A Book of Poems, Al Que Quiere!

A PORTRAIT IN GREYS A PORTRAIT IN GREYS Will it never be possible to separate you from your greyness? Must you be always sinking backward into your grey-brown landscapes—and trees always in the distance, always against a grey sky? Must I be always moving counter to you? Is there no place where we can be at peace together and the motion of our drawing apart be altogether taken up? I see myself standing upon your shoulders touching a grey, broken sky— but you, weighted down with me, yet gripping my ankles,—move laboriously on, where it is level and undisturbed by colors. INVITATION You who had the sense to choose me such a mother, you who had the indifference to create me, you who went to some pains to leave hands off me in the formative stages,— (I thank you most for that perhaps) but you who with an iron head, first, fiercest and with strongest love brutalized me into strength, old dew-lap,— I have reached the stage where I am teaching myself to laugh. Come on, take a walk with me. DIVERTIMIENTO Miserable little woman in a brown coat— quit whining! My hand for you! We’ll skip down the tin cornices of Main Street flicking the dull roof-line with our toe-tips! Hop clear of the bank! A pin-wheel round the white flag-pole. And I’ll sing you the while a thing to split your sides about Johann Sebastian Bach, the father of music, who had three wives and twenty-two children. JANUARY MORNING SUITE I. I have discovered that most of the beauties of travel are due to the strange hours we keep to see them: the domes of the Church of the Paulist Fathers in Weehawken against a smoky dawn—the heart stirred— are beautiful as Saint Peters approached after years of anticipation. II. Though the operation was postponed I saw the tall probationers in their tan uniforms hurrying to breakfast! III. —and from basement entrys neatly coiffed, middle aged gentlemen with orderly moustaches and well brushed coats IV. —and the sun, dipping into the avenues streaking the tops of the irregular red houselets, and the gay shadows dropping and dropping. V. —and a young horse with a green bed-quilt on his withers shaking his head: bared teeth and nozzle high in the air! VI. —and a semicircle of dirt colored men about a fire bursting from an old ash can, VII. —and the worn, blue car rails (like the sky!) gleaming among the cobbles! VIII. —and the rickety ferry-boat “Arden”! What an object to be called “Arden” among the great piers,—on the ever new river! “Put me a Touchstone at the wheel, white gulls, and we’ll follow the ghost of the Half Moon to the North West Passage—and through! (at Albany!) for all that!” IX. Exquisite brown waves—long circlets of silver moving over you! enough with crumbling ice-crusts among you! The sky has come down to you, lighter than tiny bubbles, face to face with you! His spirit is a white gull with delicate pink feet and a snowy breast for you to hold to your lips delicately! X. The young doctor is dancing with happiness in the sparkling wind, alone at the prow of the ferry! He notices the curdy barnacles and broken ice crusts left at the slip’s base by the low tide and thinks of summer and green shell crusted ledges among the emerald eel-grass! XI. Who knows the Palisades as I do knows the river breaks east from them above the city—but they continue south —under the sky—to bear a crest of little peering houses that brighten with dawn behind the moody water-loving giants of Manhattan. XII. Long yellow rushes bending above the white snow patches; purple and gold ribbon of the distant wood: what an angle you make with each other as you lie there in contemplation. XIII. Work hard all your young days and they’ll find you too, some morning staring up under your chiffonier at its warped bass-wood bottom and your soul— out! —among the little sparrows behind the shutter. XIV. —and the flapping flags are at half mast for the dead admiral. XV. All this— was for you, old woman. I wanted to write a poem that you would understand. For what good is it to me if you can’t understand it? But you got to try hard— But— Well, you know how the young girls run giggling on Park Avenue after dark when they ought to be home in bed? Well, that’s the way it is with me somehow. TO A SOLITARY DISCIPLE Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is tilted above the point of the steeple than that its color is shell-pink. Rather observe that it is early morning than that the sky is smooth as a turquoise. Rather grasp how the dark converging lines of the steeple meet at the pinnacle— perceive how its little ornament tries to stop them— See how it fails! See how the converging lines of the hexagonal spire escape upward— receding, dividing! —sepals that guard and contain the flower! Observe how motionless the eaten moon lies in the protecting lines. It is true: in the light colors of morning brown-stone and slate shine orange and dark blue. But observe the oppressive weight of the squat edifice! Observe the jasmine lightness of the moon. DEDICATION FOR A PLOT OF GROUND This plot of ground facing the waters of this inlet is dedicated to the living presence of Emily Richardson Wellcome who was born in England; married; lost her husband and with her five year old son sailed for New York in a two-master; was driven to the Azores; ran adrift on Fire Island shoal, met her second husband in a Brooklyn boarding house, went with him to Puerto Rico bore three more children, lost her second husband, lived hard for eight years in St. Thomas, Puerto Rico, San Domingo, followed the oldest son to New York, lost her daughter, lost her “baby,” seized the two boys of the oldest son by the second marriage mothered them—they being motherless—fought for them against the other grandmother and the aunts, brought them here summer after summer, defended herself here against thieves, storms, sun, fire, against flies, against girls that came smelling about, against drought, against weeds, storm-tides, neighbors, weasles that stole her chickens, against the weakness of her own hands, against the growing strength of the boys, against wind, against the stones, against trespassers, against rents, against her own mind. She grubbed this earth with her own hands, domineered over this grass plot, blackguarded her oldest son into buying it, lived here fifteen years, attained a final loneliness and— If you can bring nothing to this place but your carcass, keep out. K. McB. You exquisite chunk of mud Kathleen—just like any other chunk of mud! —especially in April! Curl up round their shoes when they try to step on you, spoil the polish! I shall laugh till I am sick at their amazement. Do they expect the ground to be always solid? Give them the slip then; let them sit in you; soil their pants; teach them a dignity that is dignity, the dignity of mud! Lie basking in the sun then—fast asleep! Even become dust on occasion. LOVE SONG I lie here thinking of you:— the stain of love is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow it eats into the leaves, smears with saffron the horned branches that lean heavily against a smooth purple sky! There is no light only a honey-thick stain that drips from leaf to leaf and limb to limb spoiling the colors of the whole world— you far off there under the wine-red selvage of the west! THE WANDERER A Rococo Study ADVENT Even in the time when as yet I had no certain knowledge of her She sprang from the nest, a young crow, Whose first flight circled the forest. I know now how then she showed me Her mind, reaching out to the horizon, She close above the tree tops. I saw her eyes straining at the new distance And as the woods fell from her flying Likewise they fell from me as I followed— So that I strongly guessed all that I must put from me To come through ready for the high courses. But one day, crossing the ferry With the great towers of Manhattan before me, Out at the prow with the sea wind blowing, I had been wearying many questions Which she had put on to try me: How shall I be a mirror to this modernity? When lo! in a rush, dragging A blunt boat on the yielding river— Suddenly I saw her! And she waved me From the white wet in midst of her playing! She cried me, “Haia! Here I am, son! See how strong my little finger is! Can I not swim well? I can fly too!” And with that a great sea-gull Went to the left, vanishing with a wild cry— But in my mind all the persons of godhead Followed after. CLARITY “Come!” cried my mind and by her might That was upon us we flew above the river Seeking her, grey gulls among the white— In the air speaking as she had willed it: “I am given,” cried I, “now I know it! I know now all my time is forespent! For me one face is all the world! For I have seen her at last, this day, In whom age in age is united— Indifferent, out of sequence, marvelously! Saving alone that one sequence Which is the beauty of all the world, for surely Either there in the rolling smoke spheres below us Or here with us in the air intercircling, Certainly somewhere here about us I know she is revealing these things!” And as gulls we flew and with soft cries We seemed to speak, flying, “It is she The mighty, recreating the whole world, This the first day of wonders! She is attiring herself before me— Taking shape before me for worship, A red leaf that falls upon a stone! It is she of whom I told you, old Forgiveless, unreconcilable; That high wanderer of by-ways Walking imperious in beggary! At her throat is loose gold, a single chain From among many, on her bent fingers Are rings from which the stones are fallen, Her wrists wear a diminished state, her ankles Are bare! Toward the river! Is it she there?” And we swerved clamorously downward— “I will take my peace in her henceforth!” BROADWAY It was then she struck—from behind, In mid air, as with the edge of a great wing! And instantly down the mists of my eyes There came crowds walking—- men as visions With expressionless, animate faces; Empty men with shell-thin bodies Jostling close above the gutter, Hasting—nowhere! And then for the first time I really saw her, really scented the sweat Of her presence and—fell back sickened! Ominous, old, painted— With bright lips, and lewd Jew’s eyes Her might strapped in by a corset To give her age youth, perfect In her will to be young she had covered The godhead to go beside me. Silent, her voice entered at my eyes And my astonished thought followed her easily: “Well, do their eyes shine, do their clothes fit? These live I tell you! Old men with red cheeks, Young men in gay suits! See them! Dogged, quivering, impassive— Well—are these the ones you envied?” At which I answered her, “Marvelous old queen, Grant me power to catch something of this day’s Air and sun into your service! That these toilers after peace and after pleasure May turn to you, worshippers at all hours!” But she sniffed upon the words warily— Yet I persisted, watching for an answer: “To you, horrible old woman, Who know all fires out of the bodies Of all men that walk with lust at heart! To you, O mighty, crafty prowler After the youth of all cities, drunk With the sight of thy archness! All the youth That come to you, you having the knowledge Rather than to those uninitiate— To you, marvelous old queen, give me always A new marriage—” But she laughed loudly— “A new grip upon those garments that brushed me In days gone by on beach, lawn, and in forest! May I be lifted still, up and out of terror, Up from before the death living around me— Tom up continually and carried Whatever way the head of your whim is, A burr upon those streaming tatters—” But the night had fallen, she stilled me And led me away. PATERSON—THE STRIKE At the first peep of dawn she roused me! I rose trembling at the change which the night saw! For there, wretchedly brooding in a corner From which her old eyes glittered fiercely— “Go!” she said, and I hurried shivering Out into the deserted streets of Paterson. That night she came again, hovering In rags within the filmy ceiling— “Great Queen, bless me with thy tatters!” “You are blest, go on!” “Hot for savagery, Sucking the air! I went into the city, Out again, baffled onto the mountain! Back into the city! Nowhere The subtle! Everywhere the electric!” “A short bread-line before a hitherto empty tea shop: No questions—all stood patiently, Dominated by one idea: something That carried them as they are always wanting to be carried, ‘But what is it,’ I asked those nearest me, ‘This thing heretofore unobtainable That they seem so clever to have put on now!’ “Why since I have failed them can it be anything but their own brood? Can it be anything but brutality? On that at least they’re united! That at least Is their bean soup, their calm bread and a few luxuries! “But in me, more sensitive, marvelous old queen It sank deep into the blood, that I rose upon The tense air enjoying the dusty fight! Heavy drink were the low, sloping foreheads The flat skulls with the unkempt black or blond hair, The ugly legs of the young girls, pistons Too powerful for delicacy! The women’s wrists, the men’s arms, red Used to heat and cold, to toss quartered beeves And barrels, and milk-cans, and crates of fruit! “Faces all knotted up like burls on oaks, Grasping, fox-snouted, thick-lipped, Sagging breasts and protruding stomachs, Rasping voices, filthy habits with the hands. “Nowhere you! Everywhere the electric! “Ugly, venemous, gigantic! Tossing me as a great father his helpless Infant till it shriek with ecstasy And its eyes roll and its tongue hangs out!— “I am at peace again, old queen, I listen clearer now.” ABROAD Never, even in a dream, Have I winged so high nor so well As with her, she leading me by the hand, That first day on the Jersey mountains! And never shall I forget The trembling interest with which I heard Her voice in a low thunder: “You are safe here. Look child, look open-mouth! The patch of road between the steep bramble banks; The tree in the wind, the white house there, the sky! Speak to men of these, concerning me! For never while you permit them to ignore me In these shall the full of my freed voice Come grappling the ear with intent! Never while the air’s clear coolness Is seized to be a coat for pettiness; Never while richness of greenery Stands a shield for prurient minds; Never, permitting these things unchallenged Shall my voice of leaves and varicolored bark come free through!” At which, knowing her solitude, I shouted over the country below me: “Waken! my people, to the boughs green With ripening fruit within you! Waken to the myriad cinquefoil In the waving grass of your minds! Waken to the silent phoebe nest Under the eaves of your spirit!” But she, stooping nearer the shifting hills Spoke again. “Look there! See them! There in the oat field with the horses, See them there! bowed by their passions Crushed down, that had been raised as a roof beam! The weight of the sky is upon them Under which all roof beams crumble. There is none but the single roof beam: There is no love bears against the great firefly! At this I looked up at the sun Then shouted again with all the might I had. But my voice was a seed in the wind. Then she, the old one, laughing Seized me and whirling about bore back To the city, upward, still laughing Until the great towers stood above the marshland Wheeling beneath: the little creeks, the mallows That I picked as a boy, the Hackensack So quiet that seemed so broad formerly: The crawling trains, the cedar swamp on the one side— All so old, so familiar—so new now To my marvelling eyes as we passed Invisible. SOOTHSAY Eight days went by, eight days Comforted by no nights, until finally: “Would you behold yourself old, beloved?” I was pierced, yet I consented gladly For I knew it could not be otherwise. And she—“Behold yourself old! Sustained in strength, wielding might in gript surges! Not bodying the sun in weak leaps But holding way over rockish men With fern free fingers on their little crags, Their hollows, the new Atlas, to bear them For pride and for mockery! Behold Yourself old! winding with slow might— A vine among oaks—to the thin tops: Leaving the leafless leaved, Bearing purple clusters! Behold Yourself old! birds are behind you. You are the wind coming that stills birds, Shakes the leaves in booming polyphony— Slow, winning high way amid the knocking Of boughs, evenly crescendo, The din and bellow of the male wind! Leap then from forest into foam! Lash about from low into high flames Tipping sound, the female chorus— Linking all lions, all twitterings To make them nothing! Behold yourself old!” As I made to answer she continued, A little wistfully yet in a voice clear cut: “Good is my over lip and evil My underlip to you henceforth: For I have taken your soul between my two hands And this shall be as it is spoken.” ST. JAMES’ GROVE And so it came to that last day When, she leading by the hand, we went out Early in the morning, I heavy of heart For I knew the novitiate was ended The ecstasy was over, the life begun. In my woolen shirt and the pale blue necktie My grandmother gave me, there I went With the old queen right past the houses Of my friends down the hill to the river As on any usual day, any errand. Alone, walking under trees, I went with her, she with me in her wild hair, By Santiago Grove and presently She bent forward and knelt by the river, The Passaic, that filthy river. And there dabbling her mad hands, She called me close beside her. Raising the water then in the cupped palm She bathed our brows wailing and laughing: “River, we are old, you and I, We are old and by bad luck, beggars. Lo, the filth in our hair, our bodies stink! Old friend, here I have brought you The young soul you long asked of me. Stand forth, river, and give me The old friend of my revels! Give me the well-worn spirit, For here I have made a room for it, And I will return to you forthwith The youth you have long asked of me: Stand forth, river, and give me The old friend of my revels!” And the filthy Passaic consented! Then she, leaping up with a fierce cry: “Enter, youth, into this bulk! Enter, river, into this young man!” Then the river began to enter my heart, Eddying back cool and limpid Into the crystal beginning of its days. But with the rebound it leaped forward: Muddy, then black and shrunken Till I felt the utter depth of its rottenness The vile breadth of its degradation And dropped down knowing this was me now. But she lifted me and the water took a new tide Again into the older experiences, And so, backward and forward, It tortured itself within me Until time had been washed finally under, And the river had found its level And its last motion had ceased And I knew all—it became me. And I knew this for double certain For there, whitely, I saw myself Being borne off under the water! I could have shouted out in my agony At the sight of myself departing Forever—but I bit back my despair For she had averted her eyes By which I knew well what she was thinking— And so the last of me was taken. Then she, “Be mostly silent!” And turning to the river, spoke again: “For him and for me, river, the wandering, But by you I leave for happiness Deep foliage, the thickest beeches— Though elsewhere they are all dying— Tallest oaks and yellow birches That dip their leaves in you, mourning, As now I dip my hair, immemorial Of me, immemorial of him Immemorial of these our promises! Here shall be a bird’s paradise, They sing to you remembering my voice: Here the most secluded spaces For miles around, hallowed by a stench To be our joint solitude and temple; In memory of this clear marriage And the child I have brought you in the late years. Live, river, live in luxuriance Remembering this our son, In remembrance of me and my sorrow And of the new wandering!” Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber: con la beautitud=> con la beatitud {pg 5} a rough day to=> a rough dray to {pg 26} From which he old eyes=> From which her old eyes {pg 79} *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A BOOK OF POEMS, AL QUE QUIERE! *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. 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