Three Poems after Jules Supervielle by Moniza Alvi

PN Review 153, September - October 2003

Riderless Horses

Once there was a cavalry troop,
long dispersed.
The horses would soak their necks in the future
so they could gallop on and on.

They were wild and tireless.

Sleek black, fearful,
they'd run in all directions,
spin round in circles,
stopping only to die,
change pace in the dust, and start again.

The frantic colts would catch up with the mares.

So many horses have passed this way
and nothing is left of them
but the beating of their hooves.

Let me listen to the hoof beats of my past -
my former heart beating in its glade.

And let the heart I'm stuck with now
give way, drunk - with the brevity of life.


Besieged

The great bulk of the mountain hesitates at my window

How can a mountain get in with its height,
its boulders and pebbles - a piece of the Earth
in conflict with the sky?

My house is surrounded by woods

Do the woods have a say indoors?
Can our branches, our leafy world
influence this room with its white bed,
tall candlestick, flowers drenched in a vase?
What can a wood do for a man, walled in,
who rests his writing hand on his arm?
Let's consider our delicate roots.
The man hasn't seen them, he peers
into his depths, looking for trees
at the back of his tongue.

And the river says

I have no interest in men or women,
I flow for myself.
I am never where you expect to find me.
I outrun myself, can't bear to stand still.
I pity those who rush off on two legs -
they never fail to retrace their steps.

But the star murmurs to itself

I shiver on the end of a thread.
When no one looks at me I cease to exist.

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Night Visitor

In precarious rooms, I placed a foot on the exact
spot where I thought I'd know everything,

and waited a long time - simply couldn't move.
It was almost daybreak when someone approached.

Could it be the Night herself - this desirable woman
who trembled like a partridge in the sun?

Ill at ease in her own skin,
she wandered about inside herself, inside her heart.

Trying to convince her I was there, I stayed still,
but even my silence stopped short of her.

Her dark gestures, like her constant murmuring,
flew at me from all sides.

When the daylight faded she walked away
with human footsteps, permanently deceived -

to turn up again at the end of the street,
suffering from vertigo, indistinct.

Every night it was the same.
She covered herself with eyes like blind stars.

And since then I have drawn comfort
from my shadows.

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These poems by Moniza Alvi are taken from PN Review 153, September - October 2003. Further contributions from Alvi are available in the archive to paying subscribers, as well as more poetry, features, reviews and reports from across the back catalogue.