Part 19

Passing through huddled and ugly walls, By doorways where women haggard Looked from their hunger-deep eyes, Haunted with shadows of hunger-hands, Out from the huddled and ugly walls, I came sudden, at the city’s edge, On a blue burst of lake, Long lake waves breaking under the sun On a spray-flung curve of shore; And a fluttering storm of gulls, Masses of great gray wings And flying white bellies Veering and wheeling free in the open.

SKETCH

The shadows of the ships Rock on the crest In the low blue lustre Of the tardy and the soft inrolling tide.

A long brown bar at the dip of the sky Puts an arm of sand in the span of salt.

The lucid and endless wrinkles Draw in, lapse and withdraw. Wavelets crumble and white spent bubbles Wash on the floor of the beach.

Rocking on the crest In the low blue lustre Are the shadows of the ships.

LOST

Desolate and lone All night long on the lake Where fog trails and mist creeps, The whistle of a boat Calls and cries unendingly, Like some lost child In tears and trouble Hunting the harbor’s breast And the harbor’s eyes.

JAN KUBELIK

Your bow swept over a string, and a long low note quivered to the air. (A mother of Bohemia sobs over a new child, perfect, learning to suck milk.)

Your bow ran fast over all the high strings fluttering and wild. (All the girls in Bohemia are laughing on a Sunday afternoon in the hills with their lovers.)

AT A WINDOW

Give me hunger, O you gods that sit and give The world its orders. Give me hunger, pain and want, Shut me out with shame and failure From your doors of gold and fame, Give me your shabbiest, weariest hunger!

But leave me a little love, A voice to speak to me in the day end, A hand to touch me in the dark room Breaking the long loneliness.

In the dusk of day-shapes Blurring the sunset, One little wandering, western star Thrust out from the changing shores of shadow. Let me go to the window, Watch there the day-shapes of dusk, And wait and know the coming Of a little love.

THE POOR

Among the mountains I wandered and saw blue haze and red crag and was amazed; On the beach where the long push under the endless tide maneuvers, I stood silent; Under the stars on the prairie watching the Dipper slant over the horizon’s grass, I was full of thoughts. Great men, pageants of war and labor, soldiers and workers, mothers lifting their children—these all I touched, and felt the solemn thrill of them. And then one day I got a true look at the Poor, millions of the Poor, patient and toiling; more patient than crags, tides, and stars; innumerable, patient as the darkness of night—and all broken, humble ruins of nations.

THE ROAD AND THE END

I shall foot it Down the roadway in the dusk, Where shapes of hunger wander And the fugitives of pain go by.

I shall foot it In the silence of the morning, See the night slur into dawn, Hear the slow great winds arise Where tall trees flank the way And shoulder toward the sky.

The broken boulders by the road Shall not commemorate my ruin. Regret shall be the gravel under foot. I shall watch for Slim birds swift of wing That go where wind and ranks of thunder Dive the wild processionals of rain.

The dust of the travelled road Shall touch my hands and face.

KILLERS

I am singing to you Soft as a man with a dead child speaks; Hard as a man in handcuffs, Held where he can not move:

Under the sun Are sixteen million men, Chosen for shining teeth, Sharp eyes, hard legs, And a running of young warm blood in their wrists.

And a red juice runs on the green grass; And a red juice soaks the dark soil. And the sixteen million are killing ... and killing and killing.

I never forget them day or night: They beat on my head for memory of them; They pound on my heart and I cry back to them, To their homes and women, dreams and games.

I wake in the night and smell the trenches, And hear the low stir of sleepers in lines— Sixteen million sleepers and pickets in the dark: Some of them long sleepers for always, Some of them tumbling to sleep to-morrow for always, Fixed in the drag of the world’s heartbreak, Eating and drinking, toiling ... on a long job of killing.

Sixteen million men.

NOCTURNE IN A DESERTED BRICKYARD

Stuff of the moon Runs on the lapping sand Out to the longest shadows. Under the curving willows, And round the creep of the wave line, Fluxions of yellow and dusk on the waters Make a wide dreaming pansy of an old pond in the night.

HANDFULS

Blossoms of babies Blinking their stories Come soft On the dusk and the babble; Little red gamblers, Handfuls that slept in the dust.

Summers of rain, Winters of drift, Tell off the years; And they go back

Who came soft— Back to the sod, To silence and dust; Gray gamblers, Handfuls again.

UNDER THE HARVEST MOON

Under the harvest moon, When the soft silver Drips shimmering Over the garden nights, Death, the gray mocker, Comes and whispers to you As a beautiful friend Who remembers.

Under the summer roses When the flagrant crimson Lurks in the dusk Of the wild red leaves, Love, with little hands, Comes and touches you With a thousand memories, And asks you Beautiful, unanswerable questions.

CHOOSE

The single clenched fist lifted and ready, Or the open asking hand held out and waiting. Choose: For we meet by one or the other.

KIN

Brother, I am fire Surging under the ocean floor. I shall never meet you, brother— Not for years, anyhow; Maybe thousands of years, brother. Then I will warm you, Hold you close, wrap you in circles, Use you and change you— Maybe thousands of years, brother.

PLACES

Roses and gold For you today, And the flash of flying flags.

I will have Ashes, Dust in my hair, Crushes of hoofs.

Your name Fills the mouth Of rich man and poor. Women bring Armfuls of flowers And throw on you.

I go hungry Down in dreams And loneliness, Across the rain To slashed hills Where men wait and hope for me.

JOY

Let a joy keep you. Reach out your hands And take it when it runs by, As the Apache dancer Clutches his woman. I have seen them Live long and laugh loud, Sent on singing, singing, Smashed to the heart Under the ribs With a terrible love. Joy always, Joy everywhere— Let joy kill you! Keep away from the little deaths.

THE GREAT HUNT

I can not tell you now; When the wind’s drive and whirl Blow me along no longer, And the wind’s a whisper at last— Maybe I’ll tell you then— some other time.

When the rose’s flash to the sunset Reels to the wrack and the twist, And the rose is a red bygone, When the face I love is going And the gate to the end shall clang, And it’s no use to beckon or say, “So long”— Maybe I’ll tell you then— some other time.

I never knew any more beautiful than you: I have hunted you under my thoughts, I have broken down under the wind And into the roses looking for you. I shall never find any greater than you.

OUR PRAYER OF THANKS

God, For the gladness here where the sun is shining at evening on the weeds at the river, Our prayer of thanks.

God, For the laughter of children who tumble barefooted and bareheaded in the summer grass, Our prayer of thanks.

God, For the sunset and the stars, the women and their white arms that hold us, Our prayer of thanks.

God, If you are deaf and blind, if this is all lost to you, God, if the dead in their coffins amid the silver handles on the edge of town, or the reckless dead of war days thrown unknown in pits, if these dead are forever deaf and blind and lost, Our prayer of thanks.

God, The game is all your way, the secrets and the signals and the system; and so, for the break of the game and the first play and the last, Our prayer of thanks.

Clara Shanafelt

TO THEE

White foam flower, red flame flower On my tree of delight. Lean from the shadow Like singing in sorrow— Pale flower of thy smile, flame flower of thy touch, In my night.

CAPRICE

Who will be naming the wind That lifts me and leaves me; Swelleth my budding flame, Foully bereaves me? From the land whose forgotten name Man shall not find, Blowest thou, wind?

A VIVID GIRL

Her face is fair and smooth and fine, Childlike, with secret laughter lit, Drooping in pity, bright with wit, A flower, a flame—God fashioned it. Who sees her tastes the sacred wine.

INVOCATION

O glass-blower of time, Hast blown all shapes at thy fire? Canst thou no lovelier bell, No clearer bubble, clear as delight, inflate me— Worthy to hold such wine As was never yet trod from the grape, Since the stars shed their light, since the moon Troubled the night with her beauty?

PASTEL

She has a clear, wind-sheltered loveliness, Like pale streams winding far and hills withdrawn From the bright reaches of the noon. Dawn Is her lifting fancy, but her heart Is orchard boughs and dusk and quietness.

A GALLANT WOMAN

She burst fierce wine From the tough skin of pain, Like wind that wrings from rigid skies A scant and bitter gleam, Long after the autumnal dusk Has folded all the valleys in.

SCHERZO

The elder’s bridal in July, Bright as a cloud! A ripe blonde girl, Billowing to the ground in foamy petticoats, With breasts full-blown Swelling her bodice.

But later When the small black-ruddy berries Tempt the birds to strip the stems, And the leaves begin to yellow and fall off While late summer’s still in its green, Then you look lank and used up, Elder; Your big bones stick out, You’re the kind of woman Wears bleak at forty.

I’ll take my constant pleasure In a willow-tree that ripples silver All the summer. And when the winter comes in greasy rags Like a half-naked beggar, Lets out the plaited splendor Of her bright and glancing hair.

Frances Shaw

WHO LOVES THE RAIN

Who loves the rain And loves his home, And looks on life with quiet eyes, Him will I follow through the storm; And at his hearth-fire keep me warm; Nor hell nor heaven shall that soul surprise, Who loves the rain, And loves his home, And looks on life with quiet eyes.

THE HARP OF THE WIND

My house stands high— Where the harp of the wind Plays all day, Plays all night; And the city light Is far away.

Where hangs the harp that the winds play?— High in the air— Over the sea?

The long straight streets of the far-away town, Where the lines of light go sweeping down, Are the strings of its minstrelsy.

And the harp of the wind Gives to the wind A song of the city’s tears; Thin and faint, the cry of a child, Plaint of the soul unreconciled, A song of the passing years.

THE RAGPICKER

The Ragpicker sits and sorts her rags: Silk and homespun and threads of gold She plucks to pieces and marks with tags; And her eyes are ice and her fingers cold.

The Ragpicker sits in the back of my brain; Keenly she looks me through and through. One flaming shred I have hidden away— She shall not have my love for you.

COLOGNE CATHEDRAL

The little white prayers Of Elspeth Fry Float up the arches Into the sky.

A little black bird On the belfry high Pecks at them As they go by.

STAR THOUGHT

I shall see a star tonight From a distant mountain height; From a city you will see The same star that shines on me.

’Tis not of the firmament On a solar journey bent; Fixed it is through time and weather;— ’Tis a thought we hold together.

THE CHILD’S QUEST

My mother twines me roses wet with dew; Oft have I sought the garden through and through; I cannot find the tree whereon My mother’s roses grew. Seek not, O child, the tree whereon Thy mother’s roses grew.

My mother tells me tales of noble deeds; Oft have I sought her book when no one heeds; I cannot find the page, alas, From which my mother reads. Seek not, O child, to find the page From which thy mother reads.

My mother croons me songs all soft and low, Through the white night where little breezes blow; Yet never when the morning dawns, My mother’s songs I know. Seek not, O child, at dawn of day Thy mother’s songs to know.

LITTLE PAGAN RAIN SONG

In the dark and peace of my final bed, The wet grass waving above my head, At rest from love, at rest from pain, I lie and listen to the rain.

Falling, softly falling, Song of my soul that is free; Song of my soul that has not forgot The sleeping body of me.

When quiet and calm and straight I lie, High in the air my soul rides by: Shall I await thee, soul, in vain? Hark to the answer in the rain.

Falling, softly falling, Song of my soul that is free; Song of my soul that will not forget The sleeping body of me.

Constance Lindsay Skinner

SONGS OF THE COAST-DWELLERS

THE CHIEF’S PRAYER AFTER THE SALMON CATCH

O Kia-Kunæ, praise! Thou hast opened thy hand among the stars, And sprinkled the sea with food; The catch is great; thy children will live. See, on the roofs of the villages, the red meat drying; Another year thou hast encompassed us with life. Praise! Praise! Kunæ! O Father, we have waited with shut mouths, With hearts silent, and hands quiet, Waited the time of prayer; Lest with fears we should beset thee, And pray the unholy prayer of asking. We waited silently; and thou gavest life.

Oh, praise! Praise! Praise!

Open the silent mouths, the shut hearts, my tribe: Sing high the prayer of Thanksgiving, The prayer He taught in the beginning to the Kwakiutl—

The good rejoicing prayer of thanks. As the sea sings on the wet shore, when the ice thunders back, And the blue water floats again, warm, shining, living, So break thy ice-bound heart, and the cold lip’s silence— Praise Kunæ for life, as wings up-flying, as eagles to the sun. Praise! Praise! Praise!

SONG OF WHIP-PLAITING

In the dawn I gathered cedar-boughs For the plaiting of thy whip. They were wet with sweet drops; They still thought of the night.

All alone I shredded cedar-boughs, Green boughs in the pale light, Where the morning meets the sea, And the great mountain stops.

Earth was very still.

I heard no sound but the whisper of my knife, My black flint knife. It whispered among the white strands of the cedar, Whispered in parting the sweet cords for thy whip. O sweet-smelling juice of cedar— Life-ooze of love! My knife drips: Its whisper is the only sound in all the world!

Finer than young sea-lions’ hairs Are my cedar-strands: They are fine as little roots deep down. (O little roots of cedar Far, far under the bosom of Tsa-Kumts!—

They have plaited her through with love.) Now, into my love-gift Closely, strongly, I will weave them— Little strands of pain! Since I saw thee Standing with thy torch in my doorway, Their little roots are deep in me.

In the dawn I gathered cedar-boughs: Sweet, sweet was their odor, They were wet with tears— The sweetness will not leave my hands, No, not in salt sea-washings: Tears will not wash away sweetness, I shall have sweet hands for thy service.

(Ah—sometimes—thou wilt be gentle? Little roots of pain are deep, deep in me Since I saw thee standing in my doorway.)

I have quenched thy torch— I have plaited thy whip. I am thy Woman!

NO ANSWER IS GIVEN

I am Ah-woa-te, the Hunter.

I met a maiden in the shadow of the rocks; Her eyes were strange and clear, Her fair lips were shaped like the bow of dawning. I asked her name, Striking my spear in the deep earth for resting.

“I am Kantlak, a maiden, named for the Morning. On the mountain-top I heard two eagles talking— The word was Love. They cried it, beating their wings on each other Until they bled; and she fell, Yet, falling, still weakly cried it To him soaring: and died. I came to a mossy low valley of flowers. There I saw Men-iak, the white grouse, (White with chaste dreams, like the Spring Moon, fairer than flowers). Through the forest a dark bird swooped, with fierce eyes, And Men-iak flew down to it. Her white breast is red-dyed, she lies on the moss; Yet faintly cries the same strange word, Hunter, will you come to my little fire and tell me What Love is?”

I could not see the maiden’s face clearly, for the dusk, Where she sat by her small fire—only her eyes. In the little flicker I saw her feet; they were bare— Tireless, slim brown feet. I saw how fair her lips were— I drew nearer to cast my log on the fire. I said: “Maiden, I am the Hunter. When dusk ends the chase I leave the Mighty Killing. Far or near, where gleams some little fire, I grope through the forest with my heavy log; Till I find one by the fire, sitting alone without fuel. I cast my log gladly into the fire—thus, It grips, the flames mount, the warmth embraces.

“Almost I can see your face, Woman; The bow of your fair lips is hot with speeded arrows, Your strange clear eyes have darkened. Fear not—our fire will outlast the dark.”

“Hunter, what of the cold on the bleak hillside When the log burns gray, and the fire is ashes?” I replied, “I have never seen this: When the fire burns low I am asleep.” She said: “What of me, if I sleep not, and see the ashes?” I yawned: I said, “I know not; I wake in the sun and go forth.”

The bow of her lips was like the moon’s cold circle. She said, “Hunter, you have told me of Love!” “It may be so,” I answered. I wished to sleep. She said, “Already it is ashes.” I looked and saw that her face was gray, As if the wind had blown the ashes over it. I was angry; I said, “Better you had slept.” She said, “Yes—but I lie bleeding on the moss, Crying this word.” I answered, “This is so; but wherefore?” and asked, idly, “Wherefore remember him who brought to your lone little fire The log that now is ashes?” She shivered in the cold dawn; I saw that her eyes were darker than shadows. Her fair mouth was like my perfect bow, But I could fit no more arrows to it.

She said, “Hunter, see how gray are these rocks Where we have sheltered our brief night.” I looked—they were ashen. She said: “See how they come together here—and here— As the knees, the breast, the great brow, the forgotten eyes, Of a woman, Sitting, waiting, stark and still, And always gray; Though hunters camp each night between her knees, And little fires are kindled and burned out in her hollows.” It was so; the mountain was a stone woman sitting. Kantlak said: “She remembers him who turned her fire to ashes; She waits to know the meaning of her waiting— Why the love that wounded her can never be cast out.”

I asked idly, “Who will tell her?”— And laughed, for the sun was up. I reached for my arrows; I drew my strong spear from the deep earth by her feet. Kantlak looked up to the other gray face, and said, “No answer is given.” Down to the cold white endless sea-shore Slowly she went, with bent head. A young deer cast its leaping shadow on the pool. I ran upon the bright path, swaying my spear.

James Stephens

WHAT TOMAS AN BUILE SAID IN A PUB

I saw God. Do you doubt it? Do you dare to doubt it? I saw the Almighty Man. His hand Was resting on a mountain, and He looked upon the World and all about it: I saw Him plainer than you see me now, You mustn’t doubt it.