James Sallis, page 2
Among the Ruins of Poetry
by James Sallis
In a village deep in the jungles of central Peru, and nowhere else, grows an orchid whose flesh is more manlike than most. And yet more miraculously, from their earliest days these flowers develop the ability to form human sounds. For a short time they converse among themselves or speak with villagers, mostly silly, insipid stuff, then begin composing the lengthy, complex epic poems to which each dedicates the remainder of its life. Everywhere one hears these orchids mumbling obliviously to themselves.
*
Some time back, and tacitly, they had adopted this routine: if at eleven she rose to fill the tub for a bath, he would stay the night; if she did not, he would not.
Tonight they are reading, he Proust, she Cervantes, as they share a bottle of burgundy. Precisely at eleven she stands and walks into the bathroom. He hears the water begin its fall and then she is in the doorway: But I don't need a bath. I've had a bath.
He understands, and leaves.
*
That summer a dead friend comes to see you. He lectures you on classic German literature as you bring him cup after cup of strong tea. I know them all, he says. You show him a few recent poems. He says: I would die for these.
*
He cuts himself shaving and tears off a corner of toilet paper to apply to one of the wider nicks beneath his nose where it becomes a hinge, a valve, flapping open and shut against his left nostril.
Someone says: I wish I had given up earlier. It would have been so much easier.
The refrigerator in his new flat has the sound of a sneeze when it comes on. Branches against the window creak and caw in the wind like birds.
*
You could never sleep in her bed. You spent many nights there after you'd made love, watching the pale plane of her back, the dapple of leaves on the wall, and listening to the tick and twitter of her birds.
Unable to sleep you would pad still naked about her house, her smell on you, about you, like an aura, as she tossed and threw pillows, covers, from the bed. You came upon copies of your books in a corner of the bookcase.
You could never sleep in her bed. You sat listening to the tick and twitter of her birds resolve into morning.
*
Recently the News' chief reporter has adopted, as 'the only system adequate to the disruptions of our time,' surrealism. This has caused some problems, admittedly, as in his feature of two days before, an interview with a railroad tie. Yet he writes so beautifully that no one complains. And this is considered by many to be an improvement over his prior Marxism.
*
In the café the couple's eyes do not meet. They speak of many things: right or wrong, how children have been brought up, the responsibilities of freedom, taxes, a music lesson, literature, Salieri. They devour croissants and drink down endless cups of coffee. The water brought them stands unmolested.
*
You have been away a while, reading Proust, and, coming back to this world, you encounter significant changes, you say.
Several nouns have become verbs; there are new, unrecognizable words and equally impenetrable uses for old ones; whole pages seem to have been removed from the dictionaries.
Even the alphabet seems not enough, you say.
*
Last year he contracted to translate all G-- 's future novels, believing revenues from these would buy time for the completion of his own small books. But time will not be bought. G-- has become a dervish - four novels this calendar year! -- and he has no time for work of his own.
*
Even reading the newspaper reminds you of her.
That summer, that last morning, there was wind as now. On the bed you held her small breast in your hand for a long while afterwards, staring up at the limitless white ceiling. ·
Among the Ruins of Poetry (rtf), James Sallis
