(The great Chinese actor, Mei Ling Fan, was murdered by the Japanese in the summer of 1943) – For Dunstan Thompson
I
THE tiger mangles an era, leaps
From the far provinces of hate
To where, like a fountain, tradition keeps
Its slow musical discipline.
But over the pastoral silence, fate
Watches the tiger, anguish in ambush,
And is unmoved. O now from that sin
Of mirror magic, how extricate
Mercy? Trained spiders, skeined in our lush
Alexandrian culture, the cruel web
Of art holds us, while through the air
Whistling with omens, the tiger lair
Is dangerously deserted. It is the ebb
Tide of beauty. The dirty shore
Exposes our tracks, easy to follow.
And out of ambush comes that fellow
We denied, the joke, the more
Than murderous, blood at the teeth,
Hot for the kill. What have we now
As ransom-will he pause for wreath
Of laurel, snickersnee fondle a flower
Of artifice. It is not enough.
The delusive barrier falls to his anger.
Eras bulge and vanish in the tough
Pocket of his huge hunger.
II
One dies or another. It
Is all the same. Bloody hands
Rip the beautiful flesh, wit
Squeaks like a scared mouse. Jazz bands
Hesitate for a requiem, then play
Faster and faster, while disaster
Overtakes and conquers our last day.
It is the hour of blood. Christ
Crucified, like a vision, stammers
In the dreams of the good. But most are lost,
And the ominous harmony of hammers
Pounding nails through the hands, brings
Not high heaven closer, but pain
Only. Then see how the shriveled life clings
To breath, searching immortality
In the grey unemotional sky.
III
So he is poisoned in the red chamber,
Who was the master of his art,
So must they perish whose chosen parish
Was beauty. They did not remember
How hate’s sly animals chart
Death for the thoughtful. Their fault was the flourish,
Pride like a bandage, over their eyes.
It was not evil to exalt their art-
, as they find themselves the prize
For gibbons—they do not forget,
Trace in the raging brute face
How death is victory and grace
For them, hear in the baffled cry
Their valued victory.
So he is poisoned in the red chamber,
While they quote minutes of delight.
But the darkness comes, the shining ember
Of success burns out. The world’s night
Shudders to the violated sun.
Salvation, like a moth on a pin,
Gleams in the funeral gestures of a fan.
IV
What was the fault, the terrible guilt
Impossible longer to evade?
Who knows? Who speaks? Who tells? Whose aid
Comes merciful? O, in the gilt
House, mandarins of miasma weep
Apologies. The apocalyptic sword
Hangs, like a grail out of reach, the word
Of absolution niched, not touched.
But at the last, is the lost hope
Recovered, the impoverished throat enriched
By one sudden revealing song?
For those who are killers do not kill.
Their tiger slashes raddle the flesh,
And pride comets in their glance.
But even, heiled heroes, as they dance
Onward, waving obsidian, the wish
Of the good kindles the dead eyelids.
The sightless eyes see caroling leaves,
Promise blooming on the bleeding lawn.
And more, O more, than the heart grieves,
Is death’s no longer indifferent dawn.
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