4. THOUGHTS
1.
Beside my heart
I offer you small token.
A smile, my hand
Answer the word unspoken
2.
Pain in the moment of pain
Is never so great
As its anticipation,
And life, unless measured by centuries
Is no more
Then the wavering
Flight
Of a moth
3.
Rock to sifted sand
and sand to dust....
Nothing to build or paint or score
Nothing to do that hasn't been done before.
4.
Oh, to die
Singing as the cardinal
Who surely
Must one day
Split his throat in very ecstasy
And die.
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5. PORTRAIT
You wore flowers in the toes of your shoes
And spoke delightfully of the morning,
And they said you were mad.
You laughed and traced the moon
With the tip of your little finger;
So they put you in a darkened room
With bars on the high windows
Which, you said, were no thicker
Than the slanted glances
Of the people in the first world.
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6. LIBERATION OF THE INTELLECT
Join hands, brothers,
You have forgotten God.
Enjoy what comfort touch
Of flesh can give. Sing
The long day through and
Sleep the night, automatons.
You have forgotten, truly, how to live
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7. EASTER LILIES: ROCKEFELLER CENTER
This is the dream of men who live
In the shadow of the stone.
Men with salt hearts and rock minds
Build and build where there is no depth
And skate on the surface of the wilderness.
If He is risen, He walks alone;
He speaks to the neighbor, not to them.
Cross of white and long green branches,
Christ is bereft on the promenade.
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8. NEW YORK MOODS
I
All those who dream of sleeping
In the sun
Are the city-bound and nervous;
Not one
Has the courage to stand silent
While the age of reason dies.
Still struggling, they scan the skies.
For what? For whom?
The Leader never comes.
II
Kids in the street on roller skates,
Young shouts the warm air
Can catch and send to my window
High, and the smiling
Musician in his old worn clothes,
Grinding music.
Selling charms
Of the warm and brillant hour
Has not yet occurred to the minds of men
Who wander now
In the city parks
And smmile at the girls, who smile
At them all
It is given to us,
This first sweet breath
Of the lovely, the ever arriving
Spring
III
Sit at the wake, then world,
While I fly up with God
And chat a while. My friend and I
Know well that men are foolish,
Overfond and stupid. Stars alone
Are constant. Winds blow.
Waters rise and fall.
IV
What is there in the lost and furious
Mind of man,
What chemical,
What nerve alert and sensitive;
What is there in his heart
Or in his hand intelligent
To need and scorning substitute
For the superlative;
What lives and breathes inside the animal
To point his longing,
To direct,
Or misdirect
Him heavenward?
V
Look how the snow melts on the winter pavement,
Pale light slides along the red fronts
Of many-windowed houses.
The lights go out one by one.
Where are the stars?
Beneath the eyelids:
Folded in the blue of lovely dreams.
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9.WORLD
Standing like a lost pygmy
In the midst of strange vegitation,
I watched them come,
Gigantic, tall, wide.
They strode to and past me in a matter of seconds
Carried along by emotion, I dodged in and out
Between their patent leather shoes.
I remember thinking that I should note
My surroundings in case I had to return alone,
But I could not take my eyes from the beautiful people,
Walking as though supported by strings
Caught at the wrist and elbow and shoulder.
I remember the fluid grace, the blue-white skins,
The long hair, rippling, and the square jaws.
All of them determined, all of them
Tall beyond measure,
All of them my dreams walking en masse
Toward another world of my making.
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10. INFINITY
-the dream that is the dream of a sensitivve being
is always running ahead of him on swift feet
to catch up to that dream occasionally
is a momentary miracle
a miracle i say which happens to the few
who run listening to thrush and cricket alike
who run like the work of an eccentric clock
with no hands to point the time of the world on its face
who run like children with no thought of rest
yet who rest when the need is upon them
in conscious adoration of past triumphs and triumphs to be
and who sing like the singing of pagan jungle voices
or the choirs of many small town churches as they run-
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11. I THINK
We speak
and the things we say would wound
an elephant.
Intellect banters
parries
thrusts
withdraws.
Where is the heart in this crisis?
Bleeding.
Where is the balm?
The body fills with horrified wonder
as the dream is shattered
by the splintered words
without soul.
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12. EPITHET
Approach. Above the head,
Over the rooftop, beyond the chimney
Walks the Being clothed in fire.
Do not touch.
His shield is a plastic cloud;
It spells out Certain Death.
Smile a green smile if you would walk with him.
Nod a little; hold out your hands, palms up, empty.
Do not speak.
His word means death.
Death to the living as we know them.
And if he lets you walk with him, along
In his shadow of smoke, notice his shining feet
And the wings on his ankles; watch how his hand
cleaves the air,
And if he happens to glance your way,
Show no obvious fear at the lightning
Which issues from his nostrils.
Only remember that his face is not a face at all
But a naked skull.
For you should know him better.
He is your bravery, he is your mean strength,
He is your desire for power.
And, by God! he is terrible.
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13. WHAT HAS BECOME OF HIGH BUTTON SHOES?
Every night
there was a spotted giraffe
or grunting hippopotamus or a princess
or a young prince with a magic ring
to come into the airy room,
performing for me until sleep came
Now, I ride the subway hanging by a worn strap
scanning the headlines,
counting tomorrow's pennies,
and the copper is dull, let me tell you;
the too-fine print strains my eyes
Build build BUILD
I tell those seated.
Spirit of man arise!
Earth and sky,
there is your answer.
Look to the churches.
Speak to the men who die hourly.
Sometimes, even I forget childhood
and the peculiar magic derived
from the image in
the printed word.
Spech confuses.
Look to the dutch bob and the panty-waist,
wring the sodden washcloth,
and don't forget to wash behind the ears.
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14. SONGS
I
The storm that is the storm come over the sea,
Come a long way, nearly spent,
Circles my head
And my heart,
And I am a yellow pear of Brittany,
I am a strong face turned to the sun,
A lusty shout on the wind,
Come a long way, nearly spent.
II
Whirl, skirl then, bagpipes play!
Your god is alive in the touch of man,
And over the meadow and over the lea
Range, souls and be free,
For the heart too is gay
With water and sun and sound and sight
Of all that is good: some to mind
Are the wild, exultant knights
Who never breathed other than
Healthy skies; who have died,
Who have melted and borne aloft
Our thought of field and forest tall.
Sing full, then sing! Sing sweet,
And never the night shall come
To bring end, to give halt
To your challenging lilt, -
Then play in our youth, O Play!
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15. FALLEN THE ROSE
What if the ties are broken?
What if the hands of steel
Relax, and the eyes
Dim, and the hand unsteady
Drops the rose, and the men
Go down, and the waters rise,
What dies?
What if the bright day fails?
What if the light
Goes out, and the major
Works are burned, and the trumpet
Sounds in the bright
Victorious end of battle?
Walk to the far door.
Enter.
Go down the long way.
Pause. Stay.
Search for the high star
Now. Now is the minute, now
Is the hour, now!
Melting the pillar
Of salt, dead and ashes,
Lost
The body, fallen the rose,
Dirty in the snow, cold.
What happens next? Old
Fancies work here
Not for long. The head
of the pillar says DEAD.
You are dead, but your eyes
Go beyond you, your mind
Asks the question, WHAT DIES?
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16. QUESTION/CREDO/ARIEL
QUESTION
The murdered love lies sleeping,
With tears congealed on the marble cheeks.
Now gone is the feel of godhood;
Will I ever again hear the voice
We had blessed? Never know whether
The tears were for me? Ah, never.
CREDO
Once when I heard the voice of All
Speak plainly, and in a moment knew
That my fate was of others (all unsightly)
Aside, alone, and beloved of major
Dramatic and lonely and not unkind
Ones, then did I bleed and my heart
Cried deathless! for then was I young
And thought that I lived.
ARIEL
Cities fall away, rare trumpets
Blast the presence with loud discord.
Fields, fountains, rivers, lakes,-
All disappear.
This one, this desert still, remains.
I, lost and feverish, wander.
Tree and pattern of my life are dead
The still face remains to haunt me;
Yet the smile, the never-meeting hands,
The far-off word, and ever ever
Blare of separation, like real music,
Invisible, like true note,
There, no there, no there!
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17. THANKSGIVING
There is in me today
A mood which dents the rock of time,
Ages which fall away;
I am alone, with all my dreams around me
Wind seeks my hilltop
And I see
Far off, the cities I have known, I see
The men and women; hear
Them singing sweet chorales. Near
Me trills the cardinal; I hear
Its song, and I am filled with music.
I am alone, with music all around me,
And in my head and hand
There grows a strength which cleaves
My doubt in twain and
Suffers no defeat. I see,
Deep in the heart of now, dead leaves
And branches. Clear away!
This is the day
Of reckoning and I know now
I am whole, I am one, I
Know now I give voice like thunder
Through the winter sky,
I am shock, am life, am Spring,
And then the mood goes flat, the day
And song as well, the vision, the city; under
My feet the rock. I seek some one to tell
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18. BIRTHDAY
She looked at him and saw
That he had come to her out of another world,
Far from another land,
And that he stood bravely,
Meeting her candid gaze as no other
Ever had. He did not speak;
Merely stood, bronzed, strong,
Looking at her with his lucid eyes,
Bearing her look, nodding his infinite
Understanding of her questioning eyes.
When it came time for words, no words
Were spoken, and instead, she left
Her chair, and he walked towards her
Until they stood close together, still
Not touching, each smiling.
Then, with a long sigh, she offered her hand
And he took it, bowing quickly.
Happily she closed her eyes, and missed
The swift thrust of his hidden hand,
Nor guessed its intent until she felt
The unflinching blade deep in her bowels.
Even as she fell, she heard him speak
For the first time, telling her that this
Was not true death, but the beginning of new life,
And, dying, she understood him clearly,
And she laughed.
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19. AVE ATQUE VALE
Into this life with a cry we are born;
Out of it, with a cry, silent or
Uncontrolled we go, and there are tears,
Too many tears between.
The picket lines, the herds in camps,
The baby bawling with its skull split open,-
Dreadful quiet of the mind after the work atom is pronounced
Restless, alone, we walk the night streets
Of the world, our shadows greased to shoes
Long since worn through, worn through.
And even in laughter, a fever of desperation:
Even in love, a burning desire to be born
Anew, to live always, to be immortal.
Through open windows to the sky, eyes frantic
Seek a streaming wind, breathless to the stars.
Many doors open on the highways of peace,
But the rusted key jams in the lock
They endlessly close behind us,
And we are ushered into rooms of small dimension,
To stand before each other, tragic, in too large coats,
Our hats dripping with rain, our hearts laid bare.
To die, what is that but to find a larger balm
Than can ever be contained in chrome boxes?
To live here, now, waging endless wars of the spirit,
Agony, agony, even in joy,- what is that
But the terrible unshed tears of our parents,
Homeless, cramped in coffins of their own making?
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20. nb to CR
Somewhere, there is a land where, ultimately
I will be born. There is a brighter sun than I
have known; skies changing with the mood of the
Big God we never see; winds in all weathers, for
I have always loved the sound of wind through
trees, and so there must be trees: pines, elms,
tall elms, majestic elms, and poplars, turning
their bright leaves in air, silver now, now green;
other trees all shapes and silences.
Tree and water. The sea, I think, before the
house - red house, like a barn - and through the
trees across the dunes, still water ponds and
some live-stock.
Now, as for people? People, yes, of course,
but let them come as they may without invitation,
and no distinctions need ever be made, save that
they be kind to one another, able to converse,
listen to music, and sing, if they feel like it.
Somewhere there is a land that I will never
find by sitting still, but by progression slowly,
and sometimes blindly, through this world I have,
at twenty-five, known too long; steadily, with my
hands outstretched, listening, asking the way,
and being always young.
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POEMS, 1946 -