Chapters

Legionary Ants

The world, the tranquil punctual gyroscope,

Is more or less at peace after her fashion,

Broad bowels work, creatures rejoice or mope,

There is clash of interests in all dogged creation,

When silence comes as at noiseless thwack of a drum,

And look! the warriors come.

First shudder away the birds, all flaking, wheeling

Out of range and all forgetful of their young,

Crying at the ominous shadowy floor stealing

Over their earth; and then not giving tongue.

Now all things hold silent, and the surf

Breaks on beleaguered turf.

They come. And whose ear can divine the awful waves,

Signals of command suspired by what demagogue?

They tumble in orgies of commitment, these black slaves,

All activity, but insensible as rotted log.

Their mad absorbed unity of hunger and mirth

Is the belly-heave of earth.

The wounded mammal whimpers and butts and runs,

Glazing, eaten alive. The three-days’ chick

Shrills fear, and like a paradigm of guns

Anarchy gorges itself and life is sick.

Look close for a second, stranger, you will find

Blear paradigm also of our mind.

For this is our mind for today—never creation

But all nakedness. Odours and colours blent

And sounds and shapes, swivel throughout that ration

Of basic nerves, like darkness imminent

But sometimes in moments of withdrawal one sees, feels

Certain subterranean wheels.