Part 11
Or else a well cultivated and fruitful valley, But behind it unexplored fastnesses, Gorges, precipices, and heights Over which thunder clouds hang, From which lightning falls, Stirring up terrible shapes of prey That slink about in the blackness. The silence of him is terrifying As if you sat before the sphinx. The look of his eyes makes tubes of the air Through which you are magnified and analyzed. He needs nothing of you and wants nothing. He is alone, but content, Self-mastered and beyond friendship, You could not hurt him. If he would allow himself to have a friend He could part from that friend forever And in a moment be lost in wonder Staring at a carved rooster on a doorstep, Or at an Italian woman Giving suck to a child On a seat in Washington Square.
Soul enwrapped demi-urge Walking the earth, Stalking Life!
JOHN COWPER POWYS
Astronomer and biologist And chemical analyst and microscopist, Observer of men’s involuted shells Where they conceal their hate and even their love Under insipid ooze or nacreous stuff. Tracer of criss-cross steps made when great hells Kept lime as soft as wax Which thereupon took the imprint of the air From gnat-like wings of joy or shadowy care. He makes hard secrets stand in the cul de sac’s Entrance and face him till he lays all bare That eyes hold or heart of blood contains, And curious traits in diverse curious brains, And starved desires in hearts and hopes forgot Under the sifting ashes of one’s lot.
X-ray photographer who flashes What’s in you out of you with sudden crashes Of wit or oratory in a flood. He samples and tests the book’s, also your blood. Shows what you are and whence you came, And who your kindred are, and what your flame In heat and color is. Poet and wag, Prophet, magician taking from a bag Eggs, rabbits, silver globes; the old engram! Scoffer with reverence, visioned, quick to damn, Yet laugh at, looking keenly through the sham. Confessing his own sins, devoid of shame. He knows himself and laughs, Or blames himself as he would others blame. A naughty boy who kicks away the staff Which poor decrepits walk by, nearly blind, Then hurrying up with varied thought to find Medicinal clay with which dim eyes to heal.
What is the human secret but Proteus’? And who can catch the old man but his kind? He was Poseidon’s herdsman, knew the streams Of early being, sea-filled ponds and sluices, Where life took birth through elemental dreams. And Proteus glanced with lightning and divined The cause of Bacchus’ madness. But at noon He counted his sea-calves and ocean-sheep On Carpathos where waters made a tune Following the Orphic sun out of the deep-- Then in his cave he hid him, turned to sleep....
So runs our life to change! and who can catch The Protean thought must watch, And be adept at wrestling, in the chase. And know the god whatever be his face, Through roar of water where the porpoises And extravagant dolphins play, in silences Of noon or midnight. So John Cowper Powys You stand before us gesturing, shoulder bent A little like King Richard, frizzed of hair, Rolling your eye for secrets, for the word. The thresher of your mind is eloquent With hulls and flakes of words, until at last The kernel itself pops out, not long deferred....
Here is our wrestler then, Hunter of secrets of creative souls. Eluded he may be, he tries again. His hand slips clutching at the irised shoals Of rapturous thought. And at times his eyes Are blinded by a light, or a disguise. But finally both eye and hand Obey the infallible senses’ brave command-- He catches Proteus then, and with a shout, The god shouts too, and we who watch the bout Join in the panic of their merriment!
NEW YEAR’S DAY
She was a woman who even as a child Hungered for gifts with hunger passionate And in her childhood made a hard fate For a father who had failed and who was wild With a kind of laughing despair, That comes of having failed. She had plain dresses, only a little strand Of coral beads, and ribbons for her hair Bestowed by grandmama. And on her hand A ring of beads that maddened her and paled Beside the gold rings other girls could show. So she grew up out of this woe Of wanting and not having things. And round this nucleus of desire Her nature wound itself into a spire, As a vine climbs up and clings Till it becomes the tree; So she became all fire For the world’s glittering glory.
Then in the process of her being’s story She married a man of riches and took over Dresses and jewels, houses, with her lover. And learned the ways of Paris and New York, And how to sit, or look, or use one’s fork. And how to speak in French, and how to dress. And how to find and use the loveliness That gold brings. And she lived where thought is white With its great longing for the infinite, Where pale youths dream and write, And starve and lie awake at night; Where sculpture, music and where painting is On priceless canvases. But none of this saw she In feeding her desire with jollity In the cafés and in society; Wherever the denials of her youth Could be made whole, or leveled up With idle splendor or the champagne cup. That was her dream of making her life truth, Till she devoured her husband like a leman-- She was at last one of this kind of women. Then as a widow she came journeying back With trunks and maids upon a New Year’s day Over her childhood’s disappointed track.
Her father meanwhile had gone on the way Which was his at the start. His life was like a bruise which does not smart Now that it has grown hard. And he was stoical like one who hugs His inner self until sensation dies, Or dulls his fears or sorrows with strong drugs. There was a light of hardness in his eyes Through which no one could see his secret pain. Failure had made him so--he could explain To no one how he had been caught in life; Sometimes it seemed himself, sometimes his wife, And he had thought of it so much he lost Perspective of himself, therefore he kept Great silence, speaking little, even then But trivial things. He trod his path and slept, And rose to tread the path and slept again. He was resolved to pay the bitter cost And not cry out--his thinking stood on guard To this end chiefly.
With impassive heart He wrote his daughter on a postal card To come, if it should please her, and be home On Christmas, if she could, on New Year’s day If she preferred, but anyway to come.
If a ghost could patch its tomb With a trowel from time to time, If it had a little lime, So as to stop the cracks and growing rifts, That would be like this man who hated gifts Because he scarce could give them, and had patched With hardness where his heart had broken In years gone for the holidays when she Cried in such ignorance of his poverty. Now with walled feelings he could sit unspoken Of what he felt, regretted, or had lost-- He was that kind of ghost. So when the daughter came he only had Her mother and the dinner, greetings glad, And certain pride because her life had matched With childhood’s hopes--but still he had no gifts For Christmas or for New Year’s, and the daughter Wept when she found it so,--’twas always so,-- It made her youthful bitterness alive. And so she spilled her water Out of a trembling hand at dinner and arose And left the table. But with specs on nose Self-mastered, not revealing What was his feeling, The father ate the dinner alone, while mother Was comforting the daughter.
“He might have given me a dollar, a little book, A handkerchief, or any other Little thing, he always acted so.” The mother tried to soothe her daughter’s woe. But while they were together, the father took His steps up town and when the two came back They found him gone and the room growing black From falling night....
But later he came in And sat by the fire all silent. This had been His New Year’s day! And later his wife came And sat across him silent in her blame Of him and of his life.
She said at last: “Blanche is heart sick.”
“Well, I am sixty-five,” He answered her, “and never while I’m alive Will I remember Christmas or a New Year’s day. I’m glad so many of such days are past, They have been always this way. We had dinner And ourselves for her and she brought herself And nothing else. This is the way to win her Admiration, yet this thing of giving Dollars or books, wins only a little thrill Of tickled pride or egotism, still I might have done it, just to have the peace Of her self-satisfaction.”
Said the wife: “You might find happiness in her happiness. The only thing you understand in living Is how to stand your misery, one can guess The working of your thought.”
Ere she could cease The daughter entered like the devil’s elf, And saw her father bent before the fire, And saw the back of his head which spoke to her Of hardness, or of something that she hated Which moved her pity and her hate at once.
And then the mother said: “You two are fated To be as blind as two cliffs to each other. You need I think a spiritual re-birth, Something that you could have upon this earth. For I can see a book or handkerchief Would give one happiness and one relief From hardness which is girding in your soul. That would be rich return for small outlay, God give us all another New Year’s day.”
PLAYING BLIND
You used to play at being blind-- Now you are blind--you used to say: “Play I am blind and help me find Where the gate opens on the way.”
I laughed at you, we laughed together When you were playing blind, your staff My walking cane of varnished leather-- Now you are blind and still you laugh.
You sit beneath the reading lamp With long lashed eyelids closed and pale And make me read you Riley’s Tramp, And Grimm and many a fairy tale.
Sometimes I stop--you see I choke Before the tale is done by half-- One’s eyes blur from tobacco smoke-- I cannot laugh now when you laugh.
I SHALL NEVER SEE YOU AGAIN
If I could only see you again-- If I could only see you again! How can it be I shall never see you again? For the world has shown it can roll on its way And blot you out forever-- And I shall never see you again! I thrill as one who slips on the edge of a gulf When I think I shall never see you again!
As a dead leaf is hurtled over the tops of trees; As a dead leaf is dizzily driven through woodland valleys I am driven and tossed in the storms of living. But as the dead leaf escapes the breeze’s fingers, And sinks till it nestles motionless under a rock So in quiet moments I dream Of you, I dream of all that you were-- And I shall never see you again!
There never was any one like you! There never yet was such joy in a heart, Such strength to live whatever the fate, Such love to love, Such thought to see how life is good, Such maternal passion, Such breasts eager to nurse child after child-- And I shall never see you again!
Your breasts were made to suckle conquerors, Warriors, prophets, Invincible souls Loving life, and loving death at last. And now your breasts are dust, You are all dust, You are lost save for my memory.
And this morning I woke As a leaf might wake in its sheltered place Under the rock Stirred by a breath of April. And I lived again the last time I saw you-- The last visit! You were almost ninety then. But there was the old zest in your heart To do all things and have all things Unchanged, as I had known them As a boy. You gave me the same room, Nothing was changed, Not a chair, a curtain, a picture. And you came up-stairs before it was day And lighted a fire in the little stove To have the room warm for me to dress in-- There never was love like yours!
And I went down to the kitchen and found you Frying batter cakes, and laughing, And bringing back my boyhood days With the old stories. And how you kissed me, and hugged me With your withered arms! And then you sat down with me, And ate with me as of old, And brought out priceless jars of things Which you had made and saved for me!
The breath of memory stirs me Under the rock. I must have the madness of life to drive me, To toss me Into forgetfulness of my loss of you-- For I shall never see you again!
ELIZABETH TO MONSIEUR D----
I pace the rooms and wait for John’s return. My heart beats all too fast, I feel a pain Around my heart, my hands grow cold, I burn Through neck and cheeks. And thus I live in vain. John comes at last and says, “There is no mail, No letter for you.” And with whirling brain I turn away in silence, growing pale, And whisper to myself: to be resigned To wretchedness perhaps is to prevail O’er wretchedness and win a peace of mind. To love you so, to thirst for you, to pay For outward calm with inner storms confined, To lie awake by night and spend the day In restless thoughts, is life too hard to bear. I see you in my troubled dreams alway, You face me with a grave and haughty air, Serene, incensed against me who intrude An interest which you have no heart to share. Forgive me then my sorrow’s servitude, To write to you my suffering will ease, And fill the aching of my solitude. I have gone forth to Nature to find peace: The woods are filled with purple lupine now, Small yellow asters, phlox, and cramoisies Of columbine and roses, vine and bough. The wild grape and the cherry haunt the dunes With odors sweet as love. To cool my brow I walk the heights upon these afternoons And watch the blue waste of the sky’s descent. And yesterday where golden light festoons With flickering sorcery the way we went ’Twixt sprays of beech and sassafras I stole Till once again at the hill’s top half-spent I saw the shore dunes and the waters roll. We climbed it once together--it was there The Bacchic madness came into your soul To take me in your arms. And now I bear Your coldness, your reproaches, you who call My longing and my spiritual despair A mere neurosis, or hysterical Outcropping to be conquered. It was wrong To take me in your arms, and then when all Was not yours then to tell me to be strong, And urge your marriage vows now I have thought The problem of my love through. I belong To you Monsieur; whatever grief is wrought Of body or of soul to satisfy The flame is better, and is far less fraught With mad regret than it can be to lie In restless torture. O my friend withdraw Your friendship from me never lest I die! Yes, I could live and work if I foresaw Your friendship mine and letters by your hand Arriving in this lonely place to thaw The ice around my heart’s flame. Understand From those I love but little love I need: Crumbs from your feast you scarce can countermand, And crumbs are all I ask, and just the meed Of friendly interest. I abase my pride. The strong can suffer silently and bleed As long as strength lasts, keep the blood inside, Until one weakens when it spurts and drips. And Pride turns Nature, careless now to hide The inner bleeding bubbling at the lips. I write you this without regret or shame. My strength has left me in the blue eclipse Of agony. Monsieur, I take the blame, If any come, of fanning dangerously The spark that brightened once and would be flame-- Is that not true? Or do you say to me: “You are no more my pupil, I retrench “The memory of things that cease to be, “And go my way with teaching young girls French, “As I taught you. Two years have passed since then. “What is this thought that time has failed to quench? “You who are laureled in the world of men, “A genius risen like a morning star, “Does not that glory fill you?” Yet again I answer you one’s genius burns afar In useless splendor if it warm no cheek, Make bright no eye, lead on no darkling spar-- Genius is love, is freedom, it must speak, Work out its fate from egocentric life; It is more swift than other feet to seek Its ruin with its hope, or take the knife More willingly to breast than those who sink In involuted growth. To be your wife I do not dream, I only wish to drink The cup with you and break the bread with you, To feel thereby our lives are one and think We are one creed and one communion, new In spirit, born anew, that I may have An altar for my genius, something true And near in flesh to triumph for, or brave The world or evil for. Genius is love. It cannot bear itself alone to save; It must another rescue, it must prove Its growing strength in ministry. Monsieur, Bruise not my soul by ignorance hereof, My reverend father thinks my thoughts are pure-- If he should read this! But if you dismiss This letter with a smile and say her cure Is the reaction of forbidden bliss, It is most true, but you would not degrade My love for you with that analysis, And that alone. For surely God who made Our souls and bodies so meant we should rise Through their desires, and does God pervade This glowing mass of life, these starry skies With other power? Now scorn me, if you will. The unburdened heart has tamed its agonies.
MONSIEUR D---- TO THE PSYCHOANALYST
In time I’ll tell you all the dreams I’ve had-- But now--well, let me think! O yes three times I’ve dreamed a creature with a dragon’s head, Which was her head as well, for so it seemed, Gemmed with her brazen eyes half luminous And half opaque, slate colored, lay across My breast and hurt my heart, and breathed her breath From half-dead, livid overlapping lips (As when you crush a snake’s head jaws will lie Awry and out of plumb) like pestilence Right in my nostrils. This interpreted Means characters are breaths, and most are bad When closely known. Such breath suits well the dragon, But would not suit her, so you’d think to see How fair her face, how seeming fair her soul. So let me tell you.
All my hair is gray, My youth is gone, pretense will work no more. I’m fifty-seven, yet I cling to youth, Because I cling to love, have never known Aught but successions of immoderate--what?
Some call it lust--you call it libido. Well it is urge, creative fire and drives The artist half-soul mad, as I am mad-- Look how my poor hand trembles, my voice breaks-- No! I’ll go on. I’ll tell you all, be done. Then if you cannot cure me, there’s a balm I know myself.
If I had only loved Elizabeth, who wrote me years ago Such pleading letters--every man can win Some woman’s love completely, had she won My love as well! O what a monstrous world Where such envenomed fire is, held by Chance And shot in blindness. So she felt the flame And looked on me, I felt the flame and looked Upon this cockatrice.
So as I said I had been teacher, actor, writer, poet, Had seen my face on lithographs, felt warm In every capillary for that face Which seemed star-guided, noble, to be loved, Revered, and thus through self-esteem I bore My failures hoping, buoyed by some success As the swift years went by.
But on a day When I was forty-five, looked thirty-five, No gray hairs then, they called me thirty-five, My name went round the city, in the press They hailed me as a genius, I had played Othello to their liking, was yet young And promised much, they said. That afternoon A woman came to see me in my suite, Wonder and admiration in her eyes. Her manner halted, as she thumbed a book Upon the table, while she told her tale: She had won favor as an amateur, Could I, the greatest talked of man to-day, Show her the way to greatness, might it be A modest part could be assigned to her When I played mad Othello?
I have found That when a woman has no business with you Her calling speaks the oldest one of all. So true to this I acted. We commenced And for three months I struggled for the prize. Her first play was to make me pity her. She told me of her suffering, her youth, (She was then thirty-five), her poverty, Her labor to learn French. And like a man I pitied her and opened up my purse. She said, “No! No! this hat and dress will do, It brushes well.” She would not take a cent. I saw her daily for a month before I won her. Though she gave me hands and lips-- There was a fury in her lips, my heart Seemed like to stop--I could not win the prize. One day she broke in tears: “You seemed so noble, So great of mind, are you then like the rest Who want a woman’s body, nothing else?” “I want your love,” I said, “your love for mine, I love you, dearest!” faugh, must I repeat The gagging words? So I declared the love I felt too deeply, and to prove my love I added: “I’ll renounce the gift of love, My Lady Wonderful, worship you afar. You would not have me tortured by your eyes, Nor have me see you often, in this case!” So I had given love as I had given All wealth that I could pour of soul, achievement, Name in the world, all pride, all thought of self Present or future to this woman, now For love’s sake I renounced the gift of love. And so I left her. Well, she called me back. And though I was a fool, and blinded too, I saw her thought and won her in an hour. So then commenced my madness, for she said It could not be again. The blood I tasted Could not be drunk. “You love me,” she would say, “Then bring me not to shame, it will be known If we go on. I cannot lose my bread. Librarians cannot have their names in doubt Who serve the public, as I do.” So it was The madness braced my will, and unrelenting I sought her, won her. In a little while We were adjusted to habitual love. And I was happy save when I was mad. For she knew younger men who came to call; Or take her to the theatre, with one She corresponded. “Let it be,” she said, “I must not be in public with you, dear, Whose name and greatness in the world would point To our relationship, how could it be You would be with a woman without station, Celebrity or wealth, except for this? These others are a blind.”
I could not solve Out of the whirling clouds of passion truth-- My days were tortured, in the dreams of sleep I saw this dragon head I told you of. And so through heavy venery, and dread, And anger, doubt, faith, love and much of hate, I took to drink.