Dante's Inferno Read online

  PHILIP TERRY

  Dante’s Inferno

  For Marina Warner

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thanks to Tim Atkins, Mark Burnhope, Adrian Clarke, Sarah Crewe, James Davies, Steven Fowler, Ulli Freer, Jesse Glass, Peter Hughes, Piers Hugill, Tom Jencks, Peter Kennedy, Sophie Mayer, Aodán McCardle, Stephen Mooney, William Rowe, Michael Schmidt and Scott Thurston, who have previously published sections from this sequence, usually in a different form, in books, pamphlets and magazines.

  I would also like to thank Ann Davey and Lou Terry, who have lived through this, as well as all the friends and poets who have helped this work along in one way or another with suggestions, encouragement, and opportunities to read, in particular Wayne Clements, Lyndon Davies, Cristina Fumagalli, John Goodby, Seamus Heaney, Jeff Hilson, Keith Jebb, Antony John, Jess Kenny, Matt Martin, Harry Mathews, Adrian May, David Miller, Marjorie Perloff, Tom Raworth, Stephen Rodefer, Tony Tackling, Jonathan White and Johan de Wit. Without the enthusiasm and support of all of these individuals this book would never have been written. Finally, I would like to thank Robert Sheppard for supplying some of the villains for Canto XIX.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Canto I

  Canto II

  Canto III

  Canto IV

  Canto V

  Canto VI

  Canto VII

  Canto VIII

  Canto IX

  Canto X

  Canto XI

  Canto XII

  Canto XIII

  Canto XIV

  Canto XV

  Canto XVI

  Canto XVII

  Canto XVIII

  Canto XIX

  Canto XX

  Canto XXI

  Canto XXII

  Canto XXIII

  Canto XXIV

  Canto XXV

  Canto XXVI

  Canto XXVII

  Canto XXVIII

  Canto XXIX

  Canto XXX

  Canto XXXI

  Canto XXXII

  Canto XXXIII

  Canto XXXIV

  Index

  About the Author

  Also by Philip Terry from Carcanet

  Copyright

  CANTO I

  Halfway through a bad trip

  I found myself in this stinking car park,

  Underground, miles from Amarillo.

  Students in thongs stood there,

  Eating junk food from skips,

  flagmen spewing E’s,

  Their breath of fetid

  Myrrh and ratsbane,

  doners

  And condemned chicken shin

  rose like

  distemper.

  Then I retched on rising ground;

  Rabbits without ears, faces eaten away

  by myxomatosis

  Crawled towards a bleak lake

  to drink

  of leucotomy.

  The stink would revive a

  sparrow, spreadeagled on

  a lectern.

  It so horrified my heart

  I shat

  botox.

  Here, by the toxic water,

  lay a spotted trout, its glow

  lighting paths for the VC.

  And nigh the bins a giant rat,

  Seediness oozing from her Flemish pores,

  Pushed me backwards, bit by bit

  Into Square 5,

  where the wind gnaws

  and sunshine is spent.

  By the cashpoint

  a bum asked for a light,

  hoarse from long silence, beaming.

  When I saw him gyrate,

  His teeth all wasted,

  natch,

  His eyes

  long dead

  through speed and booze,

  I cried out

  ‘Take pity,

  Whatever you are, man or ghost!’

  ‘Not man, though formerly a man,’

  he says, ‘I hail from Providence,

  Rhode Island, a Korean vet.

  Once I was a poet, I wrote

  of bean spasms,

  was anthologised in Fuck You.’

  ‘You’re never Berrigan, that spring

  Where all the river of style freezes?’

  I ask, awe all over my facials.

  ‘I’m an American

  Primitive,’ he says,

  ‘I make up each verse as it comes,

  By putting things

  where they

  have to go.’

  ‘O glory of every poet, have a light,

  May my Zippo benefit me now,

  And all my stripping of your Sonnets.

  You see this hairy she-rat

  that stalks me like a pimp:

  Get her off my back,

  for every vein and pulse

  Throughout my frame she hath

  made quake.’

  ‘You must needs another way pursue,’

  He says, winking while I shade my pin,

  ‘If you wouldst ’scape this beast.

  Come, she lets none past her,

  Save the VC; if she breathes on you,

  you’re teaching nights.

  This way, freshman, come,

  If I’m not far wrong we can find

  A bar, and talk it over with Ed and Tom.’

  I went where he led, across a square

  And down some steps,

  following the crowd.

  The SU bar, where we queued

  For 30 minutes

  To get a watery beer, was packed;

  Ed and Tom

  Sat at a banquette in the corner

  Chain-smoking and swapping jokes.

  Here we joined them,

  till closing time,

  the beer doing the talking.

  ‘Look,’ said Tom, ‘if this guy’s got funding

  And approval from the Dean and whatever,

  Why not take him round?’

  ‘Show him the works,’ said Ed, ‘no holds barred!’

  ‘You mean,’ said Berrigan, ‘give him

  a campus tour,

  Like, give him Hell?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I mean,’ said Ed.

  ‘Let’s drink to it!’ said Tom,

  At which we all raised our glasses,

  Unsteadily, clinking them together above

  The full ashtray.

  ‘Hell,’ pronounced Berrigan gnomically,

  ‘Is other people. Sartre said that.

  Hell is Hell. I said that.’

  Now people were leaving,

  we shifted outside,

  Into the cold air,

  Where we lingered a moment sharing a last

  Cigarette, then split,

  Ed and Tom going to their digs

  Leaving me and Ted to breathe the night air.

  CANTO II

  The day was dying,

  the rabbits, unable to move,

  sat confused in the fading light,

  And I too found myself stuck to the spot

  as I do

  now,

  At the thought of that terrible journey

  Which outdoes memory.

  Now, Oulipo, come to my aid,

  And muses, if you are there, now

  Is the moment to show yourselves,

  As I inscribe what I saw.

  ‘Poet,’ I said, ‘who come to guide me,

  Do you think I’m cut out for this?

  In Memorial Day you said you

  “heard the dead, the city dead

  The devils that surround us,”

  And in life you always had one foot

  In the underworld – and I don’t just mean
r />   You were friends with Lou Reed

  and Drella.

  Like Virgil, who wrote of Sylvius’

  father, who, while subject to corruption,

  journeyed to the immortal world,

  You have that special power

  to penetrate the veil of sense;

  but I’m no Aeneas.

  Nor am I a Heaney or a Walcott,

  Come to mention it,

  By what right should I go?

  Perhaps you’ve got the wrong man?

  And then, if I say I’m up for it,

  I fear I might make a fool of myself.

  You see what I’m driving at –

  Perhaps you can understand my

  dilemma.’

  ‘I get your drift,’ said Berrigan, ‘you’re

  Getting what in the trade we call cold feet.

  You’ve got that

  fear that all too often

  Turns a man away from a noble enterprise,

  As a frightened beast that runs from its own shadow.

  Now listen up. I’ll tell you why I came

  And why I first took pity on your

  plight.

  I was hanging out among those souls in Limbo

  When a Lady came up to me

  And dragged me out of my lethargy.

  She was so fair and blessed

  That I was won over at once.

  Her eyes shone with a light brighter than any

  Eye-liner, and she began in soft and gentle

  Yet commanding words to address me,

  With the voice of an angel:

  “Oh noble spirit, courteous Rhode Islander,

  You who taught in the Poetry Project

  At St Mark’s, and indeed taught here too,

  Whose fame still shines resplendent in the world

  And will continue to shine as long as Time lasts,

  I have a friend and colleague, so impeded

  In his way across the Essex wastes

  that he has turned back for

  sheer terror,

  And I fear already

  From what I have heard in London,

  That I have come too late for his relief.

  Now go, and with your ready turn of phrase,

  And all the art at your disposal,

  Help him, so that I may have solace.

  I who urge you to go am Marina;

  I come from a place I must quickly return to,

  For I need to give a talk at the

  British Library, this same afternoon,

  Where there is a symposium on the sonnet,

  With Jeff Hilson and Paul Muldoon –

  When I return there, often will I sing your praise.”

  She was silent then, so I began:

  “Oh Lady of Grace, aren’t you that

  Lady writer on the TV

  Talking about the Virgin Mary

  Celebrated in that Dire Straits song?

  It’s good to meet you ma’am, and let me

  Tell you now, you can rely on me to

  Get the job done. It’ll be a pleasure,

  And a good excuse to get out of this place,

  Which gets real dull at times.

  But tell me, what madness

  Brought you to this point of spacelessness,

  Stuck out here in the marshlands of Essex,

  And away from your spacious home in town?”

  “That song,” she replied, “is not really about me –

  It’s a chanson d’amour about a beloved

  Of Mark Knopfler’s, of whom I briefly remind him.

  As for your other question, why I fear not

  To come within this place,

  I can answer with ease:

  A woman only stands in fear of those things

  That have the power to do us harm,

  Of nothing else, for nothing else is fearful.

  I first heard tell of my friend’s predicament

  On a lunch date with Dawn and Michèle,

  And they urged me to make this untimely visit;

  There never was an entrepreneur in all of Texas

  More anxious to pursue his selfish ends

  Than I was, having heard this,

  To rush down here and do what I could,

  Confiding in thy noble speech, which honours thee,

  And they who have heard it!”

  After telling me all this, she turned away

  Her bright eyes, weeping, then made her way

  To the car park.

  To cut a long story short, that’s why I

  Came to get you, just in time to stop that

  Giant rat getting its teeth into you.

  So what’s your problem?

  Why chicken out now, with dames like these

  To look out for you?

  Pull yourself together, there’s not a moment

  To lose.’

  As daffodils, bent down and cowed

  By the chill night air, lift themselves up

  And open

  when the sun whitens them,

  So my courage began to come back,

  And I stood up,

  as one who is ready to go.

  ‘I was a fool to doubt you,’ I said,

  ‘Let’s get moving.’

  These are the words I spoke, and as Berrigan turned,

  I entered on the savage path.

  CANTO III

  THROUGH ME THE WAY TO THE DOLEFUL CAMPUS,

  THROUGH ME THE WAY TO ETERNAL DEBT,

  THROUGH ME THE WAY TO THE FORSAKEN GENERATION.

  FREEDOM OF THOUGHT INSPIRED MY FOUNDERS;

  POLITICAL EXPEDIENCY RUINED ME,

  COUPLED BY BETRAYAL OF PRINCIPLE AND PLEDGE.

  BEFORE ME NOTHING BUT ETERNAL THINGS

  WERE MADE, NOW I SHALL MARK YOU ETERNALLY.

  ABANDON ALL HOPE, YOU WHO ENTER HERE.

  I saw these words spelled out on a digital display

  Above the entrance to the Knowledge Gateway.

  ‘Master,’ I said, ‘this is scary.’

  He answered me, speaking with a drawl:

  ‘Now you need to grit your teeth,

  This isn’t the moment to shit yourself.

  We’re at the spot I spoke about

  Where you will see souls in pain

  Who perverted the good of intellect.’

  Placing his hand on my shoulder, and flashing

  Me a smile, though not one that reassured me,

  He led me in.

  Here groans and cries and shrieks of grief

  Echoed through the freezing fog

  And made me weep with fear;

  A confusion of tongues,

  Greek, Polish, Arabic, German, Dutch,

  Strained with notes of tortured woe,

  Rose into the sightless air,

  Like frenzied seagulls

  at a landfill site.

  And I: ‘What’s this

  noise I hear?

  Who are all these tortured by grief?’

  And Berrigan replied: ‘They are surfers,

  Dudes who coasted through life, drifting in and out

  Of degrees and jobs without conviction.

  They are mixed with those repulsive civil servants

  Neither faithful nor unfaithful to their leaders,

  Whose love was all for self.

  Oxbridge, to keep its reputation, annulled

  Their degrees, and even Essex

  would not honour them.’

  ‘Master,’ I asked, ‘what’s eating them?

  Why are they making such a racket?’

  ‘That,’ he says, ‘I can tell you in a nutshell.

  They have no hope of death

  Yet the life they lead is so low

  That they envy all the other shades.

  Nobody on earth will remember them;

  Funding bodies dismiss them out of hand.

  Let’s not talk about it: look and walk on.’

  And as I looked I
saw in the gloom

  A giant screen, and on it the giant mouth

  Of a talent show host, a man called Callow,

  If I caught it right; in front of the screen

  Such a crowd had gathered, I wondered

  How death could have undone so many.

  A few of these tortured souls I recognised,

  Among them a couple of red-heads:

  One who had amassed a few credits

  In Philosophy and Literature before

  Drifting into telecommunications sales,

  Another who had been unable to choose

  Between poetry and stand-up.

  These wretches were stripped naked

  And picked on by wasps and hornets

  Which buzzed in their ears

  And made their swollen faces run with blood

  And pus, where fat maggots fed.

  When I looked away from this awful sight

  I saw another crowd queuing by the bank

  Of a swamp which had formed in a building site.

  ‘Master,’ I asked,

  ‘Are these more students? What makes them

  So eager to make the crossing?’