Edwin Morgan
Visiting Edwin Morgan shortly before his 90th birthday, Lucy Hamilton, who had known him for many years, asked whether he had a poem suitable for the Long Poem Magazine. He thought that yes, there was a long piece somewhere in his papers, though he could not quite recall precisely what or where. About this time, I was visiting regularly, and also bringing my biography of the poet to completion. I had recently found a poem-version of his drama, The Play of Gilgamesh (Carcanet, 2005), and we thought that some or all of it might be suitable.
Morgan’s play based on the Sumerian epic had been commissioned by Communicado Theatre Company in the mid1990s, but was never performed. The unpublished poem was his second attempt to dramatize the epic, after initial theatre workshops threw up problems with realising the text. Still intended for performance and declamation to a modern audience (hence the deliberate anachronisms), these lines are the second thoughts of a major poet intent on responding to epic themes of kingship and power, male friendship and bonding, ancient cultures, and the mysteries of suffering and death. The first Gulf War of 1991, fought over that same terrain, was part of its context.
James McGonigal
Gilgamesh
CHARACTERS IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE
The POET-NARRATOR
Various gods
ANU, the Sky God
ARURU, the mother-goddess
A TRAPPER
The TRAPPER’S FATHER
GILGAMESH, King of Uruk
SHAMHAT, a temple harlot
ENKIDU, a wild man
NINSUN, mother of Gilgamesh
Shepherds
A wedding-guest
Elders of Uruk
HUMBABA, guardian of the Cedar Forest
ISHTAR, high priestess of the love cult
SHAMASH, the Sun God
A SCORPION-MAN
A SCORPION-WOMAN
SIDURI, a tavern-keeper
URSHANABI, a ferryman
ZIUSURA THE FARAWAY, a survivor of the Flood
ENKI, the Sea God
ENLIL, the supreme god
NINURTA, the War God
ZIUSURA’S WIFE
The scene is the Sumerian city of Uruk, in southern Iraq, 2750 BC
GILGAMESH AND ENKIDU
(The POET-NARRATOR speaks:)
He who has seen everything: his is my story.
I say to all people: he experienced all things.
Anu gave him universal knowledge.
He saw what was secret, opened what was hidden.
He told us of the time before the Flood.
He travelled as far as can be travelled,
tested the limits of endurance, came back in peace.
He carved his hard exploits on a hard tablet.
He built the walls of Uruk City,
of the holy ziggurat, the sanctuary.
Look at it: it shines in the sun like bronze!
Examine the inner wall, unmatched anywhere!
Tap the threshold of stone – a rock of ages!
Don’t stand back, press close to Ishtar’s temple –
it has no equal either before or since!
Climb the wall of Uruk, prowl along it,
inspect its foundations, its brickwork, be thorough!
The infill is not rubbish but good kiln brick!
Who but the Seven Sages planned Uruk –
one third streets and buildings, one third gardens,
orchards, palm-trees, one third open suburbs,
all of it walled round for miles and miles.
Find the casket, the copper tablet-box,
open it, unbolt its lock of bronze,
undo the clasp of secrets, release
its tablet of lapis-lazuli, read out
how Gilgamesh won through a thousand hardships.
A king among kings and a lord of men,
Uruk-born hero, snorting strong-horned bull,
he marches ahead, he leads, he is the vanguard,
he marches behind, he protects, he earns trust.
His strategies are spread to shield his men.
He is a flash-flood shattering walls of stone.
Lugulbanda’s son, matchless in strength,
weaned from the great cow Ninsun, he
Gilgamesh amazes, majestic, a master.
He it was who opened up the mountain passes,
who sank wells all along the hill-slopes.
He it was who scoured the vast sea to the sunrise,
who explored the unknown world in search of life.
He it was who battled to Ziusura the Faraway,
re-peopler of the earth the Flood had drowned.
Who can ever bring forward his likeness?
Who can claim to be a king as he can?
His name from birth, we note it, was Gilgamesh,
and he was two-thirds god and one-third man.
The mother-goddess Aruru designed his body –
handsome, handsome, she allowed no flaw!
But who designed his mind? No one. He did.
See how he strides across the squares of Uruk,
head sniffing the air like a prime bull.
There is no encounter, there is no challenge.
The citizens stand, watch, obey, murmur,
abashed in the great bull’s red glare.
What is power? Power is what Gilgamesh does.
He takes a son from his father, another
from another, a girl from mother,
a boy from his father, daughter from her mother,
others and others, disappearing at night-time
to be and do what where – nobody knows.
Is this the good shepherd of the flock?
Is this the guardian of the fortress?
There’s a brave glitter, but a darkness inside.
The murmuring of parents and good men
at last reached heaven, the very gods
brought that complaint to the Sky God, saying:
‘Anu, you fathered a proud prime bull
who has no encounter, no challenge, in Uruk.
The citizens stand, watch, obey, murmur.
He takes a son from his father, another
from another, a girl from her mother,
a boy from his father, daughter from mother,
others and others, disappearing at night-time
to be and do what where – noboby knows.
Is this the guardian of the fortress?
Is this the good shepherd of the flock?
There’s a brave glitter, but a darkness inside.’
Anu listened well to these complaints, and said:
‘Aruru, I know you were the designer
of this beautiful, faultless, now too faulty man.
Make him a rival, give the cyberman a golem.
Let the heart of Gilgamesh meet its match,
let them beat together and give peace to Uruk!’
Aruru had listened carefully to Lord Anu,
she concentrated an image of Gilgamesh
within her, a second image, Gilgamesh-Anu.
She washed her hands, she scooped a fistful of clay
and threw it into the wilderness, she made
Enkidu, wild and strong, born of darkness,
born of silence, fortified by the war-god.
His whole body was matted shaggy with hair,
he tossed luxuriance from his head like a woman,
his locks cascaded like the crops of the corn-goddess.
He had no house, no company, no society.
He was clothed in skins like the god of the animals.
He ate grasses as the gazelles ate grasses.
He joined the jostling at the water-hole.
Like an animal, he lapped water in the heat of the day.
One day a trapper busy setting traps
came face-to-face with him across the watering-hole.
That day and a second day and a third day
he was face-to-face with him across the watering-hole.
The trapper froze rigid with pure fear.
Enkidu and his beasts moved back, startled.
The trapper could not stir, he was hypnotized,
his heartbeats raced, his face had gone white,
his whole being was shaken, he looked
like someone at the end of a long journey.
Back home, he told his father, saying to him:
‘Father, there is a strange man down from the hills.
I have never seen anyone so strong,
his power is solid like one of Anu’s meteorites.
He wanders regularly over the mountains,
he regularly jostles the beasts at the water-hole,
he regularly leaves his footprints on the bank.
I was afraid of him, I kept my distance.
He goes round filling the pits I dig,
he twists and scatters the traps I set,
he lets the animals escape to the wilderness,
he blocks my livelihood in the wilderness!’
The trapper’s father spoke to him, saying:
‘My son, there is a man in Uruk called Gilgamesh
who is strongest of the strong, a meteorite of Anu.
Go, get you off to the city, go quickly,
tell Gilgamesh about this woodman, this wild one.
He will give you Shamhat, the harlot of the temple.
Take her with you, she does not need strength
to overcome the stranger, she has other gifts.
Once the animals start drinking at the water-hole
she has only to slip of her dress and show her sex.
His curiosity will bring him to her.
This is not an animal: fuck animals!’
One day they waited, and two days they waited.
The trapper had listened well to his father,
went off to Uruk, to the city, to see Gilgamesh,
stood before the king, and repeated his story:
‘My lord, there is a strange man down from the hills.
I have never seen anyone so strong,
his power is solid like one of Anu’s meteorites.
He wanders regularly over the mountains,
he regularly jostles the beasts at the water-hole,
he regularly leaves his footprints on the bank.
I was afraid of him, I kept my distance.
He goes round filling the pits I dig,
he twists and scatters the traps I set,
he lets the animals escape to the wilderness,
he blocks my livelihood in the wilderness!’
Gilgamesh quickly replied to the trapper, saying:
‘Go now, take the temple harlot, Shamhat.
Once the animals start drinking at the water-hole
she has only to strip off her dress and show her sex.
His curiosity will bring him to her.
This is not an animal: fuck animals!’
So the trapper and the harlot went into the countryside,
set off, knew the way, followed the woodland paths.
On the third day they reached the water-hole,
checked out the spot, sat down and waited.
Then the beasts filed down to the water-hole,
the wild beasts came to slake their thirst with water.
And finally she saw him, wilder than the beasts,
primeval, wilderness-shaggy, skin-clad, staring.
The trapper caught the harlot’s arm, saying:
‘Shamhat, that’s him! Open your arms wide,
open your legs, show him your juicy nest.
Don’t hold back, drain his energy dry!
Spread your dress on the grass and he will lie on you.
Show the wild one what a woman is and does.
Make him say, Fuck animals after this!
as you take his weight, his throbbing, and his thrusts!’
Shamhat showed him her breasts, her juicy nest,
and he took in her warm voluptuousness.
She did not hold back, to drain his energy dry!
She spread out her dress and he lay down on her.
She showed the wild man what a woman is and does.
She took his weight, his throbbing, and his thrusts.
Six days and seven nights he fucked the love-girl,
stiff as a ramrod all that fucking time.
When he rolled off at last, sated, glutted, drained,
he cast a glance at his friends the animals
but they were friends no longer, the gazelles
scattered, the others after them, all gone.
Enkidu made to run after them, but his body
would not obey, his knee-joints seized, his blood
was stubbed. At the same time his understanding
was strengthened. Who was he? What was he?
He turned towards the harlot, sat at her feet,
looked up at her, listened to what she might say.
And she gazed down at him and spoke, saying:
Enkidu, you are beautiful, like a god.
Why do you scour wild places with wild beasts?
Come with me to the fortress of Uruk,
to the ziggurat sacred to Anu and Ishtar,
to the palace of Gilgamesh whose wisdom and power
puff and paw like bulls above the people.’
Enkidu looked into the soul of her words.
His heart, for the first time, longed for a friend.
He spoke then to the temple harlot, saying:
‘Shamhat, I will go with you to the city,
to the ziggurat sacred to Anu and Ishtar,
to the palace of Gilgamesh whose wisdom and power
puff and paw like bulls above the people.
I will shout out a challenge to him.
I will call out: “I am the one who has power!
I have arrived to change the order of things!
The force of the wilderness races through my veins!”
Shamhat replied to Enkidu, saying:
‘All right then let us go, you must face him.
I know where and how to find Gilgamesh.
We shall walk through Uruk that great city
where the crowds flaunt their brilliant skirts and kilts,
where every day is a day of some festival,
where lyres and drums are always to be heard,
where lovely harlots – like me! – are loitering,
laughing, smouldering in the sex-hot air,
waiting for night and the soft beds of the great.
O get a life, Enkidu, learn to live!
I will show you Gilgamesh, man of moods.
You must look at him, look hard at his face,
at his handsomeness, look at his whole body,
strong, well-hung, electric with sex.
he has powers that you cannot command,
he is a demon of activity by day and by night.
Enkidu, your thoughts are inchoate, immature.
Gilgamesh has a mind that was expanded
by the gods, by Shamash, Anu, Enki and Enlil.
Even before you came down from the hills,
the king had dreamed about you in Uruk.’
Gilgamesh told his mother about a dream, saying:
‘Mother, this was what I dreamt last night.
I was in the open, looking at the stars,
when a meteorite sizzled down beside me,
sent by Anu the Sky God. Could I lift it?
Too heavy. Turn it over? Too bulky.
The people of Uruk stood round it,
the suburbs, the conurbation milled round it.
Swarms of citizens bent to kiss its feet.
I myself embraced it like a wife.
I set it like an offering where you stood.
You looked from it to me, assessing, comparing.’
The mother of Gilgamesh, the wise woman,
Ninsun, full of knowledge, said to her son:
‘You say you were in the open, looking at the stars,
when a meteorite sizzled down beside you,
sent by Anu the Sky God? Could you lift it?
Too heavy? Turn it over? Too bulky?
You set it like an offering at my feet?
I looked from it to you, assessing, comparing?
You yourself embraced it like a wife?
– This meteorite is a man, huge in strength,
faithful to friends, unmatched in power,
solid as the hot meteorite of Anu!
You yourself embraced him like a wife,
and he will be your saviour many times.’
And Gilgamesh spoke again to Ninsun, saying:
‘Mother, I have had another dream.
An axe fell outside the wedding-chamber,
and crowds began to converge on this wonder,
the people of Uruk stood round it,
the suburbs, the conurbation milled round it,
the landward villagers gathered round it.
I set it like an offering at your feet.
I loved it and embraced it like a wife.
You looked from it to me, assessing, comparing.’
The mother of Gilgamesh, the wise woman,
Ninsun, full of knowledge, said to her son:
‘The axe that you saw in your dream is a man.
You loved and embraced him like a wife.
I looked from him to you, assessing, comparing.
You will find him, this man of huge strength,
faithful to friends, unmatched in power,
solid as the hot meteorite of Anu!’
Gilgamesh replied to his mother, saying:
‘May the gods bring these things to pass!
May I find a friend who will advise me,
may I find an adviser who will befriend me!’
And during this interpretation of dreams
Enkidu and Shamhat were making love.
When they had – ah! – finished making – oh! – love,
Shamhat tore her dress in two, gave half
to her lover and kept half for herself,
made the wild man half decent, to meet people.
She took his hand, brought him to a shepherds’ hut.
The shepherds shambled round, tutted and marvelled.
He’s young, but the spitting image of Gilgamesh!
Big too, towers up, shoulders like battlements!
He must be a mountain man, mountain-strong,
hurled here like a meteorite of Anu!’
They set some food in front of him, bread
they set, beer, in front of him, with gestures
for him to eat, but he frowned and looked askance –
he had never eaten human food.
The love-priestess encouraged him, saying:
‘Try it! It is natural! It is good!’
Enkidu nibbled, sipped, discovered he was hungry,
began to cram and guzzle, human was good!
He poured back seven jugs of beer, he sang,
he sweated, he beamed, he told them stories,
he splashed and cooled his hairy frame with water,
he rubbed his hairy frame with oil, put on
a sketch of clothes. Now he was a man!
And as a man he helped to guard the shepherds,
chasing and hunting the wild wolves and lions
he once walked wild with. And the shepherds slept.
Shamhat led Enkidu to the city.
As they drew near, they saw a young man running.
‘Who’s that?’ cried Enkidu, ‘what is he doing?’
Shamhat called him over, spoke to him, saying:
‘Young man, why the hurry? What goes on?’
The man replied in courtesy to Shamhat:
‘I am in haste because I have an invitation
to no ordinary wedding. King Gilgamesh,
according to what we must believe is custom,
is on his way to claim his kingly bride-rights
at a fresh-decked wedding-chamber. Tonight
he will have her, tomorrow her husband
may have her. We are told that the gods
gave him this right, from the cutting of his cord.’
Enkidu’s face grew dark at the young man’s words.
He strode ahead of Shamhat into Uruk.
The people of the city stood around him,
the suburbs, the conurbations milled around him,
the landward villagers gathered around him,
swarms of citizens bent to kiss his feet.
He saw the bridal chamber and the bride.
He saw the king approach the fresh-decked door.
He moved between the door and Gilgamesh
and blocked his entrance, blocked him from the bride.
They fought, they wrestled, they were raging bulls.
The doorpost splintered, the whole house shook.
The whole house shook as the doorpost splintered.
Gilgamesh bent his knee, threw his apponent.
His anger was drained, he turned aside.
Their anger was drained, they stood at ease.
Enkidu turned to Gilgamesh, saying:
‘The wild cow Ninsun bore you as a son
never to be equalled or defeated.
Your head towers over other men.
The high god Enlil decreed your kingship.’
Gilgamesh replied to Enkidu, saying:
‘Be that as it may, I have met no one
like you. You have bound up your wild hair
and the great wilderness is still with you.
Neither father nor mother brought you up,
no sister cut your hair. You are like nature,
strong as nature, strong as a meteorite of Anu.’
Enkidu wept a little at these words,
but then the two men grappled each other again,
in friendship, they hugged, they kissed like brothers,
and like brothers took each other by the hand,
walking and talking through the whispering streets.
2. The Cedar Forest
The days passed, and the weeks passed, and the months.
The two men sat on thrones, had feasts, made justice.
Young people no longer disappeared
from the night city. The citizens breathed.
Was this enough? Was this the trapper’s plan
fulfilled? Was this Enkidu’s challenge
to change the order of things made flesh and blood?
The days passed, and the weeks passed, till one morning
Gilgamesh saw how the weeks and days were passing
without exploits, without stamping his seal on the age
through some adventure, some passage of arms.
He shared his thoughts with Enkidu, spoke to him, saying:
‘Enkidu, I am restless. Courts are for slugs,
deputations for donkeys. What are kings for?
The greatness of a name must sear the sky.
When the annals say, “This was a good year,
nothing happened”, I bristle and sniff the air,
I strain at invisible chains, the city I built
is but a dog-kennel. Let us set out
for the Cedar Forest, in far Lebanon,
let us drag back timber for Uruk
through wastes, torrents, who knows what,
bears, demons, nothing will stop us,
timber, logs, best wood there is, waiting
to be chipped and chopped and cached and carpentered –
let’s light out for the north, my friend, let’s go!’
But Enkidu was troubled, and replied, saying:
‘Gilgamesh, I know the forests. I know
the Cedars of Lebanon have divine protection.
Enlil has set his terrible guardian there,
Humbaba. His roar is a flood, his mouth
is fire, his breath is death. His ears pick up
any intruder snapping a twig miles off:
if the forest is not a no-go area,
what is? He is terror itself. Enlil
has appointed him, to terrorize, to paralyze – ’
Gilgamesh interrupted Enkidu, saying:
‘My friend, no one has a ladder to heaven.
Only a god can live beside the sun.
Men are hardly here when their days are numbered.
All their achievements are blowing in the wind.
How is it you are suddenly afraid of death?
I thought you were a treasury of strength?
Look, I will travel ahead, I will lead,
you can call to me, “Keep going, be bold!”
Even if I fail, I will have made my name.
“Gilgamesh,” they will say, “took on the terror
of Humbaba; who can forget his death?”
Nothing you have said can give me pause.
I will cut down the cedars of the forest.
I will set down my name on eternal tablets.’
So the two heroes went to the forgemaster
to supervise a clutch of new bright weapons:
axes, adzes, sharp, heavy and huge,
swords with gold-encrusted hilts and scabbards,
bows, huge, quivers, heavy, shining, shining!
And while the skilled smith plunged his hissing metal,
Gilgamesh addressed the people of Uruk, saying:
‘I want to make myself a greater king,
I want to take a far road to the farthest,
I want to fight where fighting is the fiercest.
Give me your blessings, for I cannot stay!’
The elders of the people answered, saying:
‘Gilgamesh, you are young and you are strong,
but strength is not enough to put your trust in.
Keep a keen eye, make an accurate strike!
If you must go, let your friend go ahead.
The one who goes ahead protects his comrade.
The one who knows the route protects his friend.
Enkidu knows the route to the Cedar Forest.
Enkidu has known hardship, fighting, blood.
Enkidu will protect his friend, his comrade.
We charge the good Enkidu with this trust,
to guard the king and bring him back to us.’
At this, Gilgamesh spoke to Enkidu, saying:
‘Blood-brother, we must first go to the temple
of Queen Ninsun, my mother, the wise queen,
she will advise us, she will tell us, bless us.’
And Gilgamesh seized Enkidu by the hand,
and hand in hand they walked to the palace temple,
and Gilgamesh addressed Ninsun, saying:
‘Ninsun, I have a driving urge in my bones
to travel to far-off Humbaba’s land.
I want to take a strange road to the strangest,
I want to fight where fighting may be fiercest.
Until my journey has been won and done,
until I reach the forest of the cedars,
until I kill the terrible Humbaba,
until I destroy the enemy of Shamash,
kill the dark enemy of the god of light –
will you, Ninsun, my mother, pray for me?’
Ninsun was moved by these words of her son.
She went to an inner room, put on
a garment of reverence, a brooch of reverence,
put on her crown, made a libation.
She climbed to the roof. Shamash was in the sky!
She burned insense to spiral to the sun!
She lifted up her arms to Shamash, saying:
‘Why have you churned up the restless heart of my son?
You drive him, you drive him! What a journey
he wants to make, to Humbaba the terrible!
He wants to fight where fighting will be fiercest,
he wants to take a far road to the farthest.
Until his journey has been won and done,
until her reaches the forest of the cedars,
until he kills the terrible Humbaba,
until he destroys your enemy, your darkness,
whenever you see him toiling on the road,
look after him! May your wife look after him!
May the watchmen of the night look after him!’
And Queen Ninsun called out to Enkidu, saying:
‘Enkidu, you are not a child of my womb,
but now I make you my adopted son,
as I fasten these jewels round your neck.
And here I call on witnesses to watch.
Let there be witnesses of my love,
of your love and my son’s love, sacred
are the witnesses, votaries, harlots
female and male, serving gods and men.
Lip or hand his sex must know.
Brush against him as you go.
Secret, sacred favours flow.
Sacred, secret favours flow.’
So the two heroes set off for Lebanon.
It is said they made a hundred miles a day.
At the first staging-post they stopped for the night.
As the sun set, they dug a well for Shamash,
and Gilgamesh climbed a hill with a libation, saying:
‘Now let the Sun God bring me a good dream.’
They lay down in blankets against the wind,
they slept the sleep of all men, but at three
Gilgamesh started up with a shout and cried:
‘Enkidu, were you calling? What woke me up?
Didn’t you touch me? Why am I trembling?
Or has some god come down and twitched my muscles?
I’ve had a dream, my friend, oh, a nightmare:
in the narrow pass a mountain crushed on us!’
Enkidu stopped him, gave him comfort, saying:
‘I am a man of the wilderness.
I understand your dream. The mountain,
dear friend, is Humbaba, and it means
we shall take him and kill him and his corpse
will clatter down among the stones and rubble.’
At the second staging-post they stopped for the night.
As the sun set, they dug a well for Shamash,
and Gilgamesh climbed a hill with a libation, saying:
‘Let the Sun God bring me a good dream.’
They lay down in blankets against the wind,
they slept the sleep of all men, but at three
Gilgamesh started up with a shout and cried:
‘Enkidu, were you calling? What woke me up?
Didn’t you touch me? Why am I trembling?
Or has some god come down and twitched my muscles?
I’ve had a dream, my friend, oh, a nightmare:
I was there in the wasteland wrestling a wild bull,
he bellowed cracks in the ground, he kicked up
twisters of dust, he had me on my knees,
he locked my arms, he got me panting, parched –
then he shape-shifted, a figure in a cloak
holding a waterskin, motioned me to drink – ’
Enkidu stopped him, gave him comfort, saying:
‘My friend, the bull is not your enemy.
He is the god Shamash, our protector
who locks our hands in his at the bad times.
When he shape-shifted to the water-carrier
he was your guardian father, Lugulbanda.
Refuse to be dismayed: we are together;
we shall do one thing together, one greatest thing.’
At the third staging-post they stopped for the night.
As the sun set, they dug a well for Shamash,
and Gilgamesh climbed a hill with a libation, saying:
‘Let the Sun God bring me a good dream.’
They lay down in blankets against the wind,
they slept the sleep of all men, but at three
Gilgamesh started up with a shout and cried:
‘Enkidu, were you calling? What woke me up?
Didn’t you touch me? Why am I trembling?
Or has some god come down and twitched my muscles?
I’ve had a dream, my friend, oh, a nightmare:
there was a roaring in the sky, a quaking in the earth,
then for a moment everything was dark and still.
Suddenly lightning flashed; things took fire;
the air thickened, there was a rain of death.
At last the tongues of flame went silent.
Everything that had fallen was turned to ash – ’
Enkidu stopped him, gave him comfort, saying:
‘Dear friend, yes, these are terrors indeed!
But I can tell you the meaning of your dream.
Thunderstorms and earthquakes and volcanoes
represent the dangers of our journey.
The lighting-bolt is Shamash our protector
who burns our demons, turns our adversaries
into a carpet of dead ash. Praise Shamash!’
Gilgamesh listened, and was half convinced.
They argued, but moved forward steadily.
Sometimes Enkidu, sometimes Gilgamesh
lost courage, in the whistling, colder air.
But always they came back to their great plan,
travelling north into the unknown land,
north to the mountains, northwards, hand in hand.
At last they saw the unmistakable crests
of the Cedar Forest, the huge trees spread and soared
against the icy sky-drop of the gods.
Under the rich dark branches there was shade,
peace, pleasant leisure, or there would have been
if two had not brought death into the thickets.
They scanned the gorge, they saw the well-marked trail
that reached into Humbaba’s fastnesses.
They let their swords and axes clash and flash
and got their answer. They were not alone.
Out of the woods he came, Humbaba, roaring,
the man-demon, the man-dragon, the guardian
of green treasures, not quite the god of the glade
but nearly so, commanded by heaven
to give all would-be vandals the hardest of times.
He saw the axe. He hated it. He roared.
Enkidu stepped forward, warned Humbaba, saying:
‘We have not come here for nothing
and we will not leave here with nothing.
We are two and you are one, Humbaba.
Two cubs can roll the lion over; two people
can help each other across the quicksands;
the double-twisted rope is not for cutting.’
Humbaba gave a grisly laugh at that,
but he addressed himself to Gilgamesh, saying:
‘What if the two should be born idiots?
Go on, Gilgamesh, swap some more dumb proverbs
with your cretinous friend. What a pair!
This is a lion you will not roll over.
Enkidu, our paths have crossed before
but you are no wiser. Found your father yet,
you son of a fish? Save your advice
for the turtles. I’ve got fire in my belly.
You brought your master, Gilgamesh, why?
To make me a present of my enemy?
Ah Gilgamesh, are you ready for my teeth
scrunching your neck and throat, are you waiting
for me to feed your flesh to the vulture,
the screeching vulture, the circling eagle?’
Gilgamesh froze, partly at the horror of these words
but more at their half-human utterer.
He stared, he at last found words, he cried:
‘Enkidu, look, look there at his face,
it keeps changing! In and out, broad and sharp,
earth-dark and mushroom-pale, grinning and frowning,
an eyeless mouth, a ghost and a beast.
What have we laid upon ourselves to do?’
As Gilgamesh drew back, Enkidu gained strength,
stung by Humbaba’s contempt. He spoke:
‘Everything’s to gain! No hiding-place!
No whining and no turning back! Think
how hard the blistering armourers laboured
to sweat our sharp bright weapons into shape.
Let us both strike with one blow, Gilgamesh.
Let us give the axe its head at last.
Let us make the cedars groan and fall.’
So they stepped forward and swung their blades.
A cedar was persuaded to groan and fall.
Humbaba roared and grappled with them then.
The ground split under their six feet.
Mount Hermon and the range of Lebanon
cracked as the monstrous triple-headed brawl
circled among the trees. Clouds grew dark.
Deadly mists rained down. A storm of winds
was targeted by Shamash on Humbaba –
North Wind South Wind East Wind West Wind
Keen Wind Shrill Wind Snow Wind
Ice Wind Sand Wind Bad Wind
Devil Wind and Wind from Nowhere –
The bluster buffeted Humbaba’s face,
muffled him, baffled him back and front,
all he could see was the sword of Gilgamesh
making for his throat through the uproar.
He trembled, the fire had gone out of him, he spoke:
‘My life is in your hands, Gilgamesh.
You are young, you come of a great line,
you are not unknown to the Sun God
who first set your heart on this expedition.
Great king, if you will only let me live
I shall be your servant back in Uruk.
I shall even cut down cedars for you –
myrtle wood – any wood for your palace – ’
Enkidu had heard enough, stopped him, saying:
‘Gilgamesh, monsters are but monstrous liars!
Whingeing Humbaba is worse than Humbaba enraged.
Do you think a demon would ever serve you?
Would you want to have a dragon pour your wine?
These are tactics to save his crawling skin.’
Humbaba, devilish devious, tried again, saying:
‘Gilgamesh, let one thing not escape your perception –
your friend, Enkidu, like me, is a green man,
born of the wilderness, votary of nature.
The Cedar Forest and its guardian
should be sacred to him. Vandalized,
the old woods and their gods might take revenge –
oh not on you, but on your gormless friend.
By god I should have made a corpse of you
at the first copse, and fed your flesh to the vulture,
the screeching vulture, the circling eagle!
No more of that. Enkidu, ask your master
to spare me, as you too hope to be spared.’
Enkidu was beside himself, raging, saying:
‘Gilgamesh, my friend and not my master,
destroy Humbaba, smash him, grind his atoms!
Kill Humbaba, crush him, dice his ashes!
Set up an everlasting monument
of Gilgamesh’s kill, Humbaba’s fall.
Humbaba pointed a claw at Enkidu,
forming his last breath into this curse:
‘May he not live the longer of the two!’
And so the heroes stabbed the shrieking guardian
many times, and disembowelled him,
and Gilgamesh cut off his head. The cedars
were ransacked, the best of them, the strongest,
chopped into manageable planks, dear wood
the loveliest and finest. The two men rafted
down the Euphrates. Gilgamesh held the head.
3. The Death of Enkidu
Now Gilgamesh is back in Uruk City.
He washes his gritty hair, cleans up his gear,
shakes a cascade of curls right down his back,
tugs off his filthy clothes, looks out new ones,
wraps himself in fine robes, fastens the sash,
lastly puts on his crown. He stands a king.
Princess Ishtar walked out of her temple.
Princess Ishtar was dazzled by his beauty.
The princess of love kept her eyes on him, saying:
‘Gilgamesh, come with me, be my lover,
let me have the taste of your luscious fruit.
I wish you were my husband, I your wife!
I’ll harness you a chariot of gold and lapis-lazuli,
wheels of pure gold, horns of pure amber,
mules straining at its traces like Valkyries!
My house will be yours, smelling cedar-sweet.
Purification priests will kiss your feet.
Kings, princes, lords will bow before you.
Far-off provinces will load you with produce.
Your goats will have triplets, your ewes twins,
your burdened donkey will overtake the mule,
your horse at the chariot will paw with eagerness,
your ox at the yoke will have no equal.’
Gilgamesh looked at Princess Ishtar, saying:
‘What could I give you if I married you?
Do you need body-oil, designer dresses?
Do you need food and drink? – I think not!
You already enjoy the food of the gods.
You already drink as royalty drinks.
So why do you say I should take you in marriage?
You’re an oven that is set to freeze
a half-door open to wind and rain
a palace that crushes its brave defenders
an elephant that devours its howdah
pitch that tars the mason’s hand
a waterskin that soaks its carrier
limestone that flakes off in the wall
a battering-ram breaking in battle
a shoe that nips the wearer’s foot –
Where are your bridegrooms, did you keep them?
Shall I give you a list of all your lovers?
What about Tammuz, earliest of the lot,
do you think he hears your annual laments?
That shepherd you loved, who was good to you,
bringing you regular gifts of fresh bread,
slaughtering a daily kid for you,
you struck him, turned him into a wolf
till he was hunted by his fellow-shepherds
and his own dogs sank their fangs in him.
You also loved your father’s gardener
who was always coming in with baskets of dates
to set down glistening on your happy table.
You looked him up and down, went close to him,
saying “I see your strength, let us taste it,
stretch out your hand to the date-split of my cunt.”
He answered “What is it you want of me?
If my mother cooks, I eat. Shall I taste
the bad bread of contempt, be outlawed,
shiver under heather in the cold?”
You listened to his words, he shamed you.
You struck him, turned him into a frog
to sprachle in the middle of a garden
where date-palms dwindle and no dates fall.
– And I am next, is that it, to love and destroy?’
Ishtar was mad, she raged and stamped, flounced out
to call on her father Anu the Sky God, saying:
‘Anu, Gilgamesh has insulted me beyond measure.
He has imputed treacheries and curses to me,
curses and treacheries he has laid on me!’
Anu looked at her carefully and said:
‘What are you complaining about? It was you
who provoked King Gilgamesh, was it not?
Your marriage proposal, so quick and unadvised,
was a red rag to a bull, did you really think
you could wind a man like that round your finger?
A love-goddess is danger! He knows that!
Of course he imputed treacheries and curses,
curses and treacheries he laid on you!’
Ishtar made no answer to his charge, but said:
‘Speaking of bulls, I want the Bull of Heaven
to come and root out Gilgamesh and kill him.
If you fail to give me the Bull of Heaven,
I will smash down the gates of the Netherworld,
smash them flat and leave a space for the dead
to climb out, ravenous, and eat the living
until the living are outnumbered by the dead!’
Anu regarded her intently, saying:
‘Ishtar, if I give you the Bull of Heaven,
it will be seven years famine for Uruk.
Have you stockpiled grain for the people?
Have you fodder of grasses for the beasts?’
Ishtar replied unconcerned, saying:
‘I have stockpiled grain for the people.
I have fodder of grasses for the beasts.
Let there be seven years of husks and chaff.’
Anu, with sighs, yielded his daughter’s wish,
brought out the throbbing bulk of the Bull of Heaven.
Ishtar laughed, tugged its nose-ring, led it
snorting, slavering, shitting, down to Uruk.
With its first bellow it opened up a pit
that swallowed up a hundred youths of Uruk.
With its second bellow it opened up a pit
that swallowed up two hundred youths of Uruk.
With its third bellow it opened up a pit
at the feet of Enkidu: he jumped clear,
grappled the horns and hung on there.
As the two locked and swirled, Enkidu
was drenched with the Bull’s spittle and spattered with shit.
He called to Gilgamesh to help him, saying:
‘Only the two of us can overcome
such forces, foes, fiends, fell them together
with all our free strength. If a firm grasp
of my fists can nail its rumpy filth,
screw its tail, its flail, give it something
to roar about, you must get in front,
raise your sword high like a bullfighter,
stick it, thrust it stark behind the horns.
Do it, Gilgamesh! Share danger, share glory!’
So he said and so they did. The Bull
slumped in the dust. They tore out the heart,
made an offering to Shamash, they bowed,
they relaxed together, blood-brothers in Uruk.
But relaxing was not in Ishtar’s book.
She climbed to the height of the city wall,
made the gestures of a mourner, cried out:
‘A curse on Gilgamesh who badmouthed me,
a curse on the killer of the Bull of Heaven!’
Gilgamesh was silent, but Enkidu
took action when he heard these words. He stooped,
he sliced off the blood pizzle of the Bull,
he hurled it with all his force in the face of Ishtar.
He gave voice to the turmoil of his thoughts, saying:
‘Oh if only I could reach these hands to you,
I would treat you too like that, I would have your clit,
I would bind your arms tight with the Bull’s gut!’
Ishtar was silent, but quickly gathered together
her hair-piled-high high priestesses, her daughters
of joy, her temple harlots, and with high
mourning they enshrined the pizzle of the Bull.
With loud cries they still praised the war
of love and death, both death and love they praised.
But Gilgamesh then on his part gathered together
the city’s most famous craftsmen, designers, jewellers,
to examine and marvel at the Bull’s massive horns.
Each was carved from a mint of lapis-lazuli.
The very casing was two fingers thick.
Six measures of oil could be held in the pair of them.
He poured such a libation to his god Lugulbanda,
and hung the horns at last by the family altar.
The two men washed their hands in the Euphrates,
walked hand in hand through the streets of Uruk.
The citizens, standing in knots, marvelled at them.
Gilgamesh threw his boast at the crowd, saying:
‘Who is the bravest of the heroes?
Who is the boldest among men?
Gilgamesh is the bravest of the heroes!
Who has no friends in the street?
Ishtar has no friends in the street!’
That night there was partying in the palace.
There was joy, there was drink, the heroes dozed.
But Enkidu started up from a dream,
gazed in terror at Gilgamesh, saying:
‘My friend, why are the great gods in council?
I dreamed I saw Anu, Enlil, and Shamash
arguing – arguing about us – about me –
we killed Humbaba and the Bull of Heaven –
we slashed and stole the Cedars of Lebanon –
one of us – just one of us must die!
Enlil said Gilgamesh was not to die,
Enkidu was. Shamash defended me,
said I was innocent. Enlil grew angry,
said Shamash was a renegade, a Prometheus
helping men with light, Enkidu must die!’
Gilgamesh shuddered and wept. Gods are gods
but speak to us in dreams. Was he to lose
his friend, his only friend, was joy at an end?
He rocked from side to side, he spoke, he cried:
‘What sort of dreadful gods are these,
to save one brother by destroying the other?’
From that day forward, Enkidu grew sick.
His mind was haunted by the Cedar Forest.
He raved and ranted, cursing the splendid gate
he’d set up in Uruk. He raged, he cried:
‘Stupid wood! What do you know about anything?
I wanted, saw, admired, measured,
I brought incomparable timber back,
I built incomparable panels, jambs, lintels,
for what? For only other eyes to see
when I am gone? Oh I should chop you up
as I chopped the cedars I should not have chopped
in those far green sacred groves – !’
Gilgamesh listened to these words, he wept.
But he rebuked Enkidu gently, saying:
Dear friend, the gate cannot hear you! Dreams
are terrible, but as long as we are alive
we must keep the sense of things. Fear
is terrible, but your lips buzzing like flies
play into the hands of blackness. Gods
are great, the father of the gods is great,
but I shall wear my knees out praying
if Enlil has any mercy in his jar
to pour a drop, just one unlikely drop,
on us, on my dear brother in his pain.
Fate is fate is fate I know I know –
if I say I shall make a statue of pure gold
for Enkidu dead, to show my love for him,
will this deflect the vengeance of heaven?
Sleep, Enkidu. I shall wake, watch, wish.’
The first glow of day burnished the horizon.
Shamash rose and showed himself. Enkidu
woke, his darkness met the sunlight. He cried:
‘Shamash, what will you do with that trapper,
that wretch who took me from the wilderness?
He used me! I’m not equal with my friend.
May he become as friendless as a fiend!
May his furs rot withut buyers, may
poverty rust his traps, may the beasts
multiply while he begs from door to door!’
And while the sickness gnawed him, gave him no rest,
Enkidu cursed the harlot for her part
in bringing him on the long road to death.
He was beside himself with memories. He cried:
‘Shamshat, may family and household never be yours!
May your womb be and remain a barren place!
You shall be barred from the young women’s table.
Beer dregs not milk will drop down those fine breasts.
Drunks will throw up over your best robes.
Don’t expect silver or alabaster to remind
your house of admirers. Linger in a doorway
for your poor custom, stand at the crossroads,
wait like a shadow by the city wall,
sleep in vacant lots. Potter’s field
is the end, where thorns once cut your feet
and various tricks would hit you on the cheek.
What have you done to me? Why did we meet?’
Shamash heard and did not like those words.
The Sun God let his words come down, calling:
‘Enkidu, why do you curse the love-priestess
who gave you bread and meat fit for a god,
who gave you wine and beer fit for a king,
who gave you such gorgeous garments to wear,
who gave you as a friend Gilgamesh in his beauty?
Your friend, your brother, your lover is Gilgamesh!
He made you lie down in a royal bed,
he made you lie down in a bed of honour.
He set you at his left hand, throned in peace,
where the world’s princes came to kiss your feet.
He will join the people in mourning when you go,
and afterwards will be a second Enkidu,
with ravaged face and discarded royalty,
wearing skins of beasts and roaming the wilds.’
Enkidu took the words of steadfast Shamash
to heart, his rage was shamed, and he grew calm.
In his mind’s eye he held the harlot, saying:
‘Oh Shamhat, I cursed you in my sickness.
The clouds have lifted, will you take my blessing?
May kings and princes love you, and gods too.
May some man bite his lip a mile away
thinking of you, while two miles off another
shakes out his thick locks in anticipation.
May military men undo their buckles
and throw down loot for you, gold, silver,
lapis-lazuli. May your sleeping-partner
pour out for you his treasure better than gold,
his jism and his joy. May you enter
the presence of gods. And may the wife,
the mother of seven, be abandoned in favour of you!’
Enkidu lay then later in great pain.
His stomach and his heart were churning, turning.
He threshed and sweated in uneasy sleep,
and when he woke he called to Gilgamesh:
‘My friend, what was I dreaming – oh –
the sky was blaring and the earth was drumming –
between them I was standing alone but facing –
oh – a dark-faced man, a lion-face,
his hands not hands but paws, his nails
not nails but claws, his wings eagle-wide –
he caught me by the hair and overthrew me –
I hit him but he skipped aside – he felled me,
fell on me, stamped on me like a bull,
clamped me in the vice of his wings
till I cried out for you to save me –
where were you, Gilgamesh? – I called, I did –
but if you heard me, you were nowhere near.
He shifted my shape then, feathered my arms
to the wings of a bird, seized me and took me
down to the House of Darkness, the Netherworld,
the house where those who go in never come out,
the house at the end of the road of no return,
the house where those who live there do without light,
where they drink mud and feed on dirt and grit,
where they are clothed with feathers, winged like birds,
where they see no light, living in darkness,
where doors and bolts are dumb, basted with dust.
Once I was in the House of Dust
I saw crowns rolling in the filth,
I saw greatest kings of the past
serving gods with their roast meats.
Once I was in the House of Dust
I saw priests and the priests’ men,
purifiers and diviners,
high preachers and death-ferriers,
and with them sat Ereshkigal
Queen of the Netherworld, and I saw
kneeling at her feet, Beletseri
Scribe of the Netherworld, I saw
how she held a tablet, reading
aloud from it to Ereshkigal,
and the queen saw me, her head
was raised and her lips spoke:
“Who has brought this one down here?”
I saw, I heard, I dreamed these things
once, down in the House of Dust.’
Enkidu lay flat in his sickness,
he had no more dreaming.
The first day and the second
he lay flat on his bed.
The third, fourth, fifth
days passed where he lay.
He lay there as the sixth,
seventh, eighth days
passed over his bed.
A ninth, a terrible tenth
came where he lay.
Worse was the eleventh,
worst of all the twelfth.
He called to Gilgamesh:
‘Who is it hates me?
What god is doing this?
What a way to die
in a bed, on my back,
not in battle where
honour’s to be won!’
Gilgamesh heard the death-rattle; closed his eyes.
Day was beginning to break. He addressed his friend:
‘Enkidu, your mother the gazelle, your father
the wild ass, raised you in the wilderness.
Herds, horns, savannahs were your playground.
The tracks that took you to the Cedar Forest
must mourn you now by day and by night.
The elders of the city too will mourn you,
and the hill-folk, and the hills themselves.
Pastures and woods, panther and bear and deer
left their lament, and the rivers we strolled by.
Farmer and herdsmen, doctor, brewer, harlot –
yes, she who rubbed and roused you with sweet oil –
all these will sob, all will cry a little.
Priests will shave their heads for you, Enkidu.
I will praise you in the wilderness.’
He touched his friend’s heart – there was no beat.
He covered his friend’s face like a bride’s.
He hovered over him like an eagle.
He paced like a lioness whose cubs are lost.
He mussed and roughed the coils of his hair.
He threw of his rich robes like rags.
Then Gilgamesh called loudly in Uruk:
‘Goldsmith! Sculptor! Blacksmith! Jeweller!
Make me a statue of my friend, life-size,
chest of lapis-lazuli, limbs and skin of gold!’
And Gilgamesh brought out a table of polished wood,
filled a lapis-lazuli bowl with butter,
offered the gold the blue the brown to Shamash.
It is time for the wilderness, the pilgrimage!
Gilgamesh has smelt death, it is a fever
that struck his friend down and will find him too.
He does not want to die! To be immortal,
is it possible? What would he not give,
kingship, comfort, palace, servants, safety?
He knows the rumour of an immortal man,
Ziusura the Faraway, he must reach him!
He has clothed himself in animal skins,
taken stave, knife, knapsack, left Uruk
for whatever lands and seas he needs
to purge his horror of the crawling grave.
4. The Quest for Immortality
High in the eerie empty stony uplands
there is a figure struggling forward. He stops
to marvel at the twin peaks of Mount Mashu
which watch the rising and setting of Shamash.
Their summits scrape the very arch of the sky,
their precipices drill the Netherworld.
Mount Mashu has a grimly guarded gate:
a Scorpion-Man, hissing, rattling, pinching,
a Scorpion-Woman, pinching, rattling, hissing,
twin frighteners, like the twin peaks they serve,
awesome, scraping, basilisk-glancing,
throwing a tight net of dread over the gorges,
watching the rising and setting of the Sun God.
When Gilgamesh came in sight of these beings
his face grew dark, he shook, his limbs were wax,
but he came on and on, could not go back.
The Scorpion-Man looked at his mate, saying:
‘This creature’s body has the flesh of the gods!’
The Scorpion-Woman nodded agreement, saying:
‘Two thirds he is a god, one third a man!’
The Scorpion-Man called out to Gilgamesh,
called to the man who was in part a god:
‘Why have you come on foot so many miles?
Why have you dared such desperate passes
to stand before me? Who are you? Who?’
The king knew he must declare himself, saying:
‘I am Gilgamesh, and I am a pilgrim to find
Ziusura the Faraway, my ancestor,
who joined the congregation of the gods
in eternal life. Death and life
I have to learn about from his lips!’
The Scorpion-Man looked hard at Gilgamesh, saying:
‘Never has a man won through to Ziusura!
Never has anyone been across that mountain!
Do you know it is twelve miles of darkness?
Do you know that no light ever shines there?
Shamash will rise and set and rise and set
but nothing of his light will come to you!’
Gilgamesh answered the Scorpion-Man, saying:
I cannot go back to the pain I left.
I have to go forward, in darkness or light,
in cold or in heat, or in pains to come.
Even if I fight for breath, I fight!
Now let me pass; open the gate of the mountain!’
The Scorpion-Man admired the king, saying:
‘Gilgamesh, go forward into Mount Mashu.
The twin peaks and the ranges and the passes
are yours. Yours are the hills of Shamash.
Be safe. Go. The gate is open. Go!’
Gilgamesh took the Scorpion-Man at his word,
went forward into the mountains of the sun
where there was no sun that he could see.
Once he has put one mile to flight
dense is the dark, no sign of light.
Before him, behind him, nothing in sight.
Once he has put two miles to flight
dense is the dark, no sign of light.
Before him, behind him, nothing in sight.
Once he has put three miles to flight
dense is the dark, no sign of light.
Before him, behind him, nothing in sight.
Once he has put four miles to flight
dense is the dark, no sign of light.
Before him, behind him, nothing in sight.
Once he has put five miles to flight
dense is the dark, no sign of light.
Before him, behind him, nothing in sight.
Once he has put six miles to flight
dense is the dark, no sign of light.
Before him, behind him, nothing in sight.
Once he has put seven miles to flight
dense is the dark, no sign of light.
Before him, behind him, nothing in sight.
At eight miles he cries out in fright
but dense is the dark, no sign of light.
Before him, behind him, nothing in sight.
At nine miles the north winds bite
but dense is the dark, no sign of light.
Before him, behind him, nothing in sight.
At ten miles he feels something right
though dense is the dark, no sign of light.
Before him, behind him, nothing in sight.
At eleven miles he sees something bright.
Less dense is the dark, a sign of light.
Before him, behind him, something in sight.
At twelve miles the sun’s at its height.
Dispersed is the dark, diffused is the light.
Before him, behind him, a world is in sight.
Gilgamesh stood marvelling at a garden
more brilliant than any garden he had seen.
He wandered in, fingering the trees –
they were as hard as agate, their fruit
hung in precious clusters of carnelian,
their leaves were made of lapis-lazuli.
Everywhere, fruits that looked too good to eat
and were. His eye was not as hungry
as his stomach. He brushed and tinkled
a few jewels, grimaced, walked on briskly
through that enchanted grove, came out
into the sight and sound of a great sea.
Siduri kept a tavern by the shore.
Hers was the jug, the gold mashing-vat.
She sat, she watched the near and the far.
She was veiled but she missed nothing.
She saw Gilgamesh slowly approaching,
godlike flesh half-covered in rough skins,
face of a traveller, half-hiding traumas,
an apparition she could not quite fathom.
She reckoned with herself: ‘Surely this man
is a killer! Is he heading my way?’
The tavern-keeper barred her door then,
banged the gate shut, bolted the lock.
Gilgamesh lifted his staff and addressed her, saying:
‘Tavern-keeper, why have you barred your door,
why have you banged the gate and bolted the lock?
I can smash your door and tear your lock off !’
Siduri gazed at him, doubted his boast, said:
‘Why are your cheeks hollow, your limbs famished?
What bad fate dogs you, prowls at your heart,
gnaws at your belly? You look like a man
long travelled, weather-beaten, grim.
Why do you wander the wilderness – for some whim?’
Gilgamesh groaned, and answered her, saying:
‘Tavern-keeper, if my cheeks are hollow,
my limbs famished, if you think bad fate
dogs me, prowls at my heart, gnaws at my belly,
if I look like a man long travelled, weather-beaten, grim,
wandering the wilderness for the sake of some whim,
I tell you I am Gilgamesh the king.
Why should I not wander the wilderness
when Enkidu my friend, my companion, my lover
who hunted the desert panther and the wild ass,
who joined me in killing Humbaba among the cedars
and the Bull of Heaven in Uruk, my friend
who helped me in hardship and whom I loved dearly,
Enkidu whom I loved dearly and who helped me
in hardship, has met the natural fate of men.
Six days and seven nights I mourned him
until a maggot fell from his nose. Horror!
Then I began to fear death, then I began
to roam the wilderness. The fate of Enkidu
weighs on me, I roam, I wander – far.
The fate of my friend weighs heavy on me,
I wander far into the wilderness.
How could I be silent or sit still?
The friend whom I loved has turned to clay.
Enkidu whom I loved has turned to clay.
Am I not like him, shall I myself
not lie down too, never to rise again?
-Tavern-keeper, I must find Ziusura,
Ziusura the Faraway, the immortal!
Point me the way, point me the landmarks.
Give me the map, the signs, the stages.
If I have to cross the sea, I will.
If it is desert, I will cross the desert.’
Siduri, having heard his story, replied:
‘Gilgamesh, there has never been a crossing.
No one from time immemorial has done it.
Shamash may cross the sea, but only Shamash.
Treacherous the tracks, dangerous the deeps!
And who can win through the Waters of Death?
Even if you should cross the sea, Gilgamesh,
what would you do at the Waters of Death?
– But look over there. If anyone can help,
it is Ziusura’s ferryman, Urshanabi.
He is in the forest, with the lodestones.
Show him your face, he will take you across
if he can; if not, come back here.’
Gilgamesh was in one of his moods.
He strode into the forest with his axe,
fell upon the lodestones and smashed them.
He was on them like a thunderbolt.
The noise resounded through the wood.
Urshanabi turned to face him, saying:
‘Why are your cheeks hollow, your limbs famished?
What bad fate dogs you, prowls at your heart,
gnaws at your belly? You look like a man
long travelled, weather-beaten, grim.
Why do you wander the wilderness – for some whim?’
Gilgamesh looked hard at Urshanabi, saying:
‘Ferryman, if my cheeks are hollow,
my limbs famished, if you think bad fate
dogs me, prowls at my heart, gnaws at my belly,
if I look like a man long travelled, weather-beaten, grim,
wandering the wilderness for the sake of some whim,
I tell you I am Gilgamesh the king.
Why should I not wander the wilderness
when Enkidu my friend, my companion, my lover
who hunted the desert panther and the wild ass,
who joined me in killing Humbaba among the cedars
and the Bull of Heaven in Uruk, my friend
who helped me in hardship and whom I loved dearly,
Enkidu whom I loved dearly and who helped me
in hardship, has met the natural fate of men.
Six days and seven nights I mourned him
until a maggot fell from his nose. Horror!
Then I began to fear death, then I began
to roam the wilderness. The fate of Enkidu
weighs on me, I roam, I wander – far.
The fate of my friend weighs heavy on me,
I wander far into the wilderness.
How could I be silent or sit still?
The friend whom I loved has turned to clay.
Enkidu whom I loved has turned to clay.
Am I not like him, shall I myself
not lie down too, never to rise again?
– Ferryman, I must find Ziusura,
Ziusura the Faraway, the immortal!
Point me the way, point me the landmarks.
Give me the map, the signs, the stages.
If I have to cross the sea, I will.
If it is desert, I will cross the desert.’
Urshanabi frowned at Gilgamesh, saying:
‘You want my help but you have hindered it!
You have smashed the lodestones and their sockets,
the lodestones are broken, the sockets are gone!
Well, we must do what we can. Take your axe,
go into the woods, cut down punting poles,
as many as you can, and bring them to the boat.’
Gilgamesh hacked and sliced as he was told.
Once the boat was full of poles, they boarded.
Three days in a strong wind brought the voyagers
to the Waters of Death. Urshanabi
scanned the expanse and turned to Gilgamesh, saying:
‘Make sure your hand never touches these waters,
but take a punting pole and push, Gilgamesh!’
Gilgamesh pushed one pole, two poles.
He tried a third, tried four poles,
pushed five, pushed six, seven poles,
took an eighth, a ninth, took ten poles,
heaved hard with eleven, twelve poles,
used up a hundred useless poles.
‘No good, we’re not moving!’ cried Urshanabi.
But Gilgamesh was not a king for nothing.
He loosened his belt and stripped, held out
his lion-skin in both arms like a sail,
stood solid as a naked human mast
to startle the Dead Waters to stir themselves.
‘How do you like that, ferryman?’ he laughed
as the wind carried them unroyally ashore.
Ziusura the Faraway was standing on the beach
watching a boat approach. He knew the boat
but knew also that something was not right.
He strained his eyes, and wondered to himself:
‘What on earth has happened to the lodestones?
And why is the captain nobody I know?
That is not one of my men. Who is he?
I keep looking, but I don’t understand.
I keep looking. Who is it coming to land?’
Gilgamesh came to land, belted his skins,
stood before Ziusura with the ferryman.
Ziusura looked closely at the king, saying:
‘Why are your cheeks hollow, your limbs famished?
What bad fate dogs you, prowls at your heart,
gnaws at your belly? You look like a man
long travelled, weather-beaten, grim.
Why do you wander the wilderness – for some whim?’
Gilgamesh answered his unknown questioner, saying:
‘If what you say is true, and my cheeks are hollow,
my limbs famished, if you think bad fate
dogs me, prowls at my heart, gnaws at my belly,
if I look like a man long travelled, weather-beaten, grim,
wandering the wilderness for the sake of some whim,
I tell you I am Gilgamesh the king.
Why should I not wander the wilderness
when Enkidu my friend, my companion, my lover
who hunted the desert panther and the wild ass,
who joined me in killing Humbaba among the cedars
and the Bull of Heaven in Uruk, my friend
who helped me in hardship and whom I loved dearly,
Enkidu whom I loved dearly and who helped me
in hardship, has met the natural fate of men.
Six days and seven nights I mourned him
until a maggot fell from his nose. Horror!
Then I began to fear death, then I began
to roam the wilderness. The fate of Enkidu
weighs on me, I roam, I wander – far.
The fate of my friend weighs heavy on me,
I wander far into the wilderness.
How could I be silent or sit still?
The friend whom I loved has turned to clay.
Enkidu whom I loved has turned to clay.
Am I not like him, shall I myself
not lie down too, never to rise again?’
Ziusura gazed intently at him, saying:
‘I am sorry for your sorrows, Gilgamesh.
But was it sorrow drove you from your throne?’
Gilgamesh answered, looking into the distance:
‘I left my palaces and my city
to go in search of Ziusura the Faraway,
the immortal. It is he I must find.
I roved around the desert and the range,
I crossed the most inaccessible peaks,
I voyaged through the most unfriendly seas.
I know my face is gaunt with lack of sleep.
My nerves are jangled raw with lack of sleep.
Before I reached the tavern I was in rags.
Bear and hyena I killed, lion, panther, tiger,
stag and goat and oh, nameless wild things.
I ate their meat, wrapped their skins round me.
She barred her gate, Siduri! I slept
in dust, grit, bitumen. I lay
with animals. I touched the depths. I am
the unlucky one, fated to be so.’
But Ziusura rebuked the king, saying:
‘What good did a long face ever do?
You have the flesh of both god and man.
Your mother lay on a divine bed
with your mortal father, inspiration
with a fool of life, butter with mud,
finest flour with lowly bran, and yet
she clung to him like a belt, as he to her.
Blame fate, you blame the gods; take care!
You may sleep little; the gods sleep none!
What have grief and trouble gained for you?
More grief ? Chimeras? Blood? Animal skins?
No one sees or hears death, but it comes.
We build a house – but for how long?
We seal a document – but for how long?
Brothers share goods – but for how long?
Enemies are jealous – but for how long?
Rivers raise floods – but for how long?
Look up at the sun – but for how long?
The sleeping and the dead are pictures:
one is the other, it is his brother.
Gilgamesh, the congregation of the gods,
the judges and the mother of the universe,
have set down death as they have given life.
They keep it as a shadow in a veil.’
Gilgamesh stared at Ziusura the Faraway, saying:
‘I know now who you are, Ziusura!
It is you, immortal yet not old!
You are surely no different from me!
How did the gods make you everlasting?
Ziusura sat down in his chair, saying:
‘Gilgamesh, I will show you what is hidden,
I will uncover a secret of the gods.
I lived in the old city of Shuruppak –
I’m sure you know it, on the Euphrates –
it was so old it still had gods in it,
living, decreeing, squabbling as gods do.
The time came when they thought up the Great Flood.
Enlil the father of the gods decreed it,
Enki the Sea God, trickster, opposed it,
I overheard his voice, I heard his plan,
was it a dream, a vision, I don’t know.
He spoke to the house of reeds, he spoke to me:
“Reed-house, reed-house! Wall, wall!
Reed-wall, listen! Tell, tell!
Man of Shuruppak, you, take note!
Tear down the house and build a boat!
Forget your wealth and think of life!
Scorn possessions, keep only life!
Get all life you can into the boat.
Construct it sound and square to float,
and roof it like a ziggurat,
a juggernaut, a pulsing vat!”
I understood, but had to ask Lord Enki
what I should tell the elders of the city
once I had built the ark as he required?
Enki commanded me I should say this:
“I cannot live now in your city.
Enlil hates me, without pity.
I cannot live on Enlil’s earth
but will set out into the depth
of Enki’s watery kingdom. He
will pour abundance rich and free,
fish and foul of every kind,
harvests to delight the mind,
morning bread on every street,
evenings whispering with the wheat!”’
Gilgamesh marvelled at all this, saying:
‘And did you build the ark? How big was it?’
Ziusura’s memories rose up. He answered:
‘It was a joint effort of so many!
First I laid out the plan, drew it carefully:
floorspace an acre, walls 250 feet,
each side of deck and top 250 feet,
first cubic boat ever, six decks,
nine compartments for inner stability,
plugs for water penetration,
punting poles for any emergency.
How big was it? Big, Gilgamesh!
I poured raw bitumen into the kiln:
24,000 gallons for the hull,
24,000 gallons for the interior.
Porters brought on as many gallons of oil
for the bitumen, to say nothing of oil
for cooking, and the boatmen’s oil – oil , oil!
And they had to feed: I butchered bulls,
I butchered sheep, yes, sheep every day!
I showered the workmen with beer and wine
and oil, they swam in it like a river,
they made a New Year’s party of it all!
I rubbed some ointment on my chapped hands.
It was day seven, and he boat was ready.
We had a tricky launch, juggling the hull
till two-thirds of the ship was in the water.
Whatever Enki said about possessions,
I knew we had to live: I loaded the boat
with everything I had, I loaded the boat
with all my silver and I loaded the boat
with all my gold. Then I loaded the boat
with all the family I had, with all the beasts
of fields and wilds, and with all my craftsmen
and their children. And so the boat was full.
I watched the weather darkening, embarked,
and closed the door of the ark. To the caulker
who made it so weatherproof, to Puzuramurri,
I left my palace and everything it contained.’
The mind of Gilgamesh was buzzing, stirring,
seeing it all but still amazed, waiting
to hear about a life more everlasting
than that of caulkers, cooks, and carpenters.
He held Ziusura with his gaze, saying:
‘Was there a real, or a storyteller’s, Flood?’
Ziusura grimly smiled and answered: ‘Real !
At the first light of dawn, instead of the sun
a black cloud mounted up from the horizon.
The storm-god rumbled thunder from the cloud,
sent his heralds to boom over peak and plain.
The ruler of the Netherworld opened his sluice-gates,
the war-god shot holes in all the dikes,
the judges of the heavens raised their torches
to flash and flare across the cowering earth.
There was a chaos in the sky, as light
became darkness, darkness became light.
The broad land was shattered like a pot.
One whole bad day the gathering south wind
blew a wall of water mountain-high,
overwhelming everything in its path.
No one could recognize his neighbour.
All were seething struggling water-wraiths.
Even the gods were terrified by the force
they had unleashed, and scuttled to the sky,
they crouched like dogs, the gods, at heaven’s door.
Then Aruru the mother-goddess shrieked
like a woman in childbirth, cried out strongly:
“The old times and the good times are mere clay!
I spoke out of turn in the divine congregation.
How could I speak evil in the divine congregation?
How could I battle for the death of my people?
I battled for their life, gave birth to them.
Now they are like fish, twisting in the sea!”
The other gods wept with her, they sat,
they sobbed, their lips were parched and tight.
So for six days and seven nights the Flood
blustered and devastated that early world.
On the seventh day the storm itself was in labour
giving painful birth to calm. The sea
grew still, the wind dropped, the Flood stopped.
I looked out all day long. Everything was so quiet.
The whole of humanity had turned to clay.
The seascape was one dead flat roof.
I opened a window and my cheek felt the light.
I sank to my knees and sat there, weeping,
the tears streaming down over my face.
I looked around for land, in the expanse of sea,
and at thirty miles an island-top emerged.
We drifted towards Mount Nimush, grounded there.
The first and second day, held fast.
The third and fourth day, not the last.
The fifth and sixth day, safely past.
And on the seventh day I released a dove.
It flew off, found no land, came back to me.
After the dove I released a swallow.
It flew off, found no land, came back to me.
After the swallow I released a crow.
It flew off, found land, flapped around,
pecked and ate and never came back to me.
The waters fell. I sent birds to the four winds.
I made offerings at that ziggurat of a mountain.
I set incense-vessels up in sevens,
made a smoke of sweet cane, myrtle, cedar.
The nostrils of the gods twitched, the fragrance
pleased them, the sweet smoke rose to please them,
they gathered like flies over the sacrifice.
Aruru the divine mother fingered her beads,
looking round at the other gods and saying:
“As surely as I touch these stones
of lapis-lazuli, my bones
shall not forget those days of death.
The insense has a savoury breath,
but let Enlil keep off from it!
He sowed destruction without remit
and threw my people to the pit!”
Just then Enlil appeared and saw the boat.
His anger was like the anger of demons:
“Who has allowed living creatures to escape?
I ordered a complete annihilation!”
Ninurta the war-god, sniffing conflict, answered:
“Who else but Enki could bring this about?
Enki is the smooth talker, Enki is the trickster!”
Enki had this to say to warrior Enlil:
“You, Enlil, warrior-god and wisdom-god,
how could you send the Flood without discussion?
Punish the criminal, yes, charge the offender,
but to let no man off the hook – no!
Better than bringing your Flood to the general doom
you might have sent lions to prey on the people.
Better than bringing your Flood to the general doom
you might have sent wolves to ravage the people.
Better than bringing your Flood to the general doom
you might have sent famine to ravage the land.
you might have sent plagues to prey on the land.
Better than bringing your Flood to the general doom
– But all you wanted was overkill, wipeout.
You rage at a few survivors; help them instead.
It was not I who revealed divine secrets;
Ziusura had a vision of the divine secrets.’
Enlil began to think about Enki’s words.
A great god can never apologize,
but he suddenly came forward into the ark,
caught me by the arm and led me out,
led my wife out. We knelt side by side.
He stood between us, touched our foreheads, blessed us:
“Human you have been till now, Ziusura.
Godlike you both shall be from this moment.
Ziusura and his wife shall be like gods!
Live where rivers begin, Ziusura the Faraway!”
And he took us far off, to live where rivers begin.
Now Gilgamesh, who will get the gods on your side
to help you find the life you are so eager for?
A test! No sleep for six days, seven nights!’
Gilgamesh sat down; but his head nodded,
sleep like a fine mist drizzled over him.
Ziusura laughed, addressed his wife, saying:
‘Look at the hero who wants eternal life!
Sleep like a fine mist drizzles over him!’
Ziusura’s wife, taking pity, replied to her husband:
‘Nudge the man, get him to wake up.
Let him go back safely the way he came.
Let him return to his own land in peace.’
But Ziusura would not relent, saying:
‘We cannot trust him. I want the full test.
You must bake loaves and set them beside him,
mark the wall each day, a sleep, a loaf.’
She baked loaves and set them beside him,
marked the wall each day, a sleep, a loaf.
The first was like a board, the second like leather,
the third was soggy, the fourth turned white,
the fifth had mildew, the sixth was so-so,
the seventh –
Suddenly Ziusura touched him
and Gilgamesh awoke and saw him, saying:
‘I was just beginning to fall asleep
when you touched me and wakened me up!’
Ziusura shook his head, pointed and said:
‘Look at the wall and count the loaves and days!
Your first loaf is like a board, the second
like leather, the third soggy, the fourth
turned white, the fifth mildewed, the sixth
is so-so, the seventh – then you woke!’
Gilgamesh groaned to Ziusura the Faraway:
‘What can I do, Ziusura, where can I go?
The Reaper has entered the field of my flesh,
Death is in my house, at my very bed,
and wherever I walk, there too is Death!’
Ziusura turned to Urshanabi, saying:
‘Ferryman, this harbour is no longer yours,
ferries will no longer be landing here.
Take this man, this king, this Gilgamesh,
whose matted hair streaks down his body,
whose animal pelts hide the beauty of his flesh.
Take him to the washing-place, make him
wash off his hairy grime, peel off those pelts
and throw them into the sea. Shine him with oil,
give him a fresh headband, a royal robe.
And once he is ready to return to his city,
once he is on his way back to the city,
let that robe remain spotless and clean.’
Urshanabi took him to the washing-place,
made him wash off his hairy grime, peel off
his pelts and throw them in the sea, shone him
with oil, gave him a fresh headband,
a royal robe. And once he was ready to return
to his city, once he was returning to the city,
that robe remained spotless, pure and clean.
The two men boarded the ferry and cast off.
Ziusura’s wife called to her husband, saying:
‘Gilgamesh has worn himself out on his quest.
What can you give him to take back home?’
Gilgamesh heard her, poled the boat back to shore.
Ziusura addressed the wanderer, saying:
‘Gilgamesh, you are worn out in your quest.
What can I give you to take back home?
I know: let me tell you a secret thing.
There is a deep-rooted plant like a boxthorn,
unbelievably prickly, you must watch it.
But seize it, and you will be young again.’
Gilgamesh dug a channel into the earth,
into the subterranean waters. Like a diver
he roped heavy stones to his feet. He descended,
pulled up the plant with a blood-pricked hand,
cut the stones from his feet, flew up
dripping and showed the plant to Urshanabi.
At once he spoke to the ferryman, saying:
‘Urshanabi, this plant can lead us out
from age and decay and make us young again.
I will bring it back to Uruk, give it
to the elders of the city for a second life.
Its name is Rejuvenation, and I myself
will eat it then and be young as I once was.’
They went back home overland, not by sea.
At sixty miles they stopped for some food.
At ninety miles they camped for the night.
Gilgamesh caught sight of a cool fresh spring,
went down to it and bathed and splashed about.
A snake appeared, smelling the fragrance of the plant,
sidled up, snatched it, slid off sloughing its skin.
When Gilgamesh found out what had happened
he sat down, weeping, his tears fell down his face.
He turned at last to the ferryman, saying:
‘Who have my arms laboured for, Urshanabi?
Who has my heart’s blood bled for, Urshanabi?
I have won nothing good for myself.
I have cast my luck to a serpent, Urshanabi!’
The ferryman said nothing, but they went on
together, close, like brothers, till they saw
the shining massive ramparts of Uruk.
Gilgamesh was calm; he lived; his palace stood.
He gestured widely, spoke to the ferryman, saying:
‘Climb the wall, Urshanabi, prowl along it,
inspect its foundations, its brickwork, be thorough!
The infill is not rubbish but good kiln brick!
Who but the Seven Sages planned Uruk –
one third streets and buildings, one third gardens,
orchards, palm-trees, one third open suburbs,
all of it walled around for miles and miles.
Someone some day will find a copper box,
open it, unbolt its lock of bronze,
undo the clasp of secrets, release
its tablet of lapis-lazuli, read out
how Gilgamesh won through a thousand hardships,
immortal only in the words he left.’
End of play