Part 11
When I labor it is a song of battle in the broad noon; For behold the muscles of a man— They are piston-rods; they are cranes, hydraulic presses, powder-magazines: But though my body be as beautiful as a hill crowned with flowers I will despise it and make it obey me ...
Is the old love dead? Then I shall await the new, To embrace it more sturdily and passionately than ever the old; And break it under the white force of my laughter Until it lies passive in my arms. There is nothing in me but renewal; If my friend bow his head over me I soon surprise him with shouts of joy: For in an instant I am again what I was, Only with a few moments more of the infusion of earth; I tell him, the griever, to follow me and he is a griever no more; He raises his head and must follow. Yet it is my battle, not his battle, For in me I absorb others ... I hail parties and partisans from afar; Not men but parties are my comrades, Not persons but nations are my associates. I shake the hand of nations; For I am a nation and a party, and majorities do not elect me— I elect myself. I swam in the sea, and lo! The continents assembled like islands off my coast. My talk is with Homer and Bonaparte, with David and Garibaldi, with China and Pharaoh and Texas; When I laugh it is with Lucifer and Rabelais. A pathfinder is my mistress, one hard to keep and unbridled— I have no respect for tame women. My friends and I do not meet every day, For we are centuries apart, our salutations girdle the globe.
I have eaten locusts with Jeremiah; I invite all hatreds and the stings of little creatures— They enrich me, I glory in my parasites.
No man shall ever read me, For I bring about in a gesture what they cannot fathom in a life; Yet I tell Bob and Harry and Bill— It costs me nothing to be kind; If I am a generous adversary, be not deceived, neither be devoted— It is because I despise you. Yet if any man claim to be my peer I shall meet him, For that man has an insolence that I like; I am beholden to him. I know the lightning when I see it, And the toad when I see it... I warn all pretenders. Yet before I came it was known of me to the chosen, all that I should do. Every tree knew it; Every lion and every leech knew it— And called out to meet the new enemy, The new friend... What power can deny me? It was known that I should do not one thing but hundreds, For I despise my works and make them obey me. I have my time and I bide it... It was known that I should turn no whit from my end, until I had attained it.
Nothing has scathed me, Nothing ever, nor ever will. I have touched pitch, I have revelled in it and rolled in it; Buried in mire and filth, I laughed long, And sprang up. I have loved lust and vain deviltries. And taken them into my heart—
Their dirt and their lies—and my heart was aflame With a new fancy... Not me can pitch defile! For the Spring, my sister, rose under my feet And I was again naked and white, Ready to dive into the deep pool, green and bottomless, The medium for heroes, since it is dangerous and beautiful— The pool of Tomorrow! It is because I breathe like fishes and live in the waters of Tomorrow that Death fears me...
How often I have intercepted thee, O Death! O windy liar! Thou canst do nothing against me; If I command thee to stand back thou art afraid and cowerest, For I have caught thee often and punished thee...
I am the greatest laugher of all, Greater than the sun and the oak-tree, Than the frog and Apollo; I laugh all day long! I laugh at Death, I hail Death, I kiss her on the cheek as a lover his bride, But the lover goes not to his bride unless he desire her; I go not to Death until I am ready. The strong lover goes not to his bride save when he would people his land with sons; Then I, too, I go not to Death, save it be for the labor greater than all others. I shall break her with my laughter; I shall complete her... Only then shall Death be when I die!
Joyce Kilmer
TREES
I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in summer wear A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.
EASTER
The air is like a butterfly With frail blue wings. The happy earth looks at the sky And sings.
Alfred Kreymborg
AMERICA
Up and down he goes With terrible, reckless strides, Flaunting great lamps With joyous swings— One to the East And one to the West— And flaunting two words In a thunderous call That thrills the hearts of all enemies: All, One; All, One; All, One; All, One! Beware that queer, wild, wonderful boy And his playground—don’t go near! All, One; All, One; All, One; All, One; Up and down he goes.
OLD MANUSCRIPT
The sky Is that beautiful old parchment In which the sun And the moon Keep their diary. To read it all, One must be a linguist More learned than Father Wisdom; And a visionary More clairvoyant than Mother Dream. But to feel it, One must be an apostle: One who is more than intimate In having been, always, The only confidant— Like the earth Or the sea.
CÉZANNE
Our door was shut to the noon-day heat. We could not see him. We might not have heard him either— Resting, dozing, dreaming pleasantly. But his step was tremendous— Are mountains on the march?
He was no man who passed; But a great faithful horse Dragging a load Up the hill.
PARASITE
Good woman: Don’t love the man. Love yourself, As you have done so exquisitely before. Like that tortoise-shell cat of yours Washing away the flies; or are they fleas? You’ve hurt him again? Good! Do it often. No— He’ll love you the more— Always. Remember how he forgave you the last time, And how he loved you in the forgiving. Give him an adventure in godhood And the higher moralities. Hurt him again. Fine!
William Laird
TRAÜMEREI AT OSTENDORFF’S
I ate at Ostendorff’s, and saw a dame With eager golden eyes, paired with a red, Bald, chilled, old man. Piercing the clatter came Keen _Traümerei_. On the sound he bowed his head, Covered his eyes, and looked on things long sped. Her white fierce fingers strained, but could not stir His close-locked hands, nor bring him back to her.
Let him alone, bright lady; for he clips A fairer lass than you, with all your fire: Let him alone; he touches sweeter lips Than yours he hired, as others yet shall hire: Leave him the quickening pang of clean desire, Even though vain: nor taint those spring winds blown From banks of perished bloom: let him alone.
Bitter-sweet melody, that call’st to tryst Love from the hostile dark, would God thy breath Might break upon him now through thickening mist, The trumpet-summons of imperial Death; That now, with fire-clean lips where quivereth Atoning sorrow, he shall seek the eyes Long turned towards earth from fields of paradise.
In vain: by virtue of a far-off smile, Men may be deaf a space to gross behests Of nearer voices; for some little while Sharp pains of youth may burn in old men’s breasts. But—men must eat, though angels be their guests: The waiter brought spaghetti; he looked up, Hemmed, blinked, and fiddled with his coffee-cup.
A VERY OLD SONG
“Daughter, thou art come to die: Sound be thy sleeping, lass.” “Well: without lament or cry, Mother, let me pass.”
“What things on mould were best of all? (Soft be thy sleeping, lass.)” “The apples reddening till they fall In the sun beside the convent wall. Let me pass.”
“Whom on earth hast thou loved best? (Sound be thy sleeping, lass.)” “Him that shared with me thy breast; Thee; and a knight last year our guest. He hath an heron to his crest. Let me pass.”
“What leavest thou of fame or hoard? (Soft be thy sleeping, lass.)” “My far-blown shame for thy reward; To my brother, gold to get him a sword. Let me pass.”
“But what wilt leave thy lover, Grim? (Sound be thy sleeping, lass.)” “The hair he kissed to strangle him. Mother, let me pass.”
D. H. Lawrence
A WOMAN AND HER DEAD HUSBAND
Ah stern cold man, How can you lie so relentless hard While I wash you with weeping water! Ah face, carved hard and cold, You have been like this, on your guard Against me, since death began.
You masquerader! How can you shame to act this part Of unswerving indifference to me? It is not you; why disguise yourself Against me, to break my heart, You evader?
You’ve a warm mouth, A good warm mouth always sooner to soften Even than your sudden eyes. Ah cruel, to keep your mouth Relentless, however often I kiss it in drouth.
You are not he. Who are you, lying in his place on the bed And rigid and indifferent to me? His mouth, though he laughed or sulked, Was always warm and red And good to me.
And his eyes could see The white moon hang like a breast revealed By the slipping shawl of stars, Could see the small stars tremble As the heart beneath did wield Systole, diastole.
And he showed it me So, when he made his love to me; And his brows like rocks on the sea jut out, And his eyes were deep like the sea With shadow, and he looked at me, Till I sank in him like the sea, Awfully.
Oh, he was multiform— Which then was he among the manifold? The gay, the sorrowful, the seer? I have loved a rich race of men in one— But not this, this never-warm Metal-cold—!
Ah masquerader! With your steel face white-enamelled, Were you he, after all, and I never Saw you or felt you in kissing? —Yet sometimes my heart was trammelled With fear, evader!
Then was it you After all, this cold, hard man? —Ah no, look up at me, Tell me it isn’t true, That you’re only frightening me!
You will not stir, Nor hear me, not a sound. —Then it was you— And all this time you were Like this when I lived with you.
It is not true, I am frightened, I am frightened of you And of everything. O God!—God too Has deceived me in everything, In everything.
FIREFLIES IN THE CORN
_A woman taunts her lover_: Look at the little darlings in the corn! The rye is taller than you, who think yourself So high and mighty: look how its heads are borne Dark and proud on the sky, like a number of knights Passing with spears and pennants and manly scorn.
And always likely!—Oh, if I could ride With my head held high-serene against the sky Do you think I’d have a creature like you at my side With your gloom and your doubt that you love me? O darling rye, How I adore you for your simple pride!
And those bright fireflies wafting in between And over the swaying cornstalks, just above All their dark-feathered helmets, like little green Stars come low and wandering here for love Of this dark earth, and wandering all serene—!
How I adore you, you happy things, you dears, Riding the air and carrying all the time Your little lanterns behind you: it cheers My heart to see you settling and trying to climb The corn-stalks, tipping with fire their spears. All over the corn’s dim motion, against the blue Dark sky of night, the wandering glitter, the swarm Of questing brilliant things:—you joy, you true Spirit of careless joy: ah, how I warm My poor and perished soul at the joy of you!
_The man answers and she mocks_: You’re a fool, woman. I love you, and you know I do! —Lord, take his love away, it makes him whine. And I give you everything that you want me to. —Lord, dear Lord, do you think he ever _can_ shine?
GREEN
The dawn was apple-green, The sky was green wine held up in the sun, The moon was a golden petal between.
She opened her eyes, and green They shone, clear like flowers undone For the first time, now for the first time seen.
GRIEF
The darkness steals the forms of all the queens. But oh, the palms of her two black hands are red! It is Death I fear so much, it is not the dead— Not this gray book, but the red and bloody scenes.
The lamps are white like snowdrops in the grass; The town is like a churchyard, all so still And gray, now night is here: nor will Another torn red sunset come to pass.
And so I sit and turn the book of gray, Feeling the shadows like a blind man reading, All fearful lest I find some next word bleeding. Nay, take my painted missal book away.
SERVICE OF ALL THE DEAD
Between the avenue of cypresses All in their scarlet capes and surplices Of linen, go the chaunting choristers, The priests in gold and black, the villagers.
And all along the path to the cemetery The round dark heads of men crowd silently; And black-scarfed faces of women-folk wistfully Watch at the banner of death, and the mystery.
And at the foot of a grave a father stands With sunken head and forgotten, folded hands; And at the foot of a grave a mother kneels With pale shut face, nor neither hears nor feels
The coming of the chaunting choristers Between the avenue of cypresses, The silence of the many villagers, The candle-flames beside the surplices.
Agnes Lee
MOTHERHOOD
Mary, the Christ long slain, passed silently, Following the children joyously astir Under the cedrus and the olive-tree, Pausing to let their laughter float to her. Each voice an echo of a voice more dear, She saw a little Christ in every face; When lo, another woman, gliding near, Yearned o’er the tender life that filled the place. And Mary sought the woman’s hand, and spoke: “I know thee not, yet know thy memory tossed With all a thousand dreams their eyes evoke Who bring to thee a child beloved and lost.
“I, too, have rocked my little one. Oh, He was fair! Yea, fairer than the fairest sun, And like its rays through amber spun His sun-bright hair. Still I can see it shine and shine.” “Even so,” the woman said, “was mine.”
“His ways were ever darling ways”— And Mary smiled— “So soft, so clinging! Glad relays Of love were all His precious days. My little child! My infinite star! My music fled!” “Even so was mine,” the woman said.
Then whispered Mary: “Tell me, thou, Of thine.” And she: “Oh, mine was rosy as a bough Blooming with roses, sent, somehow, To bloom for me! His balmy fingers left a thrill Within my breast that warms me still.”
Then gazed she down some wilder, darker hour, And said—when Mary questioned, knowing not: “Who art thou, mother of so sweet a flower?”— “I am the mother of Iscariot.”
A STATUE IN A GARDEN
I was a goddess ere the marble found me. Wind, wind, delay not! Waft my spirit where the laurel crowned me! Will the wind stay not?
Then tarry, tarry, listen, little swallow! An old glory feeds me— I lay upon the bosom of Apollo! Not a bird heeds me.
For here the days are alien. Oh, to waken Mine, mine, with calling! But on my shoulders bare, like hopes forsaken, The dead leaves are falling.
The sky is gray and full of unshed weeping As dim down the garden I wait and watch the early autumn sweeping. The stalks fade and harden.
The souls of all the flowers afar have rallied. The trees, gaunt, appalling, Attest the gloom, and on my shoulders pallid The dead leaves are falling.
ON THE JAIL STEPS
I’ve won the race. Young man, I’m new! _Old Sallow-face Good luck to you!_
I’ve turned about, And paid for sin. _And you come out, As I go in._
Ten years! but mark, I am free, free! _Ten years of dark Shall gather me._
My wife—long-while She wept her pain. _She cannot smile; She weeps again._
My little one Shall know my call. _Child is there none For sin grows tall._
Now who are you, Spar of hell’s flood? _And who, and who, But your own blood?_
HER GOING
_The Wife_ Child, why do you linger beside her portal? None shall hear you now if you knock or clamor. All is dark, hidden in heaviest leafage. None shall behold you.
_Truth_ Gone, gone, the dear, the beautiful lady! I, her comrade, tarry but to lament her. Ah, the day of her vanishing all things lovely Shared in her fleetness! Tell me her going.
_The Wife_ You are a child. How tell you?
_Truth_ I am a child, yet old as the earliest sorrow. Talk to me as you would to an old, old woman. I own the ages.
_The Wife_ Voices, they say, gossipped around her dwelling. She awoke, departing, they say, in silence. I am glad she is gone. The old hurt fastens. Hate is upon me.
It was hard to live down the day, and wonder, Wonder why the tears were forever welling, Wonder if on his lips her kiss I tasted Turning to claim him.
_Truth_ Jealousy, mad, brooding blind and unfettered, Takes its terrible leap over lie and malice. Who shall question her now in the land of shadow? Who shall uphold her?
_The Wife_ It was hard to know that peace had forsaken All my house, to greet with a dull endeavor Babe or book, so to forget a moment I was forgotten.
_Truth_ Who shall question her now in the land of shadow, Question the mute pale lips, and the marble fingers, Eyelids fallen on eyes grown dim as the autumn? Ah, the beloved!
_The Wife_ Go, go, bringer of ache and discord!
_Truth_ Go I may not. Some, they think to inter me. Out of the mold and clay my visible raiment Rises forever.
_The Wife_ Hers the sin that lured the light from our threshold, Hers the sin that I lost his love and grew bitter.
_Truth_ Lost his love? You never possessed it, woman.
_The Wife_ Sharp tongue, have pity!...
Yes, I knew. But I loved him, hoping for all. I said in my heart: “Time shall bring buds to blossom.” I almost saw the flower of the flame descending. Then—she came toying.
He is mine, mine, by the laws of the ages! Mine, mine, mine—yes, body and spirit! I am glad she has gone her way to the shadow. Hate is upon me.
Oh, the bar over which my soul would see All that eludes my soul, while he remembers! You, dispel if you can my avenging passion— Clouds are before me!
William Ellery Leonard
INDIAN SUMMER
_After completing a book for one now dead._
(_O Earth-and-Autumn of the Setting Sun, She is not by, to know my task is done!_) In the brown grasses slanting with the wind, Lone as a lad whose dog’s no longer near, Lone as a mother whose only child has sinned, Lone on the loved hill.... And below me here The thistle-down in tremulous atmosphere Along red clusters of the sumach streams; The shrivelled stalks of goldenrod are sere, And crisp and white their flashing old racemes. (... forever ... forever ... forever ...) This is the lonely season of the year, This is the season of our lonely dreams.
(_O Earth-and-Autumn of the Setting Sun She is not by, to know my task is done!_) The corn-shocks westward on the stubble plain Show like an Indian village of dead days; The long smoke trails behind the crawling train, And floats atop the distant woods ablaze With orange, crimson, purple. The low haze Dims the scarped bluffs above the inland sea, Whose wide and slaty waters in cold glaze Await yon full-moon of the night-to-be. (.... far ... and far ... and far ...) These are the solemn horizons of man’s ways, These the horizons of solemn thought to me.
(_O Earth-and-Autumn of the Setting Sun, She is not by, to know my task is done!_) And this the hill she visited, as friend; And this the hill she lingered on, as bride— Down in the yellow valley is the end: They laid her ... in no evening autumn tide ... Under fresh flowers of that May morn, beside The queens and cave-women of ancient earth.