NOTORIOUS 28

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Huey Be Deep

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Impossible to Tell

Slow dulcimer, gavotte and bow, in autumn, Bash? and his friends go out to view the moon; In summer, gasoline rainbow in the gutter,The secret courtesy that courses like ichor Through the old form of the rude, full-scale joke, Impossible to tell in writing. "Bash?"He named himself, "Banana Tree": banana After the plant some grateful students gave him, Maybe in appreciation of his guidanceThreading a long night through the rules and channels Of their collaborative linking-poem Scored in their teacher's heart: live, rigid, fluidLike passages etched in a microscopic cicuit. Elliot had in his memory so many jokes They seemed to breed like microbes in a cultureInside his brain, one so much making another It was impossible to tell them all: In the court-culture of jokes, a top banana.Imagine a court of one: the queen a young mother, Unhappy, alone all day with her firstborn child And her new baby in a squalid apartmentOf too few rooms, a different race from her neighbors. She tells the child she's going to kill herself. She broods, she rages. Hoping to distract her,The child cuts capers, he sings, he does imitations Of different people in the building, he jokes, He feels if he keeps her alive until the fatherGets home from work, they'll be okay till morning. It's laughter versus the bedroom and the pills. What is he in his efforts but a courtier?Impossible to tell his whole delusion. In the first months when I had moved back East From California and had to leave a messageOn Bob's machine, I used to make a habit Of telling the tape a joke; and part-way through, I would pretend that I forgot the punchline,Or make believe that I was interrupted-- As though he'd be so eager to hear the end He'd have to call me back. The joke was Elliot's,More often than not. The doctors made the blunder That killed him some time later that same year. One day when I got home I found a messageOn my machine from Bob. He had a story About two rabbis, one of them tall, one short, One day while walking along the street togetherThey see the corpse of a Chinese man before them, And Bob said, sorry, he forgot the rest. Of course he thought that his joke was a dummy,Impossible to tell--a dead-end challenge. But here it is, as Elliot told it to me: The dead man's widow came to the rabbis weeping,Begging them, if they could, to resurrect him. Shocked, the tall rabbi said absolutely not. But the short rabbi told her to bring the bodyInto the study house, and ordered the shutters Closed so the room was night-dark. Then he prayed Over the body, chanting a secret blessingOut of Kabala. "Arise and breathe," he shouted; But nothing happened. The body lay still. So then The little rabbi called for hundreds of candlesAnd danced around the body, chanting and praying In Hebrew, then Yiddish, then Aramaic. He prayed In Turkish and Egyptian and Old GalicianFor nearly three hours, leaping about the coffin In the candlelight so that his tiny black shoes Seemed not to touch the floor. With one last prayerSobbed in the Spanish of before the Inquisition He stopped, exhausted, and looked in the dead man's face. Panting, he raised both arms in a mystic gestureAnd said, "Arise and breathe!" And still the body Lay as before. Impossible to tell In words how Elliot's eyebrows flailed and snortedLike shaggy mammoths as--the Chinese widow Granting permission--the little rabbi sang The blessing for performing a circumcisionAnd removed the dead man's foreskin, chanting blessings In Finnish and Swahili, and bathed the corpse From head to foot, and with a final prayerIn Babylonian, gasping with exhaustion, He seized the dead man's head and kissed the lips And dropped it again and leaping back commanded,"Arise and breathe!" The corpse lay still as ever. At this, as when Bash?'s disciples wind Along the curving spine that links the rengaAcross the different voices, each one adding A transformation according to the rules Of stasis and repetition, all in orderAnd yet impossible to tell beforehand, Elliot changes for the punchline: the wee Rabbi, still panting, like a startled boxer,Looks at the dead one, then up at all those watching, A kind of Mel Brooks gesture: "Hoo boy!" he says, "Now that's what I call really dead." O mortalPowers and princes of earth, and you immortal Lords of the underground and afterlife, Jehovah, Raa, Bol-Morah, Hecate, Pluto,What has a brilliant, living soul to do with Your harps and fires and boats, your bric-a-brac And troughs of smoking blood? Provincial stinkers,Our languages don't touch you, you're like that mother Whose small child entertained her to beg her life. Possibly he grew up to be the tall rabbi,The one who washed his hands of all those capers Right at the outset. Or maybe he became The author of these lines, a one-man rengaThe one for whom it seems to be impossible To tell a story straight. It was a routine Procedure. When it was finished the physiciansTold Sandra and the kids it had succeeded, But Elliot wouldn't wake up for maybe an hour, They should go eat. The two of them loved to bickerIn a way that on his side went back to Yiddish, On Sandra's to some Sicilian dialect. He used to scold her endlessly for smoking.When she got back from dinner with their children The doctors had to tell them about the mistake. Oh swirling petals, falling leaves! The movementOf linking renga coursing from moment to moment Is meaning, Bob says in his Haiku book. Oh swirling petals, all living things are contingent,Falling leaves, and transient, and they suffer. But the Universal is the goal of jokes, Especially certain ethnic jokes, which taperDown through the swirling funnel of tongues and gestures Toward their preposterous Ithaca. There's one A journalist told me. He heard it while a heroOf the South African freedom movement was speaking To elderly Jews. The speaker's own right arm Had been blown off by right-wing letter-bombers.He told his listeners they had to cast their ballots For the ANC--a group the old Jews feared As "in with the Arabs." But they started weepingAs the old one-armed fighter told them their country Needed them to vote for what was right, their vote Could make a country their children could return toFrom London and Chicago. The moved old people Applauded wildly, and the speaker's friend Whispered to the journalist, "It's the Belgian ArmyJoke come to life." I wish I could tell it To Elliot. In the Belgian Army, the feud Between the Flemings and Walloons grew vicious,So out of hand the army could barely function. Finally one commander assembled his men In one great room, to deal with things directly.They stood before him at attention. "All Flemings," He ordered, "to the left wall." Half the men Clustered to the left. "Now all Walloons," he ordered,"Move to the right." An equal number crowded Against the right wall. Only one man remained At attention in the middle: "What are you, soldier?"Saluting, the man said, "Sir, I am a Belgian." "Why, that's astonishing, Corporal--what's your name?" Saluting again, "Rabinowitz," he answered:A joke that seems at first to be a story About the Jews. But as the renga describes Religious meaning by moving in drifting petalsAnd brittle leaves that touch and die and suffer The changing winds that riffle the gutter swirl, So in the joke, just under the raucous musicOf Fleming, Jew, Walloon, a courtly allegiance Moves to the dulcimer, gavotte and bow, Over the banana tree the moon in autumn--Allegiance to a state impossible to tell.

HERE IS PART ONE OF SOMEONE'S VISON OF THE RAVEN THEN PART TWO

The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. ..'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, ..tapping at my chamber door - Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore - For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore - Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating ..'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door - Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; - This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, ..Sir,' said I, ..or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; - Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, ..Lenore!' This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, ..Lenore!' Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. ..Surely,' said I, ..surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore - Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; - 'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door - Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door - Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, ..Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, ..art sure no craven. Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore - Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!' Quoth the raven, ..Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door - Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as ..Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only, That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered - Till I scarcely more than muttered ..Other friends have flown before - On the morrow will he leave me, as my hopes have flown before.' Then the bird said, ..Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, ..Doubtless,' said I, ..what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore - Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore Of "Never-nevermore."'

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore - What this grim, ungainly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking ..Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. ..Wretch,' I cried, ..thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!' Quoth the raven, ..Nevermore.'

..Prophet!' said I, ..thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! - Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted - On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore - Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!' Quoth the raven, ..Nevermore.'

..Prophet!' said I, ..thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore - Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore - Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?' Quoth the raven, ..Nevermore.'

..Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting - ..Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!' Quoth the raven, ..Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted - nevermore!