that’s no reason for my poem to

Shut up too. Reader, I swear to you,

I saw this giant spectre, it was like

A colossal jellyfish, or an airship,
swimming

Through the smoke-filled air from the depths

Of the pit – it held its arms out like tentacles.