SOUTH STATE STREET: CHICAGO

IRows of blankly box-like buildingsRaise their sodden architectureInto the poised lyric of the sky.At their feet, pawn-shops and burlesque theatresYawn beneath their livid confetti.In the pawn-shop windows, violins,Cut-glass bowls and satchels mildly blinkUpon the mottled turbulence outside,And sit with that detached assuranceGripping things inanimate.Near them, slyly shaded cabaretsStand in bland and ornate sleep,And the glassy luridnessOf penny-arcades flays the eyes.The black crowd clatters like an idiot’s wrath.IIWander with me down this streetWhere the spectral night is caughtLike moon-paint on a colourless lane....On this corner stands a womanSleekly, sulkily complacentLike a tigress nibbling bits of sugar.At her side, a brawny, white-faced manWhose fingers waltz upon his checkered suit,Searches for one face amidst the crowd.(His smile is like a rambling sword.)His elbows almost touch a snowy girlWhose body blooms with cool withdrawal.From her little nook of peaceful scornShe casts unseeing eyes upon the crowd.Near her stands a weary newsboyWith a sullenly elfin face.The night has leaned too intimatelyOn the frightened scampering of his soul.But to this old, staidly patient womanWith her softly wintry eyes,Night bends down in gentle revelationUndisturbed by joy or hatred.At her side two factory girlsIn slyly jaunty hats and swaggering coats,Weave a twinkling summer with their words:A summer where the night paradesRakishly, and like a gold Beau Brummel.With a gnome-like impudenceThey thrust their little, pink tongues outAt men who sidle past.To them, the frantic dinginess of dayHas melted to caressing restlessnessTingling with the pride of breasts and hips.At their side two dainty, languid girlsPlaying with their suavely tangled dresses,Touch the black crowd with unsearching eyes.But the old man on the corner,Bending over his cane like some tired warriorResting on a sword, peers at the crowdWith the smouldering disdainOf a King whipped out of his domain.For a moment he smiles uncertainly.Then wears a look of frail sternness.Musty, Rabelaisian odours strayFrom this naïvely gilded family-entranceAnd make the body of a vagrantQuiver as though unseen roses grazed him.His face is blackly stubbled emptinessSwerving to the rotted prayers of eyes.Yet, sometimes his thin arm leaps outAnd hangs a moment in the air,As though he raised a violin of hateAnd lacked the strength to play it.A woman lurches from the family-entrance.With tense solicitude she hugsHer can of beer against her stunted bosomAnd mumbles to herself.The trampled blasphemy upon her faceHolds up, in death, its watery, barren eyes.Indifferently, she brushes past the vagrant:Life has peeled away her sense of touch.IIIWith groping majesty, the endless crowdPounds its searching chant of feetDown this tawdrily resplendent street.People stray into a burlesque theatreFramed with scarlet, blankly rotund girls.Here a burly cattle-raiser walksWith the grace of wind-swept prairie grass.Behind him steps a slender clerkTendering his sprightly stridencyTo the stolid, doll-like girl beside him.At his side a heavy youthDully stands beneath his swaggering mask;And a smiling man in black and whiteWalks, like some Pierrot grown middle-aged.Mutely twinkling fragments of a romance:Tiny lights stand over this cabaret.Men and women jovially emboldenedStroll beneath the curtained entrance,And their laughs, like softly brazen cow-bells,Change the scene to a strange Pastoral.Hectic shepherdesses drunk with night,Women mingle their coquettish colours....Suddenly, a man leaps outFrom the doorway’s blazing pallor,Smashing into the drab sidewalk.His drunken lips and eyelids break apartLike a clown in sudden suicide.Then the mottled nakednessOf the scene comes, like a blow.Stoically crushed in hovering greyNight lies coldly on this street.Momentary sounds crash into nightLike ghostly curses stifled in their birth....And over all the blankly box-like buildingsRaise their sodden architectureInto the poised lyric of the sky.

Rows of blankly box-like buildingsRaise their sodden architectureInto the poised lyric of the sky.At their feet, pawn-shops and burlesque theatresYawn beneath their livid confetti.In the pawn-shop windows, violins,Cut-glass bowls and satchels mildly blinkUpon the mottled turbulence outside,And sit with that detached assuranceGripping things inanimate.Near them, slyly shaded cabaretsStand in bland and ornate sleep,And the glassy luridnessOf penny-arcades flays the eyes.The black crowd clatters like an idiot’s wrath.

Rows of blankly box-like buildings

Raise their sodden architecture

Into the poised lyric of the sky.

At their feet, pawn-shops and burlesque theatres

Yawn beneath their livid confetti.

In the pawn-shop windows, violins,

Cut-glass bowls and satchels mildly blink

Upon the mottled turbulence outside,

And sit with that detached assurance

Gripping things inanimate.

Near them, slyly shaded cabarets

Stand in bland and ornate sleep,

And the glassy luridness

Of penny-arcades flays the eyes.

The black crowd clatters like an idiot’s wrath.

Wander with me down this streetWhere the spectral night is caughtLike moon-paint on a colourless lane....On this corner stands a womanSleekly, sulkily complacentLike a tigress nibbling bits of sugar.At her side, a brawny, white-faced manWhose fingers waltz upon his checkered suit,Searches for one face amidst the crowd.(His smile is like a rambling sword.)His elbows almost touch a snowy girlWhose body blooms with cool withdrawal.From her little nook of peaceful scornShe casts unseeing eyes upon the crowd.Near her stands a weary newsboyWith a sullenly elfin face.The night has leaned too intimatelyOn the frightened scampering of his soul.But to this old, staidly patient womanWith her softly wintry eyes,Night bends down in gentle revelationUndisturbed by joy or hatred.At her side two factory girlsIn slyly jaunty hats and swaggering coats,Weave a twinkling summer with their words:A summer where the night paradesRakishly, and like a gold Beau Brummel.With a gnome-like impudenceThey thrust their little, pink tongues outAt men who sidle past.To them, the frantic dinginess of dayHas melted to caressing restlessnessTingling with the pride of breasts and hips.At their side two dainty, languid girlsPlaying with their suavely tangled dresses,Touch the black crowd with unsearching eyes.But the old man on the corner,Bending over his cane like some tired warriorResting on a sword, peers at the crowdWith the smouldering disdainOf a King whipped out of his domain.For a moment he smiles uncertainly.Then wears a look of frail sternness.

Wander with me down this street

Where the spectral night is caught

Like moon-paint on a colourless lane....

On this corner stands a woman

Sleekly, sulkily complacent

Like a tigress nibbling bits of sugar.

At her side, a brawny, white-faced man

Whose fingers waltz upon his checkered suit,

Searches for one face amidst the crowd.

(His smile is like a rambling sword.)

His elbows almost touch a snowy girl

Whose body blooms with cool withdrawal.

From her little nook of peaceful scorn

She casts unseeing eyes upon the crowd.

Near her stands a weary newsboy

With a sullenly elfin face.

The night has leaned too intimately

On the frightened scampering of his soul.

But to this old, staidly patient woman

With her softly wintry eyes,

Night bends down in gentle revelation

Undisturbed by joy or hatred.

At her side two factory girls

In slyly jaunty hats and swaggering coats,

Weave a twinkling summer with their words:

A summer where the night parades

Rakishly, and like a gold Beau Brummel.

With a gnome-like impudence

They thrust their little, pink tongues out

At men who sidle past.

To them, the frantic dinginess of day

Has melted to caressing restlessness

Tingling with the pride of breasts and hips.

At their side two dainty, languid girls

Playing with their suavely tangled dresses,

Touch the black crowd with unsearching eyes.

But the old man on the corner,

Bending over his cane like some tired warrior

Resting on a sword, peers at the crowd

With the smouldering disdain

Of a King whipped out of his domain.

For a moment he smiles uncertainly.

Then wears a look of frail sternness.

Musty, Rabelaisian odours strayFrom this naïvely gilded family-entranceAnd make the body of a vagrantQuiver as though unseen roses grazed him.His face is blackly stubbled emptinessSwerving to the rotted prayers of eyes.Yet, sometimes his thin arm leaps outAnd hangs a moment in the air,As though he raised a violin of hateAnd lacked the strength to play it.A woman lurches from the family-entrance.With tense solicitude she hugsHer can of beer against her stunted bosomAnd mumbles to herself.The trampled blasphemy upon her faceHolds up, in death, its watery, barren eyes.Indifferently, she brushes past the vagrant:Life has peeled away her sense of touch.

Musty, Rabelaisian odours stray

From this naïvely gilded family-entrance

And make the body of a vagrant

Quiver as though unseen roses grazed him.

His face is blackly stubbled emptiness

Swerving to the rotted prayers of eyes.

Yet, sometimes his thin arm leaps out

And hangs a moment in the air,

As though he raised a violin of hate

And lacked the strength to play it.

A woman lurches from the family-entrance.

With tense solicitude she hugs

Her can of beer against her stunted bosom

And mumbles to herself.

The trampled blasphemy upon her face

Holds up, in death, its watery, barren eyes.

Indifferently, she brushes past the vagrant:

Life has peeled away her sense of touch.

III

With groping majesty, the endless crowdPounds its searching chant of feetDown this tawdrily resplendent street.People stray into a burlesque theatreFramed with scarlet, blankly rotund girls.Here a burly cattle-raiser walksWith the grace of wind-swept prairie grass.Behind him steps a slender clerkTendering his sprightly stridencyTo the stolid, doll-like girl beside him.At his side a heavy youthDully stands beneath his swaggering mask;And a smiling man in black and whiteWalks, like some Pierrot grown middle-aged.

With groping majesty, the endless crowd

Pounds its searching chant of feet

Down this tawdrily resplendent street.

People stray into a burlesque theatre

Framed with scarlet, blankly rotund girls.

Here a burly cattle-raiser walks

With the grace of wind-swept prairie grass.

Behind him steps a slender clerk

Tendering his sprightly stridency

To the stolid, doll-like girl beside him.

At his side a heavy youth

Dully stands beneath his swaggering mask;

And a smiling man in black and white

Walks, like some Pierrot grown middle-aged.

Mutely twinkling fragments of a romance:Tiny lights stand over this cabaret.Men and women jovially emboldenedStroll beneath the curtained entrance,And their laughs, like softly brazen cow-bells,Change the scene to a strange Pastoral.Hectic shepherdesses drunk with night,Women mingle their coquettish colours....Suddenly, a man leaps outFrom the doorway’s blazing pallor,Smashing into the drab sidewalk.His drunken lips and eyelids break apartLike a clown in sudden suicide.Then the mottled nakednessOf the scene comes, like a blow.

Mutely twinkling fragments of a romance:

Tiny lights stand over this cabaret.

Men and women jovially emboldened

Stroll beneath the curtained entrance,

And their laughs, like softly brazen cow-bells,

Change the scene to a strange Pastoral.

Hectic shepherdesses drunk with night,

Women mingle their coquettish colours....

Suddenly, a man leaps out

From the doorway’s blazing pallor,

Smashing into the drab sidewalk.

His drunken lips and eyelids break apart

Like a clown in sudden suicide.

Then the mottled nakedness

Of the scene comes, like a blow.

Stoically crushed in hovering greyNight lies coldly on this street.Momentary sounds crash into nightLike ghostly curses stifled in their birth....And over all the blankly box-like buildingsRaise their sodden architectureInto the poised lyric of the sky.

Stoically crushed in hovering grey

Night lies coldly on this street.

Momentary sounds crash into night

Like ghostly curses stifled in their birth....

And over all the blankly box-like buildings

Raise their sodden architecture

Into the poised lyric of the sky.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:The cover image for this eBook was created by the transcriber and is entered into the public domain.Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been retained.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

The cover image for this eBook was created by the transcriber and is entered into the public domain.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been retained.

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