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Ahab
and other Poems
By Aleister Crowley
With an Introduction and Epilogue By Count Vladimir Svareff
London Privately printed at the Chiswick Press 1903
Dedicace
To G. C. J. [George Cecil Jones]
Pilgrim of the sun, be this thy scrip!
The severing lightnings of the mind Avail where soul and spirit slip, And the Eye is blind.
Paris, December 9, 1902.
Contents.
Rondel Ahab. Part i Part ii Balzac Melusine The Dream Epilogue
Rondel.
By palm and pagoda enchaunted o’er-shadowed, I lie in the light Of stars that are bright beyond suns that all poets have vaunted In the deep-breathing amorous bosom of forests of amazon might By palm and pagoda enchaunted.
By spells that are murmured and rays of my soul strongly flung, never daunted; By gesture of tracery traced with a wand dappled white; I summon the spirits of earth from the gloom they for ages have haunted.
O woman of deep-red skin! Carved hair like the teak! O delight Of my soul in the hollows of earth—how my spirit hath taunted— Away! I am here, I am laid to the breast of the earth in the dusk of the night, By palm and pagoda enchaunted.
Ahab
Part i.
The polished silver flings me back Dominant brows and eyes of bronze, A curling beard of vigorous black, And dusky red of desert suns Burnt in my cheeks. Who saith me Nay? Who reigns in Israel to-day?
Samaria in well-ordered ranks Of houses stands in honoured peace: Sweet nourishment from Kenah’s banks Flows, and the corn and vine increase. In two pitched fields the Syrian hordes Fled broken from our stallion swords.
Ay me! But that was Life! I see Now, from that hill, the ordered plain; The serried ranks like foam flung free, Long billows, flashing on the main Past the eye’s grip their legions roll— Anguish of death upon my soul!
For, sheltered by the quiet hill, Like two small flocks of kids that wait, Going to water, ere the chill Flow from the East’s forsaken gate, Lie my weak spears: O trembling tide Of fear false-faced and shifty-eyed!
God! how we smote them in the morn! Their ravening tides rolled back anon, As if the cedared crest uptorn Roared from uprooted Lebanon Down to the sea, its billows hurled Back, past the pillars of the world!
Ah, that was life! I feel my sword Live, bite, and shudder in my hand, Smite, drink, the spirit of its lord Exulting through the infinite brand! My chariot dyed with Syrian blood! My footmen wading through the flood!
Ay! that was life! Before the night Dipped its cool wings, their hosts were stricken Like night itself before the light. An hundred thousand corpses sicken The air of heaven. Yet some by speed Escape our vengeance—ours, indeed!
Fate, the red hound, to Aphek followed. Some seven and twenty thousand died, When the great wall uprising hollowed Its terror, crashed upon its side, And whelmed them in the ruin. Strife, Strength, courage, victory—that is Life!
Then—by my father’s beard! What seer Promised me victory? What sage Now in my triumph hour severe Spits out red oracles of rage? Jehovah’s. The fanatic churl Stands—see his thin lips writhe and curl!
“Because thou has loosed the kingly man, To uttermost destruction’s dread
In my almighty power and plan For his, thy life for his make mine, And for his folk thou hast spared, slay thine.”
But surely I was just and wise! Mercy is God’s own attribute! Mercy to noble enemies Marks man from baser mould of brute, To fight their swordsmen—who would shirk? To slay a captive—coward’s work!
“I have loved mercy,” that He said; Nor bade me slay the Syrian Chief. Yet my head answers for his head; My people take his people’s grief. Sin, troth, to spare one harmless breath, Sith all my innocents earn death!
By timely mercy peace becomes, And kindly love, and intercourse Of goodly merchandise, that sums Contention in united force. “Praise who, relenting, sheweth pity; Not him who captureth a city!”
A wild strong life I’ve made of mine. Not till my one good deed is done— Ay! for that very deed divine— Comes the fierce mouth of malison. So grows my doubt again, so swell My ancient fears for Israel.
I hurled Jehovah’s altars down; I slew and I pursued his priests; I took a wife from Zidon Town; I gave his temple to the beasts; I set up gods and graven shapes Of calves an crocodiles and apes.
Myself to sorceries I betook; All sins that are did I contrive, Sealed in the Thora’s dreadful book— I live, and like my life, and thrive! Doth God not see! His ear is dull? Or His speech strangled, His force null?
Nay, verily! These petty sins His mercy and long-suffering pardon. What final crime of horror wins At last His gracious heart to harden? What one last infamy shall wake His anger, for His great Name’s sake?
Is there one sin so horrible That no forgiveness can obtain, That flings apart the bars of hell, For which repentance shall be vain? Ay! but there is! One act of ruth Done in my rash unthinking youth!
Who wonders if I hold the scale Poised in my deep deliberate mind, Between the weight of Zidon’s Baal And Judah’s God—each in his kind A god of power—each in his fashion The hideous foeman of compassion?
The blood alike of man and beast The worship of each God demands. All priests are greedy—gold and feast Pour from the poor folk to their hands. The doubtful power from heaven to strike The levin bolt they claim alike.
I take no heed of trickery played By cunning mad Elijah’s skill, When the great test of strength was made On Carmel’s melancholy hill, And on the altar-stone the liar Cried “Water,” and poured forth Greek fire!
Then while the fools peer heavenward, Even as he prays, to see the skies Vomit the flash, his furtive sword Fast to the flinty altar flies. Whoof! the wild blaze assures the clods Jehovah is the God of gods!
Nor do I set peculiar store By tricks twin-born to this they show When, with well-simulated lore Of learning, Baal’s great hierarchs go Into the gold god’s graven shell And moan the ambiguous oracle.
In my own inmost heart I feel, Deep as a pearl in seas of Ind, A vision, keen as tempered steel, Lofty and holy as the wind, And brighter than the living sun: If these be gods, then there is none!
Baal and Jehovah, Ashtoreth And Chemosh and these Elohim, Life’s pandars in the brothel, Death! Cloudy imaginings, a dream Built up of fear and words and woe. All, all my soul must overthrow.
For these are devils, nothing doubt! Yet nought should trouble me: I see My folk secure from foes without, Worship in peace and amity Baal and Jehovah, sects appeased By peace assured and wealth increased.
Yet am I troubled. Doubt exists And absolute proof recoils before me. Truth veils herself in awful mists, And darkness wakens, rolling o’er me, When I approach the dreadful shrine, In my own soul, of the divine.
And what cries laughing Jezebel? Golden and fragrant as the morn, Painted like flames adorning Hell, Passions and mysteries outworn, Ever enchanting, ever wise, And terror in her wondrous eyes!
Her fascination steals my strength, Her luxury lures me as she comes; Reaches her length against my length, And breaks my spirit; life succumbs— A nameless avatar of death, Incarnate in her burning breath.
I know her gorgeous raiment folded In snaky subtle draperies, All stalwart captains mighty-moulded To lure within her sorceries, Within her bed—and I, who love, See, and am silent, and approve!
Strange! Who shall call the potter knave Who moulds a vessel to his will? One, if he choose, a black-browed slave: One, if he choose, a thing of ill, Writhing, misshapen, footless, cruel: One, like a carved Assyrian jewel?
Shame on the potter heavy sit, If he revenge his own poor skill, That marred a work by lack of wit, By heaping infamy and ill On the already ruined clay, Shame on the potter, then, I say!
But what cries laughing Jezebel? Scornful of me as all her lovers, More scornful as we love her well! “Good king, this rage of doubt discovers The long-hid secret! All thy mind A little shadow lurks behind.”
Hers are the delicate sorceries In black groves: hers the obscure, unseen Rites in dim moonlight courts; the wise Dreadful occasions when the queen Like to a bat, flits, flits, to gloat Blood-drunk upon a baby’s throat!
Therefore: all doubt, this fierce unrest Between that knowledge self bestows And leaves of palm, and palimpsest, Scrawled sacred scrolls, whose legend goes Beyond recorded time, and founds Its age beyond all history’s bounds;
Therefore: all search for truth beyond The doubtful canon of the law, The bitter letter of the bond Given when Sinai shook with awe, They swear; all wit that looks aslant Shamed at the shameful covenant;
Therefore: this brooding over truth She much avers cuts short my day, Steals love and laughter from my youth, Will dye my beard in early grey. “Go forth to war! Shall Judah still Set mockery to thy kingly will?”
May be. I often feel a ghost Creeping like darkness through my brain; Sensed like uncertainty at most, Nowise akin to fear or pain. Yet it is there. To yield to such And brood, will not avail me much.
Ho! harness me my chariot straight, My white-maned horses fleet and strong! Call forth the trumpeters of state! Proclaim to all Samaria’s throng: The King rides forth! Hence, slaves! Away! Haste ye! The King rides forth today.
Part ii.
Would God that I were dead! Like Cain, My punishment I cannot bear. There is a deep corrosive pain Invades my being everywhere. Sprung from a seed too small to see, A monster spawns and strangles me.
’Tis scarce a week! In power and pride I rode in state about the city; Took pleasure in the eager ride, Saw grief, took pleasure in my pity; Saw joy, took pleasure in the seeing, And the full rapture of well-being.
Would God that I had stayed, and smote My favourite captain through the heart, Caught my young daughter by the throat, And torn her life and limbs apart, Stabbed my queen dead: remorse for these Might ape, not match, these miseries.
For, hard behind the palace gate, I spied a vineyard fair and fine, Hanging with purple joy, and weight Of golden rapture of the vine: And there I bade my charioteer Stay, and bid Naboth to appear.
The beast! A gray, deceitful man, With twisted mouth the beard would hide, Evil yet strong: the scurril clan Exaggerate for its greed and pride, The scum of Israel! At one look I read my foe as in a book.
The beast! He grovelled in the dust. I heard the teeth gride as he bowed His forehead to the earth. Still just, Still patient, passionless, and proud, I ruled my heavy wrath. I passed That hidden insult: spake at last.
I spake him fair. My memory held Him still a member of my folk; A warrior might be bold of eld, My hardy spearman when we broke The flashing lines of Syrians. Yea! I spake him fair. Alas the day!
“Friend, by my palace lies thy field Fruitful and pleasant to the sight. Therefore I pray thee that thou yield Thy heritage for my delight. Wilt thou its better? Or its fee In gold, as seemeth good to thee?
“Content thyself!” As by a spell He rears his bulk in surly rage. “The Lord forbid that I should sell To thee my father’s heritage!” No other word. Dismissal craves? Nay, scowls and slinks among his slaves.
Hath ever a slave in story dared Thus to beard openly his lord? My chariot men leapt forth and flared Against him with indignant sword. Why wait for king’s word to expunge Live so detested with one lunge?
“Cease!” My strong word flamed out. The men Shook with dead fear. They jumped and caught With savage instinct, brutal ken, At what should be my crueller thought: Torture! And trembled lest their haste Had let a dear life run to waste.
They argued after their brute kind. I have two prides; in justice, one: In mercy, one: “No ill I find In this just man,” I cried; “the sun Is not defiled, and takes no hurt When the worm builds his house of dirt.
“Curse ye Jehovah! He abides, Hears not, nor smites; the curse is pent Close with the speaker; ill betides When on himself the curve is bent, And like the wild man’s ill-aimed blow, Hits nought, swerves, swoops, and strikes him low.
“Let the man go!” The short surprise Sinks in long wonder: angrily Yet awed they spurn him forth. “Arise! O swine, and wallow in thy sty! The King hath said it.” Thus the men Turned the beast free—to goad again.
For not the little shadow shapes An image ever in my brain; Across my field of sight there gapes Ever a gulf, and draws the pain Of the whole knowledge of the man Into its vague and shifting span.
Moreover, in that gulf I see Now the bright vineyard sweet and clean, Now the dog Naboth mocking me With rude curt word and mouth obscene Wried in derision—well relied Dog’s insolence on monarch’s price.
Ah, friend! Some winds may shake a city! Some dogs may creep too near a feast! Thou, reckoning on my scorn, my pity, Thine own uncleanness as a beast: Wilt thou not take thy count again? Seest thou the shadow on my brain?
It grows, it grows. Seven days slide past: I groan upon an empty bed: I turn my face away: I fast: There cometh in my mouth no bread. No man dare venture near to say: “Why turns the King his face away?”
It grows. Ah me! the long days slide; I brood; due justice to the man Dogging desire. A monarch’s pride Outweighs his will: yet slowlier ran To-day the thought: “I will no wrong:” “The vines are cool,” more sweet and strong
There is no sleep. All natural laws Suspend their function: strange effects And mighty for so slight a cause! What whim of weakling strength protects This dog of Satan at my gate From the full whirlwind of my hate?
What mighty weakness stays the king If he arise, and cast desire Far from its seat and seed and spring To Hinnom the detested fire? Ay! both were wise. Madness alone Sits throned on the king’s vacant throne.
Dogs! Who dares break on me? “Dread lord! Mightiest of monarchs!”—“Cease, thou crow! Thine errand! ere the eunuch’s sword Snatch thy bald head off at a blow.” “Mercy, World’s Light!” Swings clear and clean The call “ Room for the Queen! The Queen!”
Strong as a man, the Queen strides in. Even she shrank frighted!—my aspect More dreadful than all shapes of sin Her dreams might shape or recollect, Hideous with fasting, madness, grief, Beyond all speaking or belief.
But the first glance at those bold eyes! Ah! let me fling me at her feet! Take me, O love! Thy terror flies. Kiss me again, again, O sweet! O honeyed queen, old paramour, So keen our joy be and so sure!
“The king would be alone!” Fast fly The trembling lackeys at her voice. Lapped in her billowy breasts I lie, And love, and languish, and rejoice, And—ah—forget! The ecstatic hour Bursts like a poppy into flower.
Back! thou black spectre! In her arms Devouring and devoured of love, Feeding my face in myriad charms, As on a mountain feeds a dove, Starred with fresh flowers, dew-bright, and pearled With all the light of all the world:
Back! With the kisses ravening fast Upon my panting mouth, the eyes Darting hot showers of light, the vast And vicious writings, the caught sighs Drunk with delight, on love’s own throne, The moment where all time lies prone:
Back! At the very central shrine, Pinnacled moment of excess Of immolation’s blood divine: Back! from the fleshy loveliness: Back! loved and loathed! O face concealed! Back! One hath whispered “Naboth’s field.”
I am slain. Her body passion-pearled Dreams her luxurious lips have drawn My spirit, as the dust wind-whirled Sucks up the radiance of the dawn In rainbow beauty—yet remains Mere dust upon the barren plains.
Reluctance to reveal my grief Is of my sickness a strange feature. Yea, verily! beyond belief Is the machinery of man’s nature! If thus spake Solomon in kind Of body, I of soul and mind!
The lazy accents stir at last. The scented air: “Oh, wherefore, lord, Is thy soul sad? This weary fast Strikes to my heart a lonely sword!” In brief words stammered forth I spoke My secret; and the long spell broke.
And now the gilded sin of her Leapt and was lambent in a smile: “Give me but leave to minister This kingdom for a little while! The vineyard shall be thine. O king, This trouble is a little thing!”
I gave to her the signet’s gold Carved in the secret charactery, Whose flowers of writing bend and fold The star of Solomon, the eye Whence four rays run—the Name! the seal Written within the burning wheel.
And now I lean with fevered will Across the carven screen of palm. All nature holds its function still; The sun is mild; the wind is calm; But on my ear the voices fall Distant, and irk me, and appal.
Two men have sworn the solemn oath: “God and the king this dog blasphemed,” Two judges, just, though little loth, Weigh, answer. As on one who dreamed Comes waking—in my soul there groaned: “Carry forth Naboth to be stoned!”
Nine days! And still the king is sad, And hides his face, and is not seen. The tenth! the king is gaily clad; The king will banquet with the queen; And, ere the west be waste of sun, Enjoy the vinyard he hath won.
All this I hear as one entranced. The king and I are friend and friend, As if a cloud of maidens danced Between my vision and the end. I see the king as one afeared, Hiding his anguish in his beard.
I laugh in secret, knowing well What waits him in the field of blood; What message hath the seer to tell; What bitter Jordan holds its flood Only for Ahab, sore afraid What lurks behind the vine’s cool shade.
Yet well I see the fates are sure, And Ahab will descend, possess The enchanting green, the purple lure, The globes of nectared loveliness, And, as he turns! who wonders now The grim laugh wrinkles on my brow?
I see him, a fantastic ghost, The vineyard smiling white and plain, And hiding ever innermost The little shadow on his brain; I laugh again with mirthless glee, As knowing also I am he.
A fool in gorgeous attire! An ox decked bravely for his doom! So step I to the great desire. Sweet winds upon the gathering gloom Bend like a mother, as I go, Foreknowing, to my overthrow.
Other Poems.
Balzac.
Hommage à Aususte Rodin.
Giant, with iron secrecies ennighted, Cloaked, Balzac stands and sees. Immense disdain, Egyptian silence, mastery of pain, Gargantuan laughter, shake or still the ignited Stature of the Master, vivid. Far, affrighted, The stunned air shudders on the skin. In vain The incarnate of the Comédie Humaine Shadows the deep-set eyes, genius-lighted.
Epithalamia, birth songs, epitaphs, Are written in the mystery of his lips. Blind horror, scornful shame, grand agony In the coffin folds of the cloak, scarred mountains, lie, And pity hides i’ the heart. Grim knowledge grips The essential manhood. Balzac stands, and laughs.
Melusine.
To M. M. M.
Hangs over me the fine false gold Above the bosom epicene That hides my head that hungereth. The steady eyes of steel behold, When on a sudden the fierce and thin Curled subtle mouth swoops on my breath, And like a serpent’s mouth is cold, And like a serpent’s mouth is keen, And like a serpent’s mouth is death.
Lithe arms, wan with love’s mysteries, Creep round and close me in, as Thule Wraps Arctic oceans ultimate; Some deathly swoon or sacrifice, This love—a red hypnotic jewel Worn in the forehead of a Fate! And like a devil-fish is ice, And like a devil-fish is cruel, And like a devil-fish is hate.
Beneath those kisses songs of sadness Sob, in the pulses of desire, Seeking some secret in the deep; Low melodies of stolen gladness, The bitterness of death; the lyre Broken to bid the viol weep: And like a Maenad’s chants are madness, And like a Maenad’s chants are fire, And like a Maenad’s chants are sleep.
A house of pain is her bedchamber. Her skin electric clings to mine, Shakes for pure passion, moves and hisses; Whose subtle perfumes half remember Old loves, and desolate divine Wailings among the wildernesses; And like a Hathor’s skin is amber, And like a Hathor’s skin is wine, And like a Hathor’s skin is kisses.
Gray steel self-kindled shine her eyes. They rede strange runes of time defiled, And ruined souls, and Satan’s kin. I see their veiled impurities, An harlot hidden in a child, Through all their love and laughter lean; And like a witch’s eyes are wise, And like a witch’s eyes are wild, And like a witch’s eyes are Sin.
She moves her breasts in Bacchanal Rhymes to that music manifold That pulses in the golden head, Seductive phrase perpetual, Terrible both to change or hold; They move, but all their light is fled; And like a dead girl’s breasts are small, And like a dead girl’s breasts are cold, nd like a dead girl’s breasts are dead.
Forests and ancient haunts of sleep See dawn’s intolerable spark While yet fierce darkness lingereth. So I, their traveller, sunward creep, Hail Ra uprising in his bark, And feel the dawn-wind’s sombre breath. Strange loves rise up, and turn, and weep! Our warm wet bodies may not mark How these spell Satan’s shibboleth And like a devil’s loves are deep, And like a devil’s loves are dark, And like a devil’s loves are death.
The Dream.
άει.
Bend down in dream the shadow-shape Of tender breasts and bare! Let the long locks of gold escape And cover me and fall and drape, A pall of whispering hair! And let the starry eyes look through That mist of silken light, And lips drop forth their honey-dew And gentle sighs of sleep renew The scented winds of night! As purple clusters of pure grapes Distil their dreamy wine Whose fragrance from warm fields escapes On shadowy hills and sunny capes In lands of jessamine! So let thy figure faintly lined In pallid flame of sleep With love inspire the dreamer’s mind, Young love most delicate and kind, With love—how calm and deep! Let hardly half a smile revive The thoughts of waking hours. How sad it is to be alive! How well the happy dead must thrive In green Elysian bowers! A sleep as deep as theirs bestow, Dear angel of my dreams! Bid time now cease its to-and-fro That I may dwell with thee, and know The soul from that which seems! The long hair sobs in closer fold And deeper curves of dawn; The arms bend closer, and the gold Burns brighter, and the eyes are cold With life at last withdrawn. And all the spirit passing down Involves my heart with gray: So the pale stars of even crown The glow of twilight; dip and drown The last despairs of day. Oh! closer yet and closer yet The pearl of faces grows. The hair is woven like a net Of moonlight round me: sweet is set The mouth’s unbudded rose. Oh never! did our lips once meet The dream were done for ever, And death should dawn, supremely sweet, One flash of knowledge subtle and fleet Borne on the waveless river. And therefore in the quiet hour I rose from lily pillows And swiftly sought the jasmine bower Still sleeping, moonlight for a dower, And bridal wreaths of willows. And there I laid me down again: The stream flowed softly by:
And thought the last time upon pain, Earth’s joy—the sad permuted strain Of tears and ecstasy. And there the dream came floating past Borne in an ivory boat, And all the world sighed low “At last.” The shallop waited while I cast My languid limbs afloat To drift with eyelids skyward turned Up to the shadowy dream Shaped like a lover’s face, that burned; To drift toward the soul that yearned For this—the hour supreme! So drifting I resigned the sleep For death’s diviner bliss; As mists in rain of springtide weep, Life melted in the dewfall deep Of death’s kiss in a kiss.
Epilogue.
Sonnet.
To A. M. B.
Sleep, O deep splendour of disastrous years, Gone like a star fallen at the fall of night! Wake, O mute mouth and majesty of light, Made of no sound that even silence hears, But born of strings intangible, of spheres Shaken of love, a mightier music’s might, Frailer to sound than dewfall is to sight! Wake, O sweet soul incorporate of tears!
Or else dream on, and let no tears begem Love’s crown of thorns, ensanguinne diadem, But let pale kisses blossom, starry shrine Of lips most deathlike, that endure divine Past sleeps or parting’s or death’s spoil of them In the pomegranate walks of Proserpine!
V. S. |