Part 2

then no sun no moon no stars no night no day forsaken transplanted

there was sight and sound and touch and someone there as always forever

then an empty silence such as none aware of hallways to never

item: body found

it was a silent evening I remember through the river's mist it comes to me a star pierced the air, white with speed it leaped across the sky, slipped and fell I heard its cry, it echoed in the sea the swift wild cry of the scornful ember

alone I stood there, never had I need of fellow rebel more, I a rebel down the dark beach I ran, I stripped, time was an eyeless reach across immensity and I plunged deeply, they blamed it on the tide the night, they had not seen infinity like a vast unchanging vista wide before me. if you go too far you'll drown they said, ah no, they know the sublime who reach for the falling star and go down

on trial

the day to day commitment to failure that judgment daily argues against me condemns me to despair... I am guilty of more than silence... at times words fail your wisest men and then intentionally... but my silence like all my secrecies has no defense, none conventionally, my personal idiosyncrasies no social crimes... when pride is pain and shame an agony too keen for reason I had no other weapon, who is to blame? there was no intent to deceive or lie... my absence is sufficient evidence, voluntary exile, not providence

guadalajara

water running over stone overrun my heart water running over stone overcome my start

now wear down my sorrow wash away my fears I have mourned tomorrow widowed by the years

(water running over stone hard it is to be alone)

water running over stone canyon deep inside water running over stone canyon steep and wide

now let a river flow strong and continuous out of the desert grow green bouldered oasis

(flat and dry of emery plateaus on my memory)

water running over stone be the blood within my bone water running over stone take me and make me your own

pilgrimage

now that the flame has died which burned in us burned too intense for living with, beside and we have cooled to the quieter dust so comfortably and separately you and I

let us lift to the wind and drift from our pyre as passionlessly and still as those destined candles of the mind whose pilgrimage through night ends with a dawn cold white and all their flames relit

washday in the tropics

the sun tropics down my days with heat of roof and balcony drying me out like morning's wash on mudbaked brick and shrubbery

the clouds are bleached by lye and ash to make a stiff and faultless sky and spotless leaves hang limp on trees without the energy to die

flies buzz... cock calls... the hammock swings with eye asquint to palmribbed light while smoke coughs up the desert air between straw sips of cool and white

where cactus pricks the sunscorched haze against the rainless afternoon three zopilotes sit and wait to pick apart the carcass moon

and still more scrub of soap on stone with slap and shake and fling of wrist though I unsmooth each ironed piece before night creeps along the mist

only this

I return to old complaints like the earth to its seasons the church has its saints and I my reasons

one needs to know trees their leaves, bark and roots to perceive what one sees-- the mind has no shoots

only this: the older I grow the more I feel, not know the need of believing-- my youth is leaving

maturity

for years I watched it grow in thought and shape a man though it was smaller then and mild I was in fact a gentle child

the words it spoke were songs the air it breathed seemed sweet its eyes saw more than was to see the world I loved was meant for me

each day it woke the sun and played till time had tired then put the night to sleep in bed I dreamed the sky was underhead

when it was glad I joyed when it was sad I grieved joy and grief were never lonely I had myself for company

the seasons came and went and with them went we two the fallen leaves now memories of years grown thick as forest trees

till knowledge found us there and taught us false from true how much the simple lesson cost I gained a world not worth the lost

alter ego

always He was there facing me where the others could not see they never believed me

He stood in the shadows like a tree posed in sunlight when the woods are darkly bright but they saw only black and white as I impatiently cried fools are you blind they looked at me their eyes were not unkind

when He spoke I heard each word distinctly spoken the silence broken was what He said but they only shook their heads as I repeatedly cried fools can't you hear gently they answered me your voice is clear

when He wept they wiped my tears kept me consoled for the pain He felt fools are you so old you have no fears, have you no heart that grief can melt I insisted through the years but they would not depart

when He slipped they caught me in their arms ripped the garments from my wound and staunched the flow fools let me go let me go I shouted in alarm as He swooned and still they did not see the shadows by the tree they never believed me

then He was dying and I knew dying too that they would bury me there beside the tree where no one else could see but the fools were crying because I was lying so quietly watching the shadows and waiting

this much I know about time

there is safety only in the heart guard it well my love

where is beauty lonely in the mart hard to sell my dove

fame is rider pawing wind and cloud fool to reach so far

blame is spider drawing in the crowd cruel of speech they are

joys are token mainly for regret high the score I played

toys are broken plainly to forget buy no more I said

breath is fearless bolder than the mind few will sight my spire

death is cheerless colder than the wind who will light my fire

in the wake of sleep

storm in the brain whips the dull season high while dunes of repetition pile against the night sandscarred to flight... hurriedly the shore frightened by tide sliding out from cat's paw scurries behind land's door, turns key in lock and dims the light... now wind and rain can rock the mind to a wild ship's bow, ride down a mile climb up a wall to mountain height of sky...

dreams crash each side, tear anchor loose from sleep and madly race the lightning out to sea... everything changes: hands feet eyes the face of storm, all composition of the gray sameness, walls razed, roofs blown, the no of drought flooded out... the revenging dog barks loud across the fog and we wake to the nightmare violence of day, salt in mouth, sand in hair

cold wakening

for thirty years I lived a dream until I woke up with a scream and saw that all the things I'd dreamt had vanished in the dawn's contempt

it was not I within the glass it was my mother's face alas a face so changed from mine I'd known I thought the years had turned to stone

and where were all my innocence my glad beliefs and magic pence that I had saved to travel through a timeless world where dreams come true?

not anything inside my hand no moment's evidence of sand just grayish pulp to make me damn the heartless proof I think, I am?

the dream is gone and still as ice that glaciers down some mountain splice and I am carried underneath with stones to cling to by my teeth

weather forecast

always before the final terror a luscious peace not yet the signal bell not yet the swift alarm the sleeper has another hour the worker has a holiday still eases the dawn forward still comes the morning toward open the cities' piers open frontiers an early spring being everything the last kiss like the first the best without the worst

always after the initial fear a new release not yet the sharp compel not yet the threatened harm the body has a lazy power the brain has an agile way so warm the fireside within so rich the harvest every bin secure the outer walls secure the stalls a deep serenity without enmity the first signs like the last the future in the past

measured interval

the morning speeds to a full stop lands in the park and lights a cigarette-- still fifteen minutes to burn and then noon

the train comes along, drops through the darkness and forgets-- till five o'clock returns and the news

night wakes with a gong rings bells in the brain and runs off shouting-- sleep dresses itself and wakes, shaking

skies ricochet downward, prong ciliate streaks of rain with gun shells routing-- a mad head on a shelf laughs, breaking

now the moon blankets over the dead the warmth their lover bodies were denied

they lie on alien bed who failed to live who tried, whose eyes are wide to heaven knows what stars what glories fugitive

o tell me mars to every action is there an equal and opposite reaction

black sun

the night is white, ah strange the world I knew grown changed for sun is black with days I can not see amazed

all has reversed, gone void each thought a masked deploy confusing sense: heat cold more less, body and soul

only the light of dreams in which I stand blasphemed lost blind, a sack of straw facing windy mouths abhorred land is accursed, sea slimed with foulest human crimes at what expense to hide the fratricidal eye

the ghosts of years file past like candles in a glass and I a sound unheard to stop the murderer

dawn chanticleers no peace there is no west no east space closes round the speck man claims as architect

log for a voyage

we have taken to words on page without speech we have taken to birds in cage within reach

forsaken the meaning of lips forsaken the free wing that dips

we have shaken the fruitful tree of belief we have shaken the brutal sea for relief

mistaken the evils of sin mistaken the wheels that spin

then who of us shall slake the salt wound on the tongue who shall wake the nightingales marooned here among

o wander the world for the garden that lies on the floor of atlantis or roof of the skies

from its seed breed a new race of life loving men from its reed and papyrus make music again

notes for the future

light destroyed by minds only the stars

might destroyed by hands only the stones

no other language but signs no other knowledge but clans

time reduced by fear only the sun

space reduced by force only the hunt

each one yoked from head to knee each one racked by tooth and claw

ears condemned to hope only the drum

eyes condemned to ape only the dream

this book is a signed limited edition designed by the author set in cheltonian type printed on biblios paper published and distributed by editorial jus mejia number 19 mexico city

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Elizabeth Bartlett (1911-1994) was an American poet and writer noted for her lyrical and symbolic poetry, creation of the new twelve-tone form of poetry, founder of the international non-profit organization Literary Olympics, Inc., and known as an author of fiction, essays, reviews, translations, and as an editor. She is not to be confused with the British poet (1924-2008) of the same name. For more detailed information about her life, work, and critical commendations, see the Wikipedia article http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elizabeth_Bartlett_%28American_poet%29.

Bartlett's most notable achievements include:

* Creation of a new form of poetry, "the twelve-tone poem," adapting Arnold Schonberg's musical system to the verbal, accented sounds of language. Called "the Emily Dickinson of the 20th Century," her concise lyrics have been praised by poets, musicians, and composers alike.

* Publication of 16 books of poetry, a group of edited anthologies, and more than 1,000 poems, short stories, and essays published, for example, in _Harper's_, _Virginia Quarterly_, _New York Times_, _North American Review_, _Saturday Review_, _Prairie Schooner_, and in numerous international collections.

* Recipient of many fellowships, grants and awards, including NEA, PEN Syndicate, fellowships at the Huntington Hartford Foundation, Montalvo, Yaddo, MacDowell, Dorland Mt. Colony and Ragdale, travel grants, and honors for introducing literature as part of the Olympics.

* Founder of the Literary Olympics, to restore literature, specifically poetry, as a vital part of the Olympics as it once had been in ancient Greece.

Bartlett's poetry came to the attention of leading poets, writers, and critics as diverse as Marianne Moore, Wallace Stevens, Mark Van Doren, Conrad Aiken, Allen Tate, Alfred Kreymborg, Robert Hillyer, Louis Untermeyer, Rolfe Humphries, John Ciardi, Richard Eberhart, Richard Wilbur, Maxine Kumin, Robert M. Hutchins, Kenneth Rexroth, William Stafford, and others. Over the years, Bartlett maintained an active and extensive correspondence with eminent poets, writers, and literary critics; evident throughout this collected literary correspondence are strong statements attesting to the importance of her work.

About her first book of poetry, _Poems of Yes and No_, Marianne Moore wrote: "I surely find good in the _Poems of Yes and No_.... The clearness of the book is certainly beautiful." Wallace Stevens was impressed by _Poems of Yes and No_ and wrote: "Your poems give one a sense of intelligence and sensibility." Alfred Kreymborg was enthusiastic about the book: "You have found a style of your own and developed it. I say yes to your _Poems of Yes and No_. This is a distinguished volume as a whole. I wish you well with this warm book. Any poet might envy the courage and artistry of what you say, or rather sing, there." Further commendation came from Robert Hillyer, who wrote: "Your poems are moving and unusual.... A distinguished achievement!"

Her husband, Paul Alexander Bartlett (1909-1990) was an American writer, artist, and poet. He made a large-scale study of more than 350 Mexican haciendas, published novels, short stories, and poetry, and worked as a fine artist in a variety of media. For more detailed information about his life and work, see the Wikipedia article https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paul_Alexander_Bartlett.

Elizabeth Bartlett's son, Steven James Bartlett (1945- ), is a psychologist and philosopher who has published many books and articles in the fields of philosophy and psychology. For more detailed information about his life and work, see the Wikipedia article https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Steven_James_Bartlett.

End of Project Gutenberg's poems of yes and no, by Bartlett, Elizabeth