The Yoke and the Turtle

‘Suppose a man threw into the sea a yoke with one hole in it, and the east wind carried it to the west, and the west wind carried it to the east, and the north wind carried it to the south and the south wind carried it to the north. Suppose there were a blind turtle that came up once at the end of each century. What do you think, bhikkhus? Would that blind turtle put his neck into that yoke with one hole in it?’
                 — Bala-pandita Sutta

Proceeding from the primitive explosion
In the aircraft and chemical factory,
Out of the then-not-quite-so briny ocean
And down from the trees, etc.: thence, we.
Now having gained this fortunate human birth,
The fear of wasting it should start me out
Of sleep at night and stop me in my mirth—
And so it does while there’s a growing doubt
That I’ll attain its promise. A pair of breasts
Or buttocks, or a face with dimpled chin
Have shown me glimpses, and each glimpse suggests
What more could be! How even I could win
Life’s contest, even now, could I but snare
This one, or one of millions as rare!

I recall with some nostalgia how at first
You made the effort to resent the worst
Of my domestic habits, like putting out
My cigarettes in teacups—that was about
The nearest we came to intimate relations.
Sometimes I wondered if your guarded passions
Might fortunately intersect with mine,
And I’d solicit your company with wine;
But never did I find you less than wary
Of sharing more than strictly necessary.
Not that you were frigid: a handsome face
Or three have lingered some while in your grace,
And I guessed at positions you’d assume
As sounds of your enjoyment reached my room.

We could have been so intimate all during
These last, interminable months! Curing
My long disease of misbegotten hope
Could scarcely have been done better with a rope
And chair than you and he achieved without
Intending that result more than to flout
The holy edicts that were harshest hereabout.
To think of your illicit, tinted bubble!
I could have pricked you that way, called down trouble
On one who’d said at first, and probably
Would still insist my pain was necessary!

Now you are leaving, moving in with ‘friends’
(Or did you mean ‘a friend’)—and thus you cleanse
Your life of me—assuming you contemplate
A man in whom you never saw a mate
In any sense, even to that extent.
Go, take your mystery, it’s time you went!
Draw dividends, but hang on to your stocks
Till they turn bearish, feckless Goldilocks!
And though you never tried mine out at all,
Remaining to me quite impenetrable,
Go, by the ray of your true inner light,
And may you find the bed that seems to you just right.

Belinda in Middle Age

My senior by a decade or two, she was.
And like a little girl who wouldn’t share
Her toy for no other reason than because

‘It’s mine—not yours!’—or none that she would care
To think about—she interposed a hand
Below, and hid her face in that wild hair.

And though finding myself steadfastly banned
From full enjoyment, I managed to steal
A sip from her source: Oh yes, this barren land

Remained well watered! while each little squeal
Of anguished pleasure told a vivid story
Whose colours and whose outline grew more real

With each retelling. Still, that evening’s quarry
Escaped me; then next morning my turn came,
Though unpursued, and plucking a half-hoary

Souvenir from her pillow as fair game—
I took her shower as my cue to leave,
Rather than once more take and miss my aim—

But on the landing saw myself a thief
On noticing what I had not before:
An altar where the moultings she’d retrieve

About the house were gathered into more
Than one receptacle. Not overnight
Had she laid in that fading chestnut store!

That scented candle when it was alight
Would hallow also this framed photograph
Of my poor hostess in her youthful might,

Smiling as if to break into a laugh,
And shaping to her an unfitted dress.
So, seeing as she couldn’t get enough,

I rendered what was hers to that goddess.