|
Subject:
Nabokov poem |
|
From:
marc bloom <lonen1@hotmail.co.uk> |
|
Date:
Mon, 25 Feb 2008 15:30:34 +0000 |
|
To:
<nabokv-l@listserv.ucsb.edu> |
The
Ballad
of Humbert Humbert
By Marcus Bloom
Gentlemen of
the jury
See this
tangle of
thorns
What the
noble-winged
seraphs
Both envied
and scorned.
(Though my
youth flies
away
In a flurry
of scraps:
A million sad
moments
One boundless
‘perhaps’)
Consumed by
hell-furnace
Of localized
lust
For each
passing child
In the pollen
and dust
I’d sit on my
bench in
Pubescent Park
(Let them
play here
forever!
Let it never
grow dark!)
There by the
fountain
While fishing
for coins
A nymphet
leans over
(A leap in
the loins!)
While another
gropes
under me
In search of
some toy
(I dissolving
in sun
On my grim
rack of joy)
I’d wedge my
wary and
bestial way
Onto crowded
school
buses
Of
strap-hanging prey
The dark
vacuum of
My starved,
crooked soul
Sucked in
every detail -
Mussed hair
to scuffed
sole
Which would
tempt me and
thwart me
And leave me
with pain
Which flowed
from my
root
To my
outermost vein.
Each cell of
my body
Was singing a
hymn
To each downy
hair
On each
seaside limb
Composing
whole volumes
Of ecstatic
prose
To each tiny
freckle
On each shiny
nose.
(Though my
past ebbs
away now
Unceasingly
lonely
A million sad
moments
That hinge on
‘if only’)
Well there
once was a
woman
Who gave me
brief rest
(Her head
barely
reaching
The hair on
my chest)
A delinquent
nymphet
Shone through
the young
whore
(She was my
‘enfant’
And I her
‘monsieur’)
Morosely we’d
climb
The stairs to
her room
(My ape-eyes
adjusting
To meet with
the gloom)
And there in
the
darkness
(A taste of
my cell)
A flickering
Eden
Would light
up my hell.
Oh good folk
of the jury
See this
tangle of
thorns!
What the
noble-winged
seraphs
(all badly
informed)
At the very
first envied
And later on
scorned.
Yet here in
my cell
I can conjure
the park.
Let them
never grow up!
Let it never
grow dark!