The job is big enough and grand enough, but small At that; I used to work my claim and dream
Of this, or in the mines, a thousand feet Below, I’d curse the heat and change my steel, Thinking of this, and how some day I’d shape A figure here the sun would strike each dawn How passing men would mark this splendid thing, And moving on, might dream great dreams themselves.” He paused, and turned to face the old man.
“But now, my Irish friend, there’s more to say. You boys had better go-I’m running short, And there’s an even chance you’ll not he paid If you stay on. I’ve liked you all, and wish There were some other way, but after all It’s up to me, I’ll finish here alone.”
The days crept by like cogs upon a wheel Leaving their mark upon that brooding face, Where single-jack and chisel shaped each line, Lifting the features from the stone as though Only the form were being chipped away,
And behind that rocky mask the face had lived Waiting in silence for the artist’s hand.
McLain, an engineer from Frisco, stopped
His car and climbed the trail to watch the work,
Almost completed now. He saw the man Descend the cliff, then turned his eyes to note The skill with which the art had shaped the stone, Suggesting lines like wraiths beneath the rock
As though the spirit of the mountain stirred, Awakening at last to life and strength.
“Morgan! I might have known you were the one.
But even you … why, Man, I’ve never seen such work! Does it have a name? Is it Hercules or Thor?”
He looked again upon that sombre face, Bathed now in sunset rays, aloft, alone; There was grandeur there, and solitude and strength, And some nobility not quite beyond
The grasp of men, some beauty there, and calm. But nothing there of gods, but only Men And sympathy no god could understand.
“No thunder-hurling god could have a face Like that,” Morgan replied. “He’s just a man,
I would not have him more. A man and a dream, For all the things that man has built are dreams; A man conceives, a man creates, he builds And then destroys that he may build again. I think that it would be a splendid thing If men were big enough, like that-” he waved A hand up toward the face; compassionate, All-seeing strength revealed in every line.
“They could forget their little jealousies, Their petty hates and greeds, the futile lines They draw of race and creed-they could be free. For Man is less than nothing in himself
His works reveal him best; there’s grandeur there, And beauty, power, and the glory of his dreams. In a thousand lands a thousand altars lift Their incense to the sky-to the gods, perhaps? More likely to Man’s better self, his dreams, Ideals and hopes. But I’ve a job to do, And that’s enough.”
Low-flying dusk caressed The hills, the fingered pinnacles grew tall, And in the canyons, narrow-mouthed, the dark Flowered against the walls, and gaunt white fangs Of cacti gnawed the sky. High overhead
The stone man faced the night, a resting hand Upon a granite knob. A motor whined Across the valley floor, a distant sound Returning McLain to work and tomorrow. And Morgan waited the sound away, then took The downward path to the ‘dobe beside the walls. He hesitated, staring down the road
Toward Coyote Pass and the people and cities beyond. “I wonder if they’ll ever come this way?
And mass along these desert floors, to build
his red rock? Or will they pass And leave the desert here alone with me?
I may be here. That rocky shape contains Too much of me to leave, too much of cold And hunger’s written there in that still face,
Too much of loneliness and suffering, too.
I wanted a job that was big enough for a man Being mid-wife to a mountain’s big enough.
I’ve hammered there, and carved until I know Each curve and crack, each notch upon the stone. The biography of man is written there
In every line of that great granite face, The biography of man, and all his dreams.
Someday I’ll shake the dust from off my shoes An
d leave it all behind, the whole damned thing.”
A wind from down the ranges touched the sand And whispered there among the cactus spines, His memory stirred, and he recalled the road, But shrugged and turned away to take the path. In the still night desert air a coyote called,
And a burro bell in the moonlight sounded clear. Dark silence filled the hollow of the hills Somewhere a pebble rattled down the rocks And the stone man stared into the years before Where centuries gathered their dust and confusion.
*
AN EMBER IN THE DARK
Faintly, along the shadowed shores of night I saw a wilderness of stars that flamed And fluttered as they climbed or sank, and shamed The crouching dark with shyly twinkling light;
I saw them there, odd fragments quaintly bright, And wondered at their presence there unclaimed,
Then thought, perhaps, that they were dreams unnamed, That faded slow, like hope’s arrested flight.
Or vanished suddenly, like futile fears
And some were old and worn like precious things That youth preserves against encroaching Years Some disappeared like songs that no man sings, But one remained-an ember in the dark! crouched alone, and blew upon the spark.
*
NOCTURNE
The stars unveil As clouds regale Themselves with flight, The moon, a moth Whom loves betroth To summer night.
The trees a fringe That darkly cringe
Along the sky; And I, alone, Regret I’ve known
That love can die.
The hours sound deep, I cannot sleep
For love is gone; No stars remain To mourn my pain
Or greet the dawn.
*
WINGS OVER WAVES
They lightly tread on dancing feet With elfin steps to lilting heat Upon the level sand;
Where wind and wave contrive to meet They race along, then stop, and go To dodge the sea’s returning flow They sail a b out on wings of snow A b ove the silent strand.
Then stepping quickly, lightly trace Queer hieroglyphs upon the face Of dampened sand with fairy grace Before the changing sea;
Their fingered feet in signs grotesque Step out their weaving arahesque Or pose in manner picturesque With somb re gravity.
They balance through a queer quadrille And weave strange patterns with their skill Or call in voices loud and shrill Above the ocean’s roar; They light on rocks to primp and preen And flirt in manner quite serene Or float above the ocean’s green Along the lonely shore.
*
A HANDFUL OF STARS
Give me, 0 Night, a blessing
Of peace, and a handful of stars Give me, 0 Dawn, a beginning, New life, and a healing of scars;
Give me, 0 Day, a freshening
Of spirit, and warmth in the sun Give me, 0 Earth, of thy bounty, Strength for the task I’ve begun.
Leave me, 0 Night, of your stillness A calm for my inward soul Leave me a breath of your darkness To cool me, and keep me whole; Leave me the wind in the willows
The roll of the surf and the sea Leave me, Beloved, my memories Of dreams you have given to me.
*
WINTER
Bare trees standing stark Against the sky, lifting Thin, imploring arms To the cold gray clouds.
*
SECRET PASS
Those hills remember me, for I alone Sought out their solitudes and silent ways; The harsh, forbidding cliffs and canyon maze
Recall each step I took, each path I’ve known; No trees are there, but barren butte and cone,
And empty aisles where long, lost shadows grazeOr wind-worn monuments that marked my days With all the voiceless eloquence of stone.
If only I possessed their fortitude,
Their sombre freedom from this searing pain! If only I could lose in solitude, These hollow, useless hopes that still remain! If only I could find my heart subdued, And cease its sounding on that old refrain!
*
BANKED FIRES
<
br /> I shall remember when my days are few The twilight on a narrow, winding road; The slender silver moon that days corrode;
The star that lent its loveliness to you. The arching of a dream across the years I shall remember with the slow-winged night The shadow of your hair against the light Of locust trees abloom with frosted tears.
I shall remember when my fires are low,
The way you looked at me; the words you used; The fragrance of your hurried breath, till lo, Through all the pain of love our spirits fused.
I shall remember when my fires cease
Your heart against my own-for that was peace.
*
NORTH CAPE
A hollow hand of hills that clutches dawn Close in their impotent grasp, as fading slow, The shadows slip away before the day
And leave the sun behind; its filtered glow
Can leave no warmth on slopes so sparsely clad, But sickly lies among the brown blades there, Helpless against this cold
, impassive earth; Even the stones are numb and stu bborn here Even the dust lies flat against the road Even the streams to immobility
Are chilled, to frozen pathways here, no joy Of water whispering to the stones, but stark And sullen silence down these empty hills. Even the wings of death avoid this place, Avoid these barren fields, for Death itself Must nestle to the warmth of life and youth, And nothing dies where nothing lives. These men Wither away and fall, but do not die;
They age, but not with years, they die but not With death, but with the chill of things out-worn. No youth is here, for these are born to age; Even the summer sun is haunted here
With chilled and doubting glow, then fades away.
And what to these can mean the Renaissance, The fire that flamed in Florence and gave birth
*
To Angelo, Leonardo, and their dreams?
These fires are frozen here, and numb with coldThe unresponding hills-gray seas, gray earth, Gray clouded skies-no warmth of blues or greens. Even the passions here are cold and dull;
That Athens was, that Plato dreamed, that Poe Had haunted nights with hunger from his heart, Or Byron sang of love-what mean these things To these? This is the land of Thor, but not
Of Aphrodite-no Pan could be conceived Upon these sleeping slopes or in these thoughts.
For there is only strength and hard hands formed To fierceness and to fury here .
. . and cold.
*
TO YOU, JEANNINE
The winds an owl Who likes to prowl
The night serene, A drifting ghost Who blows to boast Around you, Jeannine.
The star-lit fleece Of clouds at peace
With night between, Recalls a thought
Of dreams I wrought For you, Jeannine.
The curtained light Forbids the light
To intervene,
The moon has heard My whispered word To you, Jeannine.
*
DECADENCE
I sit alone and watch the stars die out
Before the creeping dawn comes up the sky,
Like some old priest whose faith has turned to doubt When gods no longer heed his wailing cry.
The dark trees etch themselves against the dawn, Like memories of old that bring regret,
Or little formless fears the night has drawn Against the sky in sharp-lined silhouette.
The moon is fading now, the skies grow grayThe turning tide of life is at its ebb, And mists along the valley float away Like silvery dew upon a spider’s web.
This world is dying now; there is no more
A dawn will come more hopeless than the night, Our rhymes are run, our hopes no longer soar,
We bow beneath a barren beauty’s blight.
The ashes of our altar fires are cold,
And prophets wail the times they cannot mendFacing the future with hearts grown old We only know … a world can end.
*
LOVE OUT OF SEASON
The spring is gone, but left behind with me Untempered fever raging in my veins, Unkind remembrance of the April rains,
And something of its own glad gaiety; To be in love in spring is best, you see, When warming earth’s alive with growing pains, And cherry petals fill the tangled skeins
The spider spins between the fence and tree.
But summer’s come, and that infernal spring Has left this love behind-the season’s wrong,
And I should think of keeping cool, and bring Tranquillity, and less impassioned song
To share my bed, and yet the whole night through I lie awake and swear-and think of you.
*
AFTER TOMORROW
No more but this-no more but echoes down The lonely hills, and breathless hush-did Man Perhaps, in movement pass this way, and plan Some transitory edifice or town?
And did some brain-created glory crown This hill, imposing while the moments ran A stately emptiness that failed to span
The years that saw his passing, saint and clown?
Where now the bubble-dreams that stabbed the sky, The cloud-encroaching spires of steel and glass? Where now the thunder-throated guns of death Who breathed their anguish with a whinning cry?
The scars are healed, the ghostly streets are grassMan and his wonders vanished, like a breath.
*
YACODHAPURA
I stood within the high-arched temple doors Within a columned hall at close of day, Where once the solemn crowds had come to pray And kneel in silence on the dusty floors; I wandered down the roofless corridors
Where Time’s relentless hand had carved its way Along the wind-worn walls of stolid gray
Where nature wages endless wearing wars.
Above, beyond, the slowly setting sun Painted the towering columns one by one, And lit the halls with mute tranquillity;
Some sculptured dreams in dull, time-tarnished stone Looming long years, forgotten and aloneA shadowed symbol of futility.
*
STEPPE
Beneath a barren sky the crusted snow Lies cold and lifeless like a frozen sea; The lonely, prowling wind moans eerily
And loiters, sighing, like the voice of woe; A land, unborn and still where weary blow The icy winds in cold hostility,
While earth and sky in gray monotony With cheerless consonance, together flow.
What bleak and impotent old world is this?
No whistling blast, but dull, and numb, and still Unending miles where frigid plains deny
The throbbing urge of life, the warming kiss Of fire, and naught but fitful puffs of chill And piercing winds beneath a rheumy sky.
*
TO GIORDANO BRUNO
(Martyr of science, 1548-1600)
You were the best of them, Bruno, the best By more than the flames that fired your flesh to dust The best by more than the truth you framed your lips
To speak. The One was All, the All was One, And the only law the ever changing form.
What did you think as the lambent light crept up Licking your limbs with tongue that seared
and charred?
Did you think then, Bruno, that the flame was Change Returning the One to All, the flesh to dust?
Your seven years were long, yet longer still The moments when the candent light crept up Enfolding your flesh with fervent
flames to char The hope there must have been, to stifle truth With caustic brand, to still th
e voice that spoke. Did you remember then, Bruno, that wi ll
Was ever free? The fathers lit the fire, And hung like ghouls along its outer edge, But were the flames less bright because
they blackened
The lips of truth? I wonder if the blaze That sheathed your form with lustful heat turned white
*
Around that mighty heart? Around that brain?
The one who muttered that “The earth still moves,” He was a wiser, if not a better man;
For aging hearts are brittle on the pyre.
You spoke too often, Friend; had you forgot Th
e insignificant ever dislike To he reminded of insignificance?
You were the best of them, Bruno, the best
By more than the flames that wrought the Change In the monads of your soul. As the flames Engulfed in fiery foam your anguished lips,
Did you dying, wonder at those foolish ones Who sought to stifle truth with violence?
*
THE WEARY ONE
I wandered along the dusty way seeking the dawn of another day, like a drifting chip on a lonely stream, like a breath of wind or a vagrant dream a forgotten soul on a weary quest
searching for home and love and rest.
I wandered along the dusty way
and found my idols with feet of clay,
my letters were ashes, my castles dust the sword I wielded eaten by rust, my dreams were shattered-a heavy load is all that is left on a winding road.
*
HILDEBRAND
He walked away at dusk, and it was long Before we met again; in Singapore One night on Malay Street (a corridor
Of darkness cleft with light) I heard a song Among ten thousand I could not be wrong A voice like booming seas along the shore Singing an old, old tune once sung before The mast on tea ships bound for old Hong kong.
He waved to me-a bottle and a girl I saw him not again, but once I heard A seaman tell of storms along the strand,
Of great, wet rocks where foaming combers curl, And of a seaman, blonde and tall, and stirred By fires of fury-that was Hildebrand.
*
ENCHANTED MESAS
Weary at last with way-worn wandering I paused to rest in solemn solitude, Watching the sinking sun, and pondering Upon the desert’s melancholy mood; The falling dark had left the day subdued,
And crowned the sullen hills with fading light; Huge boulders loomed, a black and battered brood, Like dark, unholy spectres in the night, And gathered clans of wind went moaning in their flight.
Along the burnt-out ridges wind-swept rocks Heaved granite backs against the evening sky,
A brutal, barren land whose silence mocks Man’s empty efforts to identify His works with these exhausted hills, that lie Like some abandoned world left desolate, Whose stark remains are all that signify
Some half-completed effort to create
From fires that fused these hills and left them devastate.
Smoke from This Altar (1990) Page 2
