Collected Poems
Page 15
I fear, can be this garment that I may not doff;
Confession does not strip it off,
To send me homeward eased and bare;
All through the formal, unoffending evening, under the clean
Bright hair,
Lining the subtle gown . . . it is not seen,
But it is there.
“Fontaine, Je Ne Boirai Pas De Ton Eau!”
I know I might have lived in such a way
As to have suffered only pain:
Loving not man nor dog;
Not money, even; feeling
Toothache perhaps, but never more than an hour away
From skill and novocaine;
Making no contacts, dealing with life through agents, drinking one cocktail, betting two dollars, wearing raincoats in the rain;
Betrayed at length by no one but the fog
Whispering to the wing of the plane.
“Fountain,” I have cried to that unbubbling well, “I will not drink of thy water!” Yet I thirst
For a mouthfu l of—not to swallow, only to rinse my mouth in —peace. And while the eyes of the past condemn,
The eyes of the present narrow into assignation. And . . . worst . . .
The young are so old, they are born with their fingers crossed; I shall get no help from them.
Intention to Escape from Him
I think I will learn some beautiful language, useless for commercial
Purposes, work hard at that.
I think I will learn the Latin name of every songbird, not only in America but wherever they sing.
(Shun meditation, though; invite the controversial:
Is the world flat? Do bats eat cats?) By digging hard I might deflect that river, my mind, that uncontrollable thing,
Turgid and yellow, strong to overflow its banks in spring, carrying away bridges;
A bed of pebbles now, through which there trickles one clear narrow stream, following a course henceforth nefast—
Dig, dig; and if I come to ledges, blast.
To a Young Poet
Time cannot break the bird’s wing from the bird.
Bird and wing together
Go down, one feather.
No thing that ever flew,
Not the lark, not you,
Can die as others do.
Modern Declaration
I, having loved ever since I was a child a few things, never having wavered
In these affections; never through shyness in the houses of the rich or in the presence of clergymen having denied these loves;
Never when worked upon by cynics like chiropractors having grunted or clicked a vertebra to the discredit of these loves;
Never when anxious to land a job having diminished them by a conniving smile; or when befuddled by drink
Jeered at them through heartache or lazily fondled the fingers of their alert enemies; declare
That I shall love you always.
No matter what party is in power;
No matter what temporarily expedient combination of allied interests wins the war;
Shall love you always.
The Road to the Past
It is this that you get for being so far-sighted. Not so many years
For the myopic, as for me,
The delightful shape, implored and hard of heart, proceeding
Into the past unheeding,
(No wave of the hand, no backward look to see
If I still stand there) clear and precise along that road appears.
The trees that edge that road run parallel
For eyes like mine past many towns, past hell seen plainly;
All that has happened shades that street;
Children all day, even the awkward, the ungainly
Of mind, work out on paper problems more abstruse;
Demonstrably these eyes will close
Before those hedges meet.
The True Encounter
“Wolf!” cried my cunning heart
At every sheep it spied,
And roused the countryside.
“Wolf! Wolf!”—an d up would start
Good neighbours, bringing spade
And pitchfork to my aid.
At length my cry was known:
Therein lay my release.
I met the wolf alone
And was devoured in peace.
Theme and Variations
I
Not even my pride will suffer much;
Not even my pride at all, maybe,
If this ill-timed, intemperate clutch
Be loosed by you and not by me,
Will suffer; I have been so true
A vestal to that only pride
Wet wood cannot extinguish, nor
Sand, nor its embers scattered, for,
See all these years, it has not died.
And if indeed, as I dare think,
You cannot push this patient flame,
By any breath your lungs could store,
Even for a moment to the floor
To crawl there, even for a moment crawl,
What can you mix for me to drink
That shall deflect me? What you do
Is either malice, crude defense
Of ego, or indifference:
I know these things as well as you;
You do not dazzle me at all.
Some love, and some simplicity,
Might well have been the death of me.
II
Heart, do not bruise the breast
That sheltered you so long;
Beat quietly, strange guest.
Or have I done you wrong
To feed you life so fast?
Why, no; digest this food
And thrive. You could outlast
Discomfort if you would.
You do not know for whom
These tears drip through my hands.
You thud in the bright room
Darkly. This pain demands
No action on your part,
Who never saw that face.
These eyes, that let him in,
(Not you, my guiltless heart)
These eyes, let them erase
His image, blot him out
With weeping, and go blind.
Heart, do not stain my skin
With bruises; go about
Your simple function. Mind,
Sleep now; do not intrude;
And do not spy; be kind.
Sweet blindness, now begin.
III
Rolled in the trough of thick desire,
No oars, and no sea-anchor out
To bring my bow into the pyre
Of sunset, suddenly chilling out
To shadow over sky and sea,
And the boat helpless in the trough;
No oil to pour; no power in me
To breast these waves, to shake them off:
I feel such pity for the poor,
Who take the fracas on the beam—
Being ill-equipped, being insecure—
Daily; and caulk the opening seam
With strips of shirt and scribbled rhyme;
Who bail disaster from the boat
With a pint can; and have no time,
Being so engrossed to keep afloat,
Even for quarrelling (that chagrined
And lavish comfort of the heart),
Who never came into the wind,
Who took life beam-on from the start.
IV
And do you think that love itself,
Living in such an ugly house,
Can prosper long?
We meet and part;
Our talk is all of heres and nows,
Our conduct likewise; in no act
Is any future, any past;
Under our sly, unspoken pact,
I know with whom I saw you last,
But I say nothing; and you know
At six-fifteen to whom I go.
Can even love be treat
ed so?
I know, but I do not insist,
Having stealth and tact, though not enough,
What hour your eye is on your wrist.
No wild appeal, no mild rebuff
Deflates the hour, leaves the wine flat.
Yet if you drop the picked-up book
To intercept my clockward look—
Tell me, can love go on like that?
Even the bored, insulted heart,
That signed so long and tight a lease,
Can break its contract, slump in peace.
V
I had not thought so tame a thing
Could deal me this bold suffering.
I have loved badly, loved the great
Too soon, withdrawn my words too late;
And eaten in an echoing hall
Alone and from a chipped plate
The words that I withdrew too late.
Yet even so, when I recall
How ardently, ah! and to whom
Such praise was given, I am not sad:
The very rafters of this room
Are honoured by the guests it had.
You only, being unworthy quite
And specious,—never, as I think,
Having noticed how the gentry drink
Their poison, how administer
Silence to those they would inter—
Have brought me to dementia’s brink.
Not that this blow be dealt to me:
But by thick hands, and clumsily.
VI
Leap now into this quiet grave.
How cool it is. Can you endure
Packed men and their hot rivalries—
The plodding rich, the shiftless poor,
The bold inept, the weak secure
Having smelt this grave, how cool it is?
Why, here’s a house, why, here’s a bed
For every lust that drops its head
In sleep, for vengeance gone to seed,
For the slashed vein that will not bleed,
The jibe unheard, the whip unfelt,
The mind confused, the smooth pelt
Of the breast, compassionate and brave.
Pour them into this quiet grave.
VII
Now from a stout and more imperious day
Let dead impatience arm me for the act.
We bear too much. Let the proud past gainsay
This tolerance. Now, upon the sleepy pact
That bound us two as lovers, now in the night
And ebb of love, let me with stealth proceed,
Catch the vow nodding, harden, feel no fright,
Bring forth the weapon sleekly, do the deed.
I know—and having seen, shall not deny—
This flag inverted keeps its colour still;
This moon in wane and scooped against the sky
Blazes in stern reproach. Stare back, my Will—
We can out-gaze it; can do better yet:
We can expunge it. I will not watch it set.
VIII
The time of year ennobles you.
The death of autumn draws you in.
The death of those delights I drew
From such a cramped and troubled source
Ennobles all, including you,
Involves you as a matter of course.
You are not, you have never been
(Nor did I ever hold you such),
Between your banks, that all but touch,
Fit subject for heroic song. . . .
The busy stream not over-strong,
The flood that any leaf could dam. . . .
Yet more than half of all I am
Lies drowned in shallow water here:
And you assume the time of year.
I do not say this love will last:
Yet Time’s perverse, eccentric power
Has bound the hound and stag so fast
That strange companions mount the tower
Where Lockhart’s fate with Keats is cast,
And Booth with Lincoln shares the hour.
That which has quelled me, lives with me,
Accomplice in catastrophe.
To Elinor Wylie
(Died 1928)
I Song for a Lute (1927)
Seeing how I love you utterly,
And your disdain is my despair,
Alter this dulcet eye, forbear
To wear those looks that latterly
You wore, and won me wholly, wear
A brow more dark, and bitterly
Berate my dulness and my care,
Seeing how your smile is my despair,
Seeing how I love you utterly.
Seeing how I love you utterly,
And your distress is my despair,
Alter this brimming eye, nor wear
The trembling lip that latterly
Under a more auspicious air
You wore, and thrust me through, forbear
To drop your head so bitterly
Into your hands, seeing how I dare
No tender touch upon your hair,
Knowing as I do how fitterly
You do reproach me than forbear,
Seeing how your tears are my despair,
Seeing how I love you utterly.
II (1928)
For you there is no song . . .
Only the shaking
Of the voice that meant to sing; the sound of the strong
Voice breaking.
Strange in my hand appears
The pen, and yours broken.
There are ink and tears on the page; only the tears
Have spoken.
III Sonnet in Answer to a Question (1938)
Oh, she was beautiful in every part!—
The auburn hair that bound the subtle brain;
The lovely mouth cut clear by wit and pain,
Uttering oaths and nonsense, uttering art
In casual speech and curving at the smart
On startled ears of excellence too plain
For early morning!—Obit. Death from strain;
The soaring mind outstripped the tethered heart.
Yet here was one who had no need to die
To be remembered. Every word she said
The lively malice of the hazel eye
Scanning the thumb-nail close—oh, dazzling dead,
How like a comet through the darkening sky
You raced! . . . would your return were heralded.
IV
Nobody now throughout the pleasant day,
The flowers well tended and the friends not few,
Teases my mind as only you could do
To mortal combat erudite and gay . . .
“So Mr . S. was kind to Mr . K.!
Whilst Mr . K.—wait, I’ve a word or two! ”
(I think that Keats and Shelley died with you—
They live on paper now, another way.)
You left in time, too soon; to leave too soon
Was tragic and in order—had the great
Not taught us how to die?—My simple blood,
Loving you early, lives to mourn you late . . .
As Mr . K., it may be, would have done;
As Mr . S. (oh, answer I) never would.
V
Gone over to the enemy now and marshalled against me
Is my best friend.
What hope have I to hold with my narrow back
This town, whence all surrender?
Someone within these walls has been in love with Death
longer than I care to say;
It was not you! . . . but he gets in that way.
Gone under cover of darkness, leaving a running track,
And the mark of a dusty paw on all our splendour,
Are they that smote the table with the loudest blow,
Saying, “I will not have it so!”
No, no.
This is the end.
What hope have I?
You, too, led ca
ptive and without a cry!
VI Over the Hollow Land
Over the hollow land the nightingale
Sang out in the full moonlight.
“Immortal bird,”
We said, who heard;
“What rapture, what serene despair”;
And paused between a question and reply
To hear his varied song across the tulip-scented air.
But I thought of the small brown bird among the rhododendrons at the garden’s end,
Crouching, close to the bough,
Pale cheek wherefrom the black magnificent eye obliquely stared,
The great song boiling in the narrow throat
And the beak near splitting,
A small bird hunched and frail,
Whom the divine uncompromising note that brought the world to its window
Shook from head to tail.
Close to the branch, I thought, he cowers now,
Lest his own passion shake him from the bough.
Thinking of him, I thought of you . . .
Shaken from the bough, and the pure song half-way through.
Inert Perfection
“Inert Perfection, let me chip your shell.
You cannot break it through with that soft beak.
What if you broke it never, and it befell
You should not issue thence, should never speak?”
Perfection in the egg, a fluid thing,
Grows solid in due course, and there exists;
Knowing no urge to struggle forth and sing;
Complete, though shell-bound. But the mind insists
It shall be hatched . . . to this ulterior end:
That it be bound by Function, that it be
Less than Perfection, having to expend
Some force on a nostalgia to be free.
Say that We Saw Spain Die
Say that we saw Spain die. O splendid bull, how well you fought!
Lost from the first.
. . . the tossed, the replaced, the
watchful torero with gesture elegant and spry,
Before the dark, the tiring but the unglazed eye deploying the bright cape,
Which hid for once not air, but the enemy indeed, the authentic shape,
A thousand of him, interminably into the ring released . . . the turning beast at length between converging colours caught.