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Conrad AikenNo poet of the 20th Century fascinates me more than Conrad Aiken (1889-1973) whose poetry I would describe as imagistic, enigmatic, penetrating, lush, and not a little Gothic. Poe was an early influence, but since Conrad came of age in modern times, Poe-like uncanniness meshes with Freudian and Einsteinian premises in his work. In orderly sitting rooms, his characters encounter chaos; they fall into other dimensions or the chasm of their own selves. It is all very slippery. These poems are the product of an original and a fearless mind.And a troubled one. When he was 11, Conrad Aiken was wakened one morning by the sound of arguing. A gun fired. The boy found his parents soaked in blood in their Savannah bedroom; his father, a paranoiac, had killed his mother and then himself. The trauma marked the end of a fairly halcyon childhood. After the tragedy, he was separated from his siblings, as different relatives in New England took custody of the four children. Eventually Conrad came into a legacy that allowed him to write full-time, without the distraction of money-grubbing jobs in teaching or business. He was educated at Harvard, and, over the years, did a good deal of traveling in Europe, settling for some years in England. He married three times and was not good “husband material.” It is likely that the tragedy in Savannah left him emotionally immature and unable to value a woman’s company except in sexual terms. He was quite the Lothario! At Harvard, Conrad Aiken and T. S. Eliot became good friends and over the years would remain friendly rivals. Eliot is the one who was blessed with the greater success, in his time and in ours. Prufrock was such an extraordinary poem, it catapulted young Tom into a spotlight that never dimmed. Conrad floundered. Though he worked like the devil in his 20’s and wrote prodigiously, he (I would argue) became hamstrung by his own overweening ambition. He set out to write the literary equivalent of the symphony, very long poems that would proceed as symphonies do, with themes and variations and a certain musicality of phrase. These poems have fine moments but they try a reader’s patience. There’s not much forward thrust in them; they are story poems short on plot and characterization. The quirky names of his central characters—Forslin, Festus, Senlin, Punch—mirror the quirkiness of the work itself. Of the early “symphonies,” Senlin: A Biography is the one that earned the poet some justifiable fame, and a segment of it, “Morning Song of Senlin,” became a fixture in early-and-mid-20th C anthologies. I’ve always found it pretty dazzling, and a later long poem, Preludes for Memnon, even more so. Conrad kept returning to long works but also wrote shorter poems exploring his signatory themes—identity, infinity, the illusory, annihilation, the void—and sounding his favored images—the falling leaf, clock time, spiders, seasons, weather. I include a bunch here, along with excerpts from the iconic Senlin and Memnon, as well as two innovative poems from a collection called The Coming Forth By Day of Osiris Jones. These unusual list poems mingle the quotidian with the mysterium. Taken together, those and the others in Jones create a character much richer and more involving than the early “Forslins.” Conrad Aiken’s poems deserve a much wider readership than they currently enjoy. I’ve met seasoned poets who have never heard of him. The usual explanations for his relative obscurity—that during his life he neglected self-promotion and made some enemies due to his pitiless reviewing—don’t fly with me. To my mind, he simply wrote too much, leaving behind a swollen opus which has proven difficult to wade through. Eliot, the prodigy whose great works fit into a famously skinny gray paperback, has fared much better, even though he matured into a rather backward-looking person who valued tradition and ritual above all. As a poet, Aiken bloomed later than his friend; as a person, he was more progressive, more intellectually courageous, and lots less stuffy. With Aiken, a reader has to work a little harder to mine for gems; nevertheless, in my book, it’s A before E. The RoomThrough that window — all else being extinctExcept itself and me — I saw the struggle Of darkness against darkness. Within the room It turned and turned, dived downward. Then I saw How order might — if chaos wished — become: And saw the darkness crush upon itself, Contracting powerfully; it was as if It killed itself: slowly: and with much pain. Pain. The scene was pain, and nothing but pain. What else, when chaos draws all forces inward To shape a single leaf?. . . For the leaf came, Alone and shining in the empty room; After a while the twig shot downward from it; And from the twig a bough; and then the trunk, Massive and coarse; and last the one black root. The black root cracked the walls. Boughs burst the window: The great tree took possession. Tree of trees! Remember (when time comes) how chaos died To shape the shining leaf. Then turn, have courage, Wrap arms and roots together, be convulsed With grief, and bring back chaos out of shape. I will be watching then as I watch now. I will praise darkness now, but then the leaf. North Infinity StreetThe alarm clocks tick in a thousand furnished rooms,tick and are wound for a thousand separate dooms; all down both sides of North Infinity Street you hear that contrapuntal pawnshop beat. Hall bedrooms, attic rooms, where the gas-ring sings, rooms in the basement where the loud doorbell rings; carpeted or bare, by the rail at the head of the stair, the curtains drawn, a mirror, a bed, and a chair, in midnight darkness, when the last footfall creaks, in northeast rain, when the broken window leaks, at dawn, to the sound of dishes, the kitchen steam, at dusk, when the muted radio croons a dream, there, amid combs and the waiting shoes and socks, and the bathrobes hung in closets, tick the clocks: on the chest of drawers, on the table beside the bed, facing the pillow, facing the recumbent head: yes, from here to forever, from here to never, one long sidereal curve of ticking fever, all down both sides of North Infinity Street you hear that contrapuntal pawnshop beat. Senlin: A Biography Opening LinesSenlin sits before us, and we see him.He smokes his pipe before us, and we hear him. Is he small, with reddish hair, Does he light his pipe with meditative stare, And a pointed flame reflected in both eyes? Is he sad and happy and foolish and wise? Did no one see him enter the doors of the city, Looking above him at the roofs and trees and skies? 'I stepped from a cloud', he says, 'as evening fell; I walked on the sound of a bell; I ran with winged heels along a gust; Or is it true that I laughed and sprang from dust? . . . Has no one, in a great autumnal forest, When the wind bares the trees, Heard the sad horn of Senlin slowly blown? Has no one, on a mountain in the spring, Heard Senlin sing? Perhaps I came alone on a snow-white horse, — Riding alone from the deep-starred night. Perhaps I came on a ship whose sails were music, — Sailing from moon or sun on a river of light.' He lights his pipe with a pointed flame. 'Yet, there were many autumns before I came, And many springs. And more will come, long after There is no horn for me, or song, or laughter.' The city dissolves about us, and its walls Become an ancient forest. There is no sound Except where an old twig tires and falls; Or a lizard among the dead leaves crawls; Or a flutter is heard in darkness along the ground. Has Senlin become a forest? Do we walk in Senlin? Is Senlin the wood we walk in, — ourselves, the world? — Senlin! we cry . . . Senlin! again . . . No answer, Only soft broken echoes backward whirled . . . Yet we would say: this is no wood at all, But a small white room with a lamp upon the wall; And Senlin, before us, pale, with reddish hair, Lights his pipe with a meditative stare. Senlin: A Biography The Morning SongIt is morning, Senlin says, and in the morningWhen the light drips through the shutters like the dew, I arise, I face the sunrise, And do the things my fathers learned to do. Stars in the purple dusk above the rooftops Pale in a saffron mist and seem to die, And I myself on a swiftly tilting planet Stand before a glass and tie my tie. Vine leaves tap my window, Dew-drops sing to the garden stones, The robin chips in the chinaberry tree Repeating three clear tones. It is morning. I stand by the mirror And tie my tie once more. While waves far off in a pale rose twilight Crash on a white sand shore. I stand by a mirror and comb my hair: How small and white my face ! — The green earth tilts through a sphere of air And bathes in a flame of space. There are houses hanging above the stars And stars hung under a sea. . . And a sun far off in a shell of silence Dapples my walls for me. . . It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning Should I not pause in the light to remember God? Upright and firm I stand on a star unstable, He is immense and lonely as a cloud. I will dedicate this moment before my mirror To him alone, and for him I will comb my hair. Accept these humble offerings, cloud of silence! I will think of you as I descend the stair. Vine leaves tap my window, The snail-track shines on the stones, Dew-drops flash from the chinaberry tree Repeating two clear tones. It is morning, I awake from a bed of silence, Shining I rise from the starless waters of sleep. The walls are about me still as in the evening, I am the same, and the same name still I keep. The earth revolves with me, yet makes no motion, The stars pale silently in a coral sky. In a whistling void I stand before my mirror, Unconcerned, I tie my tie. There are horses neighing on far-off hills Tossing their long white manes, And mountains flash in the rose-white dusk, Their shoulders black with rains. . . It is morning. I stand by the mirror And surprise my soul once more; The blue air rushes above my ceiling, There are suns beneath my floor. . . . . . It is morning, Senlin says, I ascend from darkness And depart on the winds of space for I know not where, My watch is wound, a key is in my pocket, And the sky is darkened as I descend the stair. There are shadows across the windows, clouds in heaven, And a god among the stars; and I will go Thinking of him as I might think of daybreak And humming a tune I know. . . Vine-leaves tap at the window, Dew-drops sing to the garden stones, The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree Repeating three clear tones. Red Is the Color of BloodRed is the color of blood, and I will seek it:I have sought it in the grass. It is the color of steep sun seen through eyelids. It is hidden under the suave flesh of women — Flows there, quietly flows. It mounts from the heart to the temples, the singing mouth — As cold sap climbs to the rose. I am confused in webs and knots of scarlet Spun from the darkness; Or shuttled from the mouths of thirsty spiders. Madness for red! I devour the leaves of autumn. I tire of the green of the world. I am myself a mouth for blood . . . Here, in the golden haze of the late slant sun, Let us walk, with the light in our eyes, To a single bench from the outset predetermined. Look: there are seagulls in these city skies, Kindled against the blue. But I do not think of the seagulls, I think of you. Your eyes, with the late sun in them, Are like blue pools dazzled with yellow petals. This pale green suits them well. Here is your finger, with an emerald on it: The one I gave you. I say these things politely — But what I think beneath them, who can tell? For I think of you, crumpled against a whiteness; Flayed and torn, with a dulled face. I think of you, writing, a thing of scarlet, And myself, rising red from that embrace. November sun is sunlight poured through honey: Old things, in such a light, grow subtle and fine. Bare oaks are like still fire. Talk to me: now we drink the evening’s wine. Look, how our shadows creep along the grave! — And this way, how the gravel begins to shine! This is the time of day for recollections, For sentimental regrets, oblique allusions, Rose-leaves, shrivelled in a musty jar. Scatter them to the wind! There are tempests coming. It is dark, with a windy star. If human mouths were really roses, my dear, — (Why must we link things so? —) I would tear yours petal by petal with slow murder. I would pluck the stamens, the pistils, The gold and the green, — Spreading the subtle sweetness that was your breath On a cold wave of death . . . . Now let us walk back, slowly, as we came. We will light the room with candles; they may shine Like rows of yellow eyes. Your hair is like spun fire, by candle-flame. You smile at me — say nothing. You are wise. For I think of you, flung down brutal darkness; Crushed and red, with pale face. I think of you, with your hair disordered and dripping. And myself, rising red from that embrace. ExileThese hills are sandy. Trees are dwarfed here. CrowsCaw dismally in skies of an arid brilliance, Complain in dusty pine-trees. Yellow daybreak Lights on the long brown slopes a frost-like dew, Dew as heavy as rain; the rabbit tracks Show sharply in it, as they might in snow. But it’s soon gone in the sun — what good does it do? The houses, on the slope, or among brown trees, Are grey and shrivelled. And the men who live here Are small and withered, spider-like, with large eyes. Bring water with you if you come to live here — Cold tinkling cisterns, or else wells so deep That one looks down to Ganges or Himalayas. Yes, and bring mountains with you, white, moon-bearing, Mountains of ice. You will have need of these Profundities and peaks of wet and cold. Bring also, in a cage of wire or osier, Birds of a golden colour, who will sing Of leaves that do not wither, watery fruits That heavily hang on long melodious boughs In the blue-silver forests of deep valleys. I have now been here — how many years? Years unnumbered. My hands grow clawlike. My eyes are large and starved. I brought no bird with me, I have no cistern Where I might find the moon, or river, or snow. Some day, for lack of these, I’ll spin a web Between two dusty pine-tree tops, and hang there Face downward, like a spider, blown as lightly As ghost of leaf. Crows will caw about me. Morning and evening I shall drink the dew. The LoversIn this glass palace are flowers in golden baskets.In that grim brownstone castle are silver caskets. The caskets watch and wait, and the baskets wait, for a certain day and hour, and a certain date. Wonderfully glow the colors in this bright palace. Superb the flora, in pyx and vase and chalice. The glass is steamed with a stifling tuberose breath; and lilies too, of the valley of the shadow of death. The caskets are satin-lined, with silver handles; and the janitor sings ‘they’ll soon be lighting candles.’ He sweeps the sidewalk, and as he sweeps he sings, in praise of a hearse with completely noiseless springs. Hush — the conspiracy works, it has crossed the street: some day, and it’s not far off, the lovers will meet: casket and basket will soon set forth together on a joyful journey, no matter how bleak the weather; in a beautiful beetle-black hearse with noiseless tread, basket and casket together will hie to bed; and start on a pullman journey to a certain gate, punctually, at a certain hour, on a certain date. AnnihilationWhile the blue noon above us arches,And the poplar sheds disconsolate leaves, Tell me again why love bewitches, And what love gives. It is the trembling finger that traces The eyebrow’s curve, the curve of the cheek? The mouth that quivers, when the hand caresses, But cannot speak? No, not these, not in these is hidden The secret, more than in other things: Not only the touch of a hand can gladden Till the blood sings. It is the leaf that falls between us, The bells that murmur, the shadows that move, The autumnal sunlight that fades upon us: These things are love. It is the ‘No, let us sit here longer,’ The ‘Wait till tomorrow,’ the ‘Once I knew —’ These trifles, said as I touch your finger, And the clock strikes two. The world is intricate, and we are nothing. It is the complex world of grass, A twig on the path, a look of loathing, Feelings that pass — These are the secret! And I could hate you, When, as I lean for another kiss, I see in your eyes that I do not meet you, And that love is this. Rock meeting rock can know love better Than eyes that stare or lips that touch. All that we know in love is bitter, And it is not much. Stage DirectionIt is a shabby backdrop of bright stars:one of the small interstices of time: the worn out north star northward, and Orion to westward spread in ruined light. Eastward, the other stars disposed, — or indisposed; — x-ward or y-ward, the sick sun inflamed; and all his drunken planets growing pale. We watch them, and our watching is this hour. It is a stage of ether, without space, — a space of limbo without time, — a faceless clock that never strikes; and it is bloodstream at its priestlike task, — the indeterminate and determined heart, that beats, and beats, and does not know it beats. Here the dark synapse between nerve and nerve; the void, between two atoms in the brain; darkness, without term or form, that sinks between two thoughts. Here we have sounded, angel! — O angel soul, O memory of man! — And felt the nothing that sustains our wings. And here have seen the catalogue of things — All in the maelstrom of the limbo caught, and whirled concentric to the funnel’s end, sans number, and sans meaning, and sans purpose; the lack of meaning has a heart-beat, and the lack of number wears a cloak of stars. Inscriptions in Sundry Places from The Coming Forth by Day of Osiris JonesOn a billboardsmoke Sweet Caporals In a street-car do not speak to the motorman On a vending machine insert one cent then press the rod push push push push On a weighing machine give yourself a weigh On the schoolhouse Morton Grammar School Founded 1886 In gilt letters on a swinging black sign Dr. William F. Jones, M.D. On a tombstone memento mori On a coin e pluribus unum On the fence of a vacant lot commit no nuisance In a library silence At the entrance to a graveyard dog admitted only on leash At a zoo do not feed the animals On a cotton wharf no smoking On a crocheted bookmarker in a Bible time is short On a sailor cap U.S.S. Oregon At a railway-crossing stop look and listen At the end of a road private way dangerous passing Beside a pond no fishing In a park keep off the grass In a train spitting prohibited $100 fine On a celluloid button remember the Maine On a brick wall trespassers will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law Outside a theatre standing room only At the foot of a companionway leading to the bridge of a ship officers only In a subway the cough and sneeze both spread disease and so does spit take care of it Over the gateway to a college yard What is man that thou art mindful of him? Ditto enter to grow in wisdom On a sign hung with two lanterns beside a frozen river no skating Beside a wood no shooting Behind a building in a dark alley No sir, carry your water up the street In a public lavatory fools’ names and fools’ faces always show in public places and this I’ll add if you don’t know it that Shakespere was no backhouse poet Ditto Mable Waters 26 John Street Ditto do not deface Ditto say when you’ll meet me Ditto it was down in the Lehigh Valley — me and my saucy Sue In a museum visitors are requested not to touch the objects In a concert hall no admission after doors are closed On an office door Peter Jones In a saloon no treating allowed Laundry-mark on linen B69 In a window board and room On a ship first class passengers not allowed aft of this sign In a train ne pas se pencher au dehors On an apartment-house door all deliveries must be made at side entrance Over a door in a hospital staff only Speeches Made by Books, Stars, Things and People from The Coming Forth by Day of Osiris JonesThe booksEveryman I will go with thee and be thy guide, in thy most need to be by thy side. The people Hi there Jones and did you mean that? well, telling him won’t make him, will it when I saw you you were sitting at the café table, thinking The stars Look at us Shakspere And death being dead there’s no more dying then The people Hi there Jones! The stars Light-years! The books Homage to thee, o great God, lord of truth. O lord I come to thee to see thy kindness I know thee and I know thy name, and know the names of all those gods who dwell with thee. The people He must go westward to the outer darkness and die, and pick the deathless asphodels. The stars We are eyes The books Behold I have come to thee, and I bring truth sin I destroyed for thee, I have not sinned against mankind, nor yet against my kin nor wronged the place of truth, nor known the worthless. I wrought no evil, nor cheated the oppressed, nor did those things the gods abominate nor vilified the servant to his lord. The people He’s a liar. The stars Winter is coming The books Never have I caused pain, nor let man hunger made man or woman weep, nor children weep, have not committed murder, nor commanded others to do my murder, I have not stolen the offerings to departed spirits nor robbed the gods of their oblations, nor committed fornication. The people Hey bricktop hey carrots who let you out? are you wet behind the ears? his hands are covered with blood. The stars Nebular hypothesis The books Have not polluted myself in holy places diminished from the bushel, taken from nor added to the acre-measure, nor encroached on fields of others. Nor have I misread the pointers of the scales, nor added weight, I have not taken milk from mouths of children, nor caught the fish with fish of their own kind. The people The sycamores will have no food for this guy he lies in his throat lynch him The stars Square of the distance? The books I have not put out a fire when it should burn I have not driven cattle from the pastures I have not cut the dam of a canal I have not shunned the god at his appearance I am pure. I am pure. I am pure. I am pure. I am pure. The people Outside, outside! close the door after you, will you? who let him in anyway? hi there Jones The pendulums Pain — pang — pain — pang — pain — pang. The stars First degree! second degree! third degree! forever. The things We know better A clock Cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo! The beds Foul enseamèd sheets A girl Hello Peter — do you remember me? A dollar-bill He’d steal a penny from a dead man’s eye A grave Enter, to grow in wisdom A cat He kicked me The peach-tree He broke me Waste-basket Filled me with circulars and unpaid bills The hands of a clock Here we go round the mulberry bush mulberry bush mulberry bush Jackstone I am still here in the yard, under a brick Psyche He drew a moustache on me with an indelible pencil The locusts Look out for the wasps The swamp Beware the snake The books Homage to you who dwell in the hall of truth I know you and I know your names. Let me not fall under the slaughtering knives, bring not my wickedness to the notice of the god whom you all follow; speak ye the truth concerning me to god. I have not done an evil thing, but live on truth, and feed on truth, and have performed behests of men, and things that please the gods The things Pull out the plug Broad street Hot asphalt! Ricebirds in the swamp Gunshot! The organ Please give a penny to the poor blind man — poor blind man — poor blind man — Shakspere Walk you thus westward you will see the west grown colder but still west: or march you east why eastward still the sun will blanch before you, with ice upon his eyes, but still the sun. Picture-postcard angels Harp the herald tribune sings The music Angel of nothing in a world of nothings, palmetto leaf in sunlight, time and tide divinely moving, and the lighthouse bright against the golden western sunset light — O phrase of beauty, in the darkness born, spoken and stilled; swiftness against the cloud; memory of the dust and gods of dust: weak hand that touched, strong hand that held, weak hand that touched, eyes that forgetting saw, and saw recalling, and saw again forgetting; memory moving from wonder to disaster, and to wonder, the bloodstream full of twilight, and the twilight inflamed with sunsets of remembered birth; O death, in shape of change, in shape of time, in flash of leaf and murmur, delighting god whose godhead is a vapour, whose delight is icicles in summer, and arbutus under the snowdrift, and the river flowing westward among the reeds and flying birds beyond the obelisks and hieroglyphs — whisper of whence and why, question in darkness answered in silence, but such silence, angel, as answers only gods who seek for gods — rejoice, for we are come to such a world as no thought sounded. The desk I’ll meet you half way, he said. I’ll meet you half way, he said. I’ll meet you half way, he said. The people Hi there Jones. where’s your bankbook? well, he’s a good egg, at that. Vivien If I were less the face and more myself if you were less the face and more yourself if we were less the face and more ourselves and time turned backward, but our knowledge kept — The operating-table Now if you’ll roll your sleeve up I will give you — The stars Open your mouth and shut your eyes — and I will give you a great surprise. Eclipse obscuration transit A basket of okras Childhood! sunshine! The shoes Laces broken, worn out The books I have a boat to him who needed one. I have made holy offerings to the gods. Be ye my saviours, be ye my protectors, and make no accusations before God. Look, I am pure of mouth, and clean of hands, therefore it hath been said by those who saw me come in peace, come in peace, come in peace The graveyard Come to pieces! bones to you, old bonetrap The snow Poor Pete’s a-cold The books My heart of my mother — my heart of my mother — my heart of my being, — make no stand against me when testifying, — thrust me not back to darkness! The face My little son! Truth Tell me: who is he whose roof is fire, whose walls are living serpents, and whose floor a stream of water? Hypotenuse The shortest distance — ha ha — between two points The people Dirty dog — ! look at the cut of his trousers. Hi there Jones! The books In very truth this heart has now been weighed this soul born testimony concerning him this that comes from his mouth has been confirmed he has not sinned, his name stinks not before us let him go forth into the field of flowers let him go forth into the field of offerings let him go forth into the field of reeds. The people Bribery! simony! perjury! blasphemy! The stars Chaos — hurry! — is come again The face Divinest of divine and love of loves daybreak of brightest light and morning star murmur of music in the fairest flower o cloven sweetest fruit, and tenderest vine dear timelessness of time and heavenly face and dearest clover in the darkest place — A lamp-post Here he spat A document Here is his name, perjured A ditch Here he stooped The face Wonder of wonders in a world of worlds a heart that beats beneath a larger heart quick hands to beauty born in helplessness and love of loveliness with tenderest touch — The stars Great Circle! The outer darkness Airless! Waterless! Lightless! The books In god’s name, and god’s image, let him die The clock Tock. Preludes for Memnon Opening LinesWinter for a moment takes the mind; the snowFalls past the arclight; icicles guard a wall; The wind moans through a crack in the window; A keen sparkle of frost is on the sill. Only for a moment; as spring too might engage it, With a single crocus in the loam, or a pair of birds; Or summer with hot grass; or autumn with a yellow leaf. Winter is there, outside, is here in me: Drapes the planets with snow, deepens the ice on the moon, Darkens the darkness that was already darkness. The mind too has its snows, its slippery paths, Walls bayonetted with ice, leaves ice-encased. Here is the in-drawn room, to which you return When the wind blows from Arcturus: here is the fire At which you warm your hands and glaze your eyes; The piano, on which you touch the cold treble; Five notes like breaking icicles; and then silence. The alarm-clock ticks, the pulse keeps time with it, Night and the mind are full of sounds. I walk From the fire-place, with its imaginary fire, To the window, with its imaginary view. Darkness, and snow ticking the window: silence, And the knocking of chains on a motor-car, the tolling Of a bronze bell, dedicated to Christ. And then the uprush of angelic wings, the beating of wings demonic, from the abyss of the mind: The darkness filled with a feathery whistling, wings Numberless as the flakes of angelic snow, The deep void swarming with wings and sound of wings, The winnowing of chaos, the aliveness Of depth and depth and depth dedicated to death. Here are the bickerings of the inconsequential, The chatterings of the ridiculous, the iterations Of the meaningless. Memory, like a juggler, Tosses its colored balls into the light, and again receives them into darkness. Here is the absurd, Grinning like an idiot, and the omnivorous quotidian, Which will have its day. A handful of coins, Tickets, items from the news, a soiled handkerchief, A letter to be answered, notice of a telephone call, The petal of a flower in a volume of Shakespere, The program of a concert. The photograph, too, Propped on the mantel, and beneath it a dry rosebud; The laundry bill, matches, an ash-tray, Utamaro’s Pearl-fishers. And the rug, on which are still the crumbs Of yesterday’s feast. These are the void, the night, And the angelic wings that make it sound. What is the flower? It is not a sigh of color, Suspiration of purple, sibilation of saffron, Nor aureate exhalation from the tomb. Yet it is these things because you think of these, An emanation of emanations, fragile As light, or glisten, or gleam, or coruscation. Creature of brightness, and as brightness brief. What is the frost? It is not the sparkle of death, The flash of time’s wing, seeds of eternity; Yet it is these because you think of these. And you, because you think of these, are both Frost and flower, the bright ambiguous syllable Of which the meaning is both no and yes. Here is the tragic, the distorting mirror in which your gesture becomes grandiose; Tears form and fall from your magnificent eye, The brow is noble, and the mouth is God’s. Here is the God who seeks his mother, Chaos, — Confusion seeking solution, and life seeking death. Here is the rose that woos the icicle; the icicle that woos the rose. Here is the silence of silences Which dreams of becoming a sound, and the sound Which will perfect itself in silence. And all These things are only the uprush from the void, The wings angelic and demonic, the sound of the abyss Dedicated to death. And this is you. ——Back to Lectio Contents—— |
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