The Oracle Graham Hough

I

Year after year they come, perplexed by plagues, mad daughters, Droughts, civil dissensions, plans to conquer the world, Lost jewellery or missing lovers, murrain among the cattle, Backache, dynastic marriage, metaphysical doubt.

Climb the steps, enter the precinct, Pass under the low-built lintel; See-but you can see little; It is dark in the adytos, out of the sun-glare, Fetid and dark. One sliver of light from a cracked roof-tile To the cleft stone; a flicker on smokeglazed rafters; Bats squeak; fear crisps the hair, Dries up the spittle.

The cleft stone, and a woman crouched above it, A bundle of bones and tumbled linen, Virgin, unapproachable, no man can know her; Violent and frail, so frail Even this dying breeze could overthrow her.

Hear them low-voiced heave up their questions; Light strikes blue on her filmed eyeballs; Hyssop and marjoram burning, A bitter smell. A smoke-thread twines from the stone. Silence and low flame. Silence, blood of a goat; Her robe in fantastic folds. Trembling and silence.

They were prepared for a god’s deep-throated roar, But through her gullet only a high-pitched mutter; Not many words, at most six thundering verses; Then babble, trembling, silence.

Confused and hoping for more They stand till she drives them away.

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The god has spoken and fallen silent. What have they heard? Out in the air they try to remember. Some proverb familiar already, some riddle or code, Doubtful monition, double-facing word,

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It is cooler now, the sun nears the rim of the mountain; They stand on the rocky platform and look to the west, Engraving the word on their hearts; The suasion to vengeance or pity, Tale of a dark stranger, A stitch in time, Or a pitcher that goes to the well too often. And all seems, if not quite plain, At least less dark than before.

A word to take back to the city.

And next year the daughter is still mad Or gets better, It rains or does not rain, the battle is won or lost; The stranger was polluted and brought the blow-flies, Or was loved of the gods, brought a great harvest and honour; The treaty is made, the colony founded; They bless it or rue it.

Arcana, enigmas, they all hide an answer ; In principle, cyphers and codes Have solutions; And from an old woman's mutter or sighing of oak-trees Flight or entrails of fowls, or dropping of pebbles, We sort out the seed of the truth.

Who knows when a stitch is in time, Or how many times is too many? One stranger looks much like another; Surely the warning was right; Though maybe we failed to construe it.

IV This the sybil always knew Crouching over the cunning flame Where the vapour puffs and dies- Any word may turn out true Black and white can mean the same. Hide the needle in the stack Where the seekers all day long Pore and fumble to get it back Wrap a truth in twenty lies None can ever prove you wrong.

Not even need for subtle art Their desire will do it all

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Every turn and image scanned Every letter learnt by heart. For the struggle at the wall And the marriage crowned with flowers Ambush where the hero died Hers whatever blame or praise Work of kind or bloody hand By her soothsay justified.

Never can they fmd her out For she never did deceive. All her trance and gipsy cheating Only led them round about To the door that man alive Soon or late must dare to enter Each afraid each one alone To search the maze for its true centre Wander lost and only meeting Echoes, find at last his own.

Title Deeds: Poems Frederick Grubb

A first book of poems by a young poet who believes that poetry is ‘a form of liberal investi- gation in itself, concerned with the totality of a man’s experience rather than specialist in- terpretations of it’. 15s

Longmans

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