Part 6

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I am old and crippled--sixty in December. And I wonder if it's God that stretches out and hands us Troubles we remember? I'm alone besides, I need the Comforter, All the children's grown up, livin' out in Kansas. My old friend Billy died of lung fever.... But the worst of it is I'm really a believer, Expect to go to hell if I don't get religion. And I need this religion to stop this awful grievin' About my woman lyin' there in the cemetery, And you can't stop that grievin' simply by believin'. So I mourn for religion, I mourn for religion, My old heart breaks for religion!

THYAMIS

Thyamis, a gallant of Memphis, Where melons were served Iced with snow from the Mountains of the Moon; Thyamis, a philanderer in Alexandris Rich in parchments and terebinth, Lies here in the museum. His lips are brown as peach leather, Through which his teeth are sticking, White as squash seeds.

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Knowing that he must die and leave her He slew the lovely Chariclea Who sailed with him on the Nile Under the moon of Egypt. This is the body of Chariclea Undesiring the arms of Thyamis. This is the remnant of Chariclea, Wrapped in a gunny sack, Rotted with gums and balsams.

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As the sands of the desert are stirred By the wind when the sun sets, The open door of the museum Lets in the wind to shake The cerements of Chariclea, And the stray hairs on the forsaken head Of Thyamis.

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Of desire long dead; Of a murder done in the days of Pharaoh; Of Thyamis dying who took to death The lovely Chariclea; Of Chariclea who shrank From the love death of Thyamis The multitude passes, unknowing.

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I SHALL GO DOWN INTO THIS LAND

I shall go down into this land Of the great Northwest: This land of the free ordinance, This land made free for the free By the patriarchs.

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Shall it be Michigan, Or Illinois, Or Indiana? These are my people, These are my lovers, my friends-- Mingle my dust with theirs, Ye sacred powers!

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Clouds, like convoys on infinite missions, Bound for infinite harbors Float over the length of this land. And in the centuries to come The rocks and trees of this land will turn, These fields and hills will turn Under unending convoys of clouds-- O ye clouds! Drench my dust and mingle it With the dust of the pioneers; My mates, my friends, Toilers and sufferers, Builders and dreamers, Lovers of freedom.

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O Earth that looks into space, As a man in sleep looks up, And is voiceless, at peace, Divining the secret-- I shall know the secret When I go down into this land Of the great Northwest!

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Draw my dust With the dust of my beloved Into the substance of a great rock, Upon whose point a planet flames, Nightly, in a thrilling moment Of divine revelation Through endless time!

SPRING LAKE

[Greek: Bê de' kat' Oulhympio karhênôn chôomenys kêr.]

--_Iliad._

I

Some thought a bomb hit Trotter's garage. Some thought a comet Blew up the Lodge. Milem Alkire was riding in a Dodge, Saw the water splashing, and a great light flashing, And a thousand arrows flying from the heaven's glow; And heard a great banging and a howling clanging Of a bull-hide's string to a monstrous bow.

II

Milem Alkire became a changed man, So the thing began, guess it if you can. He turned in an hour from a man who was sour To a singing, dancing satyr like Pan. He hobbled and clattered as if nothing mattered Down in his cellar for any strange fellow, Bringing up the bottles, clinking, winking, For the crowd that was drinking. All against the statutes in such case provided.

Drew well water to cool the wine off, Polished up the glasses with a humorous cough. Milem Alkire for years had resided A quiet, pious, law abiding citizen Turned in an hour to a wag who derided The feelings of the people, the village steeple, And the ways that befit a man-- This Spring Lake citizen.

III

And about the time That Milem Alkire Became a wine seller, And begetter of crime, With parties on his lawn From mid-night to dawn, Making the wine free Under the pine tree, Starling Turner's wife ran away, A woman who before was anything but gay. Never had a lover in her life, so they say, But like other clay, had the longing to stray. She saw a cornet player, An idler, a strayer, And left her husband furious threatening to slay her, And cursing musicians who have no honest missions. So Starling Turner, a belated learner Of life as music, laughter, folly, Grew suddenly jolly, forgot his melancholy, Became a dancer and rounded up the fiddlers, Got up a contest of fifty old fiddlers, With prizes for fiddling from best to middling: A set of fine harness for the best piece of fiddling. Work stopped, business stopped, all went mad, Mad about music, the preachers looked sad For music, the like of which the village never had.... The children in the street were shockingly bad, And danced like pixies scantily clad; Knocked away the crutches from venerable hobblers, Threw pebbles at the windows of grocers and cobblers, Made fun of the preachers, the grammar school teachers, Stole spring chickens and turkey gobblers, Roasted hooked geese in front of the police. Till the quidnuncs decided it wasn't any use, The devil had let a thousand devils loose.

IV

Then folks began to read old books forbidden. Carpenters orated and expatiated On Orphic doctrines and wisdoms long hidden, A Swede who couldn't speak began to talk Greek. There were meetings in the park from dawn to dark. And wild talk of razing the village, effacing The plain little houses and the town replacing With carved stone, columns and temples gracing Gardens and vistas the water front embracing. And others would create a brand new state. So fire broke out in the strangest places. The belated traveler beheld elfin faces Springing from nothing, to vanish in a second. Potatoes unthrown went whizzing round corners. Voices were heard and white fingers beckoned, Till all the wise ones, doubters and scorners Although they winced, in some way evinced That their minds were convinced. Something was wrong, The evidence was strong, The air was full of song: You woke out of sleep and heard a violin, A harp or a horn; And rose up and followed the sound growing thin At the break of morn.

V

Music, music, music was blown Over the waters, out of the woodlands, Grassy valleys and sunny meadow lands In the mid spaces, tone on tone. The pasturing flocks were sleeker grown And multiplied in a way unknown.... And little Alice bright of eye Dreamed and began to prophesy: And said the strayer, the cornet player, Who took Starling Turner's wife away, Is coming back at an early day: Look out, said Alice, to Imogene, Red-lipped, bright-eyed, turned eighteen, You have danced too much on the village green. Look out for the cornet player, I mean. I know who he is for my eyes are keen. Your blood is desiring, but yet serene. I know his face and his bright desire, Laurel leaves are around his brow; He carries a horn, but sometimes a lyre. His eyes are blue and his face is fire. Look out, said Alice, his touch is dire, Keep to the house, or the church's spire.

VI

And what was next? The girl disappeared. As Alice feared, no fate interfered. A posse collected, hunted and peered, Raced through the night till their eyes were bleared, And looked for Imogene, cried and cheered When a clew was found, or a doubt was cleared. A posse with pitch-forks, scythes and axes, Shot-guns, pistols, knives and rifles, Hunts for Imogene, never relaxes, Runs over meadows for luring trifles: The wave of grain or a weed that tosses; And curse and say what a terrible loss is Come to Spring Lake: a wife's enticed, And then this fairest maid is abducted. Why are the innocent sacrificed? We are a people well conducted. What is the curse, or is it the war?

Why is it every one here is housing Fiddlers, idlers, fancy dancers. At Milem Alkire's why carousing; Everything that the good abhor In lovers and romancers? The world is mad, the village is mad, Even the cattle bellow and run. Old maid, young maid, man and lad Have eaten of something half insane; Such antics never before were done And never it seems may be again Under the shining sun. And now comes villainy out of the fun. Come with the torch, come with the halter, Gather the posse, stay nor falter, Catch the scoundrel who spoiled our peace And hang him up in the maple tree's Highest branch. For what is the law If it can't slip the noose and draw This minstrel man to a thing of awe?

VII

Then the pastor said: Talk of the gallows Is just the thing for it's righteous malice; And we need hearts with piety callous For work like this, I might say salus Populi, but bright-eyed Alice Can help us in this matter kinetic Who has grown psychic and grown prophetic, Sees round corners, and looks through doors And spies old treasure under the floors. And I have heard that Alice averred, The cornet player's the self-same bird Who enticed the wife of Starling Turner And kidnapped Imogene; he will spurn her Later for some one else, unless we Capture and hang the vile sojourner; So now for Alice, he said, and bless me!

VIII

Alice came out to lead the mob Catch the scoundrel and finish the job. Down to Fruitport before it is dark Come, said Alice, Joan of Arc. Farmers, butchers, cobblers, dentists, Lawyers, doctors, preachers, druggists Hustled and ran in the afternoon, Following Alice who led the way Chanting an ancient roundelay, A wild and haunting tune. Her hair streamed over her little shoulders Back in the wind for all beholders. And her little feet were as swift and white As waves that dance in the noonday light. Youths were panting, middle aged men Had to rest and resume again. She ran the posse almost to death, All were gasping and out of breath. At last they halted upon the ridge. There! said Alice, beside the bridge Under its shadow. Look, he's there Weaving lilies in Imogene's hair; His musical instrument laid aside Now he has charmed the maiden pride Of Imogene who is not his bride, Come, said Alice, before they hide.

IX

They ran from the ridge, Looked under the bridge. There! he escapes, said Alice, the fay. Where? Howled the mob! which is the way? There's Imogene wrapped as if in a trance, Said the preacher, there where the waters dance. I saw as it were a shaft of light Steal from her side, vanish from sight. The cobbler said: it was like a comet; The druggist, water by a bomb hit. Yes, said the lawyer, I heard a splashing And saw a light as of waters flashing Or a thousand arrows of splendor flying I heard a booming, banging, clanging Of a bull's hide string, it was terrifying. No, said Alice, this form of light, That stole away and vanished from sight, That was the fellow, said Alice, the sprite. Go after him, follow through meadow and hollow The God Apollo, the great Apollo!

X

They went to Imogene then and took her, Spoke to her, slapped her hands and shook her, Asked her who it was that forsook her, Why she had left her home and wandered, What was the dream she sat and pondered, And Imogene said, it's a dream of dread, Now that the glory of it is fled. Where am I now, where is my lover? God of my dreams, singer and rover. I danced with the muses in flowering meadows; We lay on lawns of whispering shadows; We walked by moonlight where pine trees stood Feathery clear in the crystal flood; He gave me honey and grapes for food. We rode on the clouds and counted the stars. He sang me songs of the ancient wars. He told me of cities and temples builded Under his hand, we waded rivers By star-light and by sun-light gilded; By shades where the green of the laurel shivers. But it came to this, and this I see: Life is beautiful if you are free, If you live yourself like the laurel tree.

XI

Then some of them teased her, the posse seized her, They tore the lilies out of her hair. Back to the village, exclaimed the preacher, Back to your home, exclaimed the teacher. You've been befooled, said Alice, the fay, And back went Imogene in despair, Weeping all the way!

THE BARBER OF SEPO

Trimmed but not cut too short; the temples shaved, Neck clipped around, not shaved, an oil shampoo, You have a world of time before the train And when it comes it stops ten minutes--then The depot's just a block away.

Oh yes, This is my own, my native town. But when I earn the money to get out, I go. I've had my share of bad luck--seems to me Without my fault, as least life's actinism Makes what we call our luck or lack of luck....

Go down this street a block, find Burney Cole And ask him why I was not graduated From Sepo's High School at the time he was. It was this way: I fell in love that spring With Lillie Balzer, and it ended us, Lillie and me, for finishing that year. I thought of Lillie morning, noon and night And Lillie thought of me, and so we flunked. That thinned the class to Burney Cole, and he Stood up and spoke twelve minutes scared to death. Progress of Science was his theme, committed To memory, the gestures timed, they trained him Out in the woods near Big Creek.

Lil and I Sat there and laughed--the town was in the hall, Applause terrific, bouquets thick as hops. And when they handed Burney his diploma The crowd went wild. How does this razor work? Not shaving you too close? I try to please... Burney was famous for a night, you see. They thought his piece was wonderful, such command Of language, depth of thought beyond his years. Next morning with his ears and cheeks still burning, Flushed like a god, as Keats says, Burney stood Behind the counter in the grocery store Beginning then to earn the means to take A course in Science--when a customer Came in and said: a piece of star tobacco, Young fellow, hurry! Such is fame--one night You're on a platform gathering in bouquets, Next morning without honor and forgotten, Commanded like a boot-black.

Five years now Burney has clerked, some say has given up The course in science, and I hate to ask him... But as for me, there was a lot of talk, And Lillie went away, began to sport. She's been around the world, is living now In Buenos Ayres. Love's a funny thing: It levels ranks, puts monarch or savant Beside the chorus girl and in her hands. I stayed here, did not have to leave for shame, But Lillie changed my life.

When she was gone My conscience hurt me, and that very fall When I was most susceptible, responsive, And penitent, we had a great revival. And just to use the lingo: after much Wrestling at the Seat of Mercy, prayers And ministrations then I saw the light, Became converted, got the ecstasy. I wrote to Lillie who was in Chicago To seek salvation, told her of myself. She wrote back, you are cracked--go take a pill.... I know you've come to get your hair trimmed, shaved, Also to hear my story--you shall hear. The elders saw in me a likely man And said there is a preacher. First I knew They had a purse made up to send me off To learn theology, and so I went.

I plunged into the stuff that preachers learn: The Hebrew language, Aramaic and Syriac; The Hebrew ideas--rapid survey--oh, yes, Rapid survey, that was the usual thing. Histories of Syria and Palestine; Theology of the Synoptics, eschatology. Doctrine of the Trinity, Docetism, And Christian writings to Eusebius. Well, in the midst of all of this what happens? A fellow shows me Draper and this stuff Went up like shale and soft rock in a blast. My room mate was John Smith, he handed me This book of Draper's. What do you suppose? This scamp was there to get at secret things, Was laughing in his sleeve, had no belief. He used to say: "They'd never know me now." By which he meant he was a different person In some round dozen places, and each place Was different from the others, he was native To each place, played his part there, was unknown As fitted to another, hence his words "They'd never know me now."

And so it was This John Smith acted through the course, came through A finished preacher. But they found me out As soon as Draper gnawed my faith in two. The good folks back in Sepo took away The purse they lent and left me high and dry. So I came back and learned the barber's trade, And here I am. But when I save enough I mean to start a little magazine To show what is the matter. Do you know?

It's something on the shelf--not booze or jam: It's that old bible, precious family bible, That record of the Hebrew thought and life-- That book that takes a course of years to study, Requires Aramaic, Hebrew, Greek and Coptic And epigraphy, metaphysics, not Because the book itself is rich in these But just because when you would know a book In every character and turn of phrase And know what's back of it and went into it You draw the learning of the world, that's all. Take Plato, if you will, and study him After this manner, you will travel far In every land and realm. But this is nothing. The preachers are a handful to the world. They eat this dead stuff like bacteria That clean away decay. The harm is here Among the populace, the country, all That makes for life as life.

See what I mean? We have three thousand people in this town. Say in this state there are a thousand towns, And say in every town on every Sunday In every year this book is taught and preached To every human being from the time It's five years old as long as it will stand And let itself be taught--what have you done? You have created, kept intact a body, An audience and voting strength--for whom, The reformer, the fanatic, non-conformist, The man of principle who wants a law And those who, whether consciously or not, Live in the illusion that there is an end, A consummation, fifth act to this world, Millennium, as they say; and at the last When you get rid of sin (but they must say What sin is) then the world will be at peace, Life finished, perfect, nothing more to do But tend to business and enjoy yourself And die in peace, reach heaven. Don't you see? These people are deluded. For this stuff Called life is like a pan of bread you knead: You push it down one place and up it puffs In another place. And so while they control The stuff of life through Hebrew influence Of duty, business, fear, ascetism And yes, materialism, for it is that, The dough escaped, puffs out, the best of it, Its greater, part escapes us. So I say That bible taught in every village, hamlet And all its precepts, curses, notables, Preached fifty times a year creates the crowd That runs the country at the bidding of Your mediocrities, your little statesmen, Your little editors and moralists. And that's your culture, your American _Kultur_....

I'll finish you with eggs, it's better Than soap is for the hair. You've lots of time. I think I'll start my magazine next year. Step down this way--over the bowl, that's it-- A moment while I ring this money up. As I was saying--is the water cold?-- Now back into the chair--as I was saying That book upon the shelf has made our culture. We must undo it.... Yes, your train is whistling--so long!

THEY'D NEVER KNOW ME NOW

Let's sit here very quiet, self-controlled, Talk quietly, under this glorious tree, The internes are too far away to hear. They will stand there if we are calm.

You look Much better than you did. And as for me, Since I tried leaping from my window, I Seem on the mend, sleep better, do not feel So much like running, flying from the fears As I did three weeks since. Here is my tale:

My first step in this world was as a soldier, Turned seventeen and off to free the Cubans. I landed at Matanzas, served my time. Oh Liberty! Oh! struggles to make free All peoples, everywhere! And when I saw The American republic move to strike The chains of tyranny, I said: I die For such a cause, or live to see it won-- How glorious! My youthful mind was full Of Byron, Shelley, Paine, and many more-- And when I saw my republic go to war, Just as a good Samaritan, I said, This is my hour, I'm on the pinnacle, Life is divine at last.

But on a sudden A north wind froze my waters, caught my stars To points of vision which before had been Mixed in the fluent time. We up and stole The Philippines, spit on our sacred charter, Turned all the thing to guts, until I heard Their growl alone which I thought spirit voices When we had warred for Cuba! 'Twas enough; What was my country? Just a mass of slickers Talking philanthropy and five per cent, A pious, blundering booby lodged at last In a great cæcum mouthing Destiny. God, with a leader just an actor-man, Clean shaven, shifty, shallow, whored upon By mercantilists and their butcher creed. I mean McKinley, Hanna. Write it down: They barbarized our Grecian temple, placed Cheap colored windows in its marble walls-- May history be their hell.

But as for me, They talked of God so much, I said at last I'll learn all they can teach concerning God. This restless soldier spirit led me on, And just because I sensed the faithless age, Loveless and purposeless except for gold, The adventurer in me began to crop. Oh yes, the Cuban business started me. And so I went to college to prepare For the ministry, as they thought, go through the course Called theological, saying for the first: "They'd never know me now."