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Transcript of Williams, W. C. - Sour Grapes
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SOUR GRAPES
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SOUR GRAPESA Book of Poems
BOSTON
THE FOUR SEAS COMPANY
1921
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Copyright, 1921, by
THE FOUR SEAS COMPANY
The Four Seas Press
Boston, Mass., U. S. A.
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fs
To
ALFRED KREYMBORG
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Certain of the poems in this book have appeared in the
magazines:
Poetry,a
Magazine of Verse,The
Egoist,The Little Review, The Dial, Others, and Contact.
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CONTENTSPage
THE LATE SINGER . . . . . 1 1
MARCH .' 12
BERKET AND THE STARS . .. ./ . 17
A CELEBRATION . 18
APRIL . . . ... . 21
A GOODNIGHT . . . . . . 22
OVERTURE TO A DANCE OF LOCOMOTIVES . 24ROMANCE MODERNE .... . 26
THE DESOLATE FIELD . ... 30WILLOW POEM . . . . . . 31
APPROACH OF WINTER . ,. . . 32
JANUARY . 33
BLIZZARD . . . . . 34To WAKEN AN OLD LADY . . . . 35WINTER TREES ...... 36COMPLAINT . . . ... 37THE COLD NIGHT 38SPRING STORM . . . . . . 39
THE DELICACIES . . . . . 40THURSDAY . . . . . . . 43THE DARK DAY . ... .
'
. . . 44
TIME, THE HANGMAN . . . . 45To A FRIEND . . . . . 46THE GENTLE MAN . . . . . . 47
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CONTENTS
THE SOUGHING WIND .
SPRING ......PLAYLINES
THE POOR ....COMPLETE DESTRUCTION
MEMORY OF APRIL
EPITAPH ......DAISY
PRIMROSE ......QUEEN-ANN'S-LACE ....GREAT MULLEN .....WAITING ......THE HUNTERARRIVAL ......To A FRIEND CONCERNING SEVERAL LADIES
YOUTH AND BEAUTY ....THE THINKER .....THE DISPUTANTS ....THE TULIP BED .....THE BIRDS
THE NIGHTINGALES ....SPOUTS ......BLUEFLAGS
......THE WIDOW'S LAMENT IN SPRINGTIME .
LIGHT HEARTED WILLIAMPORTRAIT OF THE AUTHORTHE LONELY STREET ....THE GREAT FIGURE
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SOUR GRAPES
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THE LATE SINGER
Here it is spring again
and I still a young man
1 am late at my singing.The sparrow with the black rain on his breast
has been at his cadenzas for two weeks past :
What is it that is dragging at my heart ?
The grass by the back dooris stiff with sap.
The old maples are openingtheir branches of brown and yellow moth-flowers.
A moon hangs in the blue
in the early afternoons over the marshes.I am late at my singing.
EH]
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MARCH
I
Winter is long in this climate
and spring a matter of a few daysonly, a flower or two pickedfrom mud or from among wet leaves
or at best against treacherous
bitterness of wind, and sky shining
teasingly, then closing in blackand sudden, with fierce jaws.
II
March,you remind me of
the pyramids, our pyramidsstript of the polished stonethat used to guard them
March,you are like Fra Angelico
at Fiesole, painting on plaster
March,you are like a band of
young poets that have not learnedthe blessedness of warmth(or have forgotten it).
At any rate
I am moved to write poetryfor the warmth there is in it
and for the lonelinessa poem that shall have you
in it March.[12]
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Ill
See
Ashur-ban-i-pal,the archer king, on horse-back,in blue and yellow enamel
with drawn bow facing lions
standing on their hind legs,
fangs bared his shafts
bristling in their necks
Sacred bulls dragonsin embossed brickwork
marching in four tiers
along the sacred way to
Nebuchadnezzar's throne hall
Theyshine in the
sun,they that have been marchingmarching under the dust of
ten thousand dirt years.
Nowthey are coming into bloom againSee them
marching still, bared bythe storms from my calendar
winds that blow back the sand
winds that enfilade dirt
winds that by strange craft
havewhipt up
a blackarmythat by pick and shovel
bare a procession to
the god, Marduk
Natives cursing and diggingfor pay unearth dragons with
[13]
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upright tails and sacred bulls
alternatelyin four tiers
lining the way to an old altar
Natives digging at old walls
digging me warmth digging mesweet loneliness
high enamelled walls.
IV
My second spring
passed in a monasterywith plaster walls in Fiesole
on the hill above Florence.
My second spring painteda virgin in a blue aureole
sitting on a three-legged stool,
arms crossed
she is intently serious,and still
watching an angelwith coloured wingshalf kneeling before herand smiling the angel's eyes
holding the eyes of Maryas a snake's holds a bird's.
On the ground there are flowers,trees are in leaf.
VBut now for the battle
Now for murder now for the real thing
My third springtime is approaching
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Winds
lean, serious as a virgin,
seeking, seeking the flowers of March.
Seekingflowers nowhere to be found,
they twine among the bare branchesin insatiable eagernessthey whirl up the snowseeking under it
they the winds snakelike
roar among yellow reeds
seeking flowers flowers.
I spring among them
seeking one flowerin which to warm myself
I deride with all the ridicule
of miserymy own starved misery.
Counter-cutting windsstrike against me
refreshing their fury
Come, good, cold fellows
Have we no flowers?
Defy then with even moredesperation than ever being
lean and frozen
But though you are lean and frozenthink of the blue bulls of Babylon.
[15]
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Fling yourselves upontheir empty roses
cut savagely
Butthink of the painted monastery
at Fiesole.
[16]
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BERKET AND THE STARS
A day on the boulevards chosen out of ten years ofstudent poverty One best day out of ten good ones.
Berket in high spirits Ha, oranges Let's have one
And he made to snatch an orange from the vender's
cart.
Now so clever was the deception, so nicely timedto the full sweep of certain wave summits,that the rumor of the thing has come down throughthree generations which is relatively forever
[17]
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A CELEBRATION
A middle-northern March, now as always
gusts from the south broken against cold winds
but from under, as if a slow hand lifted a tide,
it moves not into April into a second March,the old skin of wind-clear scales dropping
upon the mould: this is the shadow projects the tree
upward causingthe sun to shine in his sphere.
So we will put on our pink felt hat new last yearnewer this by virtue of brown eyes turning back
the seasons and let us walk to the orchid-house,see the flowers will take the prize to-morrowat the Palace.
Stop here, these are our oleanders.When they are in bloom
You would waste wordsIt is clearer to me than if the pinkwere on the branch. It would be a searching in
a coloured cloud to reveal that which now, huskless,shows the
veryreason for their
being.
And these the orange-trees, in blossom no needto tell with this weight of perfume in the air.
If it were not so dark in this shed one could better
see the white.
It is that very perfumehas drawn the darkness down among the leaves.
Do I speak clearly enough?It is this darkness reveals that which darkness aloneloosens and sets spinning on waxen wingsnot the touch of a finger-tip, not the motionof a sigh. A too heavy sweetness proves
its own caretaker.[18]
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And here are the orchids
Never having seen
such gaiety I will read these flowers for you :
This is an odd January, died in Villon's time.
Snow, this is and this the stain of a violet
grew in that place the spring that foresaw its owndoom.
And this, a certainJuly
from Iceland:
a young woman of that placebreathed it toward the south. It took root there.
The colour ran true but the plant is small.
This falling spray of snowflakes is
a handful of dead Februarysprayed into flower by Rafael Arevalo Martinez
of Guatemala.
Here's that old friend whowent by my side so many years : this full, fragile
head of veined lavender. Oh that Aprilthat we first went with our stiff lusts
leaving the city behind, out to the green hill
May, they said she was. A hand for all of us :
this branch of blue butterflies tied to this stem.
June is a yellow cup I'll not name; Augustthe over-heavy one. And here are
russet and shiny, all but March. And March?
Ah, March-Flowers are a tiresome pastime.
One has a wish to shake them from their pots
root and stem, for the sun to gnaw.[19]
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A CELEBRATION
A middle-northern March, now as always
gusts from the south broken against cold winds
but from under, as if a slow hand lifted a tide,
it moves not into April into a second March,the old skin of wind-clear scales dropping
upon the mould: this is the shadow projects the tree
upward causingthe sun to shine in his
sphere.
So we will put on our pink felt hat new last year
newer this by virtue of brown eyes turning backthe seasons and let us walk to the orchid-house,see the flowers will take the prize to-morrowat the Palace.
Stop here, these are our oleanders.When they are in bloom
You would waste wordsIt is clearer to me than if the pinkwere on the branch. It would be a searching in
a coloured cloud to reveal that which now, huskless,shows the
veryreason for their
being.
And these the orange-trees, in blossom no needto tell with this weight of perfume in the air.
If it were not so dark in this shed one could better
see the white.
It is that very perfumehas drawn the darkness down among the leaves.
Do I speak clearly enough?It is this darkness reveals that which darkness aloneloosens and sets spinning on waxen wingsnot the touch of a finger-tip, not the motionof a sigh. A too heavy sweetness provesits own caretaker.
[18]
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And here are the orchids
Never having seen
such gaiety I will read these flowers for you :
This is an odd January, died in Villon's time.
Snow, this is and this the stain of a violet
grew in that place the spring that foresaw its owndoom.
And this, a certain July from Iceland:a young woman of that placebreathed it toward the south. It took root there.
The colour ran true but the plant is small.
This falling spray of snowflakes is
a handful of dead Februarysprayed into flower by Rafael Arevalo Martinez
of Guatemala.
Here's that old friend whowent by
myside so many years : this full, fragile
head of veined lavender. Oh that Aprilthat we first went with our stiff lusts
leaving the city behind, out to the green hill
May, they said she was. A hand for all of us :
this branch of blue butterflies tied to this stem.
June is a yellow cup I'll not name; Augustthe over-heavy one. And here are
russet and shiny, all but March. And March?Ah, March
Flowers are a tiresome pastime.One has a wish to shake them from their potsroot and stem, for the sun to gnaw.
[19]
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Walk out again into the cold and saunter hometo the fire. This day has blossomed long enough.I have wiped out the red night and lit a blaze
instead which will at least warm our handsand stir up the talk.
I think we have kept fair time.
Time is a green orchid.
[20]
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APRIL
Ifyou
had come away with meinto another state
we had been quiet together.But there the sun coming upout of the nothing beyond the lake wastoo low in the sky,there was too great a pushing
against him,too much of sumac buds, pinkin the headwith the clear gum upon them,too many opening hearts oflilac leaves,too many, too many swollen
limp poplar tassels on thebare branches
It was too strong in the air.
I had no rest agaist that
springtime
The pounding of the hoofs on the
raw sods
stayed with me half through the night.I awoke smiling but tired.
21]
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A GOODNIGHT
Go to sleep thoughof course
youwill not
to tideless waves thundering slantwise against
strong embankments, rattle and swish of spraydashed thirty feet high, caught by the lake wind,scattered and strewn broadcast in over the steadycar rails Sleep, sleep Gulls' cries in a wind-gustbroken by the wind ; calculating wings set above
the field of waves breaking.Go to sleep to the lunge between foam-crests,refuse churned in the recoil. Food FoodOffal Offal that holds them in the air, wave-whitefor the one purpose, feather upon feather, the wildchill in their eyes, the hoarseness in their voices
sleep, sleep . . .
Gentlefooted crowds are treading out your lullaby.Their arms nudge, they brush shoulders,hitch this way then that, mass and surge at the cross-
ings
lullaby, lullaby The wild- fowl police whistles,
the enraged roar of the trafic, machine shrieks:it is all to put you to sleep,to soften your limbs in relaxed postures,and that your head slip sidewise, and your hair loosenand fall over your eyes and over your mouth,brushing your lips wistfully that you may dream,sleep and dream
A black fungus springs out about lonely church doors
sleep, sleep. The Night, coming down uponthe wet boulevard, would start you awake with his
message, to have in at your window. Pay noheed to him. He storms at your sill with
cooings, with gesticulations, curses
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You will not let him in. He would keep you from
sleeping.He would have you sit under your desk lamp
brooding, pondering; he would have youslide out the drawer, take up the ornamented daggerand handle it. It is late, it is nineteen-nineteen
go to sleep, his cries are a lullaby;his jabbering is a sleep- well-my-baby ; he is
a crackbrained messenger.
The maid waking you in the morningwhen you are up and dressing,the rustle of your clothes as you raise themit is the same tune.
At table the cold, greenish, split grapefruit, its juiceon the tongue, the clink of the spoon in
your coffee, the toast odors say it over and over.
The open street-door lets in the breath ofthe morning wind from over the lake.
The bus coming to a halt grinds from its sullen
brakes
lullaby, lullaby. The crackle of a newspaper,the movement of the troubled coat beside yousleep, sleep, sleep, sleep . . .
It is the sting of snow, the burning liquor of
the moonlight, the rush of rain in the gutters packedwith dead leaves : go to sleep, go to sleep.
And the night passes and never passes
[23]
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OVERTURE TO A DANCE OF LOCOMOTIVES
Men with picked voices chant the namesof cities in a huge gallery: promisesthat pull through descending stairwaysto a deep rumbling.
The rubbing feet
of those coming to be carried quicken a
grey pavement into soft light that rocksto and fro, under the domed ceiling,across and across from paleearthcoloured walls of bare limestone.
Covertly the hands of a great clock
go round and round Were they to
move quickly and at once the wholesecret would be out and the shufflingof all ants be done forever.
A leaning pyramid of sunlight, narrowingout at a high window, moves by the clock
disaccordant hands straining out froma center: inevitable postures infinitely
repeated
II
Two twofour twoeight
Porters in red hats run on narrow platforms.This way ma'm
important not to takethe wrong train
Lights from the concreteceiling hang crooked but
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Poised horizontal
on glittering parallels the dingy cylinders
packed with a warm glow inviting entry
pull againstthe hour. But brakes can
hold a fixed posture till
The whistle
Not twoeight. Not two four. Two
Gliding windows. Colored cooks sweatingin a small kitchen. Taillights >
In time : twof our
In time : twoeight
rivers are tunneled: trestles
crossoozy swampland: wheels repeatingthe same gesture remain relatively
stationary: rails forever parallelreturn on themselves infinitely.
The dance is
[25]
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ROMANCE MODERNE
Tracks of rain and light linger in
the spongy greens of a nature whosenickering mountain bulging nearer,
ebbing back into the sun
hollowing itself away to hold a lake,
or brown stream rising and falling
at the roadside, turning about,
churningitself white,
drawinggreen in over it, plunging glassy funnels
fall
And the other worldthe windshield a blunt barrier:
Talk to me. Sh they would hear us.
the backs of their heads facing us
The stream continues its motion ofa hound running over rough ground.
Trees vanish reappear vanish:'detached dance of gnomes as a talk
dodging remarks, glows and fades.
The unseen powerof
wordsAnd now that a few of the movesare clear the first desire is
to fling oneself out at the side into
the other dance, to other music.Peer Gynt. Rip Van Winkle. Diana.
If I were young I would try a new alignment-alight nimbly from the car, Good-bye
Childhood companions linked two and twocriss-cross : four, three, two, one.Back into self, tentacles withdrawn.Feel about in warm self-flesh.
Since childhood, since childhood[26]
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Childhood is a toad in the garden, a
happy toad. All toads are happyand belong in gardens. A toad to Diana
Lean forward. Punch the steersmanbehind the ear. Twirl the wheel
Over the edge Screams Crash
The end. I sit above my heada little removed or
a thin wash of rain on theroadwayI am never afraid when he is driving,
interposes new direction,rides us sideswise, unforseeninto the ditch All threads cut
Death Black. The end. The very end
I would sit separate weighing asmall red handful: the dirt of these parts,
sliding mists sheeting the alders
against the touch of fingers creepingto mine. All stuff of the blind emotions.But stirred, the eye seizes
for the first time The eye awake
anything, a dirt bank with green stars
of scrawny weed flattened upon it undera weight of air For the first time
or a yawning depth: BigSwim around in it, through it
all directions and find
vitreous seawaterstuff
God how I love you or, as I say,a plung into the ditch. The end. I sit
examining my red handful. Balancingthis in and out agh.
Love you? It's
a fire in the blood, willy-nilly
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It's the sun coming tip in the morning.
Ha, but it's the grey moon too, already upin the morning. You are slow.
Men are not friends where it concerns
a woman? Fighters. Playfellows.White round thighs Youth SighsIt's the fillip of novelty. It's
Mountains. Elephants humping along
againstthe
skyindifferent to
light withdrawing its tattered shreds,
worn out with embraces. It's
the fillip of novelty. It's a fire in the blood.
Oh get a flannel shirt, white flannel
or pongee. You'd look so well
I married you because I liked your nose.I wanted you I wanted youin spite of all they'd say
Rain and light, mountain and rain,
rain and river. Will you love me always?- A car overturned and two crushed bodies
under it. Always Always
And the white moon already up.White. Clean. All the colors.
A good head, backed by the eye awake
backed by the emotions blind
River and mountain, light and rain or
rain, rock, light, trees divided:
rain-light counter rocks-trees ortrees counter rain-light-rocks or
Myriads of counter processionscrossing and recrossing, regainingthe advantage, buying here, selling there
You are sold cheap everywhere in town
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lingering, touching fingers, withdrawinggathering forces into blares, hummocks,
peaks and rivers river meeting rockI wish that you were lying there dead
and I sitting here beside you.It's the grey moon over and over.
It's the clay of these parts.
[29]
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THE DESOLATE FIELD
Vast and grey, the skyis a simulacrumto all but him whose daysare vast and grey, andIn the tall, dried grassesa goat stirs
with nozzle searching the ground.
my head is in the air
but who am I . . ?
And amazed my heart leapsat the thought of love
vast and greyyearning silently over me.
[30]
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WILLOW POEM
It is a willow when summer is over,a willow by the river
from which no leaf has fallen norbitten by the sunturned orange or crimson.
The leaves cling and grow paler,
swingand
grow palerover the swirling waters of the river
as if loath to let go,
they are so cool, so drunk withthe swirl of the wind and of the river-
oblivious to winter,the last to let go and fall
into the water and on the ground.
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APPROACH OF WINTER
The half stripped treesstruck by a wind together,
bending all,
the leaves flutter drilyand refuse to let goor driven like hail
stream bitterly out to one side
and fall
where the salvias, hard carmine,-like no leaf that ever wasedge the bare garden.
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JANUARY
Again I reply to the triple windsrunning chromatic fifths of derision
outside my window :
Play louder.
You will not succeed. I ambound more to my sentences
the moreyou
batter at meto follow you.
And the wind,as before,, fingers perfectlyits derisive music.
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BLIZZARD
Snow:years of anger followinghours that float idly downthe blizzard
drifts its weightdeeper and deeper for three daysor sixty years, eh? Thenthe sun a clutter of
yellow and blue flakes
Hairy looking trees stand outin long alleysover a wild solitude.
The man turns and therehis
sblitarytrack stretched out
upon the world.
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WINTER TREES
All the complicated detailsof the attiring andthe disattiring are completedA liquid moonmoves gently amongthe long branches.
Thus having prepared their buds
against a sure winterthe wise trees
stand sleeping in the cold.
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THE COLD NIGHT
It is cold.The
white moonis up among her scattered stars
like the bare thighs of
the Police Seargent's wife amongher five children . . .
No answer. Pale shadows lie uponthe frosted grass. One answer:
It is midnight, it is still
and it is cold . . .
White thighs of the sky a
new answer out of the depths of
my male belly: In April . . .
In April I shall see again In April
the round and perfect thighsof the Police Sergent's wife
perfect still after many babies.
Oya
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THE DELICACIES
The hostess, in pink satin and blond hair dressed
high shone beautifully in her white slippers against
the great silent bald head of her little-eyed husband
Raising a glass of yellow Rhine wine in the narrow
space just beyond the light-varnished woodwork and
the decorative column between dining-room and hall,
she smiled the smile of water tumbling from one ledge
to another.
We began with a herring salad: delicately flavoured
saltiness in scallops of lettuce-leaves.
The little owl-eyed and thick-set lady with massesof grey hair has smooth pink cheeks without a wrinkle.
She cannot be the daughter of the little red-facedfellow dancing about inviting lion-headed Wolff the
druggist to play the piano But she is. Wolff is a
terrific smoker: if the telephone goes off at night so
his curled-haired wifewhispers
he rises from bed but
cannot answer till he has lighted a cigarette.
Sherry wine in little conical glasses, dull brownishyellow, and tomatoes stuffed with finely cut chickenand mayonnaise
The tall Irishman in a Prince Albert and the usual
striped trousers is going to sing for us. (The pianois in a little alcove with dark curtains.) The hostess'ssister ten years younger than she in black net andvelvet, has hair like some filmy haystack, cloudy about
the eyes. She will play for her husband.[40]
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My wife is young, yes she is young and pretty whenshe cares to be when she is interested in a discussion :
it is the little dancing mayor's wife telling her of the
Day nurseryin East Rutherford, 'cross the track,
divided from us by the railroad and disputes as to
precedence. It is in this town the saloon flourishes,
the saloon of my friend on the right whose wife has
twice offended with chance words. Her English is
atrocious It is in this town that the saloon is situated,close to the railroad track, close as may be, this side
being dry, dry, dry: two people listening on oppositesides of a wall The Day Nursery had sixty-fivebabies the week before last, so my wife's eyes shine
and her cheeks are pink and I cannot see a blemish.
Ice-cream in the shape of flowers and domestic
objects: a pipe for me since I do not smoke, a dollfor you.
The figure of some great bulk of a woman dis-
appearing into the kitchen with a quick look over the
shoulder. My friend on the left who has spent the
whole day in a car the like of which some old fellowwould give to an actress : flower-holders, mirrors,
curtains, plush seats my friend on the left who is
chairman of the Streets committee of the town council
and who has spent the whole day studying auto-
mobile fire-engines in neighbouring towns in view of
purchase, my friend, at the Elks last week at the
breaking-up hymn, signalled for them to let Bill afamiliar friend of the saloon-keeper sing out all aloneto the organ and he did sing
Salz-rolls, exquisite and Rhine wine ad libitum.
A masterly caviare sandwich.
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The children flitting about above stairs. Thecouncilman has just bought a National eight somecar
For heaven's sake I mustn't forget the halves of
green peppers stuffed with cream cheese and wholewalnuts
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THURSDAY
I have had my dream like others
and it has come to nothing, so thatI remain now carelesslywith feet planted on the groundand look up at the sky
feeling my clothes about me,the weight of my body in my shoes,
the rim of my hat, air passing in and out
at my nose and decide to dream no more.
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THE DARK DAY
A three-day-long rain from the eastan interminable talking, talkingof no consequence patter, patter, patter.Hand in hand little windsblow the thin streams aslant.
Warm. Distance cut off. Seclusion.
A few passers-by, drawn in upon themselves,
hurry from one place to another.Winds of the white poppy there is no escape -
An interminable talking, talking,
talking ... it has happened before.
Backward, backward, backward.
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TIME THE HANGMAN
Poor old Abner, old white-haired nigger[ remember when you were so strongfou hung yourself by a rope round the neckn Doc Hollister's barn to prove you could beat
:he faker in the circus and it didn't kill you.Now your face is in your hands, and your elbowsire on your knees, and you are silent and broken.
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TO A FRIEND
Well, Lizzie Anderson seventeen men andthe baby hard to find a father for
What will the good Father in Heaven sayto the local judge if he do not solve this problem?A little two pointed smile and pouff
the law is changed into a mouthful of phrases.
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'THE GENTLE MAN
I feel the caress of my own fingerson my own neck as I place my collar
and think pityinglyof the kind women I have known.
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THE SOUGHING WIND
Some leaves hang late, some fall
before the first frost so goesthe tale of winter branches and old bones.
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SPRING
O my grey hairs
You are truly white as plum blossoms.
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PLAY
Subtle, clever brain, wiser than I am,by what devious means do you contriveto remain idle ? Teach me, O master.
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LINES
Leaves are greygreen,
the glass broken, bright green.
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THE POOR
By constantly tormenting themwith reminders of the lice in
their children's hair, the
School Physician first
brought their hatred down on him,But by this familiarity
they grew used to him, and so,
at last,
took him for their friend and adviser.
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COMPLETE DESTRUCTION
It was an icy day.
We buried the cat,
then took her boxand set fire to it
in the back yard.Those fleas that escapedearth and fire
diedby
the cold.
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MEMORYOF APRIL
Yousay
love isthis,
love is that :
Poplar tassels, willow tendrils
the wind and the rain comb,tinkle and drip, tinkle and dripbranches drifting apart. Hagh
Love has not even visited this country.
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EPITAPH
An old willow with hollow branches
slowly swayed his few high bright tendrilsand sang:
Love is a young green willow
shimmering at the bare wood's edge.
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DAISY
The dayseye huggingthe earth
in August, ha Spring is
gone down in purple,weeds stand high in the corn,
the rainbeaten furrowis clotted with sorrel
and crabgrass, the
branch is black underthe heavy mass of the leaves
The sun is upon a
slender green stemribbed lengthwise.He lies on his backit is a woman also
he regards his former
majesty andround the yellow center,
split and creviced and done into
minute flowerheads, he sends out
his twenty rays a little
and the wind is
amongthem
to grow cool there
One turns the thing overin his hand and looks
at it from the rear: brownedged,green and pointed scales
armor his yellow.But turn and turn,the crisp petals remain
brief, translucent, greenfastened,barely touching at the edges :
blades of limpid seashell.
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PRIMROSE
Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow
It is not a color.
It is summerIt is the wind on a willow,the lap of waves, the shadowunder a bush, a bird, a bluebird,three herons, a dead hawk
rottingon a
poleClear yellow
It is a piece of blue paperin the grass or a threecluster of
green walnuts swaying, children
playing croquet or one boyfishing, a manswinging his pink fists
as he walksIt is ladysthumb, forgetmenotsin the ditch, moss underthe flange of the carrail, the
wavy lines in split rock, a
great oaktreeIt is a disinclination to befive red petals or a rose, it is
a cluster of birdsbreast flowers
on a red stem six feet high,four open yellow petalsabove sepals curled
backward into reverse spikesTufts of purple grass spot the
green meadow and clouds the sky.
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QUEEN-ANN'S-LACE
Her body is not so white as
anemony petals nor so smooth norso remote a thing. It is a field
of the wild carrot takingthe field by force ; the grassdoes not raise above it.
Here is no question of whiteness,white as can be, with a purple moleat the center of each flower.
Each flower is a hand's spanof her whiteness. Whereverhis hand has lain there is
a tiny purple blemish. Each partis a
blossom under his touchto which the fibres of her beingstem one by one, each to its end,until the whole field is awhite desire, empty, a single stem,a cluster, flower by flower,a pious wish to whiteness gone over
or nothing.
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GREAT MULLEN
One leaves his leaves at homebeing a mullen and sends up a lighthouseto peer from: I will have my way,yellow A mast with a lantern, ten
fifty, a hundred, smaller and smaller
as they grow more Liar, liar, liar
You come from her I can smell djer-kisson
yourclothes.
Ha,ha
youcome to
me,you I am a point of dew on a grass-stem.
Why are you sending heat down on mefrom your lantern? You are cowdung, adead stick with the bark off. She is
squirting on us both. She has had herhand on you Well? She has defiled
ME. Your leaves are dull, thickand hairy. Every hair on my body will
hold you off from me. You are a
dungcake, birdlime on a fencerail.
I love you, straight, yellowfinger of God pointing to her
Liar, broken weed, duncake, you haveI am a cricket waving his antenaeand you are high, grey and straight. Ha
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WAITING
When I am alone I am happy.The air is cool. The sky is
flecked and splashed and woundwith color. The crimson phalloiof the sassafrass leaves
hang crowded before mein shoals on the heavy branches.
When I reach my doorstepI am greeted bythe happy shrieks of my children
and my heart sinks.
I am crushed.
Are not my children as dear to meas falling leaves ormust one become stupidto grow older?It seems much as if Sorrowhad tripped up my heels.
Let us see, let us see
What did I plan to say to herwhen it should happen to meas it has happened now ?
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THE HUNTER
In the flashes and black shadows
of Julythe days, locked in each other's arms,seem still
so that squirrels and colored birds
go about at ease overthe branches and through the air.
Where will a shoulder split or
a forehead open and victory be?
Nowhere.Both sides grow older.
And you may be surenot one leaf will lift itself
from the groundand become fast to a twig again.
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ARRIVAL
And yet one arrives somehow,finds himself loosening the hooks ofher dress
in a strange bedroomfeels the autumn
dropping its silk and linen leaves
about her ankles.
The tawdry veined body emergestwisted upon itself
like a winter wind .
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TO A FRIENDCONCERNING SEVERAL LADIES
You know there is not muchthat I desire, a few crysanthemumshalf lying on the grass, yellowand brown and white, the
talk of a few people, the trees,
an expanse of dried leaves perhapswith ditches
amongthem.
But there comesbetween me and these thingsa letter
or even a look well placed,
you understand,so that I am confused, twisted
four ways and left flat,
unable to lift the food to
my own mouth:Here is what they say: Comeand come and come And if
I do not go I remain stale to
myself and if I goI have watched
the city from a distance at nightand wondered why I wrote no poem.Come yes,the city is ablaze for youand you stand and look at it.
And they are right. There is
no good in the world except out of
a woman and certain women alone
for certain things. But what if
I arrive like a turtle
with my house on my back or
a fish ogling from under water?[6 3 ]
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It will not do. I must be
steaming with love, colored
like a flamingo. For what?To have legs and a silly headand to smell, pah like a flamingothat soils its own feathers behind.
Must I go home filled
with a bad poem?And they say:
Who can answer these thingstill he has tried? Your eyesare half closed, you are a child,
oh, a sweet one, ready to playbut I will make a man of you andwith love on his shoulder
And in the marshesthe crickets runon the sunny dike's top andmake burrows there, the waterreflects the reeds and the reedsmove on their stalks and rattle drily.
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YOUTH AND BEAUTY
I bought a dishmophaving no daughterfor they had twisted
fine ribbons of shining copperabout white twineand made a towsled headof it, fastened it
upona turned ash stick
slender at the neck
straight, tall
when tied uprighton the brass wallbracketto be a light for meand naked,
as a girl should seemto her father.
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THE THINKER
My wife's new pink slippershave gay pom-poms.There is not a spot or a stain
on their satin toes or their sides.
All night they lie togetherunder her bed's edge.
Shivering I catch sight of them
and smile, in the morning.Later I watch themdescending the stair,
hurrying through the doorsand round the table,
moving stiffly
with a shake of theirgay pom-poms
And I talk to themin my secret mindout of pure happiness.
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THE DISPUTANTS
Upon the table in their bowl
in violent disarrayof yellow sprays, green spikesof leaves, red pointed petalsand curled heads of blueand white among the litter
of the forks and crumbs and platesthe flowers remain composed.Cooly their colloquy continuesabove the coffee and loud talk
grown frail as vaudeville.
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THE TULIP BED
TheMay
sun whomall things imitate
that glues small leaves to
the wooden trees
shone from the skythrough bluegauze clouds
upon the ground.
Under the leafy treeswhere the suburban streets
lay crossed,with houses on each corner,
tangled shadows had begunto jointhe roadway and the lawns.
With excellent precisionthe tulip bedinside the iron fence
upreared its gaudyyellow, white and red,rimmed round with grass,
reposedly.
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THE BIRDS
The world begins again
Not wholly insufflated
the blackbirds in the rain
upon the dead topbranchesof the living tree,
stuck fast to the low clouds,notate the dawn.Their shrill cries soundannouncing appetiteand drop among the bending roses
and the dripping grass.
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THE NIGHTINGALES
My shoes as I lean
unlacing themstand out uponflat worsted flowers
under my feet.
Nimbly the shadowsof
my fingers playunlacingover shoes and flowers.
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SPOUTS
In this world of
as fine a pair of breasts
as ever I sawthe fountain in
Madison Squarespouts up of watera white tree
that dies and livesas the rocking waterin the basin
turns from the stonerimback upon the jetand rising there
reflectively drops down again.
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BLUEFLAGS
Istopped
the car
to let the children downwhere the streets endin the sunat the marsh edgeand the reeds beginand there are small houses
facing the reedsand the blue mist
in the distance
with grapevine trellises
with grape clusters
small as strawberries
on the vines
and ditches
running springwaterthat continue the gutterswith willows over them.
The reeds beginlike water at a shore
theirpointed petals wavingdark green and light.
But blueflags are blossomingin the reeds
which the children pluckchattering in the reeds
high over their heads
which they partwith bare arms to appearwith fists of flowerstill in the air
there conies the smellof calamusfrom wet, gummy stalks.
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THE WIDOW'S LAMENT IN SPRINGTIME
Sorrow is
myown
yardwhere the new grassflames as it has flamedoften before but notwith the cold fire
that closes round me this year.
Thirtyfive years
I lived with my husband.The plumtree is white todaywith masses of flowers.
Masses of flowers
load the cherry branchesand color some bushes
yellow and some red
but the grief in my heartis stronger than theyfor though they were my joyformerly, today I notice themand turn away forgetting.
Today my son told methat in the
meadows,at the edge of the heavy woodsin the distance, he sawtrees of white flowers.
I feel that I would like
to go there
and fall into those flowers
and sink into the marsh near them.
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LIGHT HEARTED WILLIAM
Light hearted William twirledhis November moustaches
and, half dressed, lookedfrom the bedroom windowupon the spring weather.
Heigh-ya sighed he gaily
leaning out to see
up and down the street
where a heavy sunlight
lay beyond some blue shadows.
Into the room he drew
his head again and laughedto himself quietly
twirling his green moustaches.
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THE LONELY STREET
School is over. It is too hotto walk at ease. At easein light frocks they walk the streets
to while the time away.They have grown tall. They hold
pink flames in their right hands.In white from head to foot,with
sidelong,idle look
in yellow, floating stuff,
black sash and stockings
touching their avid mouthswith pink sugar on a stick
like a carnation each holds in her hand
they mount the lonely street.
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THE GREAT FIGURE
Amongthe rain
and lightsI saw the figure 5in goldon a red
fi ret ruck
moving
with weight and urgencytense
unheededto gong clangssiren howlsand wheels rumblingthrough the dark city.
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This book is DUE on the last
date stamped below.
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY
Los Angeles
This book is DUE on the last date stamped below.
NO PHOfIt
|j
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