|
|
from Senlin, A Biography
- IT is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
- When the light drips through the shutters like the dew,
- I arise, I face the sunrise,
- And do the things my fathers learned to do.
- Stars in the purple dusk above the rooftops
- Pale in a saffron mist and seem to die,
- And I myself on a swiftly tilting planet
- Stand before a glass and tie my tie.
- Vine leaves tap my window,
- Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
- The robin chips in the chinaberry tree
- Repeating three clear tones.
- It is morning. I stand by the mirror
- And tie my tie once more.
- While waves far off in a pale rose twilight
- Crash on a white sand shore.
- I stand by a mirror and comb my hair:
- How small and white my face!--
- The green earth tilts through a sphere of air
- And bathes in a flame of space.
- There are houses hanging above the stars
- And stars hung under a sea. . .
- And a sun far off in a shell of silence
- Dapples my walls for me. . .
- It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
- Should I not pause in the light to remember God?
- Upright and firm I stand on a star unstable,
- He is immense and lonely as a cloud.
- I will dedicate this moment before my mirror
- To him alone, and for him I will comb my hair.
- Accept these humble offerings, cloud of silence!
- I will think of you as I descend the stair.
- Vine leaves tap my window,
- The snail-track shines on the stones,
- Dew-drops flash from the chinaberry tree
- Repeating two clear tones.
- It is morning, I awake from a bed of silence,
- Shining I rise from the starless waters of sleep.
- The walls are about me still as in the evening,
- I am the same, and the same name still I keep.
- The earth revolves with me, yet makes no motion,
- The stars pale silently in a coral sky.
- In a whistling void I stand before my mirror,
- Unconcerned, I tie my tie.
- There are horses neighing on far-off hills
- Tossing their long white manes,
- And mountains flash in the rose-white dusk,
- Their shoulders black with rains. . .
- It is morning. I stand by the mirror
- And surprise my soul once more;
- The blue air rushes above my ceiling,
- There are suns beneath my floor. . .
- . . . It is morning, Senlin says, I ascend from darkness
- And depart on the winds of space for I know not where,
- My watch is wound, a key is in my pocket,
- And the sky is darkened as I descend the stair.
- There are shadows across the windows, clouds in heaven,
- And a god among the stars; and I will go
- Thinking of him as I might think of daybreak
- And humming a tune I know. . .
- Vine-leaves tap at the window,
- Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
- The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree
- Repeating three clear tones.
- Conrad Aiken

from The Charnel Rose: Senlin, A Biography
- IT is moonlight. Alone in the silence
- I ascend my stairs once more,
- While waves, remote in a pale blue starlight,
- Crash on a white sand shore.
- It is moonlight. The garden is silent.
- I stand in my room alone.
- Across my wall, from the far-off moon,
- A rain of fire is thrown . . .
- There are houses hanging above the stars,
- And stars hung under a sea:
- And a wind from the long blue vault of time
- Waves my curtain for me . . .
- I wait in the dark once more,
- Swung between space and space:
- Before my mirror I lift my hands
- And face my remembered face.
- Is it I who stand in a question here,
- Asking to know my name? . . .
- It is I, yet I know not whither I go,
- Nor why, nor whence I came.
- It is I, who awoke at dawn
- And arose and descended the stair,
- Conceiving a god in the eye of the sun, --
- In a woman's hands and hair.
- It is I whose flesh is gray with the stones
- I builded into a wall:
- With a mournful melody in my brain
- Of a tune I cannot recall . . .
- There are roses to kiss: and mouths to kiss;
- And the sharp-pained shadow of death.
- I remember a rain-drop on my cheek, --
- A wind like a fragrant breath . . .
- And the star I laugh on tilts through heaven;
- And the heavens are dark and steep . . .
- I will forget these things once more
- In the silence of sleep.
- Conrad Aiken

- I. (Bread and Music)
- MUSIC I heard with you was more than music,
- And bread I broke with you was more than bread;
- Now that I am without you, all is desolate;
- All that was once so beautiful is dead.
- Your hands once touched this table and this silver,
- And I have seen your fingers hold this glass.
- These things do not remember you, belovèd,
- And yet your touch upon them will not pass.
- For it was in my heart you moved among them,
- And blessed them with your hands and with your eyes;
- And in my heart they will remember always,--
- They knew you once, O beautiful and wise.
- II
- My heart has become as hard as a city street,
- The horses trample upon it, it sings like iron,
- All day long and all night long they beat,
- They ring like the hooves of time.
- My heart has become as drab as a city park,
- The grass is worn with the feet of shameless lovers,
- A match is struck, there is kissing in the dark,
- The moon comes, pale with sleep.
- My heart is torn with the sound of raucous voices,
- They shout from the slums, from the streets, from the crowded places,
- And tunes from the hurdy-gurdy that coldly rejoices
- Shoot arrows into my heart.
- III
- Dead Cleopatra lies in a crystal casket,
- Wrapped and spiced by the cunningest of hands.
- Around her neck they have put a golden necklace,
- Her tatbebs, it is said, are worn with sands.
- Dead Cleopatra was once revered in Egypt,
- Warm-eyed she was, this princess of the South.
- Now she is old and dry and faded,
- With black bitumen they have sealed up her mouth.
- O sweet clean earth, from whom the green blade cometh!
- When we are dead, my best belovèd and I,
- Close well above us, that we may rest forever,
- Sending up grass and blossoms to the sky.
- IV
- In the noisy street,
- Where the sifted sunlight yellows the pallid faces,
- Sudden I close my eyes, and on my eyelids
- Feel from the far-off sea a cool faint spray,--
- A breath on my cheek,
- From the tumbling breakers and foam, the hard sand shattered,
- Gulls in the high wind whistling, flashing waters,
- Smoke from the flashing waters blown on rocks;
- --And I know once more,
- O dearly belovèd! that all these seas are between us,
- Tumult and madness, desolate save for the sea-gulls,
- You on the farther shore, and I in this street.
- Conrad Aiken

- ALL lovely things will have an ending,
- All lovely things will fade and die,
- And youth, that's now so bravely spending,
- Will beg a penny by and by.
- Fine ladies soon are all forgotten,
- And goldenrod is dust when dead,
- The sweetest flesh and flowers are rotten
- And cobwebs tent the brightest head.
- Come back, true love! Sweet youth, return!--
- But time goes on, and will, unheeding,
- Though hands will reach, and eyes will yearn,
- And the wild days set true hearts bleeding.
- Come back, true love! Sweet youth, remain!--
- But goldenrod and daisies wither,
- And over them blows autumn rain,
- They pass, they pass, and know not whither.
- Conrad Aiken

- I. Rose and Murray
- AFTER the movie, when the lights come up,
- He takes her powdered hand behind the wings;
- She, all in yellow, like a buttercup,
- Lifts her white face, yearns up to him, and clings;
- And with a silent, gliding step they move
- Over the footlights, in familiar glare,
- Panther-like in the Tango whirl of love,
- He fawning close on her with idiot stare.
- Swiftly they cross the stage. O lyric ease!
- The drunken music follows the sure feet,
- The swaying elbows, intergliding knees,
- Moving with slow precision on the beat.
- She was a waitress in a restaurant,
- He picked her up and taught her how to dance.
- She feels his arms, lifts an appealing glance,
- But knows he spent last evening with Zudora;
- And knows that certain changes are before her.
- The brilliant spotlight circles them around,
- Flashing the spangles on her weighted dress.
- He mimics wooing her, without a sound,
- Flatters her with a smoothly smiled caress.
- He fears that she will someday queer his act;
- Feeling his anger. He will quit her soon.
- He nods for faster music. He will contract
- Another partner, under another moon.
- Meanwhile, 'smooth stuff.' He lets his dry eyes flit
- Over the yellow faces there below;
- Maybe he'll cut down on his drinks a bit,
- Not to annoy her, and spoil the show. . .
- Zudora, waiting for her turn to come,
- Watches them from the wings and fatly leers
- At the girl's younger face, so white and dumb,
- And the fixed, anguished eyes, ready for tears.
- She lies beside him, with a false wedding-ring,
- In a cheap room, with moonlight on the floor;
- The moonlit curtains remind her much of spring,
- Of a spring evening on the Coney shore.
- And while he sleeps, knowing she ought to hate,
- She still clings to the lover that she knew,--
- The one that, with a pencil on a plate,
- Drew a heart and wrote, 'I'd die for you.'
- IV. Duval's Birds
- The parrot, screeching, flew out into the darkness,
- Circled three times above the upturned faces
- With a great whir of brilliant outspread wings,
- And then returned to stagger on her finger.
- She bowed and smiled, eliciting applause. . .
- The property man hated her dirty birds.
- But it had taken years--yes, years--to train them,
- To shoulder flags, strike bells by tweaking strings,
- Or climb sedately little flights of stairs.
- When they were stubborn, she tapped them with a wand,
- And her eyes glittered a little under the eyebrows.
- The red one flapped and flapped on a swinging wire;
- The little white ones winked round yellow eyes.
- VI. Violet Moore and Bert Moore
- He thinks her little feet should pass
- Where dandelions star thickly grass;
- Her hands should lift in sunlit air
- Sea-wind should tangle up her hair.
- Green leaves, he says, have never heard
- A sweeter ragtime mockingbird,
- Nor has the moon-man ever seen,
- Or man in the spotlight, leering green,
- Such a beguiling, smiling queen.
- Her eyes, he says, are stars at dusk,
- Her mouth as sweet as red-rose musk;
- And when she dances his young heart swells
- With flutes and viols and silver bells;
- His brain is dizzy, his senses swim,
- When she slants her ragtime eyes at him. . .
- Moonlight shadows, he bids her see,
- Move no more silently than she.
- It was this way, he says, she came,
- Into his cold heart, bearing flame.
- And now that his heart is all on fire
- Will she refuse his heart's desire?--
- And O! has the Moon Man ever seen
- (Or the spotlight devil, leering green)
- A sweeter shadow upon a screen?
- VII. Zudora
- Here on the pale beach, in the darkness;
- With the full moon just to rise;
- They sit alone, and look over the sea,
- Or into each other's eyes. . .
- She pokes her parasol into the sleepy sand,
- Or sifts the lazy whiteness through her hand.
- 'A lovely night,' he says, 'the moon,
- Comes up for you and me.
- Just like a blind old spotlight there,
- Fizzing across the sea!'
- She pays no heed, nor even turns her head:
- He slides his arm around her waist instead.
- 'Why don't we do a sketch together--
- Those songs you sing are swell.
- Where did you get them, anyway?
- They suit you awfully well.'
- She will not turn to him--will not resist.
- Impassive, she submits to being kissed.
- 'My husband wrote all four of them.
- You know,--my husband drowned.
- He was always sickly, soon depressed. . .'
- But still she hears the sound
- Of a stateroom door shut hard, and footsteps going
- Swiftly and steadily, and the dark sea flowing.
- She hears the dark sea flowing, and sees his eyes
- Hollow with disenchantment, sick surprise,--
- And hate of her whom he had loved too well. . .
- She lowers her eyes, demurely prods a shell.
- 'Yes. We might do an act together.
- That would be very nice.'
- He kisses her passionately, and thinks
- She's carnal, but cold as ice.
- X. The Cornet
- When she came out, that white little Russian dancer,
- With her bright hair, and her eyes, so young, so young,
- He suddenly lost his leader, and all the players,
- And only heard an immortal music sung,--
- Of dryads flashing in the green woods of April,
- On cobwebs trembling over the deep, wet grass:
- Fleeing their shadows with laughter, with hands uplifted,
- Through the whirled sinister sun he saw them pass,--
- Lovely immortals gone, yet existing somewhere,
- Still somewhere laughing in woods of immortal green,
- Young he had lived among fires, or dreamed of living,
- Lovers in youth once seen, or dreamed he had seen. . .
- And watched her knees flash up, and her young hands beckon,
- And the hair that streamed behind, and the taunting eyes.
- He felt this place dissolving in living darkness,
- And through the darkness he felt his childhood rise.
- Soft, and shining, and sweet, hands filled with petals. . .
- And watching her dance, he was grateful to forget
- The fiddlers, leaning and drawing their bows together,
- And the tired fingers on the stops of his cornet.
- XIII.
- How is it that I am now so softly awakened,
- My leaves shaken down with music?--
- Darling, I love you.
- It is not your mouth, for I have known mouths before,--
- Though your mouth is more alive than roses,
- Roses singing softly
- To green leaves after rain.
- It is not your eyes, for I have dived often in eyes,--
- Though your eyes, even in the yellow glare of footlights,
- Are windows into eternal dusk.
- Nor is it the live white flashing of your feet,
- Nor your gay hands, catching at motes in the spotlight;
- Nor the abrupt thick music of your laughter,
- When, against the hideous backdrop,
- With all its crudities brilliantly lighted,
- Suddenly you catch sight of your alarming shadow,
- Whirling and contracting.
- How is it, then, that I am so keenly aware,
- So sensitive to the surges of the wind, or the light,
- Heaving silently under blue seas of air?--
- Darling, I love you, I am immersed in you.
- It is not the unraveled night-time of your hair,--
- Though I grow drunk when you press it upon my face:
- And though when you gloss its length with a golden brush
- I am strings that tremble under a bow.
- It was that night I saw you dancing,
- The whirl and impalpable float of your garment,
- Your throat lifted, your face aglow
- (Like water lilies in moonlight were your knees).
- It was that night I heard you singing
- In the green-room after your dance was over,
- Faint and uneven through the thickness of walls.
- (How shall I come to you through the dullness of walls,
- Thrusting aside the hands of bitter opinion?)
- It was that afternoon, early in June,
- When, tired with a sleepless night, and my act performed,
- Feeling as stale as streets,
- We met under dropping boughs, and you smiled to me:
- And we sat by a watery surface of clouds and sky.
- I hear only the susurration of intimate leaves;
- The stealthy gliding of branches upon slow air.
- I see only the point of your chin in sunlight;
- And the sinister blue of sunlight on your hair.
- The sunlight settles downward upon us in silence.
- Now we thrust up through grass blades and encounter,
- Pushing white hands amid the green.
- Your face flowers whitely among cold leaves.
- Soil clings to you, bark falls from you,
- You rouse and stretch upward, exhaling earth, inhaling sky,
- I touch you, and we drift off together like moons.
- Earth dips from under.
- We are alone in an immensity of sunlight,
- Specks in an infinite golden radiance,
- Whirled and tossed upon silent cataracts and torrents.
- Give me your hand darling! We float downward.
- XV. Dancing Adairs
- Behold me, in my chiffon, gauze, and tinsel,
- Flitting out of the shadow into the spotlight,
- And into the shadow again, without a whisper!--
- Firefly's my name, I am evanescent.
- Firefly's your name. You are evanescent.
- But I follow you as remorselessly as darkness,
- And shut you in and enclose you, at last, and always,
- Till you are lost,--as a voice is lost in silence.
- Till I am lost, as a voice is lost in silence. . .
- Are you the one who would close so cool about me?
- My fire sheds into and through you and beyond you:
- How can your fingers hold me? I am elusive.
- How can my fingers hold you? You are elusive?
- Yes, you are flame, but I surround and love you,
- Always extend beyond you, cool, eternal,
- To take you into my heart's great void of silence.
- You shut me into your heart's great void of silence. . .
- O sweet and soothing end for a life of whirling!
- Now I am still, whose life was mazed with motion.
- Now I sink into you, for love of sleep.
- Conrad Aiken

- He
- FILL your bowl with roses: the bowl, too, have of crystal.
- Sit at the western window. Take the sun
- Between your hands like a ball of flaming crystal,
- Poise it to let it fall, but hold it still,
- And meditate on the beauty of your existence;
- The beauty of this, that you exist at all.
- She
- The sun goes down, -- but without lamentation.
- I close my eyes, and the stream of my sensation
- In this, at least, grows clear to me:
- Beauty is a word that has no meaning.
- Beauty is naught to me.
- He
- The last blurred raindrops fall from the half-clear sky,
- Eddying lightly, rose-tinged, in the windless wake of the sun.
- The swallow ascending against cold waves of cloud
- Seems winging upward over huge bleak stairs of stone.
- The raindrop finds its way to the heart of the leaf-bud.
- But no word finds its way to the heart of you.
- She
- This also is clear in the stream of my sensation:
- That I am content, for the moment, Let me be.
- How light the new grass looks with the rain-dust on it!
- But heart is a word that has no meaning,
- Heart means nothing to me.
- He
- To the end of the world I pass and back again
- In flights of the mind; yet always find you here,
- Remote, pale, unattached . . . O Circe-too-clear-eyed,
- Watching amused your fawning tiger-thoughts,
- Your wolves, your grotesque apes -- relent, relent!
- Be less wary for once: it is the evening.
- She
- But if I close my eyes what howlings greet me!
- Do not persuade. Be tranquil. Here is flesh
- With all its demons. Take it, sate yourself.
- But leave my thoughts to me.
- Conrad Aiken
|
|