The long-drawn bray of the ass
In the Sicilian twilight--
_All mares are dead!_
_All mares are dead!_
_Oh-h!_
_Oh-h-h!_
_Oh-h-h-h-h--h!!_
_I can’t bear it, I can’t bear it,_
_I can’t!_
_Oh, I can’t!_
_Oh--_
_There’s one left!_
_There’s one left!_
_One!_
_There’s one ... left...._
So ending on a grunt of agonised relief.
This is the authentic Arabic interpretation of the braying of the ass.
And Arabs should know.
And yet, as his brass-resonant howling yell resounds through the Sicilian
twilight
I am not sure--
His big, furry head,
His big, regretful eyes,
His diminished, drooping hindquarters,
His small toes.
Such a dear!
Such an ass!
With such a knot inside him!
He regrets something that he remembers.
That’s obvious.
The Steppes of Tartary,
And the wind in his teeth for a bit,
And _noli me tangere_.
Ah then, when he tore the wind with his teeth,
And trod wolves underfoot,
And over-rode his mares as if he were savagely leaping an obstacle, to set
his teeth in the sun....
Somehow, alas, he fell in love,
And was sold into slavery.
He fell into the rut of love,
Poor ass, like man, always in a rut,
The pair of them alike in that.
All his soul in his gallant member
And his head gone heavy with the knowledge of desire
And humiliation.
The ass was the first of all animals to fall finally into love,
From obstacle-leaping pride,
Mare obstacle,
Into love, mare-goal, and the knowledge of love.
Hence Jesus rode him in the Triumphant Entry.
Hence his beautiful eyes.
Hence his ponderous head, brooding over desire, and downfall,
Jesus, and a pack-saddle,
Hence he uncovers his big ass-teeth and howls in that agony that is
half-insatiable desire and half-unquenchable humiliation.
Hence the black cross on his shoulders.
The Arabs were only half right, though they hinted the whole;
Everlasting lament in everlasting desire.
See him standing with his head down, near the Porta Cappuccini,
Asinello,
Somaro;
With the half-veiled, beautiful eyes, and the pensive face not asleep,
Motionless, like a bit of rock.
Has he seen the Gorgon’s head, and turned to stone?
Alas, Love did it.
Now he’s a jackass, a pack-ass, a donkey, somaro, burro, with a boss piling
loads on his back.
Tied by the nose at the Porta Cappuccini.
And tied in a knot, inside, dead-licked between two desires:
To overleap like a male all mares as obstacles
In a leap at the sun;
And to leap in one last heart-bursting leap like a male at the
goal of a mare,
And there end.
Well, you can’t have it both roads.
_Hee! Hee! Ehee! Ehow! Ehaw!! Oh! Oh! Oh-h-h!!_
The wave of agony bursts in the stone that he was,
Bares his long ass’s teeth, flattens his long ass’s ears, straightens his
donkey neck,
And howls his pandemonium on the indignant air.
Yes, it’s a quandary.
Jesus rode on him, the first burden on the first beast of burden.
Love on a submissive ass.
So the tale began.
But the ass never forgets.
The horse, being nothing but a nag, will forget.
And men, being mostly geldings and knacker-boned hacks, have almost all
forgot.
But the ass is a primal creature, and never forgets.
The Steppes of Tartary,
And Jesus on a meek ass-colt: mares: Mary escaping to Egypt: Joseph’s cudgel.
_Hee! Hee! Ehee! Ehow-ow-!-ow!-aw!-aw!-aw!_
_All mares are dead!_
_Or else I am dead!_
_One of us, or the pair of us,_
_I don’t know--ow!--ow!_
_Which!_
_Not sure--ure--ure_
_Quite which!_
_Which!_
_Taormina._