POEMS,1941 - CAROL RICHARDS SHARPE
POEMS, 1941
By Carol Richards Sharpe © 1941, 2007.
POEMS, 1940, POEMS, 1946,POEMS, 2007,
POEMS II, 2007,
POEMS, 2008
POEMS, 2009
and KATE MCCUSKEY
1. FATHER
FATHER
WE THANK THEE
FOR COURAGE, STRENGTH AND LOVELINESS -
THE FREEDOM OF THIS AIR.
KEEP US, LORD, FROM PETTINESS;
SHIELD US FROM DESPAIR.
[Home]
PRELUDE
Once more
Sings the rattle of death in the naked tree,
Fog-scented winds have stripped it bare
Of Autumn majesty.
As before,
Stolid lands receive the yearly tide
Shaken from placid drifts of gray
Above the hillside.
While beyond,
Elaborate clouds of ebony frame
An eloquent promise of future spring
In a dying flame.
Now,
There is death in the field below,
But as sure as the song in my heart today -
Spring will follow!
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3. WINTER MOON
The thin young moon turns white
Alone in the windless night
She weeps, and her lusterless eyes
Search for one broken star,
One smiling and friendly star
In all the empty skies
Scattering silver, giving her gold -
Her tears have made snowdrops
Of fire in the cold.
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4. RETURN TO THE HOMELAND*
Here am I, a tired cyclist resting
On one foot near a ruin. I should have known.
I should never have come questing.
Some hardy soul has sown
Trim rows of green between the shell holes;
Blue-green grass where mother's crescent gardens grew.
But everything is done-and I am older.
Quick, my pack, the travel folder-
I must be on my way and gone forever.
So ...turn my back and carry away
The broken old house with shattered window,
Sagging roof anf gaping door;
Lawn where ghostly children play-
Learn them in one swift glance and know
The bitter tear and dream no more.
Dream no more of yesterday---
Nothing but the hot sun, the empty lane
And dust in my mouth as I wheel away.
_______
*(To be published in Kaleidograph)
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5. DON RICHARDS
For such a little boy
You're very dear!
All sisters would be jealous
Could they hear
Your humming voice
As you change the Schubert record,
Could they feel your gentle touch
As of your own accord
You smooth my pillow.
Some day you will be a great man.
How do I know?
Why, there is fine
Purpose in the clean line
Of your very young chin:
Your black eyes, so often
Dark with secret wonder, are quick to understand
And in each square, boyish hand
You hold music to soften
The corners of many lives and you begin
On mine as I half listen to your voice grown rough
With reading...and for lack of any other
Reasons, you're my brother.
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6. SOPHISTICATE
This is now...
In the thick of half-gloom
Of a smoky room,
I lean on my elbow
And listen...flippant words, my dear,
Designed to hurt, wise
Words, cynical—for an instant I fear
Them...Until I see your smiling eyes.
Somewhere, someday
The same sharp sting of smoke in my eyes,
The effervescent gray
Luxury of expensive champagne.
The humor of a witty phrase or two
Will remind me of you.
Now,
I watch your slender hand
Beat a sharp tattoo
On the scarred table...talk away.
Whatever you say
Or do...or threaten to do—
I understand
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7. KATHARINE McCUSKEY
She had lovely blue-white hair,
Waved graciously, fine
Thin brows—deep lines between -
And her eyes were gray-blue.
Her voice was lovely, too
And when she spoke
Mysterious sprites awoke
Dancing in her smile
The while
She told of beauty half seen
At twilight;
Brave little creatures
Scampering through the night.
I loved her, her patrician features
Her eyes, like faded morning glories,
Her gentle hands, her smile -
But most of all, her whispered stories.
When I was still young,
Something, someone interrupted.
They said she died...her songs sung.
"You lie!" I thought.
But they buried her on a barren hill
Where no grass grows,
Nothing—except a tall tree.
I went with them that day,
Since then -
I cannot stay away,
For I noticed the tall tree rustled
And whispered.
They may have their choice!
Say she is dead then,
On a barren
Hill. As for me, the maple is her voice.
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8. PORTRAIT
I. DECLARATION
My face is cut
With the mark of your ring,
My lips are bruised
With your kiss.
II. FIFTH AVENUE APARTMENT
"You're bleedin', lady!"
The elevator boy
Shifts his gum to tell
Me there is blood on my face.
...(bleeding heart as well)
Down, down, down -
To the street level.
(You Devil, you Devil)
Yes, lean against the wall...
Steady your knees, Friend...
Smile for the gaping bellhop...
(This is the end.)
"There's blood on your collar, lady!"
The newsboy
Squints at the mark of your ring
On my cheek. The organ-grinder
(Sing, Damn you, sing!)
Twists out a maudlin reminder
"Our love,
'Tis but a memory."
Wash your hands in the pool...
Tomorrow this will be history.
III. CENTRAL PARK
"There's blood on your face and hands, lady!"
The children's nurse
Peers at the cut on my brow.
(It's nothing, oh, you fool)
She comes with a cloth to help me now,
But ...backs away instead!
She knows! She knows and the newsboy knows!
They see you
In bed,
Sleeping, sleeping...
Outside the hurdy-gurdy playing,
"Our love" My dear,
Can you hear...
With a bullet through your head?
" [Home]
9.CODA
I
Am sitting on the church steps
Squinting at the sky.
Wishing on a star.
Wondering how far
That solitary, silly night bird
Can be heard.
Thinking that perhaps you
Can hear him, too.
Here,
With the uncertain lace
Of shadows bushes
Patterned on my face,
I know
An emptiness in my heart
I'd better go ...
My dear,
Nothing has changed
Except that ...you are not here.
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10. THE SQUIRREL
The mockery of his raucous voice
I scarce had heard before
I saw the rough wind dash his pride
Swiftly past my door.
And where he flew in brilliance
A little while before.
There is a trembling of the wire;
A bird poised in surprise.
How commonplace he looks in death...
With pain stamped in his eyes
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11. FUGUE
Ribbons of light, heavy with dust,
Waver across the room;
In the quiet gloom
They settle in uncertain halo
About the organist's head.
He sits with drooping shoulders, idle hands -
Not playing;
Peering instead
At the dirty keys.
Then—slowly he stands
And fumbles to open the window.
On the church walk below
He sees his children playing.
He nods, cleans his smudgy glasses
And turns away, saying,
"Now I can think better music...and play!"
Seated, he begins.
Melodies chase through grasses,
Capricious as leaves on an autumn day;
Down streets, through hedges,
Over ledges -
Unbelievably gay.
The second one halts, exhausted.
The first wins.
Johann Bach sighs,
Wipes his eyes
And squints in the dim
Light: conscientiously
Plays a solemn hymn.
"I can no longer see,
I have written no chorales, the day is wasted.
God must despise the likes of me!"
Postscript of a modern:
Listen, Mr. Bach, he is wise who finds
And keeps a crystal melody
To be echoed in the minds
And hearts a century
From his death. When you forsook
Your hymns, you undertook
To build your shrine, to weave your history
In song.
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12. SUICIDE: AFTER DEBUSSY
Sinuous, in satin
Moves the misty river
Through the night.
I waken, tense with fright.
Will there ever be peace in my heart again?
Or, knowing you always,
Loving desperately,
Will there be endless days
Of infinitely
Haunting melody
Following, following, following,
Like a sensuous river in the night?
"Will you play Reverie?"
You asked, not looking my way,
Not caring,
Not seeing my adoring
Smile. Then, your strong
Clear voice, "See,
He was clever. He built
His music chord on chord
Of dissonance to make the song!"
I cannot afford
To remember. Let the silt
Of the deathless river forever enfold
Me. My still hands coiled
About the straining weeds will play no more.
(And so his life will be
As before, eventually -
With, perhaps, a restless memory
Of one false note struck needlessly.)
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13. THE NIGHT REMEMBERS BEETHOVEN
The shadows of a lonely elm
Are fringed across the path,
And rustling, shivering little folk
Settle into silence-aftermath
Of a strange disturbance.
The heavy figure of a man
Passed by a while before.
The summer
Forget him, woodland creatures, if you can.
For he was like the lonely elm
With shadows on his face
And power in his fingers
As he lingered here to trace
A thythm on the tree trunk,
Fragment of a song.
And did not see the trembling ferns
But stared a long, long
Way beyond, even past the splintered stars,
Past night and time and space,
'Tis the small birds hushed in wonder
At his radiant ugly face.
Suddenly, hands clasped behind him,
He turned and quit the spot,
Muttering wordlessly in the silence,
Planning future glory. I doubt not
That he ever knew the path,
Nor guessed where he had been,
But we will not soon forget the man
Who walked this forest glen.
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14. THE PROPHET
Once I knew the beauty of
Your voice, once touched your hand
And stood close to understand
Low spoken words. I love
The memory of that instant
Forgive me, I was too intent
Upon the future to heed
The warniing in your smile.
I have forgotten the words and remembered awhile
Your voice only, the need
I did not recognize
I know not that to memorize
You, your smile, your voice
Was a mistake, but I love
Your memory, the beauty of
A splendid moment, I do not regret my choice
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15. WORDS AND MUSIC
Silently I follow
The blur of thin hands over the keys
For moments like these
Should never be wasted -
They are too few.
For you
And for me life will be beautiful,
When we are old
We will have more than tasted
Living.
Though there be land and sea between
Us, still ...we have seen
The same stars, tried sharing
Of the loveliness...to be dutiful
But we have something more, I guess
Music, words and dreams—
And one can't thrive on common fare,
Who's lived in loveliness.
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16. FRANCOIS VILLON
Love is sad, and, darling,
Love is bitter, Never forget
Life is less
Without despair-so love the darkness.
Learn to sing
In the shadows, yet
Never forget
That I have loved you, Darling
Just a little—for a while.
Listen then,
And do not question, when
I go at last...and singing.
You will have shared my song for a little while.
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17. HOW TO SAY IT
Grow up, Darling;
Let this
Teach you something.
I'll never forget the -
No.
No excuses.
No goodbyes....
Only your very young smile,
Your wondering handshake,
And swift, strange tears in my eyes.
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18. EULOGY
The voice goes on and on-
And it is I remembering
You, your gentle loveliness,
Your warmth, every small thing,
You did, your dress;
Your way of speaking.
I have failed you.
For in the final hour I stood by
And let them send you on your way
Without me, nor said goodbye,
And so, I give you leave to haunt me night and day.
I give you leave to smile-
To smile on me that I
May recognize your blue,
Blue eyes in this sky
We have loved, and that you
Have bequeathed your yellow hair
To the vaving swell of living wheat; may know that as I pass
You will soon be life blood
Of this proud green grass
And of the young trees that rustle your name.
Oh God, what good
To know that you are everywhere?
You do not answer; nothing is the same.
For I have failed you,
For in the final hour I fled the newness
Of the world you sought.
And now this
Emptiness-and life so dearly bought
With cowardice.
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19.THE THREE HILLS
"It seems to be spring."
The green hill whispers
And preens itself for living
"The sun is good."
The second hill sighs
And repeats, "It is good, it is good."
As if understood
They nod to the third
(The one with the thornbush and the crosses of wood.)
"And you, are you young again?
You, do you hum to yourself and sing
At a word from the Spring?"
But never an answer
Nor sound from the third
Did they hear, though they listened and listened.
The third small hill,
Bound by rocks of queer dark color
Piled upon each other,
Was still.
Yet....it need not speak for the thornbush flamed
In the dawn.
And the young men wept-
At a loss
To know why they wept-
At the shrill clear song
Of the blood-red Bird on the cross.
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20.THIS NIGHT WAS THE ONE TO REMEMBER
The fire shadows leapt to meet the sky
And the grey sheep wandered alone, alone,
Untended and left in the frosty fields,
Afraid of tree and bush and stone.
Shaking in terror on the crest of the hill.
And the shepherds' crooks lay all in a row
Against the black tents, deserted and still
Beside the fires in the valley below.
Next morning the shepherds returned for their flock
Humbled and chastened, with wandering eyes.
The stars had gone out, and the fires long ago;
They found all the sheep with their wavering cries
From the valley; then back to their homes,
Driving their flocks with rod and goad
(Not talking of what they had seen in the night)
Over the rocky, frost-covered road.
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