Chapter 1
Produced by Catherine Daly
A WOMAN OF THIRTY
Marjorie Allen Seiffert
New York
1919
To O.H.S.
CONTENTS
I. The Old Woman
A Morality Play
II. Love Poems in Summer
Singalese Love Songs I-V The Silent Pool Nocturne Theme Arranged for Organ I-III The Moonlight Sonata Possession Evening: the Taj Mahal The Gift The Bridge A Temple I-VII Candles Winter Night Last Days I-V Sorrow Prison The Dream House
III. Studies and Designs
Design for a Japanese Vase The Bow Moon (A Print by Hirosage) An Italian Chest The Pedlar Portrait of a Lady in Bed I-V Portrait of a Gentleman From the Madison Street Police Station La Felice The Journey The Last Illusion The Desert The Picnic
IV. Interlude
Mountain Trails I-VII October Morning October Afternoon Maternity The Father Speaks To Allen To Helen The Immortal To an Absent Child I-IV Summer Night Maura I-VI November Dusk Winter Valley I-IV
V. Love Poems in Autumn
Ballad The Pathway of Black Leaves I-IV Elegy Sequence I-X Disillusion November Afternoon Yareth at Solomon's Tomb Argolis St. Faith's Eve
Poems of Elijah Hay
The Golden Stag To Anne Knish Lolita Spectrum of Mrs. Q Epitaph A Sixpence Three Spectra Two Commentaries A Womanly Woman Lolita Now is Old The Shining Bird The King Sends Three Cats to Guinevere Ode in the New Mode Night
I. The Old Woman (A Morality Play)
The Old Woman (A Morality Play)
Characters: The Woman The House The Doctor The Deacon The Landlady
Doctor: There is an old woman Who ought to die--
Deacon: And nobody knows But what she's dead--
Doctor: The air will be cleaner When she's gone--
Deacon: But we dare not bury her Till she's dead--
Landlady: Come, young doctor From the first floor front, Come, dusty deacon, From the fourth floor back, You take her heels And I'll take her head--
Doctor and Deacon: We'll carry her And bury her If she's dead!
House: They roll her up In her old, red quilt, They carry her down At a horizontal tilt, She doesn't say "Yes" And she doesn't say "No," She doesn't say, "Gentlemen, Where do we go?"
Doctor: Out in the lot Where ash-cans die, There, old woman, There shall you lie!
Deacon: Let's hurry away And never look behind To see if her eyes Are dead and blind, To see if the quilt Lies over her face-- Perhaps she'll groan Or move in her place!
House: The room is empty Where the old woman lay, And I no longer Smell like a tomb--
Landlady: Doctor, deacon, Can you say Who'll pay rent For the old woman's room?
* * * * * * *
House: The room is empty Down the hall, There are mice in the closet, Ghosts in the wall-- A pretty little lady Comes to see--
Woman: Oh, what a dark room, Not for me!
Landlady: The room is large And the rent is low, There's a deacon above And a doctor below--
Deacon: When the little mice squeak I shall pray--
Doctor: I'll psycho-analyse The ghosts away--
Landlady: The bed is large And the mattress deep, Wrapped in a feather-bed You shall sleep--
Woman: But here's the door Without a key! An unlocked room Won't do for me!
Doctor: Here's a bolt--
Deacon: And here's a bar--
Landlady: You'll sleep soundly Where you are!
Woman: Good night, gentlemen, It's growing late, Good night, landlady, Pray don't wait! I'm going to bed, I'll bolt the door And sleep more soundly Than ever before!
Deacon: Good night, madam, I'll steal away--
Doctor: Glad a pretty lady Has come to stay!
House: She lights a candle-- What do I see! That cloak looks like A quilt to me! She climbs into bed Where long she's lain, She's come back home, She won't leave again. She's found once more Her rightful place, Same old lady With a pretty new face. Let the deacon pray And the doctor talk, The mice will squeak And the ghosts will walk. There's a crafty smile On the landlady's face, The old woman's gone, But she's filled her place!
Landlady: It's nothing to me If the old woman's dead, There's somebody sleeping In every bed!
II. Love Poems in Summer
Singalese Love Songs
I
Your eyes are beautiful beggars, Careless singing minstrels, Who will not starve Nor sleep cold under the sky If they receive no largess Of mine.
Once lived a woman Of great charity--
At last Her own children Begged for bread.
II
I would make you love me That you might possess Desire--
For to your heart Beauty is a burned-out torch, And Faith, a blind pigeon, Friendship, a curious Persian myth, And Love, blank emptiness, Bearing no significance Nor any reality.
Only Weariness is yours: I would make you love me That you might possess Desire.
III
Is my love Of flesh or spirit? I only know to me Your eyes are wholly you.
Our glances dart Like the flash of a bird Gone, before the colour of his wing Is seen.
I have not bathed my soul In your eyes, My soul would drown.
IV
I have starved to know your lips Yet my soul Does not die of want.
For only dreams are real, And fulfilment is an illusion, There is but one fulfilment, Blind Nature's way--
My arms reach toward illusion, And I would carry mist against my heart, Not the warm, heavy head Of a sleeping child.
Starving, I hold my dream.
V
What do you seek, Beloved?
When you have had All of me There will remain for you One beautiful desire the less.
You think you seek my love But you seek My denial.
Hunger, Want, Is the only pain I would not spare you-- Alas, that too Will die!
The Silent Pool
Your smile is a heron, flying Over waters cool, My thoughts of you are blue Iris! Today is the silent pool Which shining heron and Iris blue Are mirrored on.
Tomorrow Will still reflect the Iris-- My thoughts of you; But the heron will be gone.
Nocturne
It is enough To feel your beauty With the lingers Of my heart,
Your beauty, like the starlight, Filling night so gently, that it dreams Unwakened.
I should feel your beauty against my face Though I were blind.
Theme Arranged for Organ
I. PRELUDE
What would you have of me, my friend, in truth, A breath of understanding, or a glance Into your soul's dark places? Can a word Aid in your brave attempt to smother youth? Of what avail that trifling circumstance, In such a tumult could my voice be heard?
Before your bitter need my lips are dumb So little can I give you. Should I come To feed a starving Titan with a crumb?
II. INTERLUDE
Alas, I am too foolish or too wise, Too soon am blinded or I see too far! How can I follow with expectant feet, What is the beacon light that holds your eyes, Can this blind alley lead to any star And through this dark confusion, what retreat?
For heaven is awed when comets crash to earth, But we, who grope and question our soul's worth, Stumbling, awaken only bitter mirth.
III. POSTLUDE
A breath, a glance, a word,--no more, my friend, This is the sum of what I have to give Leaving the tale for ever incomplete. No perfect moment, and no tragic end, Within your heart those images shall live And die like footsteps down an empty street.
Yet all the while a stifled instinct saith: "Spend your souls vigour to the utmost breath And let the hounds come baying at the death!"
The Moonlight Sonata
My soul storm-beaten as an ancient pier Stands forth into the sea; wave on slow wave Of shining music, luminous and grave, Lifting against me, pouring through me, here Find wafts of unforgotten chords, which rise And droop like clinging sea-weed. You, so white, So still, so helpless on this fathomless night Float like a corpse with living, tortured eyes. Deep waves wash you against me; you impart No comfort to my spirit, give no sign Your inarticulate lips can taste the brine Drowning the secret timbers of my heart.
Possession
I hold you fast, your hurrying breath, Your wandering feet, your restless heart, Are mine alone, for only death You vowed today, can make us part.
Your eager lips, athirst to drain Life's goblet of its golden wine Shall drink tonight or thirst in vain-- I hold you fast for you are mine.
And when I search your soul until I see too deeply and divine That you can never love me--Still I hold you fast for you are mine!
Evening: the Taj Mahal (A Lover Speaks)
Beloved!...
India and you Breathe through my soul tonight, You in your gown, impossibly white-- I marvel greatly that it fail To glow and pale With iridescent light-- How can it hang in silent nun-like folds? Think of the flaming mystery it holds, You... You...
We stand in that wide place Where love is frozen in marble, spire on spire, A snow-white nightingale with a heart of fire Soaring in space. We gaze, together, into the shining pool To catch the soul of beauty unaware Finding only the peaceful body there Of beauty drowned and still in waters cool.
Burning so luminously in these pure white things Somehow akin, are palpitating fires,
Intangible, yet visible as spires Or wings. And close at hand, an unseen Moslem sings Blind, haunting chants, which speak Of mystery, forevermore unguessed. O shining ones, I seek No farther, for my soul, content, Divines the secret of the Taj Mahal and you-- Beauty and desire, possessed In white tranquillity, in flaming peace, Find rest.
The Gift
What is this wine you have poured for me? You have offered up Your face in its pure transparency Like a crystal cup Which trembling fingers slowly lift-- It is faintly masked With a tremulous smile. You have brought me a gift, Your love, unasked.
Could you trust my reckless hands so much? With no vow spoken, You gave me a goblet, which at a touch Were utterly broken! Your smile replied: "Since the glass was filled It little mattered Whether the wine were drunk or spilled Or the goblet shattered."
The Bridge
I walk the bridge of hours from dawn till night My heart beating so loud in joyous wonder To know your love, that I can scarcely breathe; But in the lonely darkness, with affright I faintly hear, like ominous, distant thunder The unseen ocean surging close beneath.
Our bridge so frail, eternity so vast! When we must sink into the deep at last Heart of my heart, will you still hold me fast?
A Temple
I. DOORWAY
Carven angels On the portals, Angels with crowns, and eagles And golden lions On the door.
This is why The alien worshippers went their way, Why you alone discovered The gates were open.
You touched the velvet curtains behind them, They parted to let you pass.
II. WINDOW
I make a window Of you, beloved, Through which the sun colours The silence.
Even your absences Are spaces I have filled With sapphire;
Your denials Are burning gold, I have painted your reluctance Emerald green:
Your silences Are crimson On which your words make delicate Black tracery.
As for me, My will is the grey lead Which I have bent to hold the coloured Panes of you.
III. SPIRE
My wish goes singing upward Holding a chime of bells In its heart:
Pigeons know my silent bells, Winds touch them and wonder.
That they might reach That high blue--
Till star fingers touch them Ever so gently--
And drifting clouds Lay cool cheeks against them--
My wish goes singing upward Reaching into silence.
IV. PRIEDIEU
Beauty passes But dust is eternal. Outside the temple Beauty dies in the wind.
So when my temple is fallen And lies in dust, Where then will be the memory Of your beauty?
I pray my dust That it may hold your image Tomorrow and for ever.
V. FESTIVAL
The beloved is returning, Let the bells ring!
I too am a tower Hung with bronze bells,
I too am a bell Chiming to the winds,
I too am the wind Ringing to the hills,
I too am the hills Singing to the sky.
I too am the sky! The beloved is returning, Let the bells ring!
VI. DUSK
There is no soul too poor to build a temple Where it may go apart And worship darkness.
For out of darkness Images shine... and fade...
Since now there is no worship nor any music, Let incense be a curved smile On lips that remember, And candles, notes of laughter In empty dusk.
Above, A coloured window slowly turns Black to the night.
VII. RUINS
Temples have fallen Before today, Stones are ever loosening their hold One on another...
You blocks of marble, sleeping in the sun, Can you remember chiming bells And incense?
Now there is only silence, Even the winged stones of archways Sleep in peace.
Candles
Silence is but the golden frame That holds your face, My thoughts, like unblown candle-flame In a holy place Surround you. From this secret shrine Somewhere apart Do you not feel my candles shine Upon your heart?
Winter Night
The I that does not love you I have kept hidden away In the dark.
(I never dreamed There was a You That does not love me!)
Tonight they met.
I hear their words Falling like icicles Upon me... I am frozen in terror... Have they killed the You That Loves me?
Beloved, can you hear me Through the bitter sound Of icicles falling? Can you see me from behind Your frozen eyes?
Last Days
I
Shall I pretend These days are just like other days? One cannot spend Every day for seven weeks Saying good-bye.
So when I must I speak of your departure casually As though it were a hundred years away; As Youth is wont to say: "Sometime we all must die!"
II
We talk of all the happy things we have done, We pass them in review, "Do you remember?" is often on our lips.
One by one We touch our memories and put them all away-- How shall I dare to look at them When you are gone!
III
There is no beginning to my love Nor any end-- It is about your head Like the deep air, More than your breath can spend. Oft is about your heart Like arms of faith-- Where you go, it is there.
IV
There are no last things to say, What promise can I make? You know my love so well. All that I have is yours to take. (How will it be, with part of me away, Must not my soul be changed?)
Shall I stay young for memory's sake? Shall I be old and grave and grey? If I might choose, how could I tell!
V
The You I know I shall not see again, A stranger will return.
How shall I win the love Which he has kept apart With a blurred image which once was I?
I shall not know his heart, How can I learn?
Sorrow
Sorrow stands in a wide place, Blind--blind-- Beauty and joy are petals blown Across her granite face, They cannot find Sight or sentience in stone.
Yesterday's beauty and joy lie deep In sorrow's heart, asleep.
Prison
I close the book--the story has grown dim, The plot confused; the hero fades Behind unmeaning words, and over him The covers close like window shades On empty windows. The watchful room Is weary. Dully the green lamp stares Into the shadows. The coals are dumb, The clock ticks heavily. The chairs Wait sullenly for guests who never come.
Suppose I leave this house, suppose my feet Plodding into the night Carry me down the empty street Made hideous with arcs of purple light... Inevitably I must return to bed. The house is waiting, chairs, and books, and clocks. I am their prisoner. I have no more chance Of escape, when all is said, Than a dying beetle in a box-- And life, and love,--and death--have gone to France.
The Dream House
I steal across the sodden floor And dead leaves blow about, Where once we planned an iron door To shut the whole world out;
I find the hearth, its fires unlit, Its ashes cold--Tonight Only the stars give warmth to it, Only the moon gives light.
And yonder on our spacious bed Fashioned for love and sleep The Autumn goldenrod lies dead, The maple-leaves lie deep.
III. Studies and Designs
A Japanese Vase (A Design to be Wrought in Metals)
Five harsh, black birds in shining bronze come crying Into a silver sky, Piercing and jubilant is the shape of their flying, Their beaks are pointed with delight, Curved sharply with desire, The passionate direction of their flight, Clear and high, Stretches their bodies taut like humming wire. The cold wind blows into angry patterns the jet-bright Feathers of their wings, Their claws curl loosely, safely, about nothingness, They clasp no things. Direction and desire they possess By which in sharp, unswerving flight they hold Across an iron sea to the golden beach Whereon lies carrion, their feast. A shore of gold That birds wrought on a vase can never reach.
The Bow Moon (A print by Hiroshige)
From the dawn, Take San, Ungathered star, Follow me back through night Till I recapture Evening.
(The bending hours of darkness Sway apart like lilies Before the backward-blowing wind.)
At last, Bearing in her mysterious bosom Unravished beauty, Dark Yesterday rises to view against her silent sky Irrevocable... secret... Confronting the fantastic dream Of an impossible Tomorrow.
And that frail bridge, Delicate, immutable, Which rises higher than the moon, More everlasting than the fading sky, Joining What-was-not with What-might-have-been, That bridge were named "Today" If I had loved you, Take San, If you had loved me.
An Italian Chest (Lorenzo Designs a Bas-Relief)
Lust is the oldest lion of them all And he shall have first place, With a malignant growl, satirical, To curve in foliations prodigal Round and around his face, Extending till the echoes interlace With Pride and Prudence, two cranes, gaunt and tall.
Four lesser lions crouch and malign the cranes, Cursing and gossiping they shake their manes While from their long tongues leak Drops of thin venom as they speak. The cranes, unmoved, peck grapes and grains From a huge cornucopia, which rains A plenteous meal from its antique Interior (a note quite curiously Greek).
And nine long serpents twist And twine, twist and twine, A riotously beautiful design Whose elements consist Of eloquent spirals, fair and fine, Embracing cranes and lions, who exist Seemingly free, yet tangled in that living vine.
And in this chest shall be Two cubic meters of space Enough to hold all memory Of you and me-- And this shall be the place Where silence shall embrace Our bodies, and obliterate the trace Our souls made on the purity Of night... Now lock the chest, for we Are dead, and lose the key!
The Pedlar
Hark, people, to the cry Of this curious young magician-pedlar Seeking a golden bowl!
He wanders through the city Offering useful tin-ware For all the ancient metal You have left to rust In the dim, dusty attic Or mouldy cellar Of your soul.
He refuses nothing-- Rusty nails Which may have played their part In a crucifixion-- For ten of these he will give A new tin spoon.
The andirons Once guarding hearth-fires of content, Now dusty and forgotten In an obscure corner, He will give for these A new tin tea-kettle With a wooden handle.
And for this antique bowl Fashioned to hold Roses or wine?
The eyes of the pedlar glisten! O woman, if acid reveal Gold beneath the tarnished surface He will gladly give you His hands, his eyes, his soul, His young, white body--
If not, A mocking laugh And a bright tin sieve To hold your wine And roses.
Portrait of a Lady in Bed
I. THE COVERLET
My cowardice Covers me safely From everything...
From cold, which makes me yield And quietly die Beneath the snow;
From heat, which makes me faint Until cool nothingness receives me;
From hurt, (Seize me, O Lion, And I shall die of fright Before I feel your teeth!)
From love, Yes, most of all from love.
How can love touch me? Is it not heat, Or cold, Or a lion?
My cowardice covers me Safely From everything!
II. THE PILLOW
To know you think of me Sustains my Spirit Through the long night.
(My thought of you Is wine, banishing sleep!)
Your thoughts of me are feathers, Light nothings, Drifting, dancing, Floating, Blown by a breath of fancy Away from your sight.
They would choke me, They would blind me With the Nothing I am to you If I dared see them; But I bind them into a pillow, And to know that you think of me Sustains my spirit Through the night.
III. SOUVENIR
Harlequin, seeing me gay You loved me, For fools need mirth,
O solemn Harlequin!
Tall tragedians make me laugh Joyously, riotously, Tall, dark villains, and heroes with blonde hair Make me laugh uproariously... (I could elope with a tragedian!)
But you with your clowning, Harlequin, Brought bony truth too near--
Harlequin, I might have loved you But I could not make you gay!
IV. THE CURTAIN
I do not fear You, or me, or death,
There now is nothing left to fear But this, This curtain of blackness.
Once I feared you, And all you thought and felt
And all you said and did: I feared myself, And all you made me think and feel And say and do--
Now I no longer fear Thinking, feeling, saying, doing,
Nor blankness, silence, apathy, torpor--
I do not fear You, or me, or death--
I only fear This curtain of blackness Which is your absence.
V. THE DREAM
Harlequin comes to me, smiling, Through the white-shining birch trees Of the twilight wood.
He has forgiven My cowardice and hesitations, Soon I shall sink into his arms With all the imagined fervour... Of a thousand dreams.
Why does he come so slowly? There is no longer anything To mar our meeting...
This must be real For Harlequin is still clowning, He waves his arms grotesquely To make me smile....
Quick, into his arms With unspent fervour. Why are the trees all sighing? Look, whispering birches, if you will, I and my love embrace!
They do not look, They do not seem to care...
Embrace me, my beloved! (Can these by passionate kisses? They feel so thin and cool Like mist.)
The birches shiver As though the night-wind stirred them.
Can we be dead?
Portrait of a Gentleman
Tower of stone Rugged and lonely, My thoughts like ivy Embrace my memory of you, Climbing riotously, wantonly, Till the harsh walls Are clothed in tender green.
Tower of stone, Stark walls and a narrow door Which speak: "You who are not for me Are against me,-- If you are mine, Enter!"
But who would be prisoned In unknown darkness?
Tower of stone Rugged and lonely, I dared not enter and I would not go Till clasping you My arms were bruised and torn.
From the Madison Street Police Station
I, John Shepherd, vagrant, Petition the park commissioners For wider benches.
My soul has long been reconciled To the prick of gunny-sack, (O well-remembered woollen fleeces!) And rustling vests of newspaper, And the chill of rubbers on unshod feet, But to the wasteful burning of dry leaves, God's shepherd's mattress, Never!
Descendant of ancient ones Who tended flocks and watched the midnight sky, My forebears saw the Eastern star appear Over Judean hills.