Part 1
WILLOW POLLEN
WILLOW POLLEN
BY
JEANNETTE MARKS
BOSTON
THE FOUR SEAS COMPANY 1921
_Copyright, 1921, by_ THE FOUR SEAS COMPANY
The Four Seas Press Boston, Mass., U. S. A.
TO
THE MEMORY OF MY MOTHER
JEANNETTE HOLMES COLWELL MARKS
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
Many of these poems were first published in _Ainslee’s_, _Bellman_, _Century_, _Churchman_, _Contemporary Verse_, _Everybody’s_, _Freeman_, _Forum_, _Holland’s Magazine_, _McClure’s_, _Metropolitan_, _Nation_, _New Republic_, _North American Review_, _Outlook_, _Poetry_ (Chicago), _Poetry Journal_, _The Bookman_, _Smart Set_ and other magazines.
Fleur de Lys September 27, 1920.
CONTENTS
Page
PROEM 11
WILLOW POLLEN 13
YOU 14
CROSS ROADS 15
CALENDAR 16
WILD GRAPE VINE 19
TO SOME FLOWERS 21
STARS 22
GREEN GOLDEN DOOR 23
BREAD 24
OBSCURITY 26
BROWN MOTHER 30
SEA GULLS 32
DRAGON 33
THE WANDERER 34
BLIND SLEEP 35
THE BOWL 36
WHITE HAIR 39
CLEAR POOLS 40
THESE TWO 41
THE RAILROAD STATION 43
BUBBLES 44
PEDDLED JOY 45
WORK 46
SOMEWHERE TONIGHT 47
YOUR SUNLIT WAY 48
STRANGE FACES 49
EVERYWHERE 50
CLOUD 51
BUCENTAUR 52
MOTH 53
GRAY WATERS 54
JOURNEY’S END 55
WHITE PATHS 56
EBONY 57
TO SOME PHILADELPHIA SPARROWS 58
ORIOLE’S NEST 59
LITTLE MISS HILLY 60
ROSE TOADA 61
THATCH 62
SUN PATH 63
RAVELLO 64
CHESTER-ON-THE DEE 65
THE RIVER SEIONT 66
GOLD AND IVORY 67
STEPS 68
BESIDE THE WAY 69
WAIT AWHILE 70
INDIAN SUMMER 71
A THOUSAND YEARS 72
THE BROKEN DOOR 73
ONLY YOUR NAME 74
REPETENDS 75
TOO LATE 76
THE TIDE 77
DUST AND DREAMS 78
THE NEST 79
LOST LOVE 80
“WHEN SPRING” 81
TWO CANDLES 82
ROSY MILLER 84
HIS NAME 85
MIST 86
LAST DAWN 87
EVEN AS HERE 88
AGAIN? 90
WILLOW POLLEN
PROEM
_Beautiful she was to look upon_ _And beautiful to know,_ _And all who knew her loved her._ _There was none to whom she was not tender,_ _Compassionate in her word or her silence;_ _There was none of whom she did not think well._
_In a quiet room, my head upon her breast,_ _Often have I heard her heart beat,_ _Often have I listened to the voice of her heart,_ _And its speech was the speech of many sorrows._ _But of her own sorrows she spoke not;_ _She spoke only of the grief that came to her for healing;_ _And her speech was silence,_ _Murmur of wind,_ _Mute spaces of sky,--_ _These were her caresses and her healing,_ _And with silence and wind and sky she is now one,--_ _Not separate._
_She is gone._ _Remember her if you will!_ _For me she is still everywhere_ _And never to be forgotten!_ _Out of the dawn_ _The fringed lashes of blue gentians widen to her eyes;_ _Through the hot day_ _The shadow of her presence revolves upon me_ _As the cool finger on the sun dial;_ _In the afternoon_ _Shaken light burns in the memory of her hair;_ _And at evening_ _All my thoughts go fluttering, gray-winged, after her,_ _Till she gathers them in to the nest of her silence_ _And I am come back to my Mother_ _And to sleep._
WILLOW POLLEN
_Fleur de Lys on Lake Champlain, June 3, 1920_
The rain upon my roof is the rain of apple blossoms, At my feet the water willows stand knee-deep in rushes; A swaying mirror for the sun the lake swings and tips, Spilling broken drowsy shadows and silver leaves. In the willow pollen the bees hum; In the apple bloom the bees hum; Fluttering up like a begging hand The ash tree twirls its mystic seven-fold leaf, The thrush its song.
O beautiful world, what are you? And who made you? Are you no more than a fragrant dream, A jewelled crust of loam for sun to shine upon, A swaying mirror, Willow pollen, A twirling song, A crumbling leaf?
YOU
I
You are the sunshine, I am the sod: Flame to my leaf-mould, And goldenrod.
II
You are the shadow, I am the rock: Coolness of sheep bells, Stilling the flock.
III
You are the starlight, I am the stream: Trees dripping lustre Into our dream.
CROSS ROADS
I wonder if the wildrose knows I love you,-- All the festivals of spring your name has lain Now a petal on my bosom, now a leaf against my lip In the rain?
I wonder if the wood thrush knows I love you,-- Every step a song, every song a flight home to you While the path runs on through twilight and the night wheels back to day And I pray?
I wonder if the heavens know I love you,-- Dusky night-time cupped with stars, lily day immaculate Leading on unto the cross roads where you and I Say goodbye?
CALENDAR
_Of a Little Garden on Lake Champlain_
Sometimes the sun, like a big bee Choosing the flowers he will bring to bloom, Dreams over my garden, So still the dust shines on his burning wings. And sometimes he swings away towards the evening star To fill his basket claws with night. Come morning he sprinkles darkness with his gold, Rubs legs together--I saw him do it-- And there’s a purple larkspur tapering into rose And blood-red columbine,-- It’s July then. Or the big bee finds a flaming dawn, Scours it with pollen from his back And there’s a poppy’s glossy wrinkled cup,-- Then it’s June.
At times he scoops the white crest off a wave Into the basket of his claws-- I’ve seen the big bee skip upon the lake for joy-- Then zi-ig! He’s back again Spreading some lilies by the sandy path, White with gold dashed on their lips Where he clings--the big bee--sucking. I know he’s there because the bells ring so: Seven lilies, then five, then four, I count them on their stems, An octave’s length of melody, A little running song of happiness,-- It’s August then.
But now he’s quiet. Some waste of gold in autumn leaves and fields, And gold upon the lake--pale leaf of drifting waters Cut by the wild duck’s close, sharp flight--frets him. For he must store in steep sky granaries much bannered gold With which to hang a hundred winter dawns and dusks. Still, he spares a little for my garden’s need, Spreading it in marigolds and frost,-- It is September then,--October, too.
The bee, the big bee, the burning bee Begins and ends in gold. In spring, knocking the snow from rosy apple bloom, He climbs the sky with fagots on his back To scatter them in yellow willow twigs and daffodils; And when he leaves my garden for his sleep, Flings daffodils along an evening sky,-- It’s May then, and April, too.
Some say there are no sky daffodils and no big bee. Pooh! I say the sun is a bee, a big bee, a burning bee, And bears the whole world’s wealth upon his back. What if he is a ruby humming bird betimes Or a saffron butterfly Or a gray-hooded moth at dusk!
I’ve seen him when he was an emerald dragon fly About my little garden’s pool, But not for long. He has his mysteries. His winter’s cell of silver white has neither rose nor red nor gold. Who would not like the change?... I say the sun is a bee, a big bee, a burning bee, I _know_!
WILD GRAPE VINE
I will be like a wild grape vine, I will climb the sun gathering color; Until every leaf of my being is fluted with rose, Cupped in brown-gold, Dusted with silver. I will cling with my dry stem Until my stem is strong as brown cedar. Then will I swing from tree to tree, Twisting, turning, blowing, Binding all trees with my tendrils, Embracing them, leaping with them, Woven in and out of them, One!
And the wild bee shall love me, And the wild bee shall follow me With song! And I shall be mad fragrance at dusk And sweet odor at dawn. And then!--And then Among all beloved trees which can resist me! They will yield themselves to me And I shall swing over the whole world,-- Every forest of earth, Every dim place, withdrawn, silent, Every wilderness,-- Spanning the sky with a vast arch of rose, Beating upon the stars with my gold, Kissing the dawn with my silver, Resting in my brown upon earth, My roots in her, my fruit her being!
_Wind, Wind,_ _Then will the mad fragrance of my breath be your breath,--_ _The wild bee clinging!_ _Wind, Wind,_ _Then will my hard dry stem know the flight of bird,--_ _The wild bee following!_ _Wind, Wind,_ _Then will my love know the flutter of soft leaf upon me,--_ _The wild bee singing!_
TO SOME FLOWERS
_Growing Near a Wall of Portland Harbor_
What will you bring today? Nod once if it be grave, Nod thrice if it be gay!
Primrose with eyes for night, Sweet-peas with wings for flight, Poppies with cups for dew, Love in the midst of rue: Which nods to me?
No, you turn your faces all one way Against the wall, Because a wind from off the sea Draws its chill fingers down your cups And bids your petals fall.
You do not nod, You beckon neither once nor thrice To me, but to the earth There slips a cover manifold Of every hue.
And from the wall beside the sea Curl mist and myriad broken wings.
Such gift you give to me!
STARS
I
When joys were vivid I did sit Within a golden field, And there I pulled the whitest stars Green earth can yield.
II
For Bethlehem those stars were named, The Lord Christ sat with me; And I was little and I leaned Upon His knee.
III
Now I am old and joys are gone, Christ in this room I find Who brings from distant Bethlehem Stars for His blind.
GREEN GOLDEN DOOR
Green golden door, swing in, swing in! Fanning the life a man must live, Echoes and airs and minstrelsies, Love and hope that he calleth his, Fear and hurt and a man’s own sin Casting them forth and sucking them in, Green golden door, swing out, swing out!
Green golden door, swing in, swing in! Show me the youth that will not die, Tell me the dream that has not waked, Seek me the heart that never ached, Speak me the truth men will not doubt! Green golden door, swing out, swing out!
Green golden door, swing in, swing out! Long is the wailing of man’s breath, Short is the wail of death.
BREAD
I
Dear and Unknown, So you shower white porcelain with roses for me, Red roses, white roses, roses of rose, Clipping their stems, Spreading them out in the bowl Till the green leaves net the white water with silver, Glisten with light, Stir with the stir of their pattern of leaves, With the breath of their draught of cool water, With the bloom of rose petals crisp in the peace of white water, Safe in the shadow of night, Tasting the gift of new life.
II
Once beauty was bread unto me. But now I am gone, rob none for my bread. God gave me a soul no rose, red or white, ever equalled. Did God give me love? What doubling of petals has ever brought grief? What leaf? In what garden is life crushed always to dreams? Oh, now, what are roses to me, Red roses, white roses and roses of rose? Does God give the roses a soul for their flight? What petals blow on this journey I go?
III
Dear, my Unknown, Put no rose to my lips cold in this porcelain bowl of myself! Roses, red roses, white roses, roses of rose, Once bread unto me; Rain them on pulses that beat, Toss them to hands which are quick to their bloom; Give them, I beg you, to one who can see; Feed them, I pray you,-- Roses, red roses, white roses, roses of rose,-- To men who still hunger for bread!
OBSCURITY
I
Someday I shall be a leaf A shining green leaf, fan-folded, One of many opening in a sunlit wind; Or I shall be a bit of bark, Say on the Poverty Birch-- Since I am obscure and poor and short of life And my work of no account to commerce--, And I shall flutter there in the wind, My bit of sooty white rind speckled red and gold like trout skin And cross-hatched with lines of color; Or--but I do not know what I shall be And it does not matter. God has made so much that alters beautiful: The jigging shadows of trees Through which thoughts pass to that which does not change; The wind that tramps eternity; The very lava of this universe He turns to frost; Like frost He throws white fingers up out of loam And tosses into space the spinning stars.
II
I wonder whether ragged autumn leaves feel ill clad Remembering their soft dress in spring? Or whether autumn browns seem dreary to the leaves and grass? And growing older makes cedars shabby at the stem? I hear the hard, dry clatter of some dead oak leaves,-- They sound so strong for any wind. But sometimes when I am tired my dress makes me ashamed And I am awkward and ill at ease-- Clothes have a way of telling stories Even as the bark of trees will tell Which way the storm winds blow-- I remember when I was young And scarcely knew that money paid for clothes, My garments were fresh and silken like poplar leaves And there were more than I needed; And my hair was soft and thick, With gold always in it as in the larch in early spring; And my body was lithe and vigorous; When I was tired it was the quick dip of the sapling in the storm, The least clearing wind set me free again And I stood straight with all my quivering aspen leaves Shaking the sunlight into dance.
III
Now I lie awake at night, many nights, Sometimes when I am ill, Sometimes when I am well, And think about money and rents in worn clothes And feel the hunger of old women and backyard cats As if it were my own hunger; And the wind noses about for crumbs in a bit of newspaper And flaps tattered dirty shawls over me, And my thoughts are bent and old And I shiver in the dark trying to bless God. I wonder why God gives Himself to trees And lets old women starve? And backyard cats nose for crumbs in a piece of newspaper? And why certain rich people are as well varnished against cold As fat beech buds against the frost? Do you suppose God is a Merchant And sells this warm lustre from the stars-- Stars hung like bright drops of water in a big night wind-- And plans to make a profit from the rich?... I am not an anarchist Except in stars.
IV
_When the dawn comes it brings the crows._ _Caw! Caw! Caw! The crows!_ _The crow sleeps east but west he blows_ _To pick some carrion that he knows_ _Caw! Caw! Caw! It blows!_
V
I travel East to meet the sun With a gray heron battling up against the wind, Above the nests that knew the ravens in their sleep, Above the trees that toss the light, Above the rocks that blossom into rose, On towards the sun! It does not matter now how I am clothed; For my mind glitters with a thousand thoughts, Star-sown, moon-shaped, sun-colored, Amber-shining like polished foliage in a great dawn wind, And the lustre on the heron’s breast Is now God and now the Morning Star: I travel East to meet the sun!
BROWN MOTHER
Brown Mother, Earth Mother, my love does it stir, is it living? Is this seed-time in darkness? It is bleak, and the rain Drums hard on this silence, makes heavy my pain. I am blind yet the wind does search me like eyes that are old. O, my Mother, sweet Mother, through the lengthening night it is cold!
Brown Mother, Earth Mother, the swell of your bosom, the scent of your hair, They are life, they are death, two in one to your child, Like the flame of your blossom, the sweep of your wild, Or the primal red mud of life’s sowing.
Earth Mother, brown Mother, dear Mother, will the long night be run?... Touch the root to its milk, do you say? Send the sap to the bud, Feel the five-fingered leaf on my bosom, the grass on my lip? Find my bed in the wild? Bear the rose and the lily for child?...
O, my Mother, Earth Mother, reach me round with your loving, Fold me in to your heart, base me deep on your breast for this sleep!
Then, Mother, sweet Mother, with the clay and the spring I shall wake, Turn my back to the East with its frost and its manacled trees, Turn my face to the West and the blaze of my lover the Sun!
SEA GULLS
_On Leaving Eggemoggin_
Sea gulls I saw lifting the dawn with rosy feet, Bearing the sunlight on their wings, Dripping the dusk from burnished plumes; And I thought It would be joy to be a sea gull At dusk, at dawn of day, And through long sunlit hours.
Sea gulls I saw carrying the night upon their backs, Wide tail spread crescent for the moon and stars-- The moon a glowing jelly fish, The stars foam flecks of light; And I thought It would be joy to be a sea gull!
How I would dart with them, Strike storm with coral spur, Rip whirling spray of angry tides, Snatch mangled, light-shot offal of the sea,-- Torn, tossed and moving terribly; And stare for stare answer those myriad eyes That float and sway, stab, sting and die away!
How I would peer from wide cold eyes of fire At dusk, at dawn And through the long daylight Into those coiling depths of sea; Then split the sun, the moon, the stars, With laughter, laughter, laughter, For the sea’s mad power!
DRAGON
_Some saw a dragon eating up the light,_ _Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho!_ _Some heard a lost bird riding out the night,_ _Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho!_
_But I saw_: A low dark hill with its twisted back, Two wings of flame from the green cloud rack, A sprawling flank overlaid with leaf Glitter and gleam and shine like steel, Crackle and lash like a serpent’s tail!
_And I heard_: The wind draw out of the west and wail, Dance and stagger and jig and reel With the long low sound of a life in grief!
_I saw a life in grief_ _Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho!_ _Dance and stagger and jig and reel!_ _Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho!_
THE WANDERER
Hear the illimitable wind Rush from a desolate sea of space Into the valley’s folded gloom, And smite the branches gibbeted On frosty trees, and lash the woods To moans of age-old agony!
Hark! how it leaps upon the roofs Of cottages, to drop whimpering Like some old dog before the door of home; Or pipes through chink and sill, a witless thing.
It is the only houseless one, A pensioner of sea and cloud, An outcast in a universe Of night and day, of life and death, An alien, frenzied wanderer,-- Homeless, illimitable wind!
BLIND SLEEP
In dreams have come to stay Earth’s golden bonnet of the day, Her gay attire, The dove wings gray she wore at dawn, The ivory of her cradled breast, Her dusk of plumèd fire, And all her garments of delight.
Heavily I grope Step after step, Afar, About this star-illumined sod, Silver with all the slumber of the world, Jewelled with every gem of light, Splintered with frosty air,-- And know blind sleep.
THE BOWL
God said, “For you this bowl is life! Draw near and look! Therein is the bright water of dawn, Night’s silver covering of rain! Therein is dream lying like day,-- Topaz with sun upon it! Lithe out of this bowl Shall leap the larch in spring, For this is love,-- Green flame of flight to the very tip!”
I looked into the bowl, wondering: And night and dawn mingled And sleep stirred And the day turned in its dream, And flame, flickering, swept the bowl’s lip. Then I took the bowl in my two hands, Thanking God.