HousewifeSeraphic and relaxed, you takeYour novel with uncertain thumbs,As one who lingers over cakeAnd dreads the thought of final crumbs.Frown at my precious sorceryAnd label me an envious elf.If human beings could agreeTheir boredom might revenge itself.O youthful housewife, weighing grainsOf joy upon your empty smile,The total of my bolder gainsIs but a more impressive guile.Your serious child wins the alertAnd limpid art of playing tag,While your emotions rest inertLike dried fruit in a paper bag.And yet I envy both of youAnd wish that I could also findThe mildness of your fancied view,Where feelings dance and thoughts are kind.
HousewifeSeraphic and relaxed, you takeYour novel with uncertain thumbs,As one who lingers over cakeAnd dreads the thought of final crumbs.Frown at my precious sorceryAnd label me an envious elf.If human beings could agreeTheir boredom might revenge itself.O youthful housewife, weighing grainsOf joy upon your empty smile,The total of my bolder gainsIs but a more impressive guile.Your serious child wins the alertAnd limpid art of playing tag,While your emotions rest inertLike dried fruit in a paper bag.And yet I envy both of youAnd wish that I could also findThe mildness of your fancied view,Where feelings dance and thoughts are kind.
Housewife
Seraphic and relaxed, you takeYour novel with uncertain thumbs,As one who lingers over cakeAnd dreads the thought of final crumbs.
Frown at my precious sorceryAnd label me an envious elf.If human beings could agreeTheir boredom might revenge itself.
O youthful housewife, weighing grainsOf joy upon your empty smile,The total of my bolder gainsIs but a more impressive guile.
Your serious child wins the alertAnd limpid art of playing tag,While your emotions rest inertLike dried fruit in a paper bag.
And yet I envy both of youAnd wish that I could also findThe mildness of your fancied view,Where feelings dance and thoughts are kind.
WomanThey worship musical soundProtecting the breast of emotion.Their feelings pose as fortune-tellersAnd angle for coins from credulous thoughts.Shall we abandon this luxuryOf mild mist and wild raptures?Your face refrains from saying yesBut your closed eyes roundlyReward the luminous sentence.Greece and Asia have exchangedProblems upon your face,And the fine poise of your headTries to catch their conversation.Few people care to useThought as a musical instrumentThat brings its singing restraint to grief and joy,But we, with straight arms, will descendDaringly upon this situation.The full-blown confusion of lifeWill detest our intrusion.
WomanThey worship musical soundProtecting the breast of emotion.Their feelings pose as fortune-tellersAnd angle for coins from credulous thoughts.Shall we abandon this luxuryOf mild mist and wild raptures?Your face refrains from saying yesBut your closed eyes roundlyReward the luminous sentence.Greece and Asia have exchangedProblems upon your face,And the fine poise of your headTries to catch their conversation.Few people care to useThought as a musical instrumentThat brings its singing restraint to grief and joy,But we, with straight arms, will descendDaringly upon this situation.The full-blown confusion of lifeWill detest our intrusion.
Woman
They worship musical soundProtecting the breast of emotion.Their feelings pose as fortune-tellersAnd angle for coins from credulous thoughts.Shall we abandon this luxuryOf mild mist and wild raptures?Your face refrains from saying yesBut your closed eyes roundlyReward the luminous sentence.Greece and Asia have exchangedProblems upon your face,And the fine poise of your headTries to catch their conversation.Few people care to useThought as a musical instrumentThat brings its singing restraint to grief and joy,But we, with straight arms, will descendDaringly upon this situation.The full-blown confusion of lifeWill detest our intrusion.
Old ActorAny minor poet can claimThat his subject resembles music.(“Her steps were notes of music.”“His presence was like a song.”)You are a long-neglectedInstrument from which the player,With over-confident lips, blows onlyA jet of dust that falls uponThe damp chagrin of his face.Moist from the futile effortHe asks his listeners to admireImaginary notes.They clap their hands, and he must retireTo the slow digesting of his lie.Old actor, you have finished reciting Hamlet;Your pennies are gathered; and you depart.
Old ActorAny minor poet can claimThat his subject resembles music.(“Her steps were notes of music.”“His presence was like a song.”)You are a long-neglectedInstrument from which the player,With over-confident lips, blows onlyA jet of dust that falls uponThe damp chagrin of his face.Moist from the futile effortHe asks his listeners to admireImaginary notes.They clap their hands, and he must retireTo the slow digesting of his lie.Old actor, you have finished reciting Hamlet;Your pennies are gathered; and you depart.
Old Actor
Any minor poet can claimThat his subject resembles music.(“Her steps were notes of music.”“His presence was like a song.”)You are a long-neglectedInstrument from which the player,With over-confident lips, blows onlyA jet of dust that falls uponThe damp chagrin of his face.Moist from the futile effortHe asks his listeners to admireImaginary notes.They clap their hands, and he must retireTo the slow digesting of his lie.Old actor, you have finished reciting Hamlet;Your pennies are gathered; and you depart.
From the pensive treachery of my cellI can hear your mournful yell.Centuries of pain are pressedInto one unconscious jestAs your scream disrobes your soul.The silence of your iron holeIs hot and stolid, like a guestWeary of seeing men undressed.Like the silence, I listenBecause I dread the glistenOf a hidden humour that strainsUnder the stumble of all pains.Brown and wildly clownish shapeThrown into a cell for rape,You contain the tortured laughOf a pilgrim-imbecile whose staffTaps against a massive comedy.Melodrama burlesques itself with freeAnd stony voice, and wears a row of masksTo lure the joviality of tasks.Melodrama, you, and I,We are merely tongues that tryTo ogle a protesting dreamInto whisper, laugh, and scream.
From the pensive treachery of my cellI can hear your mournful yell.Centuries of pain are pressedInto one unconscious jestAs your scream disrobes your soul.The silence of your iron holeIs hot and stolid, like a guestWeary of seeing men undressed.Like the silence, I listenBecause I dread the glistenOf a hidden humour that strainsUnder the stumble of all pains.Brown and wildly clownish shapeThrown into a cell for rape,You contain the tortured laughOf a pilgrim-imbecile whose staffTaps against a massive comedy.Melodrama burlesques itself with freeAnd stony voice, and wears a row of masksTo lure the joviality of tasks.Melodrama, you, and I,We are merely tongues that tryTo ogle a protesting dreamInto whisper, laugh, and scream.
From the pensive treachery of my cellI can hear your mournful yell.Centuries of pain are pressedInto one unconscious jestAs your scream disrobes your soul.The silence of your iron holeIs hot and stolid, like a guestWeary of seeing men undressed.Like the silence, I listenBecause I dread the glistenOf a hidden humour that strainsUnder the stumble of all pains.Brown and wildly clownish shapeThrown into a cell for rape,You contain the tortured laughOf a pilgrim-imbecile whose staffTaps against a massive comedy.Melodrama burlesques itself with freeAnd stony voice, and wears a row of masksTo lure the joviality of tasks.Melodrama, you, and I,We are merely tongues that tryTo ogle a protesting dreamInto whisper, laugh, and scream.
Loud chatter in a thousand minor linesWas your religion, and your art was painDisguised by phrases of verbose disdain.You married an old man who gave you winesLukewarm and pink, until your tipsy youth,Grown weary of evading sensual lies,Ran to idiot-Pierrot whose criesCreated that delusion known as truth.The ache of your sincerity betrayedHis awkward falseness, and he turned away,Grinning until your bullet found his head.Then people claimed that you had merely paidInsanely for a tritely sordid play.Your lyric could not answer—it was dead.
Loud chatter in a thousand minor linesWas your religion, and your art was painDisguised by phrases of verbose disdain.You married an old man who gave you winesLukewarm and pink, until your tipsy youth,Grown weary of evading sensual lies,Ran to idiot-Pierrot whose criesCreated that delusion known as truth.The ache of your sincerity betrayedHis awkward falseness, and he turned away,Grinning until your bullet found his head.Then people claimed that you had merely paidInsanely for a tritely sordid play.Your lyric could not answer—it was dead.
Loud chatter in a thousand minor linesWas your religion, and your art was painDisguised by phrases of verbose disdain.You married an old man who gave you winesLukewarm and pink, until your tipsy youth,Grown weary of evading sensual lies,Ran to idiot-Pierrot whose criesCreated that delusion known as truth.The ache of your sincerity betrayedHis awkward falseness, and he turned away,Grinning until your bullet found his head.Then people claimed that you had merely paidInsanely for a tritely sordid play.Your lyric could not answer—it was dead.
First WomanDo you share the present dreadOf being sentimental?The world has flung its boutonnièreInto the mud, and steps upon itWith elaborate gestures!Second WomanSentimentalityIs the servant-girl of certain menAnd the wife of others.She scarcely ever flirtsWith creative minds,Striving also to becomeGraceful and indiscreet.First WomanSappho and AristotleHave wandered through the centuries,Dressed in an occasional novelty—A little twist of outward form.They have always been ashamedTo be caught in a friendly talk.Second WomanWhen emotion and the mindEngage in deliberate dialogue,One hundred nightingalesAnd intellectuals find a common ground,And curse the meeting of their slaves!First WomanThe mind must only playWith polished relics of emotion,And the heart must never lightenBurdens of the mind.Second WomanI desire to beIrrelevant and voluble,Leaving my terse disgust for a moment.I have met an erudite poetWith a northern hardnessMotionless beneath his youthful robes.He shuns the quivering fluenciesOf emotion, and shifts his dominoesWithin a room of tortured angles.But away from this creative roomHe sells himself to the whimsOf his wife, a young viragoWith a calculating nose.Beneath the flagrant poseOf his double lifeEmotion and the mindLook disconsolately at each other.First WomanLyrical abandonAnd mental cautiousnessMust not mingle to a magicGlowing, yet deliberate.Second WomanNever spill your wineUpon a page of mathematics.Drink it decentlyWithin the usual tavern.
First WomanDo you share the present dreadOf being sentimental?The world has flung its boutonnièreInto the mud, and steps upon itWith elaborate gestures!Second WomanSentimentalityIs the servant-girl of certain menAnd the wife of others.She scarcely ever flirtsWith creative minds,Striving also to becomeGraceful and indiscreet.First WomanSappho and AristotleHave wandered through the centuries,Dressed in an occasional novelty—A little twist of outward form.They have always been ashamedTo be caught in a friendly talk.Second WomanWhen emotion and the mindEngage in deliberate dialogue,One hundred nightingalesAnd intellectuals find a common ground,And curse the meeting of their slaves!First WomanThe mind must only playWith polished relics of emotion,And the heart must never lightenBurdens of the mind.Second WomanI desire to beIrrelevant and voluble,Leaving my terse disgust for a moment.I have met an erudite poetWith a northern hardnessMotionless beneath his youthful robes.He shuns the quivering fluenciesOf emotion, and shifts his dominoesWithin a room of tortured angles.But away from this creative roomHe sells himself to the whimsOf his wife, a young viragoWith a calculating nose.Beneath the flagrant poseOf his double lifeEmotion and the mindLook disconsolately at each other.First WomanLyrical abandonAnd mental cautiousnessMust not mingle to a magicGlowing, yet deliberate.Second WomanNever spill your wineUpon a page of mathematics.Drink it decentlyWithin the usual tavern.
First Woman
Do you share the present dreadOf being sentimental?The world has flung its boutonnièreInto the mud, and steps upon itWith elaborate gestures!
Second Woman
SentimentalityIs the servant-girl of certain menAnd the wife of others.She scarcely ever flirtsWith creative minds,Striving also to becomeGraceful and indiscreet.
First Woman
Sappho and AristotleHave wandered through the centuries,Dressed in an occasional novelty—A little twist of outward form.They have always been ashamedTo be caught in a friendly talk.
Second Woman
When emotion and the mindEngage in deliberate dialogue,One hundred nightingalesAnd intellectuals find a common ground,And curse the meeting of their slaves!
First Woman
The mind must only playWith polished relics of emotion,And the heart must never lightenBurdens of the mind.
Second Woman
I desire to beIrrelevant and voluble,Leaving my terse disgust for a moment.I have met an erudite poetWith a northern hardnessMotionless beneath his youthful robes.He shuns the quivering fluenciesOf emotion, and shifts his dominoesWithin a room of tortured angles.But away from this creative roomHe sells himself to the whimsOf his wife, a young viragoWith a calculating nose.Beneath the flagrant poseOf his double lifeEmotion and the mindLook disconsolately at each other.
First Woman
Lyrical abandonAnd mental cautiousnessMust not mingle to a magicGlowing, yet deliberate.
Second Woman
Never spill your wineUpon a page of mathematics.Drink it decentlyWithin the usual tavern.
SwordThe Hindoo raises his armsAnd holds them level with his shouldersTill they become still and permanent, like horizons.But I prefer to stumbleInto abrupt harmoniesThat must ever be flung aside.With one quick slash I cutLips of death upon an expressionless breast,And a vermilion sincerityPardons the sophistry of flesh.It is better to makeAnd leave the moments of a poemThan to erect an ingenious pedestalUpon which blindness solemnly squats.PhilosopherMen’s tongues are slow, and they have made youTo avenge their hidden shame at this.You give startling girdles to virgins,Red beards to thieves,And writhing necklaces to children,Because the tongues of men are slowAnd revel in your quicker rhythms.An idiot whirls you around his headAnd persuades himself that he is swift.Imagination drenches his eyesAnd he spreads himself flat on your blade.SwordAll of your words are concentratedInto the glittering censure of my blade!PhilosopherLife wraps its layer of touch around one,Like a haunting blanketSmothering the taunting lips of a child.Curving their fingers around your hiltMen strive to purchase the triumphOf an imagined escape.I teach them plaintively to weaveSchemes of consolationOn the broad texture of their lives.You tell them to slash the fabric,Reaching into the black space underneath it.You are not a symbol of cruelty.An innocent impatienceSharpens the comedy of your blade.SwordMen have only two choices—To worship idols or mimic fireflies,And I lend my strength to each choice,Teaching them to abandonThe harlequin raptures of words.PhilosopherYou bring them yearning turbulence,And I, a quick-tongued refuge.Silence will pardon both of us.
SwordThe Hindoo raises his armsAnd holds them level with his shouldersTill they become still and permanent, like horizons.But I prefer to stumbleInto abrupt harmoniesThat must ever be flung aside.With one quick slash I cutLips of death upon an expressionless breast,And a vermilion sincerityPardons the sophistry of flesh.It is better to makeAnd leave the moments of a poemThan to erect an ingenious pedestalUpon which blindness solemnly squats.PhilosopherMen’s tongues are slow, and they have made youTo avenge their hidden shame at this.You give startling girdles to virgins,Red beards to thieves,And writhing necklaces to children,Because the tongues of men are slowAnd revel in your quicker rhythms.An idiot whirls you around his headAnd persuades himself that he is swift.Imagination drenches his eyesAnd he spreads himself flat on your blade.SwordAll of your words are concentratedInto the glittering censure of my blade!PhilosopherLife wraps its layer of touch around one,Like a haunting blanketSmothering the taunting lips of a child.Curving their fingers around your hiltMen strive to purchase the triumphOf an imagined escape.I teach them plaintively to weaveSchemes of consolationOn the broad texture of their lives.You tell them to slash the fabric,Reaching into the black space underneath it.You are not a symbol of cruelty.An innocent impatienceSharpens the comedy of your blade.SwordMen have only two choices—To worship idols or mimic fireflies,And I lend my strength to each choice,Teaching them to abandonThe harlequin raptures of words.PhilosopherYou bring them yearning turbulence,And I, a quick-tongued refuge.Silence will pardon both of us.
Sword
The Hindoo raises his armsAnd holds them level with his shouldersTill they become still and permanent, like horizons.But I prefer to stumbleInto abrupt harmoniesThat must ever be flung aside.With one quick slash I cutLips of death upon an expressionless breast,And a vermilion sincerityPardons the sophistry of flesh.It is better to makeAnd leave the moments of a poemThan to erect an ingenious pedestalUpon which blindness solemnly squats.
Philosopher
Men’s tongues are slow, and they have made youTo avenge their hidden shame at this.You give startling girdles to virgins,Red beards to thieves,And writhing necklaces to children,Because the tongues of men are slowAnd revel in your quicker rhythms.An idiot whirls you around his headAnd persuades himself that he is swift.Imagination drenches his eyesAnd he spreads himself flat on your blade.
Sword
All of your words are concentratedInto the glittering censure of my blade!
Philosopher
Life wraps its layer of touch around one,Like a haunting blanketSmothering the taunting lips of a child.Curving their fingers around your hiltMen strive to purchase the triumphOf an imagined escape.I teach them plaintively to weaveSchemes of consolationOn the broad texture of their lives.You tell them to slash the fabric,Reaching into the black space underneath it.You are not a symbol of cruelty.An innocent impatienceSharpens the comedy of your blade.
Sword
Men have only two choices—To worship idols or mimic fireflies,And I lend my strength to each choice,Teaching them to abandonThe harlequin raptures of words.
Philosopher
You bring them yearning turbulence,And I, a quick-tongued refuge.Silence will pardon both of us.
An arbitrary architectBecame his mind, and plannedCathedrals, mansions, and shopsIn a room enclosed by hair.And so a crowded townOccupied the dwarfed miles in his head,And along the boundary-lineThat separated thought from emotionDarkly seething slums grew up.Owing to the lack of spacePrevailing in mental slums,Some buildings had been forcedInto the realm of emotion.Within these structures half-breeds lived—Creatures whose inconsequentColor prevented themFrom being entirely logical,And whose reeking impulsesWere deplorably snubbed by thought.Being from the slums of mindThese hybrids loved the dirt of argumentsInherited from centuries of men,Stopping now and thenTo order emotional brandy.It is unnecessaryTo tell that Captain Simmons was old,With a body like the fading dreamOf an athlete, and a faceMade womanly by age.
An arbitrary architectBecame his mind, and plannedCathedrals, mansions, and shopsIn a room enclosed by hair.And so a crowded townOccupied the dwarfed miles in his head,And along the boundary-lineThat separated thought from emotionDarkly seething slums grew up.Owing to the lack of spacePrevailing in mental slums,Some buildings had been forcedInto the realm of emotion.Within these structures half-breeds lived—Creatures whose inconsequentColor prevented themFrom being entirely logical,And whose reeking impulsesWere deplorably snubbed by thought.Being from the slums of mindThese hybrids loved the dirt of argumentsInherited from centuries of men,Stopping now and thenTo order emotional brandy.It is unnecessaryTo tell that Captain Simmons was old,With a body like the fading dreamOf an athlete, and a faceMade womanly by age.
An arbitrary architectBecame his mind, and plannedCathedrals, mansions, and shopsIn a room enclosed by hair.And so a crowded townOccupied the dwarfed miles in his head,And along the boundary-lineThat separated thought from emotionDarkly seething slums grew up.Owing to the lack of spacePrevailing in mental slums,Some buildings had been forcedInto the realm of emotion.Within these structures half-breeds lived—Creatures whose inconsequentColor prevented themFrom being entirely logical,And whose reeking impulsesWere deplorably snubbed by thought.Being from the slums of mindThese hybrids loved the dirt of argumentsInherited from centuries of men,Stopping now and thenTo order emotional brandy.
It is unnecessaryTo tell that Captain Simmons was old,With a body like the fading dreamOf an athlete, and a faceMade womanly by age.
Captain Simmons’ legsWere praying after much capering.Legs can pray without kneelingWhen they steal pity from city streets.On Captain Simmons’ faceWrinkled inhibitions were givingMoth-eaten lace to that soft toleranceWhere memory and dying desire sleep without dreams.Captain Simmons’ black suitFitted him loosely while his mindBecame him tightly, and the reasonFlickered in his smile.For all of life he had hiddenBeneath a loose generosityIn order to escape the factThat certain of his thoughtsWere supplied with tights and slyness,And his smile was a lit candle heldFor a moment uncertainly over this situation.If one mentioned that Captain SimmonsWas possessed by the plight of eyesLike pinched chicaneries of fate,Above a face of visual penuries,One would only hide his essential partsBeneath the futility of explanation.
Captain Simmons’ legsWere praying after much capering.Legs can pray without kneelingWhen they steal pity from city streets.On Captain Simmons’ faceWrinkled inhibitions were givingMoth-eaten lace to that soft toleranceWhere memory and dying desire sleep without dreams.Captain Simmons’ black suitFitted him loosely while his mindBecame him tightly, and the reasonFlickered in his smile.For all of life he had hiddenBeneath a loose generosityIn order to escape the factThat certain of his thoughtsWere supplied with tights and slyness,And his smile was a lit candle heldFor a moment uncertainly over this situation.If one mentioned that Captain SimmonsWas possessed by the plight of eyesLike pinched chicaneries of fate,Above a face of visual penuries,One would only hide his essential partsBeneath the futility of explanation.
Captain Simmons’ legsWere praying after much capering.Legs can pray without kneelingWhen they steal pity from city streets.On Captain Simmons’ faceWrinkled inhibitions were givingMoth-eaten lace to that soft toleranceWhere memory and dying desire sleep without dreams.Captain Simmons’ black suitFitted him loosely while his mindBecame him tightly, and the reasonFlickered in his smile.For all of life he had hiddenBeneath a loose generosityIn order to escape the factThat certain of his thoughtsWere supplied with tights and slyness,And his smile was a lit candle heldFor a moment uncertainly over this situation.If one mentioned that Captain SimmonsWas possessed by the plight of eyesLike pinched chicaneries of fate,Above a face of visual penuries,One would only hide his essential partsBeneath the futility of explanation.
She moved in a calculating trot,Relinquishing hairsbreadths of her lifeWith each step, and gatheringAtoms of humour and melancholyInto one last excuse for existence.It is true that she was playingHousewife to her thoughts and emotions.Her intangible household had attainedA weak and exquisite indirectness,And she fiddled with its meager neatness;Protected them as they stoopedOver the knitting of remorse;Fed them platters of minced scandalAnd mildly censured the relish with which they ate;Persuaded them that they could dream bestWhen they were uncomfortable;Swept out bedrooms for fearThat the talkative candour of her dislikesMight falter in the presence of dust;And clinked the silver on side-boardsIn an effort to convince herselfThat she was still robustly mercenary.Again, she scanned the spotsOn a bridal-gown and planned,As she had done for yearsTo send it to an imaginary cleaner.
She moved in a calculating trot,Relinquishing hairsbreadths of her lifeWith each step, and gatheringAtoms of humour and melancholyInto one last excuse for existence.It is true that she was playingHousewife to her thoughts and emotions.Her intangible household had attainedA weak and exquisite indirectness,And she fiddled with its meager neatness;Protected them as they stoopedOver the knitting of remorse;Fed them platters of minced scandalAnd mildly censured the relish with which they ate;Persuaded them that they could dream bestWhen they were uncomfortable;Swept out bedrooms for fearThat the talkative candour of her dislikesMight falter in the presence of dust;And clinked the silver on side-boardsIn an effort to convince herselfThat she was still robustly mercenary.Again, she scanned the spotsOn a bridal-gown and planned,As she had done for yearsTo send it to an imaginary cleaner.
She moved in a calculating trot,Relinquishing hairsbreadths of her lifeWith each step, and gatheringAtoms of humour and melancholyInto one last excuse for existence.It is true that she was playingHousewife to her thoughts and emotions.Her intangible household had attainedA weak and exquisite indirectness,And she fiddled with its meager neatness;Protected them as they stoopedOver the knitting of remorse;Fed them platters of minced scandalAnd mildly censured the relish with which they ate;Persuaded them that they could dream bestWhen they were uncomfortable;Swept out bedrooms for fearThat the talkative candour of her dislikesMight falter in the presence of dust;And clinked the silver on side-boardsIn an effort to convince herselfThat she was still robustly mercenary.
Again, she scanned the spotsOn a bridal-gown and planned,As she had done for yearsTo send it to an imaginary cleaner.
Tame and ghastly coffinsDisplay their shamefaced grays and redsAgainst the passive vividness of morning.From the base of these large coffinsMen and women walk,Like briskly servile automata.Some repentant toy-makerHas given them a cunning pretense of life.A waitress hurries to her work.Her yellow hair and face stained redBlend into a garish mendicantWho steals unreal composure from the morning.Behind her tramps a bloodless Jew.The stench of endless denialsHas wrenched his youthful faceInto a prophecy of middle age.He does not see the lamely leadenShop-girl, where despair and apathy,Fighting, produce the motion of her limbs.She does not see this elderly laborerUpon whose face an artist
Tame and ghastly coffinsDisplay their shamefaced grays and redsAgainst the passive vividness of morning.From the base of these large coffinsMen and women walk,Like briskly servile automata.Some repentant toy-makerHas given them a cunning pretense of life.A waitress hurries to her work.Her yellow hair and face stained redBlend into a garish mendicantWho steals unreal composure from the morning.Behind her tramps a bloodless Jew.The stench of endless denialsHas wrenched his youthful faceInto a prophecy of middle age.He does not see the lamely leadenShop-girl, where despair and apathy,Fighting, produce the motion of her limbs.She does not see this elderly laborerUpon whose face an artist
Tame and ghastly coffinsDisplay their shamefaced grays and redsAgainst the passive vividness of morning.From the base of these large coffinsMen and women walk,Like briskly servile automata.Some repentant toy-makerHas given them a cunning pretense of life.
A waitress hurries to her work.Her yellow hair and face stained redBlend into a garish mendicantWho steals unreal composure from the morning.Behind her tramps a bloodless Jew.The stench of endless denialsHas wrenched his youthful faceInto a prophecy of middle age.He does not see the lamely leadenShop-girl, where despair and apathy,Fighting, produce the motion of her limbs.She does not see this elderly laborerUpon whose face an artist
Lies smashed and gasping for breath,And he does not regardThis thread irresolutely fallingFrom a tapestry of memory:This slender woman in black.The glittering indifference of morningDivides their faces.
Lies smashed and gasping for breath,And he does not regardThis thread irresolutely fallingFrom a tapestry of memory:This slender woman in black.The glittering indifference of morningDivides their faces.
Lies smashed and gasping for breath,And he does not regardThis thread irresolutely fallingFrom a tapestry of memory:This slender woman in black.The glittering indifference of morningDivides their faces.
Afternoon has fallen on this street,Like an imbecilic organ-grinderGrinning over his discords.Dead men and women spinTheir miracles of motionUpon the grayness of this street.In this old Jew’s shopA woman bargains over calico.With a ghostly naïvetéShe reprimands the price of her shroud.In this pawn-shop stands a manParting with his clarinet.He walks away, with dangling arms,Like a swindled Gabriel.In a lunchroom sits a womanWhose face is a tired sinSeeking comfort in religion.A young girl near her is an angelPuzzled by streaks of mud upon her faceAnd asking questions of her vanity.Outside, dead men and womenAre whipped on by the explosive magicOf an old, resistless masquerade.Street-cars, wagons, and motor-trucksRattle their parodies on life,And over all the afternoonTwists, like an imbecilic organ-grinderSnickering over his discords.
Afternoon has fallen on this street,Like an imbecilic organ-grinderGrinning over his discords.Dead men and women spinTheir miracles of motionUpon the grayness of this street.In this old Jew’s shopA woman bargains over calico.With a ghostly naïvetéShe reprimands the price of her shroud.In this pawn-shop stands a manParting with his clarinet.He walks away, with dangling arms,Like a swindled Gabriel.In a lunchroom sits a womanWhose face is a tired sinSeeking comfort in religion.A young girl near her is an angelPuzzled by streaks of mud upon her faceAnd asking questions of her vanity.Outside, dead men and womenAre whipped on by the explosive magicOf an old, resistless masquerade.Street-cars, wagons, and motor-trucksRattle their parodies on life,And over all the afternoonTwists, like an imbecilic organ-grinderSnickering over his discords.
Afternoon has fallen on this street,Like an imbecilic organ-grinderGrinning over his discords.Dead men and women spinTheir miracles of motionUpon the grayness of this street.In this old Jew’s shopA woman bargains over calico.With a ghostly naïvetéShe reprimands the price of her shroud.In this pawn-shop stands a manParting with his clarinet.He walks away, with dangling arms,Like a swindled Gabriel.In a lunchroom sits a womanWhose face is a tired sinSeeking comfort in religion.A young girl near her is an angelPuzzled by streaks of mud upon her faceAnd asking questions of her vanity.Outside, dead men and womenAre whipped on by the explosive magicOf an old, resistless masquerade.Street-cars, wagons, and motor-trucksRattle their parodies on life,And over all the afternoonTwists, like an imbecilic organ-grinderSnickering over his discords.
Night has thrown his ecstasyOf staring, counterfeit eyesOver the torrent of this street.Men with faces quickerAnd more furtive than timeStand motionless in doorways.Women stride down this street.Many fingers have pulled their facesTo a haggard lack of expression.They join the motionless menIn the doorways and disappear.And over them the tame and ghastly coffinsDisplay their shamefaced grays and redsAgainst the tangled vividness of night.
Night has thrown his ecstasyOf staring, counterfeit eyesOver the torrent of this street.Men with faces quickerAnd more furtive than timeStand motionless in doorways.Women stride down this street.Many fingers have pulled their facesTo a haggard lack of expression.They join the motionless menIn the doorways and disappear.And over them the tame and ghastly coffinsDisplay their shamefaced grays and redsAgainst the tangled vividness of night.
Night has thrown his ecstasyOf staring, counterfeit eyesOver the torrent of this street.Men with faces quickerAnd more furtive than timeStand motionless in doorways.Women stride down this street.Many fingers have pulled their facesTo a haggard lack of expression.They join the motionless menIn the doorways and disappear.And over them the tame and ghastly coffinsDisplay their shamefaced grays and redsAgainst the tangled vividness of night.
The countless vagaries of maple leaves,Elastic humbleness of flowers and weeds,The hill, a placid stoic to all creeds,They use an obvious language that deceivesThe subtle theories of human ears.Their tongue is motion and they scorn the rhymeAnd meter made by men to soothe their fears.Beneath the warm strength of each August hourThey spurn cohesion and the plans of thought,With quick simplicity that seems confusedBecause it signals mystic whims that towerAbove the thoughts and loves that men have caught:Beyond the futile words that men have used.
The countless vagaries of maple leaves,Elastic humbleness of flowers and weeds,The hill, a placid stoic to all creeds,They use an obvious language that deceivesThe subtle theories of human ears.Their tongue is motion and they scorn the rhymeAnd meter made by men to soothe their fears.Beneath the warm strength of each August hourThey spurn cohesion and the plans of thought,With quick simplicity that seems confusedBecause it signals mystic whims that towerAbove the thoughts and loves that men have caught:Beyond the futile words that men have used.
The countless vagaries of maple leaves,Elastic humbleness of flowers and weeds,The hill, a placid stoic to all creeds,They use an obvious language that deceivesThe subtle theories of human ears.Their tongue is motion and they scorn the rhymeAnd meter made by men to soothe their fears.
Beneath the warm strength of each August hourThey spurn cohesion and the plans of thought,With quick simplicity that seems confusedBecause it signals mystic whims that towerAbove the thoughts and loves that men have caught:Beyond the futile words that men have used.
Your face is stencilled with a pensiveness.Your face contains a minor lyric trappedBy dainty ignorance, and tamely cappedBy hair as trimly lifeless as your dress.You suffer from the drooling praise of oldAnd youthful men, who strive to win a blindAnd soothing admiration from your mind,And do not try to make your thoughts unfold.This comedy would fade into a hostIf it were not rewarded by the deadBut unrelenting poet on your face.Your eyes are heavy with his reckless ghost:The trouble of his hands is on your headAs you peer out into a clouded space.
Your face is stencilled with a pensiveness.Your face contains a minor lyric trappedBy dainty ignorance, and tamely cappedBy hair as trimly lifeless as your dress.You suffer from the drooling praise of oldAnd youthful men, who strive to win a blindAnd soothing admiration from your mind,And do not try to make your thoughts unfold.This comedy would fade into a hostIf it were not rewarded by the deadBut unrelenting poet on your face.Your eyes are heavy with his reckless ghost:The trouble of his hands is on your headAs you peer out into a clouded space.
Your face is stencilled with a pensiveness.Your face contains a minor lyric trappedBy dainty ignorance, and tamely cappedBy hair as trimly lifeless as your dress.You suffer from the drooling praise of oldAnd youthful men, who strive to win a blindAnd soothing admiration from your mind,And do not try to make your thoughts unfold.
This comedy would fade into a hostIf it were not rewarded by the deadBut unrelenting poet on your face.Your eyes are heavy with his reckless ghost:The trouble of his hands is on your headAs you peer out into a clouded space.
Within an office whose exteriorResembles an ultra-conservative mindYou battle with the avaricious wordsOf a meager, petrified man.Your face is brown stagnationSometimes astounded by a thrustOf chattering wistfulness.Bravery is fearEffectively sneering at itself,And you are forever waveringUpon the edge of this condition.Yet your obscurityIs an important atomIn the mysterious march of time.
Within an office whose exteriorResembles an ultra-conservative mindYou battle with the avaricious wordsOf a meager, petrified man.Your face is brown stagnationSometimes astounded by a thrustOf chattering wistfulness.Bravery is fearEffectively sneering at itself,And you are forever waveringUpon the edge of this condition.Yet your obscurityIs an important atomIn the mysterious march of time.
Within an office whose exteriorResembles an ultra-conservative mindYou battle with the avaricious wordsOf a meager, petrified man.Your face is brown stagnationSometimes astounded by a thrustOf chattering wistfulness.Bravery is fearEffectively sneering at itself,And you are forever waveringUpon the edge of this condition.Yet your obscurityIs an important atomIn the mysterious march of time.
And if I say that pain is butA circus barker whose loud criesSeek to reward a trivial show,Will you confess that I am wise?“Must it be emotional?” you asked,After I had thrownWords into a carnival-scope.Sobriety and merrimentBorrowed the sixteenth centuryWithin your voice, and soughtThe identity of sternness—Mental sternness pretending to ignoreThe confetti thrown by emotionIn a carnival unique.Emotions can be prancing curvesFashioned by relaxing thoughts.Should I kiss you, Questioner,The delicate anti-climaxOf a mental caperMight perish on crimson vapor!Tired of frenzies and satiationsEmotions often wander to poetsAnd ask for more fantastic decisionsFor fire that glows but does not burn.
And if I say that pain is butA circus barker whose loud criesSeek to reward a trivial show,Will you confess that I am wise?“Must it be emotional?” you asked,After I had thrownWords into a carnival-scope.Sobriety and merrimentBorrowed the sixteenth centuryWithin your voice, and soughtThe identity of sternness—Mental sternness pretending to ignoreThe confetti thrown by emotionIn a carnival unique.Emotions can be prancing curvesFashioned by relaxing thoughts.Should I kiss you, Questioner,The delicate anti-climaxOf a mental caperMight perish on crimson vapor!Tired of frenzies and satiationsEmotions often wander to poetsAnd ask for more fantastic decisionsFor fire that glows but does not burn.
And if I say that pain is butA circus barker whose loud criesSeek to reward a trivial show,Will you confess that I am wise?
“Must it be emotional?” you asked,After I had thrownWords into a carnival-scope.Sobriety and merrimentBorrowed the sixteenth centuryWithin your voice, and soughtThe identity of sternness—Mental sternness pretending to ignoreThe confetti thrown by emotionIn a carnival unique.
Emotions can be prancing curvesFashioned by relaxing thoughts.Should I kiss you, Questioner,The delicate anti-climaxOf a mental caperMight perish on crimson vapor!Tired of frenzies and satiationsEmotions often wander to poetsAnd ask for more fantastic decisionsFor fire that glows but does not burn.
They gave you strait-jackets to bore you.Like an unwilling promiseYour legs were tied together.But people can only violateTheir own conception of reality,And your actual curvesPreserved their sculptural liberty.Leaving their semblance on your fleshYour lines sped inward till they gainedThe center where emotion changesTo a speck of quivering clarity.Within you phantoms of realityDanced with plausibilities of mind,Seeking to be consumedBy the oblivion which is understanding.You feared that your return to motionWould mean a succession of disappointments—Tamely grazing arrowsChanged to wounds by the desiring heartTake my hand and move.Only two statues can stride togetherIn a manner invisibleSave to certain unreasonable adjustmentsOf eyesight and of hearing.
They gave you strait-jackets to bore you.Like an unwilling promiseYour legs were tied together.But people can only violateTheir own conception of reality,And your actual curvesPreserved their sculptural liberty.Leaving their semblance on your fleshYour lines sped inward till they gainedThe center where emotion changesTo a speck of quivering clarity.Within you phantoms of realityDanced with plausibilities of mind,Seeking to be consumedBy the oblivion which is understanding.You feared that your return to motionWould mean a succession of disappointments—Tamely grazing arrowsChanged to wounds by the desiring heartTake my hand and move.Only two statues can stride togetherIn a manner invisibleSave to certain unreasonable adjustmentsOf eyesight and of hearing.
They gave you strait-jackets to bore you.Like an unwilling promiseYour legs were tied together.But people can only violateTheir own conception of reality,And your actual curvesPreserved their sculptural liberty.Leaving their semblance on your fleshYour lines sped inward till they gainedThe center where emotion changesTo a speck of quivering clarity.
Within you phantoms of realityDanced with plausibilities of mind,Seeking to be consumedBy the oblivion which is understanding.You feared that your return to motionWould mean a succession of disappointments—Tamely grazing arrowsChanged to wounds by the desiring heartTake my hand and move.Only two statues can stride togetherIn a manner invisibleSave to certain unreasonable adjustmentsOf eyesight and of hearing.
Truly, this age will be knownAs one of minute extremesCourting an elderly shapeIn a violent bar-room scene.An Amazon made filthy by centuries,And fuming pygmies, own the stage.Thin furies of emotionName every color in the rainbowWithout its skillful assent,And little mental skeletonsStamp with clumsy weirdnessOn effigies of the heart.The pygmies often sneakTo the prancing AmazonAnd the ensuing love-scene producesSmall memories of Walt Whitman.This age is not metaphysical.Followers of Dada,Weary of electron-soliloquiesAnd fleshly ecstasies with flat feet,Sit in the galleryAnd throw loose malice at the display,Evading their motives with an eager creed.Concentrate your aim,Followers of Dada.
Truly, this age will be knownAs one of minute extremesCourting an elderly shapeIn a violent bar-room scene.An Amazon made filthy by centuries,And fuming pygmies, own the stage.Thin furies of emotionName every color in the rainbowWithout its skillful assent,And little mental skeletonsStamp with clumsy weirdnessOn effigies of the heart.The pygmies often sneakTo the prancing AmazonAnd the ensuing love-scene producesSmall memories of Walt Whitman.This age is not metaphysical.Followers of Dada,Weary of electron-soliloquiesAnd fleshly ecstasies with flat feet,Sit in the galleryAnd throw loose malice at the display,Evading their motives with an eager creed.Concentrate your aim,Followers of Dada.
Truly, this age will be knownAs one of minute extremesCourting an elderly shapeIn a violent bar-room scene.An Amazon made filthy by centuries,And fuming pygmies, own the stage.Thin furies of emotionName every color in the rainbowWithout its skillful assent,And little mental skeletonsStamp with clumsy weirdnessOn effigies of the heart.The pygmies often sneakTo the prancing AmazonAnd the ensuing love-scene producesSmall memories of Walt Whitman.
This age is not metaphysical.Followers of Dada,Weary of electron-soliloquiesAnd fleshly ecstasies with flat feet,Sit in the galleryAnd throw loose malice at the display,Evading their motives with an eager creed.
Concentrate your aim,Followers of Dada.
The insurrection of a fleaCompared to driving tusksOf elephants, is just as strong.Stupidity need not be long.The insurrection of a fleaAttains philosophy and spice.Fleas salt their eating with a creedThat warms the monotone of greed.The insurrection of a fleaWill leave with tense insistence tillThe suburbs of eternity.O small fanatic on a spree.The flea is poet in a landThat does not understand his lunge.He makes his own immaculate lawsAnd awaits forever threatening claws.
The insurrection of a fleaCompared to driving tusksOf elephants, is just as strong.Stupidity need not be long.The insurrection of a fleaAttains philosophy and spice.Fleas salt their eating with a creedThat warms the monotone of greed.The insurrection of a fleaWill leave with tense insistence tillThe suburbs of eternity.O small fanatic on a spree.The flea is poet in a landThat does not understand his lunge.He makes his own immaculate lawsAnd awaits forever threatening claws.
The insurrection of a fleaCompared to driving tusksOf elephants, is just as strong.Stupidity need not be long.
The insurrection of a fleaAttains philosophy and spice.Fleas salt their eating with a creedThat warms the monotone of greed.
The insurrection of a fleaWill leave with tense insistence tillThe suburbs of eternity.O small fanatic on a spree.
The flea is poet in a landThat does not understand his lunge.He makes his own immaculate lawsAnd awaits forever threatening claws.
The souls of negroes, thrown into a shout,Roll their hallelujahs outTo the flashing blandness of the sky.The sky does not divide their criesInto meanings foolish and wise:To the sky all men have but one cry.Still, amusement has often thrownSeparate shades upon the monotone,Playing with the sleep of firm beliefs.Amused, we give these negroes formsDistinct and bounding under stormsOf sounds that catapult their joys and griefs.A negro with his bald despairSeduced by remnants of silver hair,Converses with an old King known as God.He longs to have his tortured stareRewarded with a golden chairWhile other negroes thump the sodWith heavy echoes of his request.With a cold, castrated zestHe pleads for rest, and he is bold,While scientists and troubadoursCling more closely to their floors.“How d’yah kno-ow, how d’yah kno-o-owDat the blood done sign mah na-a-ame?Yes it’s so-o-o, yes it’s so-o-o,Jesus wrote it down in fla-a-ame.”The other negroes singWith gliding fear, and swingThe child-like joke of their arms to emotionsThat surge like an army searching for its eyes.But suddenly a quick surpriseTricks each negro’s face with fright—Their skins are gleaming pink and white.White philosophers and scientistsStrike each other with dubious fistsWithin the negroes’ brains, while poets fightLike blistered urchins wrapped in gloom.Shrinking underneath the uproarWith its bursts of phantom gore,The negroes shriek against their doom.With bending celebration of kneesThey crush against their leader’s pleas.“Lord Almighty, make us black!This strange noise strikes us on the back!We has had enough of whips!Calm this devil with your lips!”
The souls of negroes, thrown into a shout,Roll their hallelujahs outTo the flashing blandness of the sky.The sky does not divide their criesInto meanings foolish and wise:To the sky all men have but one cry.Still, amusement has often thrownSeparate shades upon the monotone,Playing with the sleep of firm beliefs.Amused, we give these negroes formsDistinct and bounding under stormsOf sounds that catapult their joys and griefs.A negro with his bald despairSeduced by remnants of silver hair,Converses with an old King known as God.He longs to have his tortured stareRewarded with a golden chairWhile other negroes thump the sodWith heavy echoes of his request.With a cold, castrated zestHe pleads for rest, and he is bold,While scientists and troubadoursCling more closely to their floors.“How d’yah kno-ow, how d’yah kno-o-owDat the blood done sign mah na-a-ame?Yes it’s so-o-o, yes it’s so-o-o,Jesus wrote it down in fla-a-ame.”The other negroes singWith gliding fear, and swingThe child-like joke of their arms to emotionsThat surge like an army searching for its eyes.But suddenly a quick surpriseTricks each negro’s face with fright—Their skins are gleaming pink and white.White philosophers and scientistsStrike each other with dubious fistsWithin the negroes’ brains, while poets fightLike blistered urchins wrapped in gloom.Shrinking underneath the uproarWith its bursts of phantom gore,The negroes shriek against their doom.With bending celebration of kneesThey crush against their leader’s pleas.“Lord Almighty, make us black!This strange noise strikes us on the back!We has had enough of whips!Calm this devil with your lips!”
The souls of negroes, thrown into a shout,Roll their hallelujahs outTo the flashing blandness of the sky.The sky does not divide their criesInto meanings foolish and wise:To the sky all men have but one cry.Still, amusement has often thrownSeparate shades upon the monotone,Playing with the sleep of firm beliefs.Amused, we give these negroes formsDistinct and bounding under stormsOf sounds that catapult their joys and griefs.A negro with his bald despairSeduced by remnants of silver hair,Converses with an old King known as God.He longs to have his tortured stareRewarded with a golden chairWhile other negroes thump the sodWith heavy echoes of his request.With a cold, castrated zestHe pleads for rest, and he is bold,While scientists and troubadoursCling more closely to their floors.
“How d’yah kno-ow, how d’yah kno-o-owDat the blood done sign mah na-a-ame?Yes it’s so-o-o, yes it’s so-o-o,Jesus wrote it down in fla-a-ame.”
The other negroes singWith gliding fear, and swingThe child-like joke of their arms to emotionsThat surge like an army searching for its eyes.But suddenly a quick surpriseTricks each negro’s face with fright—Their skins are gleaming pink and white.White philosophers and scientistsStrike each other with dubious fistsWithin the negroes’ brains, while poets fightLike blistered urchins wrapped in gloom.Shrinking underneath the uproarWith its bursts of phantom gore,The negroes shriek against their doom.With bending celebration of kneesThey crush against their leader’s pleas.
“Lord Almighty, make us black!This strange noise strikes us on the back!We has had enough of whips!Calm this devil with your lips!”
Dawn?—no, the hunted transparency of dawnCurving from the white throat of a childAnd shaken in the still cup of his face.Then a sudden dispersal of swerving lightCarrying away the defeatedWisdom of a smile.Thought?—no, the persistent shudderOf emotion that is almost thought.The invisible recklessness of perfumeEnveloping the beginning of a question.Sadness?—no, the growth of a dim inclinationTo delve into the rancid importance of flesh:Then weeping, to wash awayThe ritual of disappointment.
Dawn?—no, the hunted transparency of dawnCurving from the white throat of a childAnd shaken in the still cup of his face.Then a sudden dispersal of swerving lightCarrying away the defeatedWisdom of a smile.Thought?—no, the persistent shudderOf emotion that is almost thought.The invisible recklessness of perfumeEnveloping the beginning of a question.Sadness?—no, the growth of a dim inclinationTo delve into the rancid importance of flesh:Then weeping, to wash awayThe ritual of disappointment.
Dawn?—no, the hunted transparency of dawnCurving from the white throat of a childAnd shaken in the still cup of his face.Then a sudden dispersal of swerving lightCarrying away the defeatedWisdom of a smile.
Thought?—no, the persistent shudderOf emotion that is almost thought.The invisible recklessness of perfumeEnveloping the beginning of a question.
Sadness?—no, the growth of a dim inclinationTo delve into the rancid importance of flesh:Then weeping, to wash awayThe ritual of disappointment.
First ClownWe gaze upon a negro shoveling coal.His muscles fuse into a poemStifled and sinister,Censuring the happy rhetoric of morning air.Some day he will pitch the stretched simplicityOf his tent upon the contented ruinsOf a civilization,Playing with documents and bottles of perfumeFound in deserted, broken corridors.Second ClownThe barbarous comedyLost in profuse confessionsAnd often described as life,Lends an attitude of convictionTo the mechanical retreat of time.First ClownDo you hear beneath the irregular strutOf this city an imperceptible groan?Time is turning the jail-house key.They build larger jails for time;He makes larger keys of blood-stained iron.Endlessly he emergesFrom complicated delusions of freedom.Second ClownThat desperately grotesqueWanton known as imaginationCan plunge beyond both men and time.Imagination slips downUpon the last edges of thought and feelingAnd teaches them to transcendThe forlorn bravado of swinging legs and arms.First ClownWe are two psychic clownsBrandishing the poverty of wordsInto insolent oddities of sound.Come, men are waiting to nail usUpon the crucifix of their little logics!
First ClownWe gaze upon a negro shoveling coal.His muscles fuse into a poemStifled and sinister,Censuring the happy rhetoric of morning air.Some day he will pitch the stretched simplicityOf his tent upon the contented ruinsOf a civilization,Playing with documents and bottles of perfumeFound in deserted, broken corridors.Second ClownThe barbarous comedyLost in profuse confessionsAnd often described as life,Lends an attitude of convictionTo the mechanical retreat of time.First ClownDo you hear beneath the irregular strutOf this city an imperceptible groan?Time is turning the jail-house key.They build larger jails for time;He makes larger keys of blood-stained iron.Endlessly he emergesFrom complicated delusions of freedom.Second ClownThat desperately grotesqueWanton known as imaginationCan plunge beyond both men and time.Imagination slips downUpon the last edges of thought and feelingAnd teaches them to transcendThe forlorn bravado of swinging legs and arms.First ClownWe are two psychic clownsBrandishing the poverty of wordsInto insolent oddities of sound.Come, men are waiting to nail usUpon the crucifix of their little logics!
First ClownWe gaze upon a negro shoveling coal.His muscles fuse into a poemStifled and sinister,Censuring the happy rhetoric of morning air.Some day he will pitch the stretched simplicityOf his tent upon the contented ruinsOf a civilization,Playing with documents and bottles of perfumeFound in deserted, broken corridors.
Second ClownThe barbarous comedyLost in profuse confessionsAnd often described as life,Lends an attitude of convictionTo the mechanical retreat of time.
First ClownDo you hear beneath the irregular strutOf this city an imperceptible groan?Time is turning the jail-house key.They build larger jails for time;He makes larger keys of blood-stained iron.Endlessly he emergesFrom complicated delusions of freedom.
Second ClownThat desperately grotesqueWanton known as imaginationCan plunge beyond both men and time.Imagination slips downUpon the last edges of thought and feelingAnd teaches them to transcendThe forlorn bravado of swinging legs and arms.
First ClownWe are two psychic clownsBrandishing the poverty of wordsInto insolent oddities of sound.Come, men are waiting to nail usUpon the crucifix of their little logics!
Catastrophe in a bric-a-brac shop.The proprietor lies murdered.Pieces of cups, jars, and vasesHave attained the disorderly freedomSo obnoxious to bankrupt fanatics.Once the cups, jars, and vasesWere symmetrical and empty,And immersed in the task of holding nothing.Now they have snatched a voice from fragments;Spell many an accidental sentence;Renounce the hollow lie.Death, you take the stiffly obvious shapesOf objects and crack them with your fingers—A shattered invitationTo curiosity and anticipation—And I am grateful to you for that.My eyes grow weary scanning the living array.Each man takes his inch upon the shelvesAnd will not move, until your pawRobs him of microscopical convictions.Dear Minna, read the newspapersAnd gloat with me over death’s industry.Banker, Freudian, Socialist,Knocked from the shelves and changedTo symbols that can lure conjecture.It is well that we are metaphysical.Death must not becomeA mere black frame surroundingThe memorized reiterations.Death must remain an irresistibleBeckoning to reckless speculationsAnd continue to offer an amorous armTo the recalcitrant antics of words.
Catastrophe in a bric-a-brac shop.The proprietor lies murdered.Pieces of cups, jars, and vasesHave attained the disorderly freedomSo obnoxious to bankrupt fanatics.Once the cups, jars, and vasesWere symmetrical and empty,And immersed in the task of holding nothing.Now they have snatched a voice from fragments;Spell many an accidental sentence;Renounce the hollow lie.Death, you take the stiffly obvious shapesOf objects and crack them with your fingers—A shattered invitationTo curiosity and anticipation—And I am grateful to you for that.My eyes grow weary scanning the living array.Each man takes his inch upon the shelvesAnd will not move, until your pawRobs him of microscopical convictions.Dear Minna, read the newspapersAnd gloat with me over death’s industry.Banker, Freudian, Socialist,Knocked from the shelves and changedTo symbols that can lure conjecture.It is well that we are metaphysical.Death must not becomeA mere black frame surroundingThe memorized reiterations.Death must remain an irresistibleBeckoning to reckless speculationsAnd continue to offer an amorous armTo the recalcitrant antics of words.
Catastrophe in a bric-a-brac shop.The proprietor lies murdered.Pieces of cups, jars, and vasesHave attained the disorderly freedomSo obnoxious to bankrupt fanatics.Once the cups, jars, and vasesWere symmetrical and empty,And immersed in the task of holding nothing.Now they have snatched a voice from fragments;Spell many an accidental sentence;Renounce the hollow lie.Death, you take the stiffly obvious shapesOf objects and crack them with your fingers—A shattered invitationTo curiosity and anticipation—And I am grateful to you for that.My eyes grow weary scanning the living array.Each man takes his inch upon the shelvesAnd will not move, until your pawRobs him of microscopical convictions.
Dear Minna, read the newspapersAnd gloat with me over death’s industry.Banker, Freudian, Socialist,Knocked from the shelves and changedTo symbols that can lure conjecture.It is well that we are metaphysical.Death must not becomeA mere black frame surroundingThe memorized reiterations.Death must remain an irresistibleBeckoning to reckless speculationsAnd continue to offer an amorous armTo the recalcitrant antics of words.
Rabelais and MaeterlinckHave subsided to one grinUpon your sharply cumbersome face.Coarseness and a psychic hopeDominate your voiceAs you prattle to womenPurchasing sugar and salt.Then your face and voiceAlter to a serious fraudEagerly learning the technique of deceptions,As you answer this dryly emasculatedGrey-beard, discussing the tendencies in hogs.When the night replenishesYour store of morbid desires,You will try to piece togetherA cajoling violinFrom your sweet-heart’s syllables,Fumbling with hot hands for the unseen strings.
Rabelais and MaeterlinckHave subsided to one grinUpon your sharply cumbersome face.Coarseness and a psychic hopeDominate your voiceAs you prattle to womenPurchasing sugar and salt.Then your face and voiceAlter to a serious fraudEagerly learning the technique of deceptions,As you answer this dryly emasculatedGrey-beard, discussing the tendencies in hogs.When the night replenishesYour store of morbid desires,You will try to piece togetherA cajoling violinFrom your sweet-heart’s syllables,Fumbling with hot hands for the unseen strings.
Rabelais and MaeterlinckHave subsided to one grinUpon your sharply cumbersome face.Coarseness and a psychic hopeDominate your voiceAs you prattle to womenPurchasing sugar and salt.Then your face and voiceAlter to a serious fraudEagerly learning the technique of deceptions,As you answer this dryly emasculatedGrey-beard, discussing the tendencies in hogs.
When the night replenishesYour store of morbid desires,You will try to piece togetherA cajoling violinFrom your sweet-heart’s syllables,Fumbling with hot hands for the unseen strings.
Regard an American farm.That jaded collaborator,Daylight, has just arrived.Wavy signal of smokeFrom the wooden farm-house disappearsBeneath the bluely ascetic lack of interest.Horses, pigs, and cowsAssemble their discontent.The result is a Chinese orchestraDevoid of discipline and cohesion,With all of the players intoxicated.The animals do not realizeThat their voices should portrayThe farmer in the angular house;The hackneyed prose of his life;The expanding soul of his corn-fields.Turn from the absence of human wisdomAnd see the lights in the farm-house.Dimly circumscribed and steady,They symbolize future events.The farm-hand walks to the barn,With an ox-like dragging of feet.Black shirt, and overallsWhose color has been removed by dirt,Obscure the heavy knots of his body.His cork-screw nose ascendsTo the eyes of an unperturbed pig.Love and hate to himAre mouthfuls of coarse food hastily gulpedDuring lulls in his muscular slavery.Beneath the slanting pungencyOf the barn he vanishes,And with meaningless soundsHe pays his meager tribute to life.Then the farmer persuades his ageTo indulge in an unwilling stumbleAcross the yard.His grey beard is the end of a ropeThat has gradually throttled his face.Within him, avariceIs awkwardly practising the rhythmsOf weak emotions benignly, belatedlyPreparing for celestial rewards.Within the cluttered farm-yardHe stands, a figure of niggardly order.Earth, the men who scrape at your flanksCan never stop to examineThe thin line of speech that goes adventuringWhere your brown hills bite the sky.
Regard an American farm.That jaded collaborator,Daylight, has just arrived.Wavy signal of smokeFrom the wooden farm-house disappearsBeneath the bluely ascetic lack of interest.Horses, pigs, and cowsAssemble their discontent.The result is a Chinese orchestraDevoid of discipline and cohesion,With all of the players intoxicated.The animals do not realizeThat their voices should portrayThe farmer in the angular house;The hackneyed prose of his life;The expanding soul of his corn-fields.Turn from the absence of human wisdomAnd see the lights in the farm-house.Dimly circumscribed and steady,They symbolize future events.The farm-hand walks to the barn,With an ox-like dragging of feet.Black shirt, and overallsWhose color has been removed by dirt,Obscure the heavy knots of his body.His cork-screw nose ascendsTo the eyes of an unperturbed pig.Love and hate to himAre mouthfuls of coarse food hastily gulpedDuring lulls in his muscular slavery.Beneath the slanting pungencyOf the barn he vanishes,And with meaningless soundsHe pays his meager tribute to life.Then the farmer persuades his ageTo indulge in an unwilling stumbleAcross the yard.His grey beard is the end of a ropeThat has gradually throttled his face.Within him, avariceIs awkwardly practising the rhythmsOf weak emotions benignly, belatedlyPreparing for celestial rewards.Within the cluttered farm-yardHe stands, a figure of niggardly order.Earth, the men who scrape at your flanksCan never stop to examineThe thin line of speech that goes adventuringWhere your brown hills bite the sky.
Regard an American farm.That jaded collaborator,Daylight, has just arrived.Wavy signal of smokeFrom the wooden farm-house disappearsBeneath the bluely ascetic lack of interest.Horses, pigs, and cowsAssemble their discontent.The result is a Chinese orchestraDevoid of discipline and cohesion,With all of the players intoxicated.The animals do not realizeThat their voices should portrayThe farmer in the angular house;The hackneyed prose of his life;The expanding soul of his corn-fields.Turn from the absence of human wisdomAnd see the lights in the farm-house.Dimly circumscribed and steady,They symbolize future events.The farm-hand walks to the barn,With an ox-like dragging of feet.Black shirt, and overallsWhose color has been removed by dirt,Obscure the heavy knots of his body.His cork-screw nose ascendsTo the eyes of an unperturbed pig.Love and hate to himAre mouthfuls of coarse food hastily gulpedDuring lulls in his muscular slavery.Beneath the slanting pungencyOf the barn he vanishes,And with meaningless soundsHe pays his meager tribute to life.Then the farmer persuades his ageTo indulge in an unwilling stumbleAcross the yard.His grey beard is the end of a ropeThat has gradually throttled his face.Within him, avariceIs awkwardly practising the rhythmsOf weak emotions benignly, belatedlyPreparing for celestial rewards.Within the cluttered farm-yardHe stands, a figure of niggardly order.
Earth, the men who scrape at your flanksCan never stop to examineThe thin line of speech that goes adventuringWhere your brown hills bite the sky.