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AND THE ASS
SAW THE ANGEL
NICK CAVE
For Anita
23 And the ass saw the angel of the Lord standing in the way, and his sword drawn in his
hand: and the ass turned aside out of the way, and went into the field: and Balaam
smote the ass, to turn her into the way.
24 But the angel of the Lord stood in a path of the vineyards, a way
being
on this side, and
a wall on that side.
25 And when the ass saw the angel of the Lord, she thrust herself unto the wall, and
crushed Balaam's foot against the wall: and he smote her again.
26 And the angel of the Lord went further, and stood in a narrow place, where
was
no way
to turn either to the right hand or to the left.
27 And when the ass saw the angel of the Lord, she fell down under Balaam: and Balaam's
anger was kindled, and he smote the ass with a staff.
28 And the Lord opened the mouth of the ass, and she said unto Balaam, What have I
done unto thee, that thou hast smitten me these three times?
29 And Balaam said unto the ass, Because thou hast mocked me: I would there were
a sword in mine hand, for now would I kill thee.
30 And the ass said unto Balaam,
Am
I not thine ass, upon which thou hast ridden ever
since
I was
thine unto this day? was I ever wont to do so unto thee?
And he said, Nay.
31 Then the Lord opened the eyes of Balaam, and he saw the angel of the Lord standing in
the way, and he bowed down his head, and fell flat on his face.
Numbers, 22
Prologue
T
hree greasy brother crows wheel, beak to heel, cutting a circle into the bruised and troubled sky,
making fast, dark rings through the thicksome bloats of smoke.
For so long the lid of the valley was clear and blue but now, by God, it
roars.
From where ah lie
the clouds look prehistorical, belching forth great faceless beasts that curl 'n' die, like that, above.
And the crows—they still wing, still wheel, only closer now—closer now—closer now to me.
These sly corbies are birds of death. They've shadowed me all mah life. It's only now that ah
can reel them in. With mah eyes.
Ah think ah could almost remember how to sleep on this soft, warm circle of mud, for mah
rhythms differ. They do.
Sucked by the gums of this toothless grave, ah go— into this fen, this pit, though ah fear to get
mah kill-hand wet. In truth and as ah speak, the two crows have staked out mah eyes—like a couple
of bad pennies they wheel and wait, while the rolling smoke curls and dies above, and ah see that
it turns darker now and ah am but one full quarter gone—unner—or nearly and gaining.
There below! O little valley!
Two shattered knees of land rise and open to make a crease between. Down the bitten inner-
flank we go, where trees laden with thick vines grow upon the trembling slopes. Some hang out
into the valley at dangerous angles, their worried roots rising from the hillside soil as they suffer
the creeping burden that trusses and binds and weighs like the world across their limbs. This
knitted creeper, these trees, all strung one to one and chained to the ground by vine.
Travelling the length of the valley, south to north, as the crow flies, we follow its main road as
it weaves its way along the flat of the valley's belly. From up here it could be a ribbon, as we pass
over the first of many hundreds of acres of smouldering cane.
Tonight is the first night of the seasonal "burn-off," an occasion of great importance and high
festivity for Ukulore Valley, when the townsfolk all take to the tall fields to watch the wall of fire
sweep the cane of its useless foliage, its "trash." Yet this night sees all strangely quiet here on the
out-fields: wet sacks and snake-beaters carelessly abandoned, sparks and grey ash borne silently
through the air on a low wind.
The sugar refinery sprawls out by the east flank, a mile from the town. We can hear the steady
chugging of its engines. Trolleys—some empty, some part loaded— sit forgotten on the tracks.
Wing on and past, over the town itself, where the rusty corrugated roofs grow denser and we
can see the playground and the Courthouse and Memorial Square.
Down there, in the centre of the Square, erected at the very heart of the valley, the marble
sepulchre containing the relics of the prophet crumbles and splits beneath the slogging of three
down-borne mallets.
A group of black-clad mourners, mostly women, watch on as the monument is destroyed. See
how they wail and gnash their teeth! And see the great marble angel, its face carved in saintly
composure, one arm held high, a gilded sickle in its fist; will they bring that down as well?
And on, through the commotion, through the town's stormy heart, where women mourn as at a
wake, bullying their grief with breasts bruised black and knuckles bleeding. Watch how they fan
the streets with their wild, black gestures, twisting the sackcloth of their robes with pleading
seizures and dark spasms.
From up here they look like ground birds.
Circle once these creatures of grief, and then onward across the stricken town, over the
clusters of trailers where the cane-cutters live, at the heel of the rhythm of the crops. Here, at
this dark hour, only their women and frightened children remain. Standing at their windows, the
ghosts of their breath coming and going on the glass, they listen to the motors of their men roar
northward then fade amongst the hiss and crackle of the fields.
But onward, winging go, or are you tired brothers?
Pursue Maine Road till the cane ends abruptly against bare wire fences, four miles from town,
two miles from the northern valley entrance. Here we can see the pickups, trucks and utilities,
shedding cocoons of red dust as they file off Maine toward the tarred clapboard shacks. Here live
the outcast, the hobos, the hill-trash.
A lone shack on a junk-heap burns and burns, belching purple smoke into the restless air.
Though weary of wing, a little further.
Beyond the shack the land grows sodden, paludal, and from the marsh rises a wheel of
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AND THE ASS
SAW THE ANGEL
NICK CAVE
For Anita
23 And the ass saw the angel of the Lord standing in the way, and his sword drawn in his
hand: and the ass turned aside out of the way, and went into the field: and Balaam
smote the ass, to turn her into the way.
24 But the angel of the Lord stood in a path of the vineyards, a way
being
on this side, and
a wall on that side.
25 And when the ass saw the angel of the Lord, she thrust herself unto the wall, and
crushed Balaam's foot against the wall: and he smote her again.
26 And the angel of the Lord went further, and stood in a narrow place, where
was
no way
to turn either to the right hand or to the left.
27 And when the ass saw the angel of the Lord, she fell down under Balaam: and Balaam's
anger was kindled, and he smote the ass with a staff.
28 And the Lord opened the mouth of the ass, and she said unto Balaam, What have I
done unto thee, that thou hast smitten me these three times?
29 And Balaam said unto the ass, Because thou hast mocked me: I would there were
a sword in mine hand, for now would I kill thee.
30 And the ass said unto Balaam,
Am
I not thine ass, upon which thou hast ridden ever
since
I was
thine unto this day? was I ever wont to do so unto thee?
And he said, Nay.
31 Then the Lord opened the eyes of Balaam, and he saw the angel of the Lord standing in
the way, and he bowed down his head, and fell flat on his face.
Numbers, 22
Prologue
T
hree greasy brother crows wheel, beak to heel, cutting a circle into the bruised and troubled sky,
making fast, dark rings through the thicksome bloats of smoke.
For so long the lid of the valley was clear and blue but now, by God, it
roars.
From where ah lie
the clouds look prehistorical, belching forth great faceless beasts that curl 'n' die, like that, above.
And the crows—they still wing, still wheel, only closer now—closer now—closer now to me.
These sly corbies are birds of death. They've shadowed me all mah life. It's only now that ah
can reel them in. With mah eyes.
Ah think ah could almost remember how to sleep on this soft, warm circle of mud, for mah
rhythms differ. They do.
Sucked by the gums of this toothless grave, ah go— into this fen, this pit, though ah fear to get
mah kill-hand wet. In truth and as ah speak, the two crows have staked out mah eyes—like a couple
of bad pennies they wheel and wait, while the rolling smoke curls and dies above, and ah see that
it turns darker now and ah am but one full quarter gone—unner—or nearly and gaining.
There below! O little valley!
Two shattered knees of land rise and open to make a crease between. Down the bitten inner-
flank we go, where trees laden with thick vines grow upon the trembling slopes. Some hang out
into the valley at dangerous angles, their worried roots rising from the hillside soil as they suffer
the creeping burden that trusses and binds and weighs like the world across their limbs. This
knitted creeper, these trees, all strung one to one and chained to the ground by vine.
Travelling the length of the valley, south to north, as the crow flies, we follow its main road as
it weaves its way along the flat of the valley's belly. From up here it could be a ribbon, as we pass
over the first of many hundreds of acres of smouldering cane.
Tonight is the first night of the seasonal "burn-off," an occasion of great importance and high
festivity for Ukulore Valley, when the townsfolk all take to the tall fields to watch the wall of fire
sweep the cane of its useless foliage, its "trash." Yet this night sees all strangely quiet here on the
out-fields: wet sacks and snake-beaters carelessly abandoned, sparks and grey ash borne silently
through the air on a low wind.
The sugar refinery sprawls out by the east flank, a mile from the town. We can hear the steady
chugging of its engines. Trolleys—some empty, some part loaded— sit forgotten on the tracks.
Wing on and past, over the town itself, where the rusty corrugated roofs grow denser and we
can see the playground and the Courthouse and Memorial Square.
Down there, in the centre of the Square, erected at the very heart of the valley, the marble
sepulchre containing the relics of the prophet crumbles and splits beneath the slogging of three
down-borne mallets.
A group of black-clad mourners, mostly women, watch on as the monument is destroyed. See
how they wail and gnash their teeth! And see the great marble angel, its face carved in saintly
composure, one arm held high, a gilded sickle in its fist; will they bring that down as well?
And on, through the commotion, through the town's stormy heart, where women mourn as at a
wake, bullying their grief with breasts bruised black and knuckles bleeding. Watch how they fan
the streets with their wild, black gestures, twisting the sackcloth of their robes with pleading
seizures and dark spasms.
From up here they look like ground birds.
Circle once these creatures of grief, and then onward across the stricken town, over the
clusters of trailers where the cane-cutters live, at the heel of the rhythm of the crops. Here, at
this dark hour, only their women and frightened children remain. Standing at their windows, the
ghosts of their breath coming and going on the glass, they listen to the motors of their men roar
northward then fade amongst the hiss and crackle of the fields.
But onward, winging go, or are you tired brothers?
Pursue Maine Road till the cane ends abruptly against bare wire fences, four miles from town,
two miles from the northern valley entrance. Here we can see the pickups, trucks and utilities,
shedding cocoons of red dust as they file off Maine toward the tarred clapboard shacks. Here live
the outcast, the hobos, the hill-trash.
A lone shack on a junk-heap burns and burns, belching purple smoke into the restless air.
Though weary of wing, a little further.
Beyond the shack the land grows sodden, paludal, and from the marsh rises a wheel of
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]