I.
I think God must have been a stupid man
To have sent a spirit, chivalrous and loyal,
Cruel and tender, arrogant and so meek,
Gallant and timorous, halting and as swift
As a hawk descending-to have sent such a spirit,
Certain in all its attributes, into this age
Of our banal world.
He had Infinity
Which must embrace infinities of worlds,
And had Eternity
And could have chosen any other age.
He had Omnipotence
And could have framed a fitting world and time.
But, bruised and bruising, wounded, contumacious,
An eagle pinioned, an eagle on the wing;
A leopard maimed, a leopard in its spring,
A swallow caged, a swallow in the spacious
And amethystine palpitating blue:
A night-bird of the heath, shut off from the heath,
A deathless being daubed with the mud of death,
A moth all white, draggled with blood and dew,
’Haitchka, the undaunted, loyal spirit of you
Came to our world of cozening and pimping,
Our globe compact of virtues all half-virtue,
Of vices scarce half-vices; made of truth
Blurred in the edges, and of lies so limping
They will not stir the pulse in the utterance
From a New World that’s new and knows not youth
Unto our France that’s France but knows not France,
Where charity and every virtue hurt you,
O coin of gold dropped into leaden palms,
Manna and frankincense and myrrh and balms
And bitter herbs and spices of the South
Because God was a stupid man and threw
Into our outstretched palms, ’Haitchka, you.
II. Compagnie Transatlantique
What a dead year! The sea
Swings, a dull amethyst;
And the doves and sparrows droop
Grey, and the gulls in the mist
On the dull wet rim of the sea.
Slowly, slowly, heavily, heavily; dully, so dully, the
heavens lower.
Slowly, slowly, heavily, dully, the sands of the hourglass
descend.
I have neither foe nor friend;
I am neither erect nor stoop;
I am neither enslaved nor wield power.
Will this endless day never end,
Or this month or this year?
Slow, heavy, dull, drear,
Why should they end?
The mists are riven;
The sea swings free.
There’s blue in the heaven
And horns on the sea.
Iô! Iô! the conches blow.
The sparrows and doves
All follow their loves.
White the gulls troop
In a lane on the sea.
There’s a horn on the hill!
A furrow is driven
(Though you are invisible still)
Straight from the sky-line to me.
And
Iô! Iô! the conches blow.
Iô! Iô! ’Ha-itchka!
III. Fleuve Profondes
Nuitée à l’américaine.
Your brilliant friend
Brilliantly lectures me on the feminine characters
Of my female characters.
Our striking host,
Having strikingly struck his striking head
Against the bottom panel of his bedroom door,
Has been conveyed to bed
By several combined but unconcerted efforts.
Hear how he sings …
The other guests
Dispersed among the apartments of the apartment.
Dazedly hearing the appraisements of Elaine
Concerning half-forgotten feminines, I sit
Beside her brilliance on the divan-edge,
My knees drawn up to my chin in the dim light.
We seem to be alone.
She tosses back
Her brilliant mane and white uplifted chin.
Long throat! Makes incantation with her spidery, white,
Butterfly-moving fingers. I JUST LOATHE
MISS WANNOP!
There
Drift sounds of harpsichords,
Of saxophones and ukuleles, drums,
Mandolins, mandragoras, slapped faces, spirituals,
Lacing the Paris night.
That’s four o’clock,
The Luxemburg clock drones out.
But … hear them SING!
Beside her I
Sit like a drummer, peddling rubber pants
And comforters in the Atlas mountain valleys
Beside their largest lion. Knees drawn up
Almost to the chin; peeping, a-shiver, sideways,
At a lip-licking monster.
I am all unused
To talk about my books.
IF I COULD GET
MY FINGERS ON YOUR ROTTEN CULLY’S
THROAT.
She can’t mean me. By rights I am the lion!
I’M ALL FOR SYLVIA.
Then it’s Tietjens’ throat
In jeopardy …
But hear them rolling along.
It aint sayin nothin … A black light’s shining
It aint doin nothin … Across the shadows
It keeps on rollin … A ray of granite
I LOATHE YOUR TIETJENS
… A cone of granite—
What’s that dark shining?
BUT THAT’S ’AITCHKA
I LOATHE THAT WOMAN … NO, NOT ’AITCHKA
HOW STUPID OF YOU … THE WANNOP TROLLOP
MY BEST MOST INTIMATE FRIEND
You too had drawn
Your knees up to your chin. And, motionless,
In an unwinking scrutiny you sat,
A cone of granite, a granite falcon,
A granite guardian of granite Pharaohs.
The leather chair
You’d chosen for your vigils made with you
A cone, Egyptian, chiselled, oriental,
Hard, without motion. Polished shining granite.
Did you watch to save your dearest friend from me,
Or me from your dearest friend! … I wish they’d sing
Another rhythm. You gaze before you.
It must be seven. Are you-all going?
Yes, Ezra’s going. Not one more hot dog.
The Halles for breakfast.
I LOVE YOUR SYLVIA—
SHE KEPT HIM JUMPING, SHE LOATHED HIS VITALS,
SHE GAVE HIM THUMBSCREWS, THE CALLOUS MEALSACK.
Yes, Marjie’s going. Bill, ARE you coming?
I know why she’s your dearest friend.
Elaine aw COME on … (Aitchka, bring her.)
Why, where’s ’Aitchka? … She’s with that writer.
Oh, with that WRITER. Aw, with THAT writer—
She’ll keep HIM rolling along.
Schenehaia means “pretty creature.”
Schenehaia! For short ’Aitchka.
She’ll keep him rolling along!
# IV. Chez nos Amis
Silent in the background, she
Glowers now and then at me
With a smouldering tigress’ eye
That does dream of cruelty.
Leopard, ounce or ocelot
She by turns is cold or hot;
She is sinuous and black,
Long of limb and lithe of back.
The deep places of the mind
She can probe, and thus can find
Every weakness, every blot,
Every weary aching spot.
She will scrutinize her prey,
Turn disdainfully away,
Sinuous and dark and cold.
Then she’ll spring and then she’ll hold.
Then with what a dreadful heat
She will mangle breasts and feet
And hands and lacerate a heart.
… And then listlessly depart.
# V. L’interprète-au Caveau Rouge
They sing too fast for you? I will interpret:
That aged, faded, leonine-faced carle
In dim old tights and frayed striped gaberdine
Now quavers the famous sonnet. This is it:
Sonnet de Ronsard:
When you are old, and dim the candles burn,
Seated beside your fire, with distafs gossiping,
And reading out this verse say: “Here’s a thing!
Ronsard m’a célébrée du temps que j’étais jeune.”
There shall be no old spinster shall not turn,
Though half asleep above the brands that sing
And, hearing of my name, cry: “Here’s a thing—
Ronsard extols our dame from out his urn.”
My soul shall wander through the myrile dust
Of fields Elysian, thou as thou must
Shalt bend, all bent, above the dying brands.
Ah, lady, seize the hour—the minute flies;
Resort thee thither where thy true love lies,
Nor wait till hail torture thy tender hands.
You did not know I was a poet? Few
Possess that knowledge. I’ve the trick at times—
Give me the subject, I will find you rhymes.
This Provençale, bright-cheeked, high-stomachered,
With coal-black eyes shall sing a thing. The tune
Might make you cry if you had any heart.
Plaisir d’Amour:
Love’s sweets are sweet for such a little day,
Her bitterness shall last your whole long life.
The world forsook, I followed Sylvia.
Me now she leaves to be another’s wife.
“Whilst still the waters of this stream shall glide
Between its banks of meadow-sweet and bracken,
Tis thee I’ll love.”
Thus, thus, once Sylvia cried.
The waters flow-their verge she has forsaken.
Love’s truths are sweet for such a little day!
Her bitter falsehoods last a whole long life.
Now here’s your favorite she’s going to sing.
Knowing, it’s said, what gentlemen prefer,
She’s flaxen-locked, but once was brune piquante
And Prix du Conservatoire. Poor thing, she’ll write
Her autograph on your programme if you smile at her.
But she’s a lovely voice.
Auprès de ma Blonde:
She. Down in my father’s garden sweet blooms the lilac tree,
Down in my father’s garden sweet blooms the lilac tree.
And all the birds of Heaven there nest in company.
He. Where lieth my leman, blonde and warm and blonde is she!
Where lieth my leman fine it is to be!
She. Down in my father’s garden sweet blooms the lilac tree,
And all the birds of heaven there nest in company-
The quail, the speckled partridge, the turtle fair to see.
He. Where lieth my leman, blonde and warm and blonde is she!
Where lieth my leman fine it is to be!
She. And all the birds of Heaven there nest in company,
The quail, the speckled partridge, the turtle fair to see;
And eke my pretty stockdove sings night and day for me.
He. Where lieth my leman, blonde and warm and blonde is she!
Where lieth my leman, fine it is to be!
She. The quail, the speckled partridge, the turtle fair to see,
And eke my pretty stockdove sings night and day for me.
She mourneth for such fair ones as not yet wedded be.
He. Where lieth my leman, blonde and warm and blonde is she!
Where lieth my leman fine it is to be!
She. And eke my pretty stockdove sings night and day for me,
She mourneth for such fair ones as not yet wedded be,
But I have my fair husband, so mourns she not for me.
He. Where lieth my leman, blonde and warm and blonde is she!
Where lieth my leman, fine it is to be!
She. She mourneth for such fair ones as not yet wedded be.
But I have my fair husband, so mourns she not for me.
He. Now tell me this, ah fair one, where may thy true love be?
Where lieth my leman, blonde and warm and blonde is she!
Where lieth my leman, fine it is to be!
She. But I have my fair husband, so mourns she not for me.
He. Now tell me this, ah fair one, where may thy true love be?
She. The fause Dutch have him taken, he lies in Batavie.
He. Where lieth my leman, blonde and warm and blonde is she!
Where lieth my leman, fine it is to be!
He. Now tell me this, ah fair one, where may thy true love be?
She. The fause Dutch have him taken, he lies in Batavie.
He. What would’ee give, my fair one, thine own true love to see?
Where lieth my leman, blonde and warm and blonde is she!
Where lieth my leman, fine it is to be!
She. The fause Dutch have him taken, he lies in Batavie.
He. What would’ee give, my fair one, thine own true love to see?
She. Oh, I would give Versailles and Paris, that great citie.
He. Where lieth my leman, blonde and warm and blonde is she
Where lieth my leman, fine it is to be!
He. What would’ee give, my fair one, thine own true love to see?
She. Oh, I would give Versailles and Paris, that great citie,
St. Dennis, Notre Dame, and the spires of my countrie.
He. Where lieth my leman, blonde and warm and blonde is she!
Where lieth my leman, fine it is to be!
She. Oh, I would give Versailles and Paris, that great citie,
St. Dennis, Notre Dame, all the spires of my countrie,
And eke my pretty stockdove that sings alway for me!
He. Where lieth my leman, blonde and warm and blonde is she!
Where lieth my leman, fine it is to be!
VI. Champètre
Yesterday I found a bee-orchid.
But when I gave it you, you never raised your eyebrows.
“That a bee-orchid? It’s like neither bee nor orchid”
Was all you said. And dropped it amongst the tea-table débris,
And went on gazing out over the lake;
As once you dropped my letters into a Sixth Avenue garbage-can,
And went on gazing up West Ninth Street
Towards Wanamaker’s.
Years ago
We boys went spread out over Caesar’s Camp
With the Channel at our backs. In the sun shone
Across the strip of blue the pink-blue cliffs of France.
And the wind whispered in the couch-grass
And in the heat of the sun the small herbs’ scents were pungent
And sweet and stirring.
And one of us would find a bee-orchid.
From fold to fold of the Downs the cry would go;
“A bee-orchid!” “Ho! A bee-orchid!” “Hullo! A bee … orchid!”
And God promised us the kingdoms of the earth, and a corner in France
And the heart of an oriental woman.
Well, here is the corner of France.
The kingdoms of the Earth are rather at a discount,
We should not know what to do with them if we had them.
And you, you have no heart.
VII. Ripostes
What did you do in Sodom Town?
How did you sin in Paris?
I heard the small talk rise and die down
And thought: “Her hands are tiny and brown.
Curse on the time that tarries!”
What did you do twixt then and now,
Since it is past eleven?
I heard the talk run anyhow
And thought: “How brown and broad her brow,
And her white teeth how even!”
What will you do twixt now and when
You hide beneath carven marble?
I do not know; but I know, then
I’ll hear you laugh with gentlemen
With your laugh like the blackbird’s warble.
VIII. Vers L’oubli
We shall have to give up watering the land
Almost altogether.
The maize must go.
But the chilis and tomatoes may still have
A little water. The gourds must go.
We must begin to give a little to the mandarines
And the lemon trees. Yes, and the string beans.
We will do our best to save
The chrysanthemums
Because you like them.
Then, if only another big storm comes
Like the one of Saturday fortnight’s,
We might just barely do it … So
We may get through to the autumn.
At any rate we are through with the season of short nights,
And water given at dusk will remain in the earth until
The torrid sun and the immense north wind
They call the mistral burn up the face of our hill
You will find
There will be no change in the weather now until
October. August nearly over, the season of storms is done
Altogether. There will be nothing but this hot sun
And no rain at all
Till well into the Fall.
Till then we must trust to the fruits
Though their trees are dried down to the ends of their roots.
The muscats are done.
The bunch that hangs by the kitchen door
Is the last but two we shall save.
But the wine-grapes and figs and quinces and gages will go on
Nearly till September.
(If you lay down some of the muscat wine-grapes on paper on the garret floor
They will shrink and grow sweeter till honey
Is acid beside them.)
How singular and vocal and sweet those birds’ voices are.
For them we thank the drouth.
Without it they never care
To come to us from their woods of the infinitely distant South.
I wish we could have saved more of the plants, but the weather has tried them
Beyond their endurance. And there is no goodness in our land
On this side of the hill.
Even the wood has hardly enough heart to make fuel
Though with vine-prunings in the winter days—
When the sea below us is like ruffled satin,
And the sky an infinite number of subtle greys,
And the mistral sings an infinite number of lays in Latin—
And you crouch beside the hearth, we shall manage to make up a blaze
To get up and go to bed by … But I like the baked, severe, bare
Hill with sea below and the great storms sooner or later. And for me
There is no satisfaction anywhere greater
Than is given by that house-side, silver-grey
And very high,
With the single black cypress against the sky
Over the hill,
And the palm-heads waving away at the mistral’s will.
Well then:
We have outlived a winter season and a season of spring
And more than one season of harvesting,
In this land
Where the harvests come by twos and threes
One on the other’s heels.
Do you remember what grew where the egg-plants and chilis now stand?
Or the opium poppies with heads like feathery wheels?
Do you remember when the lemons were little and the oranges smaller than peas?
We have outlived sweet corn and haricots,
The short season of plentiful water and the rose
That covered the cistern in the time of showers
And do you remember the thin bamboo canes?
We have outlived innumerable growths of flowers,
The two great hurricanes
And the innumerable battlings back and forth
Of the mistral from the Alps in the north
And of siroccos filled with the hot breath—
“Sirocco, thou that man unto short madness hurrieth!”—
From the sands of Africa infinite miles to the South.
And having so, ephemeral, outlived the herbs of the hill
We may maybe come through the drouth
To the winter’s mouth
And the season of green things
And flowing cisterns and springs.
Hark at the voices of those birds in the great catalpa’s shade
Hard by the hole where the swifts once made
Their nest on the rafter, thrilling all through the night.
Singular birds with their portentous singular flight
And human voices. They came all the way
Over the sea to the bay
From Africa.
It is only our drouth that could have lured them away
So far from the South. It was perhaps they
Ulysses took for the syrens calling, “Away!”
When he took shelter here from the thunderous main.
And perhaps we may never again
Hear their incomparable full resonance,
Compact of wailing and indifferent mirth
And undecipherable honeyed laughter,
Or not on this earth under this torrid sun.
For they say
It is only once in a century they come this way
In time of drouth from their eyries far to the South
In Africa.
Or perhaps we shall hear them only after,
All harvest gathered in and the time of all fruits being done,
We—oh but not too severed in time nor walking apart—
Shall pluck and cry the one to the other along the folds of Cap Brun
“The Herb Oblivion!”
For this is a corner of France,
And this the kingdoms of the earth beneath the sun,
And this the garden sealed and set apart
And that the fountain of Touvence.
And, yes, you have a heart.