The workmen clinked their steel, trudging; one murmured couplets
about a great house and chiefs beaten into the clay;
the new man rode ahead, engrossed with his new landscape
and the swell of his saddle. For ruins are the sleep of dynasty.
He met the neighbour heiress who, bored with church and luncheon,
had found in that gap of frost-spilled masonry
refuge from adulthood, then a precinct for the Numen—
Their children saw Earth itself as the great ruin:
was she not the contracted wreck of Chaos? and of the Spiral
that is primal Order? They walked her final patina.
Travelling, delving, they found themselves everywhere in it.
As dramatic buildings encroached, including their own,
their houses assumed a shade of ruin, a domesticated patina.
Breeding shone in slight defeat. They opposed the soaring line
with a settled, undulant, edge-abraded line Earth taught them.
Ruins lacked all charm, though, closest to home, in the flesh:
gallows-fruit, senility of parents, the bottle-wrapped veteran
wobbling in the lane, his face like matted genitals—
You are too inclusive, they cried. You overwork a metaphor!
Ruins are not Christian. They are sober poignant spirits;
they are the afterlife of genteel religion.
Descendants, by this time, were riding beside battalions
of steel-clinking workmen, going to make ruins
and establish, they said, a line of common nobility.
The spiral now contracted faster. Generations
cried out to each other from their collapsing levels.
We were above this! and heard the answering laughter,
These ruins are heroic! and heard the avenging answer.
Ruins and tribes and wilderness merged thereafter
and all the trusted creatures. Earth became the Great Museum
whose other, more secret name is Noble Conquest.
It swarmed with new people, steel in the hands of some
and in the blood of others. Hey, off with your gentilities!
we’re your new ruins, they cried, we’re the water sign!
and this is the true dance, the Beat, helix of Helikon!
Lies and the truth, said Nine there, the truth and lies,
we purvey both. You want truth? Just the one?
Truth may be lacking in flair for your aristocracies,
and it tends to be successive, with your orthodocracies;
for instance, now Ruins: for our next intimation…
© Les Murray 🔒
Some other random works of this poet:
- 90 [A month as a war bride. Twenty years, after, of nursing]
- 33 [On the veranda, Forbutt is arrested]
- Tableau with Academic Figures
- Emperor Mao and the sparrows
- The End Of Symbol
- The Import of Adult Flavours
- Portrait Of A Felspar-Coloured Cat
- The Broad Bean Sermon
- The Holy Show
- The Poisons Of Right And Left
- The Sleepout
- The Grandmother’s Story
- The Myriads
- 111 [a wrong downward branch]
- Walking To The Cattle Place 12: Hall’s Cattle
- Oasis City
- Towards 2000
- Angophora Floribunda
- The House of Worth
- Five Gaelic Poems 1: Free Kirk Cemetery, Northern New South Wales
- 84 [After much fencing, with nothing illegal admitted]
- Lace Curtain
- Life Cycle Of Ideas
- Blueprint II
- 88 [i think ill drive down to athol dunns in the morning]
- On the North Coast Line
- The Sydney Highrise Variations 5: The Recession of the Joneses
- 80 [In fact they know few songs; they are New World men]
- Below Bronte House
- I wrote a little haiku
- Shale Country
- The Great Hall Of Chlorine
- To Me You’ll Always Be Spat
- In A Time Of Cuisine
- Masculeene, Cried the Bulls
- 77 [The boys who rescued the funeral sprint down]
- 55 [While Reeby mourns the urbane bubble he might]
- Five Gaelic Poems 2: A Skirl for Outsets
- You Find You Can Leave It All
- The Masses
- Queen Butterfly
- Windy Hill
- Reflection In A Military Cap Badge
- Cave Divers Near Mount Gambier
- The Kitchen Grammars