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    Circus Days and Nights

    Page 4
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      “I don’t remember where he lived out there,” said the

      Colonel.

      “I think it was … aaaah! That lion!”

      It was time for him to go on;

      the lion knew it and roared.

      The Colonel went into the small cage carrying a folding

      chair and a whip.

      The lion, big and dusty, snarled and pawed at him,

      Then he roared,

      Angus snapped the whip,

      the lion crouched and pounced.

      Apparently alarmed,

      the trainer dropped his chair,

      scurried from the cage,

      slipped through the steel door, and sprang it behind him.

      The audience was impressed.

      The lion, furious, was left standing with his paws against

      the door.

      “I think it was Pasadena!” said the Colonel, coming lightly

      down the steps.

      night

      ACROBAT ABOUT TO ENTER

      Star of the bareback riding act,

      dressed in a dark red high-collared cape,

      black-browed,

      waiting with the others

      to go in:

      To enter

      the bright yellow

      glare of the tent,

      He stood on an island,

      self-absorbed.

      At twenty-one

      there was trouble in his universe.

      Stars were failing;

      planets made their rounds

      with grating axles:

      The crown of stars in blackness

      was awry.

      Clouds were rising,

      thunder rumbled;

      he was alone,

      nobly troubled

      waiting a moment.

      He waited with challenge,

      young and in solitude,

      mourning inwardly,

      attentive to the black, fiery current

      in his mind,

      he would not be comforted.

      Swift water,

      failing darkness:

      he alone could hear it.

      Hoarded the sound,

      pulled his cape around it:

      bitter and intense,

      but it was his:

      Youthful secret,

      black and smouldering,

      not of the crowd;

      It was his private woe

      and, being private,

      prized.

      Now in telling the story

      of the Cristianis,

      their early beginning

      and long-ago birth

      and their rising from earth

      to brightness of sunlight,

      we tell of creation and glory,

      of rising,

      and fall:

      and again of the rising

      where we are all risen;

      for each man redeemed

      is risen again.

      The spinning of the sun,

      the spinning of the world,

      the spun sun’s span

      on the world in its spinning,

      are all in the story

      from its beginning;

      and when it is spun

      there shall be no unspinning.

      Mogador is running along with the horse.

      His eyes are serious, full of thought.

      His mouth is a little open as he runs and breathes.

      He is smiling a little.

      His lips are thin.

      As he runs,

      bending the knees,

      dancing lightly beside the horse,

      he is in step with the horse.

      They both land lightly.

      They both spring from the earth;

      their movement is through the air.

      Their feet drop lightly to earth

      and push off from it.

      And as they rise and fall,

      rise,

      fly,

      and (momentarily) fall,

      their heads rise too

      and fall in regular rhythm.

      They rise

      and the hair of the horse’s mane clings to him,

      pointing to earth.

      They drop down

      and each hair of the white long mane

      remains in air

      The boy’s hair too,

      dark silk

      rides close as he rises;

      then rises in the air

      falling lightly over his forehead

      as he drops to earth.

      They come around the ring,

      The boy runs on the inside.

      The horse trots along close to the curb.

      The boy with his horse as they turn

      in the ring are boy and horse running in

      blue and green field: his hand is on the

      horse’s back the horse is to him close as hand.

      They round the turn, the boy is out of sight.

      But now, behold!

      He flies above the horse, holding a strap at his shoulders.

      His feet fly out behind.

      His toes are together and pointed like closed scissors.

      Now he splits,

      sits riding bareback

      pointing his toes to the ground

      spinning beneath them.

      His arms are held in air relaxed.

      He rides lightly,

      barely touching,

      his arms in air.

      Then he leaps up

      and with a pirouette begins his dance.

      What was begun

      as a run

      through the field

      is turned

      to ritual.

      RASTELLI

      Now the story of Rastelli is one they love to tell

      around the circus.

      He is a hero

      not because his work was dangerous

      but because he was excellent at it

      and because he was excellent as a friend.

      He was good at juggling

      at talking

      at coffee

      Loving everyone

      he died juggling

      for everyone

      He died

      Oscar said in a low secret voice

      when he was 33

      The age of our Lord

      They loved Rastelli

      and he loved them

      their loves flamed together

      a high blaze

      Ascending to the Sun of being

      Rastelli was a juggler and a kind of sun

      his clubs and flames and hoops

      moved around him like planets

      obeyed and waited his command

      he moved all things according to their natures:

      they were ready when he found them

      but he moved them according to their love.

      As dancers harmonize, the rising falling planets

      mirrored his movements.

      Rising, falling, rotating, revolving, they spun on

      the axis of his desire.

      Clubs were at rest, he woke them and sent them spinning,

      from which again they flew, until flying and falling,

      spinning and standing a moment in midair,

      they seemed to love to obey his command,

      and even dance with the juggler.

      Seeing the world was willing to dance,

      Rastelli fell in love with creation,

      through the creation with the Creator,

      and through the Creator again with creation,

      and through the creation, the Lord.

      He loved the world and things he juggled,

      he loved the people he juggled for.

      Clubs and hoops could answer his love:

      even more could people.

      Lover and juggler

      bearer of light

      he lived and died in the center ring

      dancing decorously

      moving all things according to their nature

      And there, before the Lord, he dances still.

      He is with us on the double somersa
    ult;

      the three-high to the shoulders;

      he is with us on the Arab pirouette and the principal

      act on horseback.

      And in the long nights,

      riding the trucks between towns, Rastelli is with us:

      companion,

      example,

      hero in the night of memory.

      He stood outside the horse truck, waiting for Mogador to

      come back, and he began to whistle. Across the field the men

      had taken down the sides of the tent and were moving about in

      dim light under the top, picking up trunks, ropes and equipment

      and packing it away. He began to whistle a tune from the

      depths of his soul; he had never heard it before but he

      recognized it as a form of the song his soul had always been

      singing, a song he had been singing since the beginning of

      the world, a song of return. It was as though he stood in a

      dark corner of the universe and whistled softly, between his

      teeth, and the far stars were attentive, as though he whistled

      and waves far off could hear him, as though he had discovered

      a strain at least of the night song of the world.

      By day I have circled like the sun,

      I have leapt like fire.

      At night I am a wise man

      in his palanquin.

      By day I am a juggler’s torch

      whirling brightly.

      Have you known such a thing?

      That men and animals

      light and air,

      graceful acrobats,

      and musicians

      could come together

      in a single place,

      occupy a field by night

      set up their tents

      in the early morning

      perform their wonders

      in the afternoon

      wheel in the light

      of their lamps at night?

      Have you seen the circus steal away?

      Leaving the field of wonders darkened,

      leaving the air where the tent stood empty,

      silence and darkness where sight and sound were,

      living only in memory?

      Have you seen the noonday banners

      of this wedding?

      MOGADOR’S BOOK

      The principal act

      is a psalm of praise;

      the somersault

      a well-turned proverb.

      Big black door,

      square opening;

      elephant’s entrance,

      performer’s entrance,

      the door that led to the back

      performer’s entrance near the

      bandstand.

      The bandstand;

      Pete’s chair,

      the mike,

      the springboard,

      the leapers’ mat.

      Circus wagon.

      Dressing tent;

      men’s & women’s,

      black canvas,

      the canvas wall

      between the men’s and women’s side

      of the dressing tent.

      Performer’s tent;

      trunks,

      mirrors,

      towels,

      makeup can,

      powder puff

      (tent stake

      iron tent stake)

      folding chair.

      Light beam through

      sky in top of tent wall,

      just under the deckled

      eaves of the roof.

      Red & white makeup on

      towels.

      Bell-bottom blue silk trousers,

      white silk wide-collared blouse.

      Blouse caught wind and light.

      Red and gold riding habit.

      Fancily draped (crepe de chine) tie.

      Black hair.

      Piss hole in corner.

      Rain hole covered with sawdust.

      Lonely spectators who had wandered back,

      family of Indians,

      blond child,

      curls,

      limp-dressed,

      balanced like a shaky tripod onto

      skinny

      lanky

      legs.

      Cowboy Eddie makes money selling rides on

      pony out back.

      Tina with green flat Mexican hat,

      idly eating,

      munching at,

      chewing (listlessly) at

      the string (which was) meant to go

      under her chin.

      Tent ropes cutting each picture diagonally.

      Orange sun streaming

      into sag in tent wall.

      Grass,

      sky,

      elephants stepping lightly.

      Earth is a tattooed lady.

      In her tegument

      Signs and the signs of signs:

      mermaids and dolphins,

      hearts and arrows,

      roses and eagles;

      Signs and the signs of signs

      sewn with a fiery needle

      into her woven walls.

      One bright leg

      across the other,

      she sits on a camp stool

      under the tent of sky

      smoking

      a momentary

      cigarette.

      I have often thought how much like

      a circus the world is, and how

      the more like a circus it becomes,

      the better.

      These are some of the reasons:

      More than almost anything in the

      world, the circus is an end in itself.

      (That used to be said of all art, but

      too often literature

      painting & music, even ballet turn

      into means & servants of some other

      end)

      No one jumps through a

      hoop on horseback to prove a point

      (except incidentally, the point that

      anything that is done proves: i.e.,

      that it can be)

      So if the world ever came to its

      final rejoicing what would it

      prove (what better thing could it

      try to prove) except

      that it

      can

      be.

      That which we have believed in,

      said prayers

      and

      made sacrifices in the hope of,

      is.

      The traveling circus

      (and that’s what I mean)

      in its nature is always in

      motion, even when it seems

      to be standing still. This is

      literally true. Circuses in

      their season are always

      traveling from town to town.

      When the circus is in one

      town, advance agents

      are moving about the next

      working routes, checking

      ads, making reservations

      in hotels, and “Put it

      up & tear it down” is the

      constant chant of the

      circus.

      It spends

      all morning

      building up tents

      and bleachers,

      rings,

      trapezes,

      and

      all evening

      tearing down

      (silently)

      unobtrusively

      (an unoccupied

      clown folds chairs)

      folding chairs,

      loosening ropes,

      sending the cookhouse

      out through the night.

      Like civilizations

      and

      everything

      that grows,

      it holds

      in

      perfection

      but a little moment

      The world too is always in motion.

      Nothing abides,

      all changes.

      A bright falbala

      turns to the light

      and is seen no more


      (For this poor world presenteth

      naught but shows

      whereon the stars in

      secret influence comment)

      Everyone who travels with a

      circus is of use to the circus.

      Nobody is just along for the ride.

      There is a hierarchy in the

      show; not of souls but of skills

      and talents, it is a

      natural kind of hierarchy

      allowing free movement up

      and down, which gives

      legitimate hope to

      aspiration but

      not just cause for

      resentment.

      In most circuses the administrators

      (owners) and star performers make

      up two kinds of nearly sovereign

      aristocracy, but the line is seldom

      drawn tight between them.

      Performers often become entrepreneurs.

      I said it is a hierarchy

      of talents. What (precisely)

      does the circus aristocracy have

      a talent for? A talent

      precisely for life in the circus

      (which, by analogy, means life

      in the world)

      The circus is a show;

      the aristocrats are showmen.

      The circus is an organization (almost

      an organism). The aristocrats

      (entrepreneurs) are good at organizing

      at keeping it organically

      functioning.

      The circus is in motion, it requires

      (calm) nerves, easy breathing, balance,

      an ability to change from place to

      place without inner disturbances.

      Circus aristocrats, the performers

      are well fitted to this kind of

      motion, to traveling through

      the world from day to day eating

      & sleeping in a new town each day.

      But further,

      motion precisely is their business;

      easy,

      graceful,

      (physical) motion through space,

      the balance

      and

      coordination of

      physical movement

      is the quality,

      the talent,

      which distinguishes these people.

      It is a quality

      (most) useful

      and

      highly valued

      in the life of the circus.

      Useful and highly valued

      (though too

      often now in a state of atrophy)

      throughout the world.

      It is no wonder

      that wherever they go

     


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