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Title: A Book of Poems, Al Que Quiere!

Author: William Carlos Williams

Release Date: May 4, 2016 [EBook #51997]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Meredith Bach and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ***

A BOOK OF POEMS

AL QUE QUIERE!

By William Carlos Williams

THE   TEMPERS

[London:  Elkin Mathews]

A BOOK OF POEMS

AL   QUE   QUIERE!

BY

WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS

BOSTON

THE FOUR SEAS COMPANY

1917

Copyright, 1917, by

THE FOUR SEAS COMPANY

The Four Seas Press

Boston, Mass., U. S. A.

Había sido un arbusto desmedrado que prolonga sus filamentos hasta encontrar el humus necesario en una tierra nueva. Y cómo me nutría! Me nutría con la beatitud con que las hojas trémulas de clorófila se extienden al sol; con la beatitud con que una raíz encuentra un cadáver en descompositión; con la beatitud con que los convalecientes dan sus pasos vacilantes en las mañanas de primavera, bañadas de luz; ...

RAFAEL ARÉVALO MARTÍNEZ

Many of the poems in this book have appeared in magazines, especially in Poetry, Others, The Egoist, and The Poetry Journal.

CONTENTS

PAGE

SUB TERRA

13

PASTORAL

14

CHICKORY AND DAISIES

15

METRIC FIGURE

16

WOMAN WALKING

17

GULLS

18

APPEAL

19

IN HARBOR

20

WINTER SUNSET

21

APOLOGY

22

PASTORAL

23

LOVE SONG

24

M. B.

25

TRACT

26

PROMENADE

29

EL HOMBRE

31

HERO

31

LIBERTAD! IGUALDAD! FRATERNIDAD!

32

CANTHARA

33

MUJER

33

SUMMER SONG

34

LOVE SONG

35

FOREIGN

35

A PRELUDE

36

HISTORY

37

WINTER QUIET

42

DAWN

42

GOOD NIGHT

43

DANSE RUSSE

44

PORTRAIT OF A WOMAN IN BED

45

VIRTUE

47

CONQUEST

49

PORTRAIT OF A YOUNG MAN WITH A BAD HEART

49

KELLER GEGEN DOM

50

SMELL

52

BALLET

52

SYMPATHETIC PORTRAIT OF A CHILD

54

THE OGRE

55

RIPOSTE

56

THE OLD MEN

57

PASTORAL

57

SPRING STRAINS

58

TREES

59

A PORTRAIT IN GREYS

60

INVITATION

61

DIVERTIMIENTO

62

JANUARY MORNING

62

TO A SOLITARY DISCIPLE

67

DEDICATION FOR A PLOT OF GROUND

69

K. MCB.

70

LOVE SONG

71

THE WANDERER

75

AL QUE QUIERE!

SUB TERRA

Where shall I find you,

you my grotesque fellows

that I seek everywhere

to make up my band?

None, not one

with the earthy tastes I require;

the burrowing pride that rises

subtly as on a bush in May.

Where are you this day,

you my seven year locusts

with cased wings?

Ah my beauties how I long—!

That harvest

that shall be your advent—

thrusting up through the grass,

up under the weeds

answering me,

that shall be satisfying!

The light shall leap and snap

that day as with a million lashes!

Oh, I have you; yes

you are about me in a sense:

playing under the blue pools

that are my windows,—

but they shut you out still,

there in the half light.

For the simple truth is

that though I see you clear enough

you are not there!

It is not that—it is you,

you I want!

—God, if I could fathom

the guts of shadows!

You to come with me

poking into negro houses

with their gloom and smell!

In among children

leaping around a dead dog!

Mimicking

onto the lawns of the rich!

You!

to go with me a-tip-toe,

head down under heaven,

nostrils lipping the wind!

PASTORAL

When I was younger

it was plain to me

I must make something of myself.

Older now

I walk back streets

admiring the houses

of the very poor:

roof out of line with sides

the yards cluttered

with old chicken wire, ashes,

furniture gone wrong;

the fences and outhouses

built of barrel-staves

and parts of boxes, all,

if I am fortunate,

smeared a bluish green

that properly weathered

pleases me best

of all colors.

No one

will believe this

of vast import to the nation.

CHICKORY AND DAISIES

I.

Lift your flowers

on bitter stems

chickory!

Lift them up

out of the scorched ground!

Bear no foliage

but give yourself

wholly to that!

Strain under them

you bitter stems

that no beast eats—

and scorn greyness!

Into the heat with them:

cool!

luxuriant! sky-blue!

The earth cracks and

is shriveled up;

the wind moans piteously;

the sky goes out

if you should fail.

II.

I saw a child with daisies

for weaving into the hair

tear the stems

with her teeth!

METRIC FIGURE

There is a bird in the poplars!

It is the sun!

The leaves are little yellow fish

swimming in the river.

The bird skims above them,

day is on his wings.

Phœbus!

It is he that is making

the great gleam among the poplars!

It is his singing

outshines the noise

of leaves clashing in the wind.

WOMAN WALKING

An oblique cloud of purple smoke

across a milky silhouette

of house sides and tiny trees—

a little village—

that ends in a saw edge

of mist-covered trees

on a sheet of grey sky.

To the right, jutting in,

a dark crimson corner of roof.

To the left, half a tree:

—what a blessing it is

to see you in the street again,

powerful woman,

coming with swinging haunches,

breasts straight forward,

supple shoulders, full arms

and strong, soft hands (I’ve felt them)

carrying the heavy basket.

I might well see you oftener!

And for a different reason

than the fresh eggs

you bring us so regularly.

Yes, you, young as I,

with boney brows,

kind grey eyes and a kind mouth;

you walking out toward me

from that dead hillside!

I might well see you oftener.

GULLS

My townspeople, beyond in the great world,

are many with whom it were far more

profitable for me to live than here with you.

These whirr about me calling, calling!

and for my own part I answer them, loud as I can,

but they, being free, pass!

I remain! Therefore, listen!

For you will not soon have another singer.

First I say this: you have seen

the strange birds, have you not, that sometimes

rest upon our river in winter?

Let them cause you to think well then of the storms

that drive many to shelter. These things

do not happen without reason.

And the next thing I say is this:

I saw an eagle once circling against the clouds

over one of our principal churches—

Easter, it was—a beautiful day!—:

three gulls came from above the river

and crossed slowly seaward!

Oh, I know you have your own hymns, I have heard them—

and because I knew they invoked some great protector

I could not be angry with you, no matter

how much they outraged true music—

You see, it is not necessary for us to leap at each other,

and, as I told you, in the end

the gulls moved seaward very quietly.

APPEAL

You who are so mighty,

crimson salamander,

hear me once more.

I lay among the half burned sticks

at the edge of the fire.

The fiend was creeping in.

I felt the cold tips of fingers—

O crimson salamander!

Give me one little flame,

one!

that I may bind it

protectingly about the wrist

of him that flung me here,

here upon the very center!

This is my song.

IN HARBOR

Surely there, among the great docks, is peace, my mind;

there with the ships moored in the river.

Go out, timid child,

and snuggle in among the great ships talking so quietly.

Maybe you will even fall asleep near them and be

lifted into one of their laps, and in the morning—

There is always the morning in which to remember it all!

Of what are they gossiping? God knows.

And God knows it matters little for we cannot understand them.

Yet it is certainly of the sea, of that there can be no question.

It is a quiet sound. Rest! That’s all I care for now.

The smell of them will put us to sleep presently.

Smell! It is the sea water mingling here into the river—

at least so it seems—perhaps it is something else—but what matter?

The sea water! It is quiet and smooth here!

How slowly they move, little by little trying

the hawsers that drop and groan with their agony.

Yes, it is certainly of the high sea they are talking.

WINTER SUNSET

Then I raised my head

and stared out over

the blue February waste

to the blue bank of hill

with stars on it

in strings and festoons—

but above that:

one opaque

stone of a cloud

just on the hill

left and right

as far as I could see;

and above that

a red streak, then

icy blue sky!

It was a fearful thing

to come into a man’s heart

at that time: that stone

over the little blinking stars

they’d set there.

APOLOGY

Why do I write today?

The beauty of

the terrible faces

of our nonentities

stirs me to it:

colored women

day workers—

old and experienced—

returning home at dusk

in cast off clothing

faces like

old Florentine oak.

Also

the set pieces

of your faces stir me—

leading citizens—

but not

in the same way.

PASTORAL

The little sparrows

hop ingenuously

about the pavement

quarreling

with sharp voices

over those things

that interest them.

But we who are wiser

shut ourselves in

on either hand

and no one knows

whether we think good

or evil.

Meanwhile,

the old man who goes about

gathering dog-lime

walks in the gutter

without looking up

and his tread

is more majestic than

that of the Episcopal minister

approaching the pulpit

of a Sunday.

These things

astonish me beyond words.

LOVE SONG

Daisies are broken

petals are news of the day

stems lift to the grass tops

they catch on shoes

part in the middle

leave root and leaves secure.

Black branches

carry square leaves

to the wood’s top.

They hold firm

break with a roar

show the white!

Your moods are slow

the shedding of leaves

and sure

the return in May!

We walked

in your father’s grove

and saw the great oaks

lying with roots

ripped from the ground.

M. B.

Winter has spent this snow

out of envy, but spring is here!

He sits at the breakfast table

in his yellow hair

and disdains even the sun

walking outside

in spangled slippers:

He looks out: there is

a glare of lights

before a theater,—

a sparkling lady

passes quickly to

the seclusion of

her carriage.

Presently

under the dirty, wavy heaven

of a borrowed room he will make

re-inhaled tobacco smoke

his clouds and try them

against the sky’s limits!

TRACT

I will teach you   my townspeople

how to perform   a funeral—

for you have it   over a troop

of artists—

unless one should   scour the world—

you have the ground sense   necessary.

See!   the hearse leads.

I begin with   a design for a hearse.

For Christ’s sake   not black—

nor white either—   and not polished!

Let it be weathered—   like a farm wagon—

with gilt wheels   (this could be

applied fresh   at small expense)

or no wheels at all:

a rough dray to   drag over the ground.

Knock the glass out!

My God—glass,   my townspeople!

For what purpose?   Is it for the dead

to look out or   for us to see

how well he is housed   or to see

the flowers or   the lack of them—

or what?

To keep the rain   and snow from him?

He will have a   heavier rain soon:

pebbles and dirt   and what not.

Let there be no glass—

and no upholstery   phew!

and no little   brass rollers

and small easy wheels   on the bottom—

my townspeople   what are you thinking of?

A rough    plain hearse then

with gilt wheels   and no top at all.

On this   the coffin lies

by its own weight.

No wreathes please—

especially no   hot house flowers.

Some common memento   is better,

something he prized   and is known by:

his old clothes—   a few books perhaps—

God knows what!   You realize

how we are   about these things

my townspeople—

something will be found—   anything

even flowers   if he had come to that.

So much for   the hearse.

For heaven’s sake though   see to the driver!

Take off   the silk hat! In fact

that’s no place   at all for him—

up there   unceremoniously

dragging our friend out   to his own dignity!

Bring him down—   bring him down!

Low and inconspicuous!   I’d not have him ride

on the wagon at all—   damn him—

the undertaker’s   understrapper!

Let him hold the reins

and walk at   the side

and inconspicuously   too!

Then briefly   as to yourselves:

Walk behind—   as they do in France,

seventh class, or   if you ride

Hell take curtains!   Go with some show

of inconvenience;   sit openly—

to the weather   as to grief.

Or do you think   you can shut grief in?

What—from us?   We who have perhaps

nothing to lose?   Share with us

share with us—   it will be money

in your pockets.

Go now

I think you are   ready.

PROMENADE

I.

Well, mind, here we have

our little son beside us:

a little diversion before breakfast!

Come, we’ll walk down the road

till the bacon will be frying.

We might better be idle?

A poem might come of it?

Oh, be useful.   Save annoyance

to Flossie and besides—the wind!

It’s cold. It blows our

old pants out! It makes us shiver!

See the heavy trees

shifting their weight before it.

Let us be trees, an old house,

a hill with grass on it!

The baby’s arms are blue.

Come, move! Be quieted!

II.

So. We’ll sit here now

and throw pebbles into

this water-trickle.

Splash the water up!

(Splash it up, Sonny!)   Laugh!

Hit it there deep under the grass.

See it splash! Ah, mind,

see it splash! It is alive!

Throw pieces of broken leaves

into it. They’ll pass through.

No! Yes—just!

Away now for the cows!   But—

It’s cold!

It’s getting dark.

It’s going to rain.

No further!

III.

Oh then, a wreath! Let’s

refresh something they

used to write well of.

Two fern plumes.   Strip them

to the mid-rib along one side.

Bind the tips with a grass stem.

Bend and intertwist the stalks

at the back. So!

Ah! now we are crowned!

Now we are a poet!

Quickly!

A bunch of little flowers

for Flossie—the little ones

only:

a red clover, one

blue heal-all, a sprig of

bone-set, one primrose,

a head of Indian tobacco, this

magenta speck and this

little lavender!

Home now, my mind!—

Sonny’s arms are icy, I tell you—

and have breakfast!

EL HOMBRE

It’s a strange courage

you give me ancient star:

Shine alone in the sunrise

toward which you lend no part!

HERO

Fool,

put your adventures

into those things

which break ships—

not female flesh.

Let there pass

over the mind

the waters of

four oceans, the airs

of four skies!

Return hollow-bellied,

keen-eyed, hard!

A simple scar or two.

Little girls will come

bringing you

roses for your button-hole.

LIBERTAD! IGUALDAD! FRATERNIDAD!

You sullen pig of a man

you force me into the mud

with your stinking ash-cart!

Brother!

—if we were rich

we’d stick our chests out

and hold our heads high!

It is dreams that have destroyed us.

There is no more pride

in horses or in rein holding.

We sit hunched together brooding

our fate.

Well—

all things turn bitter in the end

whether you choose the right or

the left way

and—

dreams are not a bad thing.

CANTHARA

The old black-man showed me

how he had been shocked

in his youth

by six women, dancing

a set-dance, stark naked below

the skirts raised round

their breasts:

bellies flung forward

knees flying!

—while

his gestures, against the

tiled wall of the dingy bath-room,

swished with ecstasy to

the familiar music of

his old emotion.

MUJER

Oh, black Persian cat!

Was not your life

already cursed with offspring?

We took you for rest to that old

Yankee farm,—so lonely

and with so many field mice

in the long grass—

and you return to us

in this condition—!

Oh, black Persian cat.

SUMMER SONG

Wanderer moon

smiling a

faintly ironical smile

at this

brilliant, dew-moistened

summer morning,—

a detached

sleepily indifferent

smile, a

wanderer’s smile,—

if I should

buy a shirt

your color and

put on a necktie

sky blue

where would they carry me?

LOVE SONG

Sweep the house clean,

hang fresh curtains

in the windows

put on a new dress

and come with me!

The elm is scattering

its little loaves

of sweet smells

from a white sky!

Who shall hear of us

in the time to come?

Let him say there was

a burst of fragrance

from black branches.

FOREIGN

Artsybashev is a Russian.

I am an American.

Let us wonder, my townspeople,

if Artsybashev tends his own fires

as I do, gets himself cursed

for the baby’s failure to thrive,

loosens windows for the woman

who cleans his parlor—

or has he neat servants

and a quiet library, an

intellectual wife perhaps and

no children,—an apartment

somewhere in a back street or

lives alone or with his mother

or sister—

I wonder, my townspeople,

if Artsybashev looks upon

himself the more concernedly

or succeeds any better than I

in laying the world.

I wonder which is the bigger

fool in his own mind.

These are shining topics

my townspeople but—

hardly of great moment.

A PRELUDE

I know only the bare rocks of today.

In these lies my brown sea-weed,—

green quartz veins bent through the wet shale;

in these lie my pools left by the tide—

quiet, forgetting waves;

on these stiffen white star fish;

on these I slip bare footed!

Whispers of the fishy air touch my body;

“Sisters,” I say to them.

HISTORY

I.

A wind might blow a lotus petal

over the pyramids—but not this wind.

Summer is a dried leaf.

Leaves stir this way then that

on the baked asphalt, the wheels

of motor cars rush over them,—

gas smells mingle with leaf smells.

Oh, Sunday, day of worship!!!

The steps to the museum are high.

Worshippers pass in and out.

Nobody comes here today.

I come here to mingle faiance dug

from the tomb, turquoise colored

necklaces and belched wind from the

stomach; delicately veined basins

of agate, cracked and discolored and

the stink of stale urine!

Enter!   Elbow in at the door.

Men?   Women?

Simpering, clay fetish-faces counting

through the turnstile.

Ah!

II.

This sarcophagus contained the body

of Uresh-Nai, priestess to the goddess Mut,

Mother of All—

Run your finger against this edge!

—here went the chisel!—and think

of an arrogance endured six thousand years

without a flaw!

But love is an oil to embalm the body.

Love is a packet of spices, a strong

smelling liquid to be squirted into

the thigh.   No?

Love rubbed on a bald head will make

hair—and after?   Love is

a lice comber!

Gnats on dung!

“The chisel is in your hand, the block

is before you, cut as I shall dictate:

this is the coffin of Uresh-Nai,

priestess to the sky goddess,—built

to endure forever!

Carve the inside

with the image of my death in

little lines of figures three fingers high.

Put a lid on it cut with Mut bending over

the earth, for my headpiece, and in the year

to be chosen I will rouse, the lid

shall be lifted and I will walk about

the temple where they have rested me

and eat the air of the place:

Ah—these walls are high! This

is in keeping.”

III.

The priestess has passed into her tomb.

The stone has taken up her spirit!

Granite over flesh: who will deny

its advantages?

Your death?—water

spilled upon the ground—

though water will mount again into rose-leaves—

but you?—would hold life still,

even as a memory, when it is over.

Benevolence is rare.

Climb about this sarcophagus, read

what is writ for you in these figures,

hard as the granite that has held them

with so soft a hand the while

your own flesh has been fifty times

through the guts of oxen,—read!

“The rose-tree will have its donor

even though he give stingily.

The gift of some endures

ten years, the gift of some twenty

and the gift of some for the time a

great house rots and is torn down.

Some give for a thousand years to men of

one face, some for a thousand

to all men and some few to all men

while granite holds an edge against

the weather.

Judge then of love!”

IV.

“My flesh is turned to stone.   I

have endured my summer.   The flurry

of falling petals is ended.   Lay

the finger upon this granite.   I was

well desired and fully caressed

by many lovers but my flesh

withered swiftly and my heart was

never satisfied.   Lay your hands

upon the granite as a lover lays his

hand upon the thigh and upon the

round breasts of her who is

beside him, for now I will not wither,

now I have thrown off secrecy, now

I have walked naked into the street,

now I have scattered my heavy beauty

in the open market.

Here I am with head high and a

burning heart eagerly awaiting

your caresses, whoever it may be,

for granite is not harder than

my love is open, runs loose among you!

I arrogant against death! I

who have endured! I worn against

the years!”

V.

But it is five o’clock. Come!

Life is good—enjoy it!

A walk in the park while the day lasts.

I will go with you. Look! this

northern scenery is not the Nile, but—

these benches—the yellow and purple dusk—

the moon there—these tired people—

the lights on the water!

Are not these Jews and—Ethiopians?

The world is young, surely! Young

and colored like—a girl that has come upon

a lover! Will that do?

WINTER QUIET

Limb to limb, mouth to mouth

with the bleached grass

silver mist lies upon the back yards

among the outhouses.

The dwarf trees

pirouette awkwardly to it—

whirling round on one toe;

the big tree smiles and glances

upward!

Tense with suppressed excitement

the fences watch where the ground

has humped an aching shoulder for

the ecstasy.

DAWN

Ecstatic bird songs pound

the hollow vastness of the sky

with metallic clinkings—

beating color up into it

at a far edge,—beating it, beating it

with rising, triumphant ardor,—

stirring it into warmth,

quickening in it a spreading change,—

bursting wildly against it as

dividing the horizon, a heavy sun

lifts himself—is lifted—

bit by bit above the edge

of things,—runs free at last

out into the open—! lumbering

glorified in full release upward—

songs cease.

GOOD NIGHT

In brilliant gas light

I turn the kitchen spigot

and watch the water plash

into the clean white sink.

On the grooved drain-board

to one side is

a glass filled with parsley—

crisped green.

Waiting

for the water to freshen—

I glance at the spotless floor—:

a pair of rubber sandals

lie side by side

under the wall-table,

all is in order for the night.

Waiting, with a glass in my hand

—three girls in crimson satin

pass close before me on

the murmurous background of

the crowded opera—

it is

memory playing the clown—

three vague, meaningless girls

full of smells and

the rustling sound of

cloth rubbing on cloth and

little slippers on carpet—

high-school French

spoken in a loud voice!

Parsley in a glass,

still and shining,

brings me back. I take my drink

and yawn deliciously.

I am ready for bed.

DANSE RUSSE

If I when my wife is sleeping

and the baby and Kathleen

are sleeping

and the sun is a flame-white disc

in silken mists

above shining trees,—

if I in my north room

danse naked, grotesquely

before my mirror

waving my shirt round my head

and singing softly to myself:

“I am lonely, lonely.

I was born to be lonely.

I am best so!”

If I admire my arms, my face

my shoulders, flanks, buttocks

against the yellow drawn shades,—

who shall say I am not

the happy genius of my household?

PORTRAIT OF A WOMAN IN BED

There’s my things

drying in the corner:

that blue skirt

joined to the grey shirt—

I’m sick of trouble!

Lift the covers

if you want me

and you’ll see

the rest of my clothes—

though it would be cold

lying with nothing on!

I won’t work

and I’ve got no cash.

What are you going to do

about it?

—and no jewelry

(the crazy fools)

But I’ve my two eyes

and a smooth face

and here’s this! look!

it’s high!

There’s brains and blood

in there—

my name’s Robitza!

Corsets

can go to the devil—

and drawers along with them!

What do I care!

My two boys?

—they’re keen!

Let the rich lady

care for them—

they’ll beat the school

or

let them go to the gutter—

that ends trouble.

This house is empty

isn’t it?

Then it’s mine

because I need it.

Oh, I won’t starve

while there’s the Bible

to make them feed me.

Try to help me

if you want trouble

or leave me alone—

that ends trouble.

The county physician

is a damned fool

and you

can go to hell!

You could have closed the door

when you came in;

do it when you go out.

I’m tired.

VIRTUE

Now? Why—

whirl-pools of

orange and purple flame

feather twists of chrome

on a green ground

funneling down upon

the steaming phallus-head

of the mad sun himself—

blackened crimson!

Now?

Why—

it is the smile of her

the smell of her

the vulgar inviting mouth of her!

It is—Oh, nothing new

nothing that lasts

an eternity, nothing worth

putting out to interest,

nothing—

but the fixing of an eye

concretely upon emptiness!

Come! here are—

cross-eyed men, a boy

with a patch, men walking

in their shirts, men in hats

dark men, a pale man

with little black moustaches

and a dirty white coat,

fat men with pudgy faces,

thin faces, crooked faces

slit eyes, grey eyes, black eyes

old men with dirty beards,

men in vests with

gold watch chains. Come!

CONQUEST

[Dedicated to F. W.]

Hard, chilly colors:

straw grey, frost grey

the grey of frozen ground:

and you, O sun,

close above the horizon!

It is I holds you—

half against the sky

half against a black tree trunk

icily resplendent!

Lie there, blue city, mine at last—

rimming the banked blue grey

and rise, indescribable smoky yellow

into the overpowering white!

PORTRAIT OF A YOUNG MAN

WITH A BAD HEART

Have I seen her?

Only through the window

across the street.

If I go meeting her

on the corner

some damned fool

will go blabbing it

to the old man and

she’ll get hell.

He’s a queer old bastard!

Every time he sees me

you’d think

I wanted to kill him.

But I figure it out

it’s best to let things

stay as they are—

for a while at least.

It’s hard

giving up the thing

you want most

in the world, but with this

damned pump of mine

liable to give out ...

She’s a good kid

and I’d hate to hurt her

but if she can get over it—

it’d be the best thing.

KELLER GEGEN DOM

Witness, would you—

one more young man

in the evening of his love

hurrying to confession:

steps down a gutter

crosses a street

goes in at a doorway

opens for you—

like some great flower—

a room filled with lamplight;

or whirls himself

obediently to

the curl of a hill

some wind-dancing afternoon;

lies for you in

the futile darkness of

a wall, sets stars dancing

to the crack of a leaf—

and—leaning his head away—

snuffs (secretly)

the bitter powder from

his thumb’s hollow,

takes your blessing and

goes home to bed?

Witness instead

whether you like it or not

a dark vinegar smelling place

from which trickles

the chuckle of

beginning laughter

It strikes midnight.

SMELL!

Oh strong ridged and deeply hollowed

nose of mine! what will you not be smelling?

What tactless asses we are, you and I, boney nose,

always indiscriminate, always unashamed,

and now it is the souring flowers of the bedraggled

poplars: a festering pulp on the wet earth

beneath them. With what deep thirst

we quicken our desires

to that rank odor of a passing spring-time!

Can you not be decent? Can you not reserve your ardors

for something less unlovely? What girl will care

for us, do you think, if we continue in these ways?

Must you taste everything? Must you know everything?

Must you have a part in everything?

BALLET

Are you not weary,

great gold cross

shining in the wind—

are you not weary

of seeing the stars

turning over you

and the sun

going to his rest

and you frozen with

a great lie

that leaves you

rigid as a knight

on a marble coffin?

—and you,

higher, still,

robin,

untwisting a song

from the bare

top-twigs,

are you not

weary of labor,

even the labor of

a song?

Come down—join me

for I am lonely.

First it will be

a quiet pace

to ease our stiffness

but as the west yellows

you will be ready!

Here in the middle

of the roadway

we will fling

ourselves round

with dust lilies

till we are bound in

their twining stems!

We will tear

their flowers

with arms flashing!

And when

the astonished stars

push aside

their curtains

they will see us

fall exhausted where

wheels and

the pounding feet

of horses

will crush forth

our laughter.

SYMPATHETIC PORTRAIT OF A

CHILD

The murderer’s little daughter

who is barely ten years old

jerks her shoulders

right and left

so as to catch a glimpse of me

without turning round.

Her skinny little arms

wrap themselves

this way then that

reversely about her body!

Nervously

she crushes her straw hat

about her eyes

and tilts her head

to deepen the shadow—

smiling excitedly!

As best as she can

she hides herself

in the full sunlight

her cordy legs writhing

beneath the little flowered dress

that leaves them bare

from mid-thigh to ankle—

Why has she chosen me

for the knife

that darts along her smile?

THE OGRE

Sweet child,

little girl with well shaped legs

you cannot touch the thoughts

I put over and under and around you.

This is fortunate for they would

burn you to an ash otherwise.

Your petals would be quite curled up.

This is all beyond you—no doubt,

yet you do feel the brushings

of the fine needles;

the tentative lines of your whole body

prove it to me;

so does your fear of me,

your shyness;

likewise the toy baby cart

that you are pushing—

and besides, mother has begun

to dress your hair in a knot.

These are my excuses.

RIPOSTE

Love is like water or the air

my townspeople;

it cleanses, and dissipates evil gases.

It is like poetry too

and for the same reasons.

Love is so precious

my townspeople

that if I were you I would

have it under lock and key—

like the air or the Atlantic or

like poetry!

THE OLD MEN

Old men who have studied

every leg show

in the city

Old men cut from touch

by the perfumed music—

polished or fleeced skulls

that stand before

the whole theater

in silent attitudes

of attention,—

old men who have taken precedence

over young men

and even over dark-faced

husbands whose minds

are a street with arc-lights.

Solitary old men for whom

we find no excuses—

I bow my head in shame

for those who malign you.

Old men

the peaceful beer of impotence

be yours!

PASTORAL

If I say I have heard voices

who will believe me?

“None has dipped his hand

in the black waters of the sky

nor picked the yellow lilies

that sway on their clear stems

and no tree has waited

long enough nor still enough

to touch fingers with the moon.”

I looked and there were little frogs

with puffed out throats,

singing in the slime.

SPRING STRAINS

In a tissue-thin monotone of blue-grey buds

crowded erect with desire against

the sky—

tense blue-grey twigs

slenderly anchoring them down, drawing

them in—

two blue-grey birds chasing

a third struggle in circles, angles,

swift convergings to a point that bursts

instantly!

Vibrant bowing limbs

pull downward, sucking in the sky

that bulges from behind, plastering itself

against them in packed rifts, rock blue

and dirty orange!

But—

(Hold hard, rigid jointed trees!)

the blinding and red-edged sun-blur—

creeping energy, concentrated

counterforce—welds sky, buds, trees,

rivets them in one puckering hold!

Sticks through! Pulls the whole

counter-pulling mass upward, to the right,

locks even the opaque, not yet defined

ground in a terrific drag that is

loosening the very tap-roots!

On a tissue-thin monotone of blue-grey buds

two blue-grey birds, chasing a third,

at full cry!   Now they are

flung   outward   and   up—disappearing suddenly!

TREES

Crooked, black tree

on your little grey-black hillock,

ridiculously raised one step toward

the infinite summits of the night:

even you the few grey stars

draw upward into a vague melody

of harsh threads.

Bent as you are from straining

against the bitter horizontals of

a north wind,—there below you

how easily the long yellow notes

of poplars flow upward in a descending

scale, each note secure in its own

posture—singularly woven.

All voices are blent willingly

against the heaving contra-bass

of the dark but you alone

warp yourself passionately to one side

in your eagerness.

A PORTRAIT IN GREYS

Will it never be possible

to separate you from your greyness?

Must you be always sinking backward

into your grey-brown landscapes—and trees

always in the distance, always against

a grey sky?

Must I be always

moving counter to you? Is there no place

where we can be at peace together

and the motion of our drawing apart

be altogether taken up?

I see myself

standing upon your shoulders touching

a grey, broken sky—

but you, weighted down with me,

yet gripping my ankles,—move

laboriously on,

where it is level and undisturbed by colors.

INVITATION

You who had the sense

to choose me such a mother,

you who had the indifference

to create me,

you who went to some pains

to leave hands off me

in the formative stages,—

(I thank you most for that

perhaps)

but you who

with an iron head, first,

fiercest and with strongest love

brutalized me into strength,

old dew-lap,—

I have reached the stage

where I am teaching myself

to laugh.

Come on,

take a walk with me.

DIVERTIMIENTO

Miserable little woman

in a brown coat—

quit whining!

My hand for you!

We’ll skip down the tin cornices

of Main Street

flicking the dull roof-line

with our toe-tips!

Hop clear of the bank! A

pin-wheel round the white flag-pole.

And I’ll sing you the while

a thing to split your sides

about Johann Sebastian Bach,

the father of music, who had

three wives and twenty-two children.

JANUARY MORNING

SUITE

I.

I have discovered that most of

the beauties of travel are due to

the strange hours we keep to see them:

the domes of the Church of

the Paulist Fathers in Weehawken

against a smoky dawn—the heart stirred—

are beautiful as Saint Peters

approached after years of anticipation.

II.

Though the operation was postponed

I saw the tall probationers

in their tan uniforms

hurrying to breakfast!

III.

—and from basement entrys

neatly coiffed, middle aged gentlemen

with orderly moustaches and

well brushed coats

IV.

—and the sun, dipping into the avenues

streaking the tops of

the irregular red houselets,

and

the gay shadows dropping and dropping.

V.

—and a young horse with a green bed-quilt

on his withers shaking his head:

bared teeth and nozzle high in the air!

VI.

—and a semicircle of dirt colored men

about a fire bursting from an old

ash can,

VII.

—and the worn,

blue car rails (like the sky!)

gleaming among the cobbles!

VIII.

—and the rickety ferry-boat “Arden”!

What an object to be called “Arden”

among the great piers,—on the

ever new river!

“Put me a Touchstone

at the wheel, white gulls, and we’ll

follow the ghost of the Half Moon

to the North West Passage—and through!

(at Albany!) for all that!”

IX.

Exquisite brown waves—long

circlets of silver moving over you!

enough with crumbling ice-crusts among you!

The sky has come down to you,

lighter than tiny bubbles, face to

face with you!

His spirit is

a white gull with delicate pink feet

and a snowy breast for you to

hold to your lips delicately!

X.

The young doctor is dancing with happiness

in the sparkling wind, alone

at the prow of the ferry! He notices

the curdy barnacles and broken ice crusts

left at the slip’s base by the low tide

and thinks of summer and green

shell crusted ledges among

the emerald eel-grass!

XI.

Who knows the Palisades as I do

knows the river breaks east from them

above the city—but they continue south

—under the sky—to bear a crest of

little peering houses that brighten

with dawn behind the moody

water-loving giants of Manhattan.

XII.

Long yellow rushes bending

above the white snow patches;

purple and gold ribbon

of the distant wood:

what an angle

you make with each other as

you lie there in contemplation.

XIII.

Work hard all your young days

and they’ll find you too, some morning

staring up under

your chiffonier at its warped

bass-wood bottom and your soul—

out!

—among the little sparrows

behind the shutter.

XIV.

—and the flapping flags are at

half mast for the dead admiral.

XV.

All this—

was for you, old woman.

I wanted to write a poem

that you would understand.

For what good is it to me

if you can’t understand it?

But you got to try hard—

But—

Well, you know how

the young girls run giggling

on Park Avenue after dark

when they ought to be home in bed?

Well,

that’s the way it is with me somehow.

TO A SOLITARY DISCIPLE

Rather notice, mon cher,

that the moon is

tilted above

the point of the steeple

than that its color

is shell-pink.

Rather observe

that it is early morning

than that the sky

is smooth

as a turquoise.

Rather grasp

how the dark

converging lines

of the steeple

meet at the pinnacle—

perceive how

its little ornament

tries to stop them—

See how it fails!

See how the converging lines

of the hexagonal spire

escape upward—

receding, dividing!

—sepals

that guard and contain

the flower!

Observe

how motionless

the eaten moon

lies in the protecting lines.

It is true:

in the light colors

of morning

brown-stone and slate

shine orange and dark blue.

But observe

the oppressive weight

of the squat edifice!

Observe

the jasmine lightness

of the moon.

DEDICATION FOR A PLOT OF GROUND

This plot of ground

facing the waters of this inlet

is dedicated to the living presence of

Emily Richardson Wellcome

who was born in England; married;

lost her husband and with

her five year old son

sailed for New York in a two-master;

was driven to the Azores;

ran adrift on Fire Island shoal,

met her second husband

in a Brooklyn boarding house,

went with him to Puerto Rico

bore three more children, lost

her second husband, lived hard

for eight years in St. Thomas,

Puerto Rico, San Domingo, followed

the oldest son to New York,

lost her daughter, lost her “baby,”

seized the two boys of

the oldest son by the second marriage

mothered them—they being

motherless—fought for them

against the other grandmother

and the aunts, brought them here

summer after summer, defended

herself here against thieves,

storms, sun, fire,

against flies, against girls

that came smelling about, against

drought, against weeds, storm-tides,

neighbors, weasles that stole her chickens,

against the weakness of her own hands,

against the growing strength of

the boys, against wind, against

the stones, against trespassers,

against rents, against her own mind.

She grubbed this earth with her own hands,

domineered over this grass plot,

blackguarded her oldest son

into buying it, lived here fifteen years,

attained a final loneliness and—

If you can bring nothing to this place

but your carcass, keep out.

K. McB.

You exquisite chunk of mud

Kathleen—just like

any other chunk of mud!

—especially in April!

Curl up round their shoes

when they try to step on you,

spoil the polish!

I shall laugh till I am sick

at their amazement.

Do they expect the ground to be

always solid?

Give them the slip then;

let them sit in you;

soil their pants;

teach them a dignity

that is dignity, the dignity

of mud!

Lie basking in

the sun then—fast asleep!

Even become dust on occasion.

LOVE SONG

I lie here thinking of you:—

the stain of love

is upon the world!

Yellow, yellow, yellow

it eats into the leaves,

smears with saffron

the horned branches that lean

heavily

against a smooth purple sky!

There is no light

only a honey-thick stain

that drips from leaf to leaf

and limb to limb

spoiling the colors

of the whole world—

you far off there under

the wine-red selvage of the west!

THE WANDERER

A Rococo Study

ADVENT

Even in the time when as yet

I had no certain knowledge of her

She sprang from the nest, a young crow,

Whose first flight circled the forest.

I know now how then she showed me

Her mind, reaching out to the horizon,

She close above the tree tops.

I saw her eyes straining at the new distance

And as the woods fell from her flying

Likewise they fell from me as I followed—

So that I strongly guessed all that I must put from me

To come through ready for the high courses.

But one day, crossing the ferry

With the great towers of Manhattan before me,

Out at the prow with the sea wind blowing,

I had been wearying many questions

Which she had put on to try me:

How shall I be a mirror to this modernity?

When lo! in a rush, dragging

A blunt boat on the yielding river—

Suddenly I saw her! And she waved me

From the white wet in midst of her playing!

She cried me, “Haia! Here I am, son!

See how strong my little finger is!

Can I not swim well?

I can fly too!” And with that a great sea-gull

Went to the left, vanishing with a wild cry—

But in my mind all the persons of godhead

Followed after.

CLARITY

“Come!” cried my mind and by her might

That was upon us we flew above the river

Seeking her, grey gulls among the white—

In the air speaking as she had willed it:

“I am given,” cried I, “now I know it!

I know now all my time is forespent!

For me one face is all the world!

For I have seen her at last, this day,

In whom age in age is united—

Indifferent, out of sequence, marvelously!

Saving alone that one sequence

Which is the beauty of all the world, for surely

Either there in the rolling smoke spheres below us

Or here with us in the air intercircling,

Certainly somewhere here about us

I know she is revealing these things!”

And as gulls we flew and with soft cries

We seemed to speak, flying, “It is she

The mighty, recreating the whole world,

This the first day of wonders!

She is attiring herself before me—

Taking shape before me for worship,

A red leaf that falls upon a stone!

It is she of whom I told you, old

Forgiveless, unreconcilable;

That high wanderer of by-ways

Walking imperious in beggary!

At her throat is loose gold, a single chain

From among many, on her bent fingers

Are rings from which the stones are fallen,

Her wrists wear a diminished state, her ankles

Are bare! Toward the river! Is it she there?”

And we swerved clamorously downward—

“I will take my peace in her henceforth!”

BROADWAY

It was then she struck—from behind,

In mid air, as with the edge of a great wing!

And instantly down the mists of my eyes

There came crowds walking—- men as visions

With expressionless, animate faces;

Empty men with shell-thin bodies

Jostling close above the gutter,

Hasting—nowhere! And then for the first time

I really saw her, really scented the sweat

Of her presence and—fell back sickened!

Ominous, old, painted—

With bright lips, and lewd Jew’s eyes

Her might strapped in by a corset

To give her age youth, perfect

In her will to be young she had covered

The godhead to go beside me.

Silent, her voice entered at my eyes

And my astonished thought followed her easily:

“Well, do their eyes shine, do their clothes fit?

These live I tell you! Old men with red cheeks,

Young men in gay suits! See them!

Dogged, quivering, impassive—

Well—are these the ones you envied?”

At which I answered her, “Marvelous old queen,

Grant me power to catch something of this day’s

Air and sun into your service!

That these toilers after peace and after pleasure

May turn to you, worshippers at all hours!”

But she sniffed upon the words warily—

Yet I persisted, watching for an answer:

“To you, horrible old woman,

Who know all fires out of the bodies

Of all men that walk with lust at heart!

To you, O mighty, crafty prowler

After the youth of all cities, drunk

With the sight of thy archness! All the youth

That come to you, you having the knowledge

Rather than to those uninitiate—

To you, marvelous old queen, give me always

A new marriage—”

But she laughed loudly—

“A new grip upon those garments that brushed me

In days gone by on beach, lawn, and in forest!

May I be lifted still, up and out of terror,

Up from before the death living around me—

Tom up continually and carried

Whatever way the head of your whim is,

A burr upon those streaming tatters—”

But the night had fallen, she stilled me

And led me away.

PATERSON—THE STRIKE

At the first peep of dawn she roused me!

I rose trembling at the change which the night saw!

For there, wretchedly brooding in a corner

From which her old eyes glittered fiercely—

“Go!” she said, and I hurried shivering

Out into the deserted streets of Paterson.

That night she came again, hovering

In rags within the filmy ceiling—

“Great Queen, bless me with thy tatters!”

“You are blest, go on!”

“Hot for savagery,

Sucking the air! I went into the city,

Out again, baffled onto the mountain!

Back into the city!

Nowhere

The subtle! Everywhere the electric!”

“A short bread-line before a hitherto empty tea shop:

No questions—all stood patiently,

Dominated by one idea: something

That carried them as they are always wanting to be carried,

‘But what is it,’ I asked those nearest me,

‘This thing heretofore unobtainable

That they seem so clever to have put on now!’

“Why since I have failed them can it be anything but their own brood?

Can it be anything but brutality?

On that at least they’re united! That at least

Is their bean soup, their calm bread and a few luxuries!

“But in me, more sensitive, marvelous old queen

It sank deep into the blood, that I rose upon

The tense air enjoying the dusty fight!

Heavy drink were the low, sloping foreheads

The flat skulls with the unkempt black or blond hair,

The ugly legs of the young girls, pistons

Too powerful for delicacy!

The women’s wrists, the men’s arms, red

Used to heat and cold, to toss quartered beeves

And barrels, and milk-cans, and crates of fruit!

“Faces all knotted up like burls on oaks,

Grasping, fox-snouted, thick-lipped,

Sagging breasts and protruding stomachs,

Rasping voices, filthy habits with the hands.

“Nowhere you! Everywhere the electric!

“Ugly, venemous, gigantic!

Tossing me as a great father his helpless

Infant till it shriek with ecstasy

And its eyes roll and its tongue hangs out!—

“I am at peace again, old queen, I listen clearer now.”

ABROAD

Never, even in a dream,

Have I winged so high nor so well

As with her, she leading me by the hand,

That first day on the Jersey mountains!

And never shall I forget

The trembling interest with which I heard

Her voice in a low thunder:

“You are safe here. Look child, look open-mouth!

The patch of road between the steep bramble banks;

The tree in the wind, the white house there, the sky!

Speak to men of these, concerning me!

For never while you permit them to ignore me

In these shall the full of my freed voice

Come grappling the ear with intent!

Never while the air’s clear coolness

Is seized to be a coat for pettiness;

Never while richness of greenery

Stands a shield for prurient minds;

Never, permitting these things unchallenged

Shall my voice of leaves and varicolored bark come free through!”

At which, knowing her solitude,

I shouted over the country below me:

“Waken! my people, to the boughs green

With ripening fruit within you!

Waken to the myriad cinquefoil

In the waving grass of your minds!

Waken to the silent phoebe nest

Under the eaves of your spirit!”

But she, stooping nearer the shifting hills

Spoke again. “Look there! See them!

There in the oat field with the horses,

See them there! bowed by their passions

Crushed down, that had been raised as a roof beam!

The weight of the sky is upon them

Under which all roof beams crumble.

There is none but the single roof beam:

There is no love bears against the great firefly!

At this I looked up at the sun

Then shouted again with all the might I had.

But my voice was a seed in the wind.

Then she, the old one, laughing

Seized me and whirling about bore back

To the city, upward, still laughing

Until the great towers stood above the marshland

Wheeling beneath: the little creeks, the mallows

That I picked as a boy, the Hackensack

So quiet that seemed so broad formerly:

The crawling trains, the cedar swamp on the one side—

All so old, so familiar—so new now

To my marvelling eyes as we passed

Invisible.

SOOTHSAY

Eight days went by, eight days

Comforted by no nights, until finally:

“Would you behold yourself old, beloved?”

I was pierced, yet I consented gladly

For I knew it could not be otherwise.

And she—“Behold yourself old!

Sustained in strength, wielding might in gript surges!

Not bodying the sun in weak leaps

But holding way over rockish men

With fern free fingers on their little crags,

Their hollows, the new Atlas, to bear them

For pride and for mockery! Behold

Yourself old! winding with slow might—

A vine among oaks—to the thin tops:

Leaving the leafless leaved,

Bearing purple clusters! Behold

Yourself old! birds are behind you.

You are the wind coming that stills birds,

Shakes the leaves in booming polyphony—

Slow, winning high way amid the knocking

Of boughs, evenly crescendo,

The din and bellow of the male wind!

Leap then from forest into foam!

Lash about from low into high flames

Tipping sound, the female chorus—

Linking all lions, all twitterings

To make them nothing! Behold yourself old!”

As I made to answer she continued,

A little wistfully yet in a voice clear cut:

“Good is my over lip and evil

My underlip to you henceforth:

For I have taken your soul between my two hands

And this shall be as it is spoken.”

ST. JAMES’ GROVE

And so it came to that last day

When, she leading by the hand, we went out

Early in the morning, I heavy of heart

For I knew the novitiate was ended

The ecstasy was over, the life begun.

In my woolen shirt and the pale blue necktie

My grandmother gave me, there I went

With the old queen right past the houses

Of my friends down the hill to the river

As on any usual day, any errand.

Alone, walking under trees,

I went with her, she with me in her wild hair,

By Santiago Grove and presently

She bent forward and knelt by the river,

The Passaic, that filthy river.

And there dabbling her mad hands,

She called me close beside her.

Raising the water then in the cupped palm

She bathed our brows wailing and laughing:

“River, we are old, you and I,

We are old and by bad luck, beggars.

Lo, the filth in our hair, our bodies stink!

Old friend, here I have brought you

The young soul you long asked of me.

Stand forth, river, and give me

The old friend of my revels!

Give me the well-worn spirit,

For here I have made a room for it,

And I will return to you forthwith

The youth you have long asked of me:

Stand forth, river, and give me

The old friend of my revels!”

And the filthy Passaic consented!

Then she, leaping up with a fierce cry:

“Enter, youth, into this bulk!

Enter, river, into this young man!”

Then the river began to enter my heart,

Eddying back cool and limpid

Into the crystal beginning of its days.

But with the rebound it leaped forward:

Muddy, then black and shrunken

Till I felt the utter depth of its rottenness

The vile breadth of its degradation

And dropped down knowing this was me now.

But she lifted me and the water took a new tide

Again into the older experiences,

And so, backward and forward,

It tortured itself within me

Until time had been washed finally under,

And the river had found its level

And its last motion had ceased

And I knew all—it became me.

And I knew this for double certain

For there, whitely, I saw myself

Being borne off under the water!

I could have shouted out in my agony

At the sight of myself departing

Forever—but I bit back my despair

For she had averted her eyes

By which I knew well what she was thinking—

And so the last of me was taken.

Then she, “Be mostly silent!”

And turning to the river, spoke again:

“For him and for me, river, the wandering,

But by you I leave for happiness

Deep foliage, the thickest beeches—

Though elsewhere they are all dying—

Tallest oaks and yellow birches

That dip their leaves in you, mourning,

As now I dip my hair, immemorial

Of me, immemorial of him

Immemorial of these our promises!

Here shall be a bird’s paradise,

They sing to you remembering my voice:

Here the most secluded spaces

For miles around, hallowed by a stench

To be our joint solitude and temple;

In memory of this clear marriage

And the child I have brought you in the late years.

Live, river, live in luxuriance

Remembering this our son,

In remembrance of me and my sorrow

And of the new wandering!”

Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:

con la beautitud=> con la beatitud {pg 5}

a rough day to=> a rough dray to {pg 26}

From which he old eyes=> From which her old eyes {pg 79}

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Table of Contents

A BOOK OF POEMS AL QUE QUIERE!

AL QUE QUIERE!

SUB TERRA

PASTORAL

CHICKORY AND DAISIES

I.

II.

METRIC FIGURE

WOMAN WALKING

GULLS

APPEAL

IN HARBOR

WINTER SUNSET

APOLOGY

PASTORAL

LOVE SONG

M. B.

TRACT

PROMENADE

I.

II.

III.

EL HOMBRE

HERO

LIBERTAD! IGUALDAD! FRATERNIDAD!

CANTHARA

MUJER

SUMMER SONG

LOVE SONG

FOREIGN

A PRELUDE

HISTORY

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

WINTER QUIET

DAWN

GOOD NIGHT

DANSE RUSSE

PORTRAIT OF A WOMAN IN BED

VIRTUE

CONQUEST [Dedicated to F. W.]

PORTRAIT OF A YOUNG MAN WITH A BAD HEART

KELLER GEGEN DOM

SMELL!

BALLET

SYMPATHETIC PORTRAIT OF A CHILD

THE OGRE

RIPOSTE

THE OLD MEN

PASTORAL

SPRING STRAINS

TREES

A PORTRAIT IN GREYS

INVITATION

DIVERTIMIENTO

JANUARY MORNING

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

TO A SOLITARY DISCIPLE

DEDICATION FOR A PLOT OF GROUND

K. McB.

LOVE SONG

THE WANDERER A Rococo Study

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE