From a Bestiary
continued

                        III.
HEAD is the strangest creature that I know;
Its strangest features are within it, though;
For there appear Chimeras without number
That much defy the beast's desire to slumber.
This creature, which is fallen from God's grace,
Hath, like the Manticore, a human face
(To see those lineaments of reason do
Bestial things — how strange, and dreadful too!).
The scholars study Head, but like a mirror,
It is impenetrable. This much is clear:
Head hath no heart. It weareth oft a hat.
It is caput in Latin. So much for that.
All other claims that are made for it are bogus,
According to my master, Physiologus;
For though it preen or prate, 'tis but a role:
Its essence is (my master says) a hole.
For all Chimeras, Basilisks, and Brains,
All the unholy monsters it contains;
Its hopes and fears of what the future holds;
Its dull discomforts, allergies and colds;
Its solemn guilt; its quest for Truth and Beauty;
Its love of freedom, which becomes a duty;
Its views on books and shows, on right and wrong;
Its pride; its loneliness; its Weltanschauung —
They all dry up, as in a time of drouth,
If it can put some object in its mouth.
Let it but gnaw and suck upon a bone,
It will leave off its soporific drone;
Let it but kiss another of its kind,
There will be no more foolish talk of "mind";
Let it but get its lips around a glass,
It will not care that it becomes an ass;
Let it but gorge on cake until it's ill,
It will no longer prate about "free will";
Let it be given to Cunt or Cock (whichever),
It cannot make its slurping noises clever;
Let it have taste for grosser things than wit,
It cannot be so suave, indulging it;
Let it appear however dignified,
It will be, shortly, stuffed with more than pride.
It doth these things, and when at last 'tis full,
It empties out again, and turns to Skull:
Essential Head, fulfilling Nature's laws
And its own longing, this its final cause —
A hole indeed, devoid of joy and choler,
A nesting place (at last) for worm and scholar.

And thus, O Man — but what more can be said?
I think I see no meaning in the Head.
For since I know its essence, I confess,
I cannot allegorize on emptiness.
(The mystics know it, and by prayer and fasting,
They keep it empty, if not everlasting.)
Farewell — but alas, I cannot yet to bed;
The reader will have his meaning, or my head.
So here the moral is, all nice and tidy,
To wrap this up like baby's brand new didy:
O Man, composed of body and of soul,
Be kind to both and, for a time, be whole.


Published in The New York Quarterly, Spring 1987