Poem: Hauteclere and Durendal
A poem in honor of an artists' group in southern Brazil.
Hauteclere and Durendal Written in honor of the Bagé Artists’ Group, and in anticipation of the death of Clóvis Assumpção (b.1920). IV. Cowboy Lashed By Cold Southern Winds Many miles have I marked on a horse’s spine, either barreling head over hoof, or more conscientiously – reins at ready. Often has hoarfrost burnt my beard on August nights, stalking the marches I strike. Toting too little whiskey, a squeezebox for a hootenanny with hand-picked native lasses, some enormous dreams, and words reserved only for brothers, like an aimless Indian ever friend to an ever withdrawing horizon I saw time pass by behind my back, on a side quest without name or limit. V. 1948 Danube progresses constantly. Discrete, a fighter, speaking little, he burningly builds whatever he wants to. Danube has a special predilection for the figure: Brave knights of the sad figure, Brave figures of sad nights, Sad nights in faithful confrontation Of this, our dense human climate. A violent life, a lively vitality Circles these figures of his, They are bred with truth. He is all a painter should be, Conscientious, researched, searching. He never lies, But always walks. He takes the sure, The arduous path. VI. Der Tod und das Mädchen Come, fierce man of bones! I have lived a hundred years, Wandered a million grasses, Seen your pretty pictures of maidens, The proud and living poems. Noli me tangere – just – yet: Death’s stroke is as a lover’s pinch. What did we want but to build For the people in an intelligible style? Drovers pulling a steer by the nose and tail, Cowboys with frozen beards And dirks in their boots, Washerwomen at the river. Danube has gone ahead. It falls on me to say, Not as youth but as poet, That I am not fierce, And you shall sleep softly in my arms tonight.