(A Pharaoh Speaks.)
I said, "Why should a pyramidStand always dully on its base?I'll change it! Let the top be hid,The bottom take the apex-place!"And as I bade they did.The people flocked in, scores on scores,To see it balance on its tip.They praised me with the praise that bores,My godlike mind on every lip.— Until it fell, of course.And then they took my body outFrom my crushed palace, mad with rage,— Well, half the town WAS wrecked, no doubt —Their crazy anger to assuageBy dragging it about.The end? Foul birds defile my skull.The new king's praises fill the land.He clings to precept, simple, dull;HIS pyramids on bases stand.But — Lord, how usual!
There is darkness behind the light — and the pale light dripsCold on vague shapes and figures, that, half-seen loomLike the carven prows of proud, far-triumphing ships —And the firelight wavers and changes about the room,As the three logs crackle and burn with a small still sound;Half-blotting with dark the deeper dark of her hair,Where she lies, head pillowed on arm, and one hand curved roundTo shield the white face and neck from the faint thin glare.Gently she breathes — and the long limbs lie at ease,And the rise and fall of the young, slim, virginal breastIs as certain-sweet as the march of slow wind through trees,Or the great soft passage of clouds in a sky at rest.I kneel, and our arms enlace, and we kiss long, long.I am drowned in her as in sleep. There is no more pain.Only the rustle of flames like a broken songThat rings half-heard through the dusty halls of the brain.One shaking and fragile moment of ecstasy,While the grey gloom flutters and beats like an owl above.And I would not move or speak for the sea or the skyOr the flame-bright wings of the miraculous Dove!
Gods, what a black, fierce day! The clouds were iron,Wrenched to strange, rugged shapes; the red sun winkedOver the rough crest of the hairy woodIn angry scorn; the grey road twisted, kinked,Like a sick serpent, seeming to environThe trees with magic. All the wood was still —Cracked, crannied pines bent like malicious cripplesBefore the gusty wind; they seemed to nose,Nudge, poke each other, cackling with ill mirth —Enchantment's days were over — sh! — SupposeThat crouching log there, where the white light stipplesShould — break its quiet! WAS THAT CRIMSON — EARTH?It smirched the ground like a lewd whisper, "Danger!" —I hunched my cloak about me — then, appalled,Turned ice and fire by turns — for — someone stirredThe brown, dry needles sharply! Terror crawledAlong my spine, as forth there stepped — a Stranger!And all the pines crooned like a drowsy bird!His stock was black. His great shoe-buckles glistened.His fur cuffs ended in a sheen of rings.And underneath his coat a case bulged blackly —He swept his beaver in a rush of wings!Then took the fiddle out, and, as I listened,Tightened and tuned the yellowed strings, hung slackly.Ping! Pang! The clear notes swooped and curved and darted,Rising like gulls. Then, with a finger skinny,He rubbed the bow with rosin, said, "Your pardonSignor! — Maestro Nicolo PaganiniThey used to call me! Tchk! — The cold grips hard onA poor musician's fingers!" — His lips parted.A tortured soul screamed suddenly and loud,From the brown, quivering case! Then, faster, faster,Dancing in flame-like whorls, wild, beating, screaming,The music wailed unutterable disaster;Heartbroken murmurs from pale lips once proud,Dead, choking moans from hearts once nobly dreaming.Till all resolved in anguish — died awayUpon one minor chord, and was resumedIn anguish; fell again to a low cry,Then rose triumphant where the white fires fumed,Terrible, marching, trampling, reeling, gay,Hurling mad, broken legions down to dieThrough everlasting hells — The tears were saltUpon my fingers — Then, I saw, behindThe fury of the player, all the treesCrouched like violinists, boughs crooked, jerking, blind,Sweeping mad bows to music without fault,Grey cheeks to greyer fiddles, withered knees.Gasping, I fled! — but still that devilish tuneStunned ears and brain alike — till clouds of dustBlotted the picture, and the noise grew dim —Shaking, I reached the town — and turned — in trust —Wind-smitten, dread, against the sky-line's rim,Black, dragon branches whipped below a moon!
After the whipping he crawled into bed,Accepting the harsh fact with no great weeping.How funny uncle's hat had looked striped red!He chuckled silently. The moon came, sweepingA black, frayed rag of tattered cloud beforeIn scorning; very pure and pale she seemed,Flooding his bed with radiance. On the floorFat motes danced. He sobbed, closed his eyes and dreamed.Warm sand flowed round him. Blurts of crimson lightSplashed the white grains like blood. Past the cave's mouthShone with a large, fierce splendor, wildly bright,The crooked constellations of the South;Here the Cross swung; and there, affronting Mars,The Centaur stormed aside a froth of stars.Within, great casks, like wattled aldermen,Sighed of enormous feasts, and cloth of goldGlowed on the walls like hot desire. Again,Beside webbed purples from some galleon's hold,A black chest bore the skull and bones in whiteAbove a scrawled "Gunpowder!" By the flames,Decked out in crimson, gemmed with syenite,Hailing their fellows with outrageous names,The pirates sat and diced. Their eyes were moons."Doubloons!" they said. The words crashed gold. "Doubloons!"
He lay within a warm, soft worldOf motion. Colors bloomed and fled,Maroon and turquoise, saffron, red,Wave upon wave that broke and whirledTo vanish in the grey-green gloom,Perspectiveless and shadowy.A bulging world that had no walls,A flowing world, most like the sea,Compassing all infinityWithin a shapeless, ebbing room,An endless tide that swells and falls...He slept and woke and slept again.As a veil drops Time dropped away;Space grew a toy for children's play,Sleep bolted fast the gates of Sense —He lay in naked impotence;Like a drenched moth that creeps and crawlsHeavily up brown, light-baked walls,To fall in wreck, her task undone,Yet somehow striving toward the sun.So, as he slept, his hands clenched tighter,Shut in the old way of the fighter,His feet curled up to grip the ground,His muscles tautened for a bound;And though he felt, and felt alone,Strange brightness stirred him to the bone,Cravings to rise — till deeper sleepBuried the hope, the call, the leap;A wind puffed out his mind's faint spark.He was absorbed into the dark.He woke again and felt a surgeWithin him, a mysterious urgeThat grew one hungry flame of passion;The whole world altered shape and fashion.Deceived, befooled, bereft and torn,He scourged the heavens with his scorn,Lifting a bitter voice to cryAgainst the eternal treachery —Till, suddenly, he found the breast,And ceased, and all things were at rest,The earth grew one warm languid seaAnd he a wave. Joy, tingling, creptThroughout him. He was quenched and slept.So, while the moon made broad her ring,He slept and cried and was a king.So, worthily, he acted o'erThe endless miracle once more.Facing immense adventures daily,He strove still onward, weeping, gaily,Conquered or fled from them, but grewAs soil-starved, rough pine-saplings do.Till, one day, crawling seemed suspect.He gripped the air and stood erectAnd splendid. With immortal rageHe entered on man's heritage!
"Ah, did you once see Shelley plain?" — Browning.
"Shelley? Oh, yes, I saw him often then,"The old man said. A dry smile creased his faceWith many wrinkles. "That's a great poem, now!That one of Browning's! Shelley? Shelley plain?The time that I remember best is this —A thin mire crept along the rutted ways,And all the trees were harried by cold rainThat drove a moment fiercely and then ceased,Falling so slow it hung like a grey mistOver the school. The walks were like blurred glass.The buildings reeked with vapor, black and harshAgainst the deepening darkness of the sky;And each lamp was a hazy yellow moon,Filling the space about with golden motes,And making all things larger than they were.One yellow halo hung above a door,That gave on a black passage. Round aboutStruggled a howling crowd of boys, pell-mell,Pushing and jostling like a stormy sea,With shouting faces, turned a pasty whiteBy the strange light, for foam. They all had clods,Or slimy balls of mud. A few gripped stones.And there, his back against the battered door,His pile of books scattered about his feet,Stood Shelley while two others held him fast,And the clods beat upon him. `Shelley! Shelley!'The high shouts rang through all the corridors,`Shelley! Mad Shelley! Come along and help!'And all the crowd dug madly at the earth,Scratching and clawing at the streaming mud,And fouled each other and themselves. And stillShelley stood up. His eyes were like a flameSet in some white, still room; for all his faceWas white, a whiteness like no human color,But white and dreadful as consuming fire.His hands shook now and then, like slender cordsWhich bear too heavy weights. He did not speak.So I saw Shelley plain.""And you?" I said."I? I threw straighter than the most of them,And had firm clods. I hit him — well, at leastThrice in the face. He made good sport that night."
I shall go awayTo the brown hills, the quiet ones,The vast, the mountainous, the rolling,Sun-fired and drowsy!My horse snuffs delicatelyAt the strange wind;He settles to a swinging trot; his hoofs tramp the dust.The road winds, straightens,Slashes a marsh,Shoulders out a bridge,Then —Again the hills.Unchanged, innumerable,Bowing huge, round backs;Holding secret, immense converse:In gusty voices,Fruitful, fecund, toilingLike yoked black oxen.The clouds pass like great, slow thoughtsAnd vanishIn the intense blue.My horse lopes; the saddle creaks and sways.A thousand glittering spears of sun slant from on high.The immensity, the spaces,Are like the spacesBetween star and star.The hills sleep.If I put my hand on one,I would feel the vast heave of its breath.I would start away before it awakenedAnd shook the world from its shoulders.A cicada's cry deepens the hot silence.The hills openTo show a slope of poppies,Ardent, noble, heroic,A flare, a great flame of orange;Giving sleepy, brittle scentThat stings the lungs.A creeping wind slips through them like a ferret; they bow and dance,answering Beauty's voice...The horse whinnies. I dismountAnd tie him to the grey worn fence.I set myself against the javelins of grass and sun;And climb the rounded breast,That flows like a sea-wave.The summit crackles with heat, there is no shelter, no hollow fromthe flagellating glare.I lie down and look at the sky, shading my eyes.My body becomes strange, the sun takes it and changes it, it does not feel,it is like the body of another.The air blazes. The air is diamond.Small noises move among the grass...Blackly,A hawk mounts, mounts in the inaneSeeking the star-road,Seeking the end...But there is no end.Here, in this light, there is no end....
(For G. H.)
Say, does that stupid earthWhere they have laid her,Bind still her sullen mirth,Mirth which betrayed her?Do the lush grasses hold,Greenly and glad,That brittle-perfect goldShe alone had?Smugly the common crew,Over their knitting,Mourn her — as butchers doSheep-throats they're slitting!She was my enemy,One of the best of them.Would she come back to me,God damn the rest of them!Damn them, the flabby, fat,Sleek little darlings!We gave them tit for tat,Snarlings for snarlings!Squashy pomposities,Shocked at our violence,Let not one tactful hissBreak her new silence!Maids of antiquity,Look well upon her;Ice was her chastity,Spotless her honor.Neighbors, with breasts of snow,Dames of much virtue,How she could flame and glow!Lord, how she hurt you!She was a woman, andTender — at times!(Delicate was her hand)One of her crimes!Hair that strayed elfinly,Lips red as haws,You, with the ready lie,Was that the cause?Rest you, my enemy,Slain without fault,Life smacks but tastelesslyLacking your salt!Stuck in a bog whence naughtMay catapult me,Come from the grave, long-sought,Come and insult me!WE knew that sugared stuffPoisoned the other;Rough as the wind is rough,Sister and brother!Breathing the ether clearOthers forlorn have found —Oh, for that peace austereShe and her scorn have found!
Stephen Vincent Bene't (22 July 1898 - 13 March 1943) was from a family with roots in Florida, which explains the Spanish name. Although born in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, his father was a colonel in the U.S. Army, and hence he grew up in California and Georgia. He attended Yale starting in 1915 and that same year published his first book of poems, `Five Men and Pompey'. `Young Adventure' (1918) is considered his first mature book of poetry, and he went on to win two Pulitzer Prizes, in 1929 for `John Brown's Body' and in 1944 for `Western Star'.
It appears that the whole family had great talents, as his grandfather was a Brigadier General, his father a Colonel, and both Stephen and his brother William Rose Benet won Pulitzer Prizes for poetry.