The Giant Book of Poetry (2006)

by William H. Roetzheim

  or somewhere else: I was just far from home.

  A small bird flew before me. He was careful

  to put a tree between us when he lighted,

  and say no word to tell me who he was

  who was so foolish as to think what he thought.

  He thought that I was after him for a feather—

  the white one in his tail; like one who takes

  everything said as personal to himself.

  One flight out sideways would have undeceived him.

  And then there was a pile of wood for which

  I forgot him and let his little fear

  carry him off the way I might have gone,

  without so much as wishing him good-night.

  He went behind it to make his last stand.

  It was a cord of maple, cut and split

  and piled—and measured, four by four by eight.

  And not another like it could I see.

  No runner tracks in this year’s snow looped near it.

  And it was older sure than this year’s cutting,

  or even last year’s or the year’s before.

  The wood was gray and the bark warping off it

  and the pile somewhat sunken. Clematis

  had wound strings round and round it like a bundle.

  What held it though on one side was a tree

  still growing, and on one a stake and prop,

  these latter about to fall. I thought that only

  someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks

  could so forget his handiwork on which

  he spent himself the labor of his axe,

  and leave it there far from a useful fireplace

  to warm the frozen swamp as best it could

  with the slow smokeless burning of decay.

  Amy Lowell (1874 – 1925)

  A Decade1

  When you came, you were like red wine and honey,

  and the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness.

  now you are like morning bread,

  smooth and pleasant.

  I hardly taste you at all for I know your savor,

  but I am completely nourished.

  New Heavens for Old1

  I am useless.

  What I do is nothing,

  what I think has no savor.

  There is an almanac between the windows:

  it is of the year when I was born.

  My fellows call to me to join them,

  they shout for me,

  passing the house in a great wind of vermilion banners.

  They are fresh and fulminant,

  they are indecent and strut with the thought of it,

  they laugh, and curse, and brawl,

  and cheer a holocaust of “Who comes firsts!” at the iron fronts of the

  houses at the two edges of the street.

  Young men with naked hearts

  jeering between iron house-fronts,

  young men with naked bodies beneath their clothes

  passionately conscious of them,

  ready to strip off their clothes,

  ready to strip off their customs, their usual routine,

  clamoring for the rawness of life,

  in love with appetite,

  proclaiming it as a creed,

  worshipping youth,

  worshipping themselves.

  They call for women and the women come,

  they bare the whiteness of their lusts

  to the dead gaze of the old house-fronts,

  they roar down the street like flame,

  they explode upon the dead houses like new, sharp fire.

  But I—

  I arrange three roses in a Chinese vase:

  a pink one,

  a red one,

  a yellow one.

  I fuss over their arrangement.

  Then I sit in a South window

  and sip pale wine with a touch of hemlock in it.

  And think of Winter nights,

  and field-mice crossing and re-crossing

  the spot which will be my grave.

  Patterns1

  I walk down the garden-paths,

  and all the daffodils

  are blowing, and the bright blue squills.

  I walk down the patterned garden-paths

  in my stiff, brocaded gown.

  With my powdered hair and jeweled fan,

  I too am a rare

  pattern. As I wander down

  the garden-paths.

  My dress is richly figured,

  and the train

  makes a pink and silver stain

  on the gravel, and the thrift

  of the borders.

  Just a plate of current fashion,

  tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.

  Not a softness anywhere about me,

  only whalebone and brocade.

  And I sink on a seat in the shade

  of a lime tree. For my passion

  wars against the stiff brocade.

  The daffodils and squills

  flutter in the breeze

  as they please.

  And I weep;

  for the lime-tree is in blossom

  and one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.

  And the splashing of waterdrops

  in the marble fountain

  comes down the garden-paths.

  The dripping never stops.

  Underneath my stiffened gown

  is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin,

  a basin in the midst of hedges grown

  so thick, she cannot see her lover hiding,

  but she guesses he is near,

  and the sliding of the water

  seems the stroking of a dear

  hand upon her.

  What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown!

  I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground.

  All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground.

  I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths,

  and he would stumble after,

  bewildered by my laughter.

  I should see the sun flashing from his sword-hilt

  and the buckles on his shoes.

  I would choose

  to lead him in a maze along the patterned paths,

  a bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover.

  Till he caught me in the shade,

  and the buttons of his waistcoat

  bruised my body as he clasped me,

  aching, melting, unafraid.

  With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops,

  and the plopping of the waterdrops,

  all about us in the open afternoon—

  I am very like to swoon

  with the weight of this brocade,

  for the sun sifts through the shade.

  Underneath the fallen blossom

  in my bosom,

  is a letter I have hid.

  It was brought to me this morning

  by a rider from the Duke.

  “Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell

  died in action Thursday se’nnight.”

  As I read it in the white, morning sunlight,

  the letters squirmed like snakes.

  “Any answer, Madam,” said my footman.

  “No,” I told him.

  “See that the messenger takes some refreshment.

  No, no answer.”

  And I walked into the garden,

  up and down the patterned paths,

  in my stiff, correct brocade.

  The blue and yellow flowers

  stood up proudly in the sun,

  each one.

  I stood upright too,

  held rigid to the pattern

  by the stiffness of my gown.

  Up and down I walked,

  up and down.

  In a month he would have been my husband.

  In a month, here, underneath this lime,
/>   we would have broke the pattern;

  he for me, and I for him,

  he as Colonel, I as Lady,

  on this shady seat.

  He had a whim

  that sunlight carried blessing.

  And I answered, “It shall be as you have said.”

  Now he is dead.

  In Summer and in Winter I shall walk

  up and down

  the patterned garden-paths

  in my stiff, brocaded gown.

  The squills and daffodils

  will give place to pillared roses,

  and to asters, and to snow.

  I shall go

  up and down

  in my gown.

  Gorgeously arrayed,

  boned and stayed.

  And the softness of my body

  will be guarded from embrace

  by each button, hook, and lace.

  For the man who should loose me is dead,

  fighting with the Duke in Flanders,

  in a pattern called a war.

  Christ! What are patterns for?

  Robert Service (1874 – 1958)

  Just Think!1

  Just think! some night the stars will gleam

  upon a cold, grey stone,

  and trace a name with silver beam,

  and lo! ‘twill be your own.

  This night is speeding on to greet

  your epitaphic rhyme.

  Your life is but a little beat

  within the heart of Time.

  A little gain, a little pain,

  a laugh, lest you may moan;

  a little blame, a little fame,

  a star-gleam on a stone.

  Lost1

  “Black is the sky, but the land is white—

  (O the wind, the snow and the storm!)—

  Father, where is our boy to-night?

  Pray to God he is safe and warm.”

  “Mother, mother, why should you fear?

  Safe is he, and the Arctic moon

  over his cabin shines so clear—

  rest and sleep, ‘twill be morning soon.”

  “It’s getting dark awful sudden.

  Say, this is mighty queer!

  Where in the world have I got to?

  It’s still and black as a tomb.

  I reckoned the camp was yonder, I

  figured the trail was here—

  nothing! Just draw and valley

  packed with Quiet and gloom:

  snow that comes down like feather,

  thick and gobby and gray;

  night that looks spiteful ugly—

  seems that I’ve lost my way.

  The cold’s got an edge like a jackknife—

  it must be forty below;

  leastways that’s what it seems like—

  it cuts so fierce to the bone.

  The wind’s getting real ferocious;

  it’s heaving and whirling the snow;

  it shrieks with a howl of fury,

  it dies away to a moan;

  it’s arms sweep round like a banshee’s,

  swift and icily white,

  and buffet and blind and beat me.

  Lord! it’s a hell of a night.

  I’m all tangled up in a blizzard.

  There’s only one thing to do—

  keep on moving and moving;

  it’s death, it’s death if I rest

  oh, God! if I see the morning,

  if only I struggle through,

  I’ll say the prayers I’ve forgotten

  since I lay on my mother’s breast.

  I seem going round in a circle;

  maybe the camp is near.

  Say! did somebody holler?

  Was it a light I saw?

  Or was it only a notion?

  I’ll shout, and maybe they’ll hear—

  no! the wind only drowns me—

  shout till my throat is raw.

  The boys are all round the camp-fire wondering

  when I’ll be back.

  They’ll soon be starting to seek me;

  they’ll scarcely wait for the light.

  What will they find, I wonder,

  when they come to the end of my track—

  a hand stuck out of a snowdrift,

  frozen and stiff and white.

  That’s what they’ll strike, I reckon;

  that’s how they’ll find their pard,

  a pie-faced corpse in a snowbank—

  curse you, don’t be a fool!

  Play the game to the finish;

  bet on your very last card;

  nerve yourself for the struggle.

  Oh, you coward, keep cool!

  I’m going to lick this blizzard;

  I’m going to live the night.

  It can’t down me with its bluster—

  I’m not the kind to be beat.

  On hands and knees will I buck it;

  with every breath will I fight;

  it’s life, it’s life that I fight for—

  never it seemed so sweet.

  I know that my face is frozen;

  my hands are numblike and dead;

  but oh, my feet keep a-moving,

  heavy and hard and slow;

  they’re trying to kill me, kill me,

  the night that’s black over-head,

  the wind that cuts like a razor,

  the whipcord lash of the snow.

  Keep a-moving, a-moving;

  don’t, don’t stumble, you fool!

  Curse this snow that’s a-piling

  a-purpose to block my way.

  It’s heavy as gold in the rocker,

  it’s white and fleecy as wool;

  it’s soft as a bed of feathers,

  it’s warm as a stack of hay.

  Curse on my feet that slip so,

  my poor tired, stumbling feet—

  I guess they’re a job for the surgeon,

  they feel so queerlike to lift—

  I’ll rest them just for a moment—

  oh, but to rest is sweet!

  The awful wind cannot get me,

  deep, deep down in the drift.”

  “Father, a bitter cry I heard,

  out of the night so dark and wild.

  Why is my heart so strangely stirred?

  ‘Twas like the voice of our erring child.”

  “Mother, mother, you only heard

  a waterfowl in the locked lagoon—

  out of the night a wounded bird—

  rest and sleep, ’twill be morning soon.”

  Who is it talks of sleeping?

  I’ll swear that somebody shook

  me hard by the arm for a moment,

  but how on earth could it be?

  See how my feet are moving—

  awfully funny they look—

  moving as if they belonged to

  someone that wasn’t me.

  The wind down the night’s long alley

  bowls me down like a pin;

  I stagger and fall and stagger,

  crawl arm-deep in the snow,

  beaten back to my corner,

  how can I hope to win?

  And there is the blizzard waiting

  to give me the knockout blow.

  Oh, I’m so warm and sleepy!

  No more hunger and pain.

  Just to rest for a moment;

  was ever rest such a joy?

  Ha! what was that? I’ll swear it,

  somebody shook me again;

  somebody seemed to whisper:

  “Fight to the last, my boy.”

  Fight! That’s right, I must struggle.

  I know that to rest means death;

  death, but then what does death mean?—

  ease from a world of strife.

  Life has been none too pleasant;

  yet with my failing breath

  still and still must I struggle,

  fight for the gift of life.

  …

&nbs
p; Seems that I must be dreaming!

  Here is the old home trail;

  yonder a light is gleaming;

  oh, I know it so well!

  The air is scented with clover;

  the cattle wait by the rail;

  father is through with the milking;

  there goes the supper-bell.

  …

  Mother, your boy is crying,

  out in the night and cold;

  let me in and forgive me,

  I’ll never be bad any more:

  I’m, oh, so sick and so sorry:

  please, dear mother, don’t scold—

  it’s just your boy, and he wants you. …

  mother, open the door… .

  “Father, father, I saw a face

  pressed just now to the window-pane!

  Oh, it gazed for a moment’s space,

  wild and wan, and was gone again!”

  “Mother, mother, you saw the snow

  drifted down from the maple tree

  (oh, the wind that is sobbing so!

  Weary and worn and old are we)

  —only the snow and a wounded loon—

  rest and sleep, ’twill be morning soon.”

  My Madonna1

  I haled me a woman from the street,

  shameless, but, oh, so fair!

  I bade her sit in the model’s seat

  and I painted her sitting there.

  I hid all trace of her heart unclean;

  I painted a babe at her breast;

  I painted her as she might have been

  if the Worst had been the Best.

  She laughed at my picture and went away.

  Then came, with a knowing nod,

  a connoisseur, and I heard him say;

  “’Tis Mary, the Mother of God.”

  So I painted a halo round her hair,

  and I sold her and took my fee,

  and she hangs in the church of Saint Hillaire,

  where you and all may see.

  On the Wire2

  O God, take the sun from the sky!

  It’s burning me, scorching me up.

  God, can’t You hear my cry?

  Water! A poor, little cup!

  It’s laughing, the cursed sun!

  See how it swells and swells

  fierce as a hundred hells!

  God, will it never have done?

  It’s searing the flesh on my bones;

  it’s beating with hammers red

  my eyeballs into my head;

  it’s parching my very moans.

  See! It’s the size of the sky,

  and the sky is a torrent of fire,

  foaming on me as I lie

  here on the wire … the wire … .

  Of the thousands that wheeze and hum

  heedlessly over my head,

  why can’t a bullet come,

  pierce to my brain instead,

  blacken forever my brain,