Selected Poems Read online

  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 under lip 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!”

  Al Que Quiere!

  (To Him Who Wants it)

  (1917)

  Pastoral

  When I was younger

  it was plain to me

  I must make something of myself.

  Older now

  I walk back streets

  admiring the houses

  of the very poor:

  roof out of line with sides

  the yards cluttered

  with old chicken wire, ashes,

  furniture gone wrong;

  the fences and outhouses

  built of barrel-staves

  and parts of boxes, all,

  if I am fortunate,

  smeared a bluish green

  that properly weathered

  pleases me best

  of all colors.

  No one

  will believe this

  of vast import to the nation.

  Apology

  Why do I write today?

  The beauty of

  the terrible faces

  of our nonentities

  stirs me to it:

  colored women

  day workers—

  old and experienced—

  returning home at dusk

  in cast off clothing

  faces like

  old Florentine oak.

  Also

  the set pieces

  of your faces stir me—

  leading citizens—

  but not

  in the same way.

  Pastoral

  The little sparrows

  hop ingenuously

  about the pavement

  quarreling

  with sharp voices

  over those things

  that interest them.

  But we who are wiser

  shut ourselves in

  on either hand

  and no one knows

  whether we think good

  or evil.

  Meanwhile,

  the old man who goes about

  gathering dog-lime

  walks in the gutter

  without looking up

  and his tread

  is more majestic than

  that of the Episcopal minister

  approaching the pulpit

  of
a Sunday.

  These things

  astonish me beyond words.

  Tract

  I will teach you my townspeople

  how to perform a funeral

  for you have it over a troop

  of artists—

  unless one should scour the world—

  you have the ground sense necessary.

  See! the hearse leads.

  I begin with a design for a hearse.

  For Christ’s sake not black—

  nor white either—and not polished!

  Let it be weathered—like a farm wagon—

  with gilt wheels (this could be

  applied fresh at small expense)

  or no wheels at all:

  a rough dray to drag over the ground.

  Knock the glass out!

  My God—glass, my townspeople!

  For what purpose? Is it for the dead

  to look out or for us to see

  how well he is housed or to see

  the flowers or the lack of them—

  or what?

  To keep the rain and snow from him?

  He will have a heavier rain soon:

  pebbles and dirt and what not.

  Let there be no glass—

  and no upholstery, phew!

  and no little brass rollers

  and small easy wheels on the bottom—

  my townspeople what are you thinking of?

  A rough plain hearse then

  with gilt wheels and no top at all.

  On this the coffin lies

  by its own weight.

  No wreaths please—

  especially no hot house flowers.

  Some common memento is better,

  something he prized and is known by:

  his old clothes—a few books perhaps—

  God knows what! You realize

  how we are about these things

  my townspeople—

  something will be found—anything

  even flowers if he had come to that.

  So much for the hearse.

  For heaven’s sake though see to the driver!

  Take off the silk hat! In fact

  that’s no place at all for him—

  up there unceremoniously

  dragging our friend out to his own dignity!

  Bring him down—bring him down!

  Low and inconspicuous! I’d not have him ride

  on the wagon at all—damn him—

  the undertaker’s understrapper!

  Let him hold the reins

  and walk at the side

  and inconspicuously too!

  Then briefly as to yourselves:

  Walk behind—as they do in France,

  seventh class, or if you ride

  Hell take curtains! Go with some show

  of inconvenience; sit openly—

  to the weather as to grief.

  Or do you think you can shut grief in?

  What—from us? We who have perhaps

  nothing to lose? Share with us

  share with us—it will be money

  in your pockets.

  Go now

  I think you are ready.

  El Hombre

  It’s a strange courage

  you give me ancient star:

  Shine alone in the sunrise

  toward which you lend no part!

  Spring Strains

  In a tissue-thin monotone of blue-grey buds

  crowded erect with desire against the sky

  tense blue-grey twigs

  slenderly anchoring them down, drawing

  them in—

  two blue-grey birds chasing

  a third struggle in circles, angles,

  swift convergings to a point that bursts

  instantly!

  Vibrant bowing limbs

  pull downward, sucking in the sky

  that bulges from behind, plastering itself

  against them in packed rifts, rock blue

  and dirty orange!

  But—

  (Hold hard, rigid jointed trees!)

  the blinding and red-edged sun-blur—

  creeping energy, concentrated

  counterforce—welds sky, buds, trees,

  rivets them in one puckering hold!

  Sticks through! Pulls the whole

  counter-pulling mass upward, to the right

  locks even the opaque, not yet defined

  ground in a terrific drag that is

  loosening the very tap-roots!

  On a tissue-thin monotone of blue-grey buds

  two blue-grey birds, chasing a third,

  at full cry! Now they are

  flung outward and up—disappearing suddenly!

  Trees

  Crooked, black tree

  on your little grey-black hillock,

  ridiculously raised one step toward

  the infinite summits of the night:

  even you the few grey stars

  draw upward into a vague melody

  of harsh threads.

  Bent as you are from straining

  against the bitter horizontals of

  a north wind,—there below you

  how easily the long yellow notes

  of poplars flow upward in a descending

  scale, each note secure in its own

  posture—singularly woven.

  All voices are blent willingly

  against the heaving contra-bass

  of the dark but you alone

  warp yourself passionately to one side

  in your eagerness.

  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 Dickinson 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 t
hem—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, weasels 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.

  Sour Grapes

  (1921)

  Overture to a Dance of Locomotives

  Men with picked voices chant the names

  of cities in a huge gallery: promises

  that pull through descending stairways

  to a deep rumbling.

  The rubbing feet

  of those coming to be carried quicken a

  grey pavement into soft light that rocks

  to and fro, under the domed ceiling,

  across and across from pale

  earthcolored walls of bare limestone.

  Covertly the hands of a great clock

  go round and round! Were they to

  move quickly and at once the whole

  secret would be out and the shuffling

  of all ants be done forever.

  A leaning pyramid of sunlight, narrowing

  out at a high window, moves by the clock;

  discordant hands straining out from

  a center: inevitable postures infinitely

  repeated—

  two—twofour—twoeight!

  Porters in red hats run on narrow platforms.

  This way ma’am!

  —important not to take

  the wrong train!

  Lights from the concrete

  ceiling hang crooked but—

  Poised horizontal

  on glittering parallels the dingy cylinders

  packed with a warm glow—inviting entry—

  pull against the hour. But brakes can

  hold a fixed posture till—

  The whistle!

  Not twoeight. Not twofour. Two!

  Gliding windows. Colored cooks sweating

  in a small kitchen. Taillights—

  In time: twofour!

  In time: twoeight!

  —rivers are tunneled: trestles