Poem
Ian Pindar
It Takes a Man
It Takes a Man
It Takes a Man
It takes a man in all he might beheavy twisted rope of consequence
of no consequence
weighed in the balance and found wanting.
Not a man but a twister.
Outside the mob demanding: “Who comes?
Who is it now dares speak for us,
for our lives?”
The virtues work
through us. They do not
indwell. They do not
inhere. They are not
in here. There are no
virtuous people
only good acts,
always virtue and its opposite –
the virtues work through us.
It takes a man to unmake
his masculinity, to unmake
the man they made him.
We are come to this. Coming
here in all innocence, willing to hear,
willing to be made and unmade
and taught the virtue of checking
our facts, consistency, avoidance of error,
making a life appear reliable,
a narrative, a story we tell others:
My name is . . . I live at . . . I am . . .
I have . . . I want to . . . with you
that they may understand who it is
speaks to them today,
and who they are every day of their lives
until there are no more days.
Someone will come after me and say:
“This poem was said once, as I am saying it
now,
as others will say of me:
‘He breathed – he spoke – he stood
in the garden at midnight and wondered
at the cruelty of a mortal brain
coming to consciousness, the wonder of a mortal
brain
coming to consciousness,
the birth and death
of individual consciousness.’”
Living appeals, as you appeal
to me, as I appeal to the gods – those crazyas I appeal to the soldiers
imaginary gods –
beating on my door
The great Emathian conqueror did spare
The house of Pindarus . . .
But in wartime
Husbands dragged from wives
Sons from mothers.
At Rodez once,
the Nazis in retreat,
shot thirty Maquis with tommy-guns,
smashed in their skulls with stones
to finish it. At Rodez in August 1944,
the day before the town was liberated.
At Rodez, the wind out of Rodez,
whipping the hill, whipping the old asylum
carrying the cries of the mad
to the townsfolk, the benighted townsfolk,
the cries of Antonin Artaud,
still awaiting liberation
at the psychiatric hospital
with its garden and little chapel,
the asylum where he grew his hair
and was visited nightly
by his Daughters of the Heart.
© 2010, Ian Pindar
From: Emporium
Publisher: Carcanet, Manchester
From: Emporium
Publisher: Carcanet, Manchester
Ian Pindar
(United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, 1970)
Ian Pindar was born in London and lives in Oxfordshire. His first collection of poetry, Emporium, will be published by Carcanet in 2011, and his second collection, Constellations, in 2012. Pindar is an active writer, contributing poetry and reviews to many of the UK’s notable broadsheet and poetry magazines. Last year he was awarded the Arthur Welton Award by the Society of Authors to assist to...
Poems
Poems of Ian Pindar
Close
It Takes a Man
It takes a man in all he might beheavy twisted rope of consequence
of no consequence
weighed in the balance and found wanting.
Not a man but a twister.
Outside the mob demanding: “Who comes?
Who is it now dares speak for us,
for our lives?”
The virtues work
through us. They do not
indwell. They do not
inhere. They are not
in here. There are no
virtuous people
only good acts,
always virtue and its opposite –
the virtues work through us.
It takes a man to unmake
his masculinity, to unmake
the man they made him.
We are come to this. Coming
here in all innocence, willing to hear,
willing to be made and unmade
and taught the virtue of checking
our facts, consistency, avoidance of error,
making a life appear reliable,
a narrative, a story we tell others:
My name is . . . I live at . . . I am . . .
I have . . . I want to . . . with you
that they may understand who it is
speaks to them today,
and who they are every day of their lives
until there are no more days.
Someone will come after me and say:
“This poem was said once, as I am saying it
now,
as others will say of me:
‘He breathed – he spoke – he stood
in the garden at midnight and wondered
at the cruelty of a mortal brain
coming to consciousness, the wonder of a mortal
brain
coming to consciousness,
the birth and death
of individual consciousness.’”
Living appeals, as you appeal
to me, as I appeal to the gods – those crazyas I appeal to the soldiers
imaginary gods –
beating on my door
The great Emathian conqueror did spare
The house of Pindarus . . .
But in wartime
Husbands dragged from wives
Sons from mothers.
At Rodez once,
the Nazis in retreat,
shot thirty Maquis with tommy-guns,
smashed in their skulls with stones
to finish it. At Rodez in August 1944,
the day before the town was liberated.
At Rodez, the wind out of Rodez,
whipping the hill, whipping the old asylum
carrying the cries of the mad
to the townsfolk, the benighted townsfolk,
the cries of Antonin Artaud,
still awaiting liberation
at the psychiatric hospital
with its garden and little chapel,
the asylum where he grew his hair
and was visited nightly
by his Daughters of the Heart.
From: Emporium
It Takes a Man
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