Maxwell Bodenheim
A sky that has never known sun, moon or stars,A sky that is like a dead, kind face,Would have the color of your eyes,O servant-girl, singing of pear-trees in the sun,And scraping the yellow fruit you once pickedWhen your lavender-white eyes were alive....On the porch above you are two women,Whose faces have the color of brown earth that has never felt rain.The still wet basins of ponds that have been drainedAre their eyes.They knit gray rosettes and nibble cakes....And on the top-porch are three childrenGravely kissing each others’ foreheads—And an ample nurse with a huge red fan....The passing of the afternoon to themIs but the lengthening of blue-black shadows on brick walls.
A sky that has never known sun, moon or stars,A sky that is like a dead, kind face,Would have the color of your eyes,O servant-girl, singing of pear-trees in the sun,And scraping the yellow fruit you once pickedWhen your lavender-white eyes were alive....On the porch above you are two women,Whose faces have the color of brown earth that has never felt rain.The still wet basins of ponds that have been drainedAre their eyes.They knit gray rosettes and nibble cakes....And on the top-porch are three childrenGravely kissing each others’ foreheads—And an ample nurse with a huge red fan....The passing of the afternoon to themIs but the lengthening of blue-black shadows on brick walls.
A sky that has never known sun, moon or stars,A sky that is like a dead, kind face,Would have the color of your eyes,O servant-girl, singing of pear-trees in the sun,And scraping the yellow fruit you once pickedWhen your lavender-white eyes were alive....On the porch above you are two women,Whose faces have the color of brown earth that has never felt rain.The still wet basins of ponds that have been drainedAre their eyes.They knit gray rosettes and nibble cakes....And on the top-porch are three childrenGravely kissing each others’ foreheads—And an ample nurse with a huge red fan....
A sky that has never known sun, moon or stars,
A sky that is like a dead, kind face,
Would have the color of your eyes,
O servant-girl, singing of pear-trees in the sun,
And scraping the yellow fruit you once picked
When your lavender-white eyes were alive....
On the porch above you are two women,
Whose faces have the color of brown earth that has never felt rain.
The still wet basins of ponds that have been drained
Are their eyes.
They knit gray rosettes and nibble cakes....
And on the top-porch are three children
Gravely kissing each others’ foreheads—
And an ample nurse with a huge red fan....
The passing of the afternoon to themIs but the lengthening of blue-black shadows on brick walls.
The passing of the afternoon to them
Is but the lengthening of blue-black shadows on brick walls.
Oh, the agony of having too much power!In my passive palm are hundreds of lives.Strange alchemy!—they drain my blood:My heart becomes iron; my brain copper; my eyes silver; my lips brass.Merely by twitching a supple finger, I twirl lives from me—strong-winged,Or fluttering and broken.They are my children, I am their mother and father.I watch them live and die.
Oh, the agony of having too much power!In my passive palm are hundreds of lives.Strange alchemy!—they drain my blood:My heart becomes iron; my brain copper; my eyes silver; my lips brass.Merely by twitching a supple finger, I twirl lives from me—strong-winged,Or fluttering and broken.They are my children, I am their mother and father.I watch them live and die.
Oh, the agony of having too much power!In my passive palm are hundreds of lives.Strange alchemy!—they drain my blood:My heart becomes iron; my brain copper; my eyes silver; my lips brass.Merely by twitching a supple finger, I twirl lives from me—strong-winged,Or fluttering and broken.They are my children, I am their mother and father.I watch them live and die.
Oh, the agony of having too much power!
In my passive palm are hundreds of lives.
Strange alchemy!—they drain my blood:
My heart becomes iron; my brain copper; my eyes silver; my lips brass.
Merely by twitching a supple finger, I twirl lives from me—strong-winged,
Or fluttering and broken.
They are my children, I am their mother and father.
I watch them live and die.
THE OLD JEW
No fawn-tinged hospital pajamas could cheat him of his austerity,Which tamed even the doctors with its pure fire.They examined him; made him bow to them:Massive altars were they, at whose swollen feet grovelled a worshiper.Then they laughed, half in scorn of him; and there came a miracle.The little man was above them at a bound.His austerity, like an irresistible sledge-hammer, drove them lower and lower:They dwindled while he soared.
No fawn-tinged hospital pajamas could cheat him of his austerity,Which tamed even the doctors with its pure fire.They examined him; made him bow to them:Massive altars were they, at whose swollen feet grovelled a worshiper.Then they laughed, half in scorn of him; and there came a miracle.The little man was above them at a bound.His austerity, like an irresistible sledge-hammer, drove them lower and lower:They dwindled while he soared.
No fawn-tinged hospital pajamas could cheat him of his austerity,Which tamed even the doctors with its pure fire.They examined him; made him bow to them:Massive altars were they, at whose swollen feet grovelled a worshiper.Then they laughed, half in scorn of him; and there came a miracle.The little man was above them at a bound.His austerity, like an irresistible sledge-hammer, drove them lower and lower:They dwindled while he soared.
No fawn-tinged hospital pajamas could cheat him of his austerity,
Which tamed even the doctors with its pure fire.
They examined him; made him bow to them:
Massive altars were they, at whose swollen feet grovelled a worshiper.
Then they laughed, half in scorn of him; and there came a miracle.
The little man was above them at a bound.
His austerity, like an irresistible sledge-hammer, drove them lower and lower:
They dwindled while he soared.
Those on the top say they know you, Earth—they are liars.You are my father, and the silence I work in is my mother.Only the son knows his father.We are alike—sweaty, inarticulate of soul, bending under thick knowledge.I drink and shout with my brothers when above you—Like most children we soon forget the parents of our souls.But you avidly grip us again—we pay for the little noise of life we steal.
Those on the top say they know you, Earth—they are liars.You are my father, and the silence I work in is my mother.Only the son knows his father.We are alike—sweaty, inarticulate of soul, bending under thick knowledge.I drink and shout with my brothers when above you—Like most children we soon forget the parents of our souls.But you avidly grip us again—we pay for the little noise of life we steal.
Those on the top say they know you, Earth—they are liars.You are my father, and the silence I work in is my mother.Only the son knows his father.We are alike—sweaty, inarticulate of soul, bending under thick knowledge.I drink and shout with my brothers when above you—Like most children we soon forget the parents of our souls.But you avidly grip us again—we pay for the little noise of life we steal.
Those on the top say they know you, Earth—they are liars.
You are my father, and the silence I work in is my mother.
Only the son knows his father.
We are alike—sweaty, inarticulate of soul, bending under thick knowledge.
I drink and shout with my brothers when above you—
Like most children we soon forget the parents of our souls.
But you avidly grip us again—we pay for the little noise of life we steal.
I despise my friends more than you.I would have known myself, but they stood before the mirrorsAnd painted on them images of the virtues I craved.You came with sharpest chisel, scraping away the false paint.Then I knew and detested myself, but not you:For glimpses of you in the glasses you uncoveredShowed me the virtues whose images you destroyed.
I despise my friends more than you.I would have known myself, but they stood before the mirrorsAnd painted on them images of the virtues I craved.You came with sharpest chisel, scraping away the false paint.Then I knew and detested myself, but not you:For glimpses of you in the glasses you uncoveredShowed me the virtues whose images you destroyed.
I despise my friends more than you.I would have known myself, but they stood before the mirrorsAnd painted on them images of the virtues I craved.You came with sharpest chisel, scraping away the false paint.Then I knew and detested myself, but not you:For glimpses of you in the glasses you uncoveredShowed me the virtues whose images you destroyed.
I despise my friends more than you.
I would have known myself, but they stood before the mirrors
And painted on them images of the virtues I craved.
You came with sharpest chisel, scraping away the false paint.
Then I knew and detested myself, but not you:
For glimpses of you in the glasses you uncovered
Showed me the virtues whose images you destroyed.
TO A DISCARDED STEEL RAIL
Straight strength pitched into the surliness of the ditch,A soul you have—strength has always delicate secret reasons.Your soul is a dull question.I do not care for your strength, but for your stiff smile at Time—A smile which men call rust.
Straight strength pitched into the surliness of the ditch,A soul you have—strength has always delicate secret reasons.Your soul is a dull question.I do not care for your strength, but for your stiff smile at Time—A smile which men call rust.
Straight strength pitched into the surliness of the ditch,A soul you have—strength has always delicate secret reasons.Your soul is a dull question.I do not care for your strength, but for your stiff smile at Time—A smile which men call rust.
Straight strength pitched into the surliness of the ditch,
A soul you have—strength has always delicate secret reasons.
Your soul is a dull question.
I do not care for your strength, but for your stiff smile at Time—
A smile which men call rust.