To be mocked so, will not be sorry if
Some of you keeps, grey eyes, your dulcet lust . .
So the old fiction fools us on, Hope steers
Rather us lickerish towards some hieroglyph
Than whelms us home, loinless and sleepy dust.
[39]
And does the old wound shudder open? Shall
I nurse again my days to a girl’s sight,
Feeling the bandaged and unquiet night
Slide? Writhe in silly ecstasy? Banal
Greetings rehearse till a quotidian drawl
Carols a promise? Stoop an acolyte
Who stood my master? Must my blood flow bright,
Childish, I chilled and darkened? Strong pulse crawl?
I see I do, it must, trembling I see
Grace of her switching walk away from me
Fastens me where I stop now, smiling pain;
And neither pride don nor the fever shed
More, till the furor when we slide to bed,
Enter calenture for the boiling brain.
[40]
Marble nor monuments whereof then we spoke
We speak of more; spasmodic as the wasp
About my windowpane, our short songs rasp—
Not those alone before their singers choke—
Our sweetest; none hopes now with one smart stroke
Or whittling years to crack away the hasp
Across the ticking future; all our grasp
Cannot beyond the butt secure its smoke.
A Renaissance fashion, not to be recalled.
We dinch ‘eternal numbers’ and go out.
We understand exactly what we are.
. . Do we? Argent I craft you as the star
Of flower-shut evening: who stays on to doubt
I sang true? ganger with trobador and scald!
[41]
And Plough-month peters out . . its thermal power
Squandered in sighs and poems and hopeless thought,
Which corn and honey, wine, soap, wax, oil ought
Upon my farmling to have chivvied into flower.
I burn, not silly with remorse, in sour
Flat heat of the dying month I stretch out taut:
Twenty-four dawns the topaz woman wrought
To smile to me is gone. These days devour
Memory: what were you elbowed on your side?
Supine, your knee flexed? do I hear your words
Faint as a nixe, in our grove, saying farewells? . .
At five I get up sleepless to decide
What I will not today do; ride out: hear birds
Antiphonal at the dayspring, and nothing else.
[42]
The clots of age, grovel and palsy, crave
Mádmen: to gasp, unreasonably weep,
Gravid with ice, staving invincible sleep . .
Still as I watch this two tonight I waive
Half of my fear, envy sues even: grave,
Easy and light with juniors, he, and steep
In his honours she, belov’d, wholly they keep
Together, accustomed; hircine excitement gave
No joy so deep, and died . . Fill my eyes with tears,
I stare down the intolerable years
To the mild survival—where, you are where, where?
‘I want to take you for my lover’ just
You vowed when on the way I met you: must
Then that be all (Do) the shorn time we share?
[43]
You should be gone in winter, that Nature mourn
With me your anarch separation, call-
ing warmth all with you: as more poetical
Than to be left biting the dog-days, lorn
Alone when all else burgeons, brides are born,
Children yet (some) begotten, every wall
Clasped by its vine here . . crony alcohol
Comfort as random as the unicorn.
Listen, for poets are feigned to lie, and I
For you a liar am a thousand times,
Scars of these months blazon like a decree:
I would have you—a liner pulls the sky—
Trust when I mumble me, Than gin-&-limes
You are cooler, darling, O come back to me.
[44]
Bell to sore knees vestigial crowds, let crush
One another nations sottish and a-prowl,
Talon the Norway rat to a barn owl
At wind-soft midnight; split the sleepy hush
The frantic hesitator; strike a rowel
To a sad nag; probe, while they whiten & howl,
With rubber gloves the prisoners’ genial slush;
Enact our hammer time; only from time
Twitch while the wind works my beloved and me
Once with indulgent tongs for a little free,—
Days, deer-fleet years, to be a paradigm
For runaways and the régime’s exiles.
. . The wind lifts, soon, the cold wind reconciles.
[45]
Boy twenty-one, in Donne, shied like a blow,—
His prose, from poems’ seductive dynamite,—
I read ‘The adulterer waits for the twilight …
The twilight comes, and serves his turn.’ (Not so:
Midnight or dawn.) I stuttered frightened ‘No,
Nóne could decline, crookt, ghastly, from the sight
Of elected love and love’s delicious rite
Upon the livid stranger Loves forego.’
. . I am this strange thing I despised; you are.
To become ourselves we are these wayward things.
And the lies at noon, months’ tremblings, who foresaw?
And I did not foresee fraud of the Law
The scarecrow restraining like a man, its rings
Blank . . my love’s eyes familiar as a scar!
[46]
Are we? You murmur ‘not’. What of the night-
bulge on the North Way we could not contain,
Twice I slid to You sudden as the stain
Flushes the wanderer at the water’s sight,
And back, but You writhed on Me . . as I write
I tremble . . trust me not to keep on sane
Until you whisper ‘Come to me again’
Unless you whisper soon. O come we soon
Together dark and sack each other outright,
Doomed cities loose and thirsty as a dune . .
Lovers we are, whom now the on-tide licks.
Our fast of famed sleep stirs, darling, diurnal,—
Hurry! we (ah), beginning our eternal
Junket on the winds, wake like a ton of Styx.
[47]
How far upon these songs with my strict wrist
Hard to bear down, who knows? None is to read
But you: so gently . . but then truth’s to heed,
The sole word, near or far, shot in the mist.
Double I sing, I must, your utraquist,
Crumpling a syntax at a sudden need,
Stridor of English softening to plead
O to you plainly lest you more resist.
‘Arthur lay then at Caerlon upon Usk.…’
I see, and all that story swims back . . red
Satin over rushes . . Mother’s voice at dusk.
So I comb times and men to cram you rare:
‘Faire looketh Ceres with her yellow Haire’—
Fairer you far O here lie filteréd.
[48]
I’ve met your friend at last, your violent friend,
Laughter out of a hard life; and she cut,
Treating in talk one door really as shut
That should be shut, gashes will hardly mend.
‘Here is Natasha’ at the other end
Of telephones . . ‘Heck, I feel wonderful!…’
And so do I when I am with her, but
I would she knew she
lashed me where I bend.
And so do I when I am with her, only
Her ‘they’ and ‘harmony’ harry me lone and wild.
. . How she loves you! and then to disarrange,
Powerful chemist, all the years she’s filed
With stubborn work, for the law! . . she means to change.
So do I mean,—less (when I rise up) lonely.
[49]
One note, a daisy, and a photograph,
To slake this siege of weeks without you, all.
Your dawn-eyed envoy, welcome as Seconal,
To call you faithful . . now this cenotaph,
A shabby mummy flower. Note I keep safe,
Nothing, on a ration slip a social scrawl—
Not that it didn’t forth some pages call
Of my analysis, one grim paragraph.
The snapshot then—your eyes down, your hair bound:
Your power leashed, but too your blaze is dim . .
By the sea, thinking, long before we met;
Akimbo from your nape, what petrels round
(Out of the print) your unsuspicious slim
Dear figure, warning ‘Dream of him
now you not know whom you will not forget.’
[50]
They come too thick, hail-hard, and all beside
Smother, necessities of my nights and days,
My proper labour that my storm betrays
Weekly lamented, weakly flung aside;
What in the musical wind to work but glide
Among the wind, willing my eyes should daze
Fast on her image, for an exhaustless phrase,
While themes throng, the rapt world one & hers & wide.
They crowd on, crowning what I perforce complain
Remorseful in my journal of, and lest
Thick they fall thin, I beg the calm belongs,—
Traditional meditation. But when my rein
Fails most, still I race feeble to protest
These two months . . decades of excited songs.
[51]
A tongue there is wags, down in the dark wood O:
Trust it not. It trills malice among friends,
Irrelevant squibs, and lies, to its own ends
Or to no ends, simply because it would O.
To us, us most I hear, it prinks no good O;
Has its idea, Jamesian; apprehends
Truth non-aviarian; meddles, and ‘defends’
Honour free . . that such a bill so wily should O!
Who to my hand all year flew to be fed
Makes up his doubts to dart at us . . —Ah well,
Did you see the green of that catalpa tree?—
A certain puisne will lose half its head
For cheek, our keek, our hairy philomel.—
How can you tell?—A little bird told me.
[52]
A sullen brook hardly would satisfy
The Winter-traveller slumps near, Stony Brook;
Prattle of brooks it scorns, only in some crook
Fetches again and now a muddy sigh
Reaches me here.—A liner rocks the sky,
I shudder beneath the trees. I brought a book,
Shut on my brown knee. Once I rise and look
Under the bridge-arch. The third day of July.
Close, going back, I pass (still as a mouse)
The fatuous stranger in the stone strong home
Now you and my friend your husband are away.
And I must gnaw there somewhy. Double day:
In the end I race by cocky as a comb,
Adust . . Da ist meiner Liebstens Haus.
[53]
Some sketch sweat’ out, unwilling swift & crude,
A hundred more like bats in swelter-day
A-lunge about my office, I’m away
Downstairs for coffee, and to rest, and brood.
. . The mots fly, and the flies mope on the food
Where all-age adolescents swig and bray,
An ice-cream-soda jag, the booths are gay . .
The ass-eyes after me unlid, protrude.
And I have fled an-crazy to my task
In the hotbox at the top of Upper Pyne
To work their children music! as ice cubes
Pleasing, colder keeping, more than they ask,
As worthy of them—not of you . . No sign . .
Ermite-amateur in the midst of the boobs.
[54]
It was the sky all day I grew to and saw.
I cycled southeast through the empty towns,
Flags hanging out, between the summer grains,
Meeting mainly the azure minions of our law.
Near our fake lake an artificial pool
Was full of men and women; all the rest,
Shore for the Fourth. I crookt two roses. Most
I studied the sky’s involuntary rule.
I followed a cloud and finally I caught it,
Sprinting my ribbon down the world of green . .
Shadow to shadow, under tropical day . .
Flat country, slow, alone. So in my pocket
Your snapshot nightmares where (cloth, flesh between)
My heart was, before I gave it away.
[55]
When I recall I could believe you’d go
I start. I can’t believe you will come back.
Months on to Monday, and then Monday’s rack
Uncertain up the sky unseen winds blow
Bringing what weather I cannot foreknow.
Still I see better in my almanac
Your coming, than in the columns white and black
My going later. All our plans outgrow
My local eyes, locked where somehow we draw
Somewhat together, wince to a single goad,
Each other steady . . steadily closer . . keep.
Closer: against the departures of our law
Let’s Dido-like ‘forge causes of abode’ . .
Whom the sliding stars wheedle as one to sleep.
[56]
Sunderings and luxations, luxe, and grief-
unending exile from the original spouse,
Dog-fights! one bites intimate as a louse
The lousy other, Love the twitching leaf
Wide to the weather, hangover-long, jag-brief,
Nulliparous intensities, or as mouse
To cats the child to broken parents, house
Sold, books divided . . divorce as a relief . .
We discussed, drinking, one sad afternoon
In a Connecticut house in cloudy June,
Thinking, whoever was mentioned, still of others.
I thought of you,—come we too to this vile
Loose fagend? earlier still loves so defile? . .
Could our incredible marriage . . like all others’ . . ?
[57]
Our love conducted as in tropic rain
Develops hair and lowers its head: the lash
And weight of rain breed, like the soundless slosh
Divers make round a wrack, régime, domain
Invisible, to us-inured invisible stain
Of all our process; also lightning flash
Limns us audacious, furtive, whom slow crash
On crash jolt like the mud- and storm-blind Wain.
If the rain ceased and the incredible sun
Shone out! . . whom our stars shake, could we emerge
Trustful and clear into the common rank,—
So long deceiving?—Days when Dathan sank
Quick to the pit not past, darling, we verge
Daily O there: have strange changes begun?
[58]
Sensible, coarse, and moral; in decent brown;
Its money doling to an orphanage;
Sober . . well-spirited but sober; sage
Plain nourishing life nor you nor I could down
I doubt, our blinkers lost, blood like a clown
Dancing upon a one-night hot
-foot stage,
Brains in a high wind, high brains, the next page
Trembling,—the water’s fine, come in and drown.
Since the corruption of the working classes
I am speaking of the Eighteenth Century: kisses
Opening on betrothals, love like a vise.
Where shawm and flute flutter the twilight, where
Conjugal, toothless, has a booth at the Fair,
The Reno brothels boom, suddenly we writhe.
[59]
Loves are the summer’s. Summer like a bee
Sucks out our best, thigh-brushes, and is gone.
The yellow pollen upon the white winds blown
Settles. I feel the summer draining me,
I lean back breathless in an agony
Of charming loss I suffer without moan,
Without my love, or with my love alone.
She left me in the Spring, or I say we
Left, before there we bloomed, our secret garden!
The ghosts of breezes widowy small paths wander,
A fruitless bird pipes its surprising sorrow.
When will she, she come back? . . against whom I harden
My effortless ghost in vain, who moved asunder
Flowers at the come of summer beautiful and narrow.
[60]
Today is it? Is it today? I shudder
For nothing in my chair, and suddenly yawn.
Today I suddenly believe. Since dawn
When I creaked up, my muscles like a rudder
Strain crosswise from this work. I rise and mutter
Something, and hum, pace, and sit down again
Hard. A butterfly in my shoulder then
Stops and aches. My stomach swings like a shutter.
As the undergrounds piston a force of air
Before their crash into the station, you
Are felt before your coming, in the platform’s shake.
So light, so small, so far still, to impair
So action and peace . . risks we take make true
Maybe our safeties . . come! for our risk’s sake.
[61]