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By the same Author 

The Lost Girl 

Women in I^ove 

Aaron's Rod 

The Ladybird 


Sea and Sardinia 

New Poems 

Psychoanalysis and the Unconscious 
Fantasia of the Unconscious 


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9 I . ! • 3« 



Printed in Great Britain 

by The Riverside Press Limited 



Some of these poems have 
appeared in Poctn/, The 
Dial, The New Republic, 
The Bookman, The English 







Medlars and Sorb-^^ 







The Revolutionary 


The Evening Land 







Bare Fig-Trees 


Bare Almond-Trees 




Southern Night 



Almond Blossom 

5 IV 

y^ Purple Anemones 


Sicilian Cyclamens 


,- - Hibiscus and Salvia 





St Matthew 


St Mark 


St Luke 


St John 





-.; Fish 




^ Man and Bat 




Snake 113 

'Baby Tortoise 117 

, 1^ Tortoise Shell 121 

Tortoise Family Connections 124 

Lui et Elle 127 

Tortoise Gallantry 132 

. Tortoise Shout 134 


TuRKEY-CoCK 141 

Humming-Bird 146 

Eagle in New Mexico 147 

Blue Jay 150 


Ass 155 

He-Goat 160 

She-Goat 165 

^Elephant <) l69 

^Kangaroo 176 

..-.BiBBLES 179 

Mountain Lion 187 

The Red Wolf 190 


Men in New Mexico 197 

Autumn at Taos 199 

Spirits summoned West 201 

The American Eagle 205 



You tell me I am wrong. 

Who are you, who is anybody to tell me I am wrong ? 

I am not wrong. 

In Syracuse, rock left bare by the viciousness of Greek 

No doubt you have forgotten the pomegranate-trees in 

Oh so red, and such a lot of them. 

Whereas at Venice 

Abhorrent, green, slippery city 

Whose Doges were old, and had ancient eyes. 

In the dense foliage of the inner garden 

Pomegranates like bright green stone, 

And barbed, barbed with a crown. 

Oh, crown of spiked green metal 

Actually growing ! 

Now in Tuscany, 

Pomegranates to warm, your hands at ; 

And crowns, kingly, generous, tilting crowns 

Over the left eyebrow. 

And, if you dare, the fissure I 

Do you mean to tell me you will see no fissure ? 
Do you prefer to look on the plain side ? 


For all that, the setting suns are open. 
The end cracks open with the beginning : 
Rosy, tender, glittering within the fissure. 

Do you mean to tell me there should be no fissure .'' 
No glittering, compact drops of dawn ? 

Do you mean it is wrong, the gold-filmed skin, integument, 
shown ruptured ? 

For my part, I prefer my heart to be broken. 

It is so lovely, dawn-kaleidoscopic within the crack. 

Sa)i Gervasio in Tuscany. 



WouLn you like to throw a stone at me ? 
Here, take all that's left of my peach. 

Blood-red, deep ; 

Heaven knows how it came to pass. 

Somebody's pound of flesh rendered up. 

> Wrinkled with secrets ? 

I And hard with the intention to keep them. '» 

Why, from silvery peach-bloom, 

From that shallow-silvery wine-glass on a short stem 

This rolling, dropping, heavy globule ? 

I am thinking, of course, of the peach before I ate it. — ■ 

Why so velvety, why so voluptuous heavy ? 
VV' hy hanging with such inordinate weight ? 
Why so indented r 

Why the groove ? 

Why the lovely, bivalve roundnesses ? 
Why the ripple down the sphere ? 
Why the suggestion of incision ? 

Why was not my peach round and finished like a billiard 

ball r 
It would have been if man had made it. 
Though I've eaten it now. 


But it wasn't round and finished like a billiard ball. 
And because I say so, you would like to throw something 
at me. 

Here, you can have my peach stone. 

San Gervasio. 



I LOVE you, rotten, 
Delicious rottenness. 

I love to suck you out from your skins 
So brown and soft and coming suave, 
So morbid, as the Italians say. 

What a rare, powerful, reminiscent flavour 

Comes out of your falling through the stages of decay : 

Stream within stream. 

Something of the same flavour as Syracusan muscat wine 
Or vulgar Marsala. 

Though even the word Marsala will smack of preciosity 
Soon in the pussy-foot West. 

What is it ? 

What is it, in the grape turning raisin, 

In the medlar, in the sorb-apple. 

Wineskins of brown morbidity, 

Autumnal excrementa ; 

What is it that reminds us of white gods ? 

Gods nude as blanched nut-kernels. 
Strangely, half-sinisterly flesh-fragrant 
As if with sweat, 
And drenched with mystery. 


Sorb-apples, medlars with dead crowns. 

I say, wonderful are the hellish experiences 

Orphic, delicate 

Dionysos of the Underworld. 

A kiss, and a vivid spasm of farewell, a moment's orgasm 

of rupture. 
Then along the damp road alone, till the next turning. 
And there, a new partner, a new parting, a new unfusing 

into twain, 
A new gasp of further isolation, 
A new intoxication of loneliness, among decaying, frost-cold 


Going down the strange lanes of hell, more and more 

intensely alone, 
The fibres of the heart parting one after the other 
And yet the soul continuing, naked-footed, ever more vividly 

Like a flame blown whiter and whiter 
In a deeper and deeper darkness 
Ever more exquisite, distilled in separation. 

So, in the strange retorts of medlars and sorb-apples 
The distilled essence of hell. .-— ^ 

The exquisite odour of leave-taking. 
Jamque vale! 
\ Orpheus, and the winding, leaf-clogged, silent lanes of hell. 

Each soul departing with its own isolation. 
Strangest of all strange companions, 
And best. 


Medlars, sorb-apples 

More than sweet 

Flux of autumn 

Sucked out of your empty bladders 

And sipped down, perhaps, with a sip of Marsala 

So that the rambling, sky-dropped grape can add its 

music to yours, 
Orphic farewell, and farewell, and farewell 
And the ego sum of Dionysos 
The sono io of perfect drunkenness 
Intoxication of final loneliness. 

San Gervasio. 



The proper way to eat a fig, in society, 
Is to split it in four, holding it by the stump, 
And open it, so that it is a glittering, rosy, moist, honied, 
heavy-petalled four-petalled flower. 

Then you throw away the skin 

Which is just like a four-sepalled calyx, 

After you have taken oft' the blossom with your lips. 

But the vulgar way 

Is just to put your mouth to the crack, and take out the 
flesh in one bite. 

Every fruit has its secret. 

The fig is a very secretive fruit. 

As you see it standing growing, you feel at once it is symbolic : 
And it seems male. 

But when you come to know it better, you agree with the 
Romans, it is female. 

The Italians vulgarly say, it stands for the female part; the 

fig-fruit : 
The fissure, the yoni, 
The wonderful moist conductivity towards the centre. 



The flowering all inward and womb-fibrilled ; 

And but one orifice. 


The fig, the horse-shoe, the squash-blossom. 

There was a flower that flowered inward, womb-ward ; 
Now there is a fruit like a I'ipe womb. 

It was always a secret. 

That's how it should be, the female should always be 

There never was any standing aloft and unfolded on a 

Like other flowers, in a revelation of petals ; 

Silver-pink peach, Venetian green glass of medlars and sorb- 

Shallow wine-cups on short, bulging stems 

Openly pledging heaven : 

Here's to the. thorn injloiver ! Here is to Utterance ! 

The brave, adventurous rosaceae. 

Folded upon itself, and secret unutterable, 

And milky-sapped, sap that curdles milk and makes ricoila, 

Sap that smells strange on your fingers, that even goats won't 

taste it ; 
Folded upon itself, enclosed like any Mohammedan woman. 
Its nakedness all within-walls, its flowering forever unseen. 
One small way of access only, and this close-curtained from 

the light ; 
Fig, fruit of the female mystery, covert and inward, 
Mediterranean fruit, with your covert nakedness, 
Where everything happens invisible, flowering and fertilisa- 
tion, and fruiting 


In the inwardness of your you, that eye will never see 
Till it's finished, and you're over-ripe, and you burst to give 
up your ghost. 

Till the drop of ripeness exudes, 
And the year is over. 

And then the fig has kept her secret long enough. 

So it explodes, and you see through the fissure the scarlet. 

And the fig is finished, the year is over. 

That's how the fig dies, showing her crimson through the 

purple slit 
Like a wound, the exposure of her secret, on the open day. 
Like a prostitute, the bursten fig, making a show of her 


That's how women die too. 

The year is fallen over-ripe. 

The year of our women. 

The year of our women is fallen over-ripe. 

The secret is laid bare. 

And rottenness soon sets in. 

The year of our women is fallen over-ripe. 

When Eve once knew in her mind that she was naked 

She quickly sewed fig-leaves, and sewed the same for the 

She'd been naked all her days before. 
But till then, till that apple of knowledge, she hadn't had 

the fact on her mind. 


She /jot the fact on her mind, and (juickly sewed fig-leaves. 
And women have been sewing ever since. 
But now they stitch to adorn the bursten fig, not to cover it. 
They have their nakedness more than ever on their mind, 
And they won't let us forget it. 

Now, the secret 

Becomes an affirmation through moist, scarlet lips 

That laugh at the Lord's indignation. 

JVhal then, good Lord ! cry the women. 
U'c have kept our secret long enough. 
We are a ripe Jig. 
Let us burst into affirmation. 

They forget, ripe figs won't keep. 
Ripe figs won't keep. 

Honey-white figs of the north, black figs with scarlet inside, 

of the south. 
Ripe figs won't keep, won't keep in any clime. 
What then, when women the world over have all bursten into 

affirmation ? 
And bursten figs won't keep .'' 

Sati Gcrvasio. 



So many fruits come from roses 
From the rose of all roses 
From the unfolded rose 
Rose of all the world. 

Admit that apples and strawberries and peaches and pears 

and blackberries 
Are all Rosaceae^ 
Issue of the explicit rose, 
The open-countenanced, skyward-smiling rose. 

What then of the vine ? 

Oh, what of the tendrilled vine ? 

Ours is the universe of the unfolded rose, 

The explicit. 

The candid revelation. 

But long ago, oh, long ago 

Before the rose began to simper supreme. 

Before the rose of all roses, rose of all the world, was even 

in bud. 
Before the glaciers were gathered up in a bunch out of the 

unsettled seas and winds. 
Or else before they had been let down again, in Noah's flood, 
There was another world, a dusky, flowerless, tendrilled 

And creatures webbed and marshy, 


And on llic margin, men soft-footed and pristine, 

Still, and sensitive, and active, 

Audile, tactile sensitiveness as of a tendril which orientates 

and reaches out, 
Reaching out and grasping by an instinct more delicate than 

the moon's as she feels for the tides. 

Of which world, the vine was the invisible rose, 
Before petals spread, before colour made its disturbance, 
before eyes saw too much. 

In a green, muddy, web-foot, unutterably songless world 
The vine was rose of all roses. 

There were no poppies or carnations, 
Hardly a greenish lily, watery faint. 
Green, dim, invisible flourishing of vines 
Royally gesticulate. 

Look now even now, how it keeps its power of invisibility I 
Look how black, how blue-black, how globed in Egyptian 

Dropping among his leaves, hangs the dark grape ! 
See him there, the swart, so palpably invisible : 
Whom shall we ask about him .'' 

The negro might know a little. 
When the vine was rose, Gods were dark-skinned. 
Bacchus is a dream's dream. 
Once God was all negroid, as now he is fair. 
But it's so long ago, the ancient Bushman has forgotten more 
utterly than we, who have never known. 


For we are on the brink of re-remembrance. 

Which, I suppose, is why America has gone dry. 

Our pale day is sinking into twilight, 

And if we sip the wine, we find dreams coming upon us 

Out of the imminent nicht. 

Nay, we find ourselves crossing the fern-scented frontiers 

Of the world before the floods, where man was dark and evasive 

And the tiny vine-flower rose of all roses, perfumed. 

And all in naked communion communicating as now our 

clothed vision can never communicate. 
Vistas, down dark avenues 
As we sip the wine. 

The grape is swart, the avenues dusky and tendrilled, subtly 

But we, as we start awake, clutch at our vistas democratic, 

boulevards, tram-cars, policemen. 
Give us our own back 
Let us go to the soda-fountain, to get sober. 

Soberness, sobriety. 

It is like the agonised perverseness of a child heavy with 

sleep, yet fighting, fighting to keep awake ; 
Soberness, sobriety, with heavy eyes propped open. 

Dusky are the avenues of wine, 

And we must cross the frontiers, though we will not. 
Of the lost, fern-scented world : 
Take the fern-seed on our lips, 
Close the eyes, and go 

Down the tendrilled avenues of wine and the otherworld. 

San Gervasio. 



Look at them standing there in authority 

The pale-facej, 

As if it could have any effect any more. 

Pale-face authority, 


Pillars of white bronze standing rigid, lest the skies fall. 

What a job they've got to keep it up. 
Their poor, idealist foreheads naked capitals 
To the entablature of clouded heaven. 

When the skies are going to fall, fall they will 
In a great chute and rush of debacle downwards. 

Oh and I wish the high and super-gothic heavens would 

come down now, 
The heavens above, that we yearn to and aspire to. 

I do not yearn, nor aspire, for I am a blind Samson. 

And what is daylight to me that I should look skyward .'' 

Only I grope among you, pale-faces, caryatids, as among a 
forest of pillars that hold up the dome of high ideal 

Which is my prison. 

And all these human pillars of loftiness, going stiff, metallic- 
stunned with the weight of their responsibility 

I stumble against them. 

Stumbling-blocks, painful ones. 


To keep on holdinjT up this ideal civilisation 
Must be excruciating : unless you stiffen into metal, 
when it is easier to stand stock rigid than to move. 

This is why I tug at them, individually, with my arm 

round their waist 
The human pillars. 

They are not stronger than I am, blind Samson. 
The house sways. 

I shall be so glad when it comes down. 
I am so tired of the limitations of their Infinite. 
I am so sick of the pretensions of the Spirit. 
I am so weary of pale-face importance. 

Am I not blind, at the round-turning mill } 
Then why should I fear their pale faces ? 
Or love the effulgence of their holy light. 
The sun of their righteousness .'' 

To me, all faces are dark, 
All lips are dusky and valved. 

Save your lips, O pale-faces, 
Which are slips of metal, 

Like slits in an automatic-machine, you columns of give- 

To me, the earth rolls ponderously, superbly 
Coming my way without forethought or afterthought. 
To me, men's footfalls fall with a dull, soft rumble, 

ominous and lovely, 
Coming my way. 


But not your foot-falls, pale-faces, 

They are a clicketiiii^ of bits of disjointed metal 

Workinjr in motion. 


To me, men are palpable, invisible nearnesses in the dark 
Sending out magnetic vibrations of warning, pitch-dark throbs 
of invitation. 

But you, pale-faces, 

You are painful, harsh-surfaced pillars that give off nothing 
except rigidity, 

And I jut against you if I try to move, for you are every- 
where, and I am blind. 

Sightless among all your visuality. 

You staring caryatids. 

See if I don't bring you down, and all your high opinion 
And all your ponderous roofed-in erection of right and wrong 
Your particular heavens. 
With a smash. 

See if your skies aren't falling I 

And my head, at least, is thick enough to stand it, the smash. 

See if I don't move under a dark and nude, vast heaven 
When your world is in ruins, under your fallen skies. 
Caryatids, pale-faces. 

See if I am not Lord of the dark and moving hosts 
Before I die. 




On America ''" 

The sun sets in you. 

Are you the grave of our day ? 

Shall I come to you, the open tomb of my race ? 

I would come, if I felt my hour had struck. 
I would rather you came to me. 

For that matter 

Mahomet never went to any mountain 

Save it had first approached him and cajoled his soul. 

You have cajoled the souls of millions of us 


Why won't you cajole my soul ? 

I wish you would. 

I confess I am afraid of you. 

The catastrophe of your exaggerate love. 

You who never find yourself in love 

But only lose yourself further, decomposing. 

You who never recover from out of the orgasm of loving 
Your pristine, isolate integrity, lost aeons ago. 
Your singleness within the universe. 


You who in lovinf^ break down 

And break further and further down 

Your bounds of isolation, 

But who never rise, resurrected, from this grave of mingling. 

In a new proud singleness, America. 

Your more-than-European idealism, 

Like a be-aureoled bleached skeleton hovering 

Its casre-ribs in the social heaven, beneficent. 

And then your single resurrection 
Into machine-uprisen perfect man. 

Even the winged skeleton of your bleached ideal 
Is not so frightening as that clean smooth 
Automaton of your uprisen self, 
Machine American. 

Do you wonder that I am afraid to come 

And answer the first machine-cut question from the lips of 

your iron men .'' 
Put the first cents into metallic fingers of your officers 
And sit beside the steel-straight arms of your fair women 
American ? 

This may be a withering tree, this Europe, 

But here, even a customs-official is still vulnerable. 

I am so terrified, America, 

Of the iron click of your human contact. 

And after this 

The winding-sheet of your self-less ideal love. 

Boundless love 

Like a poison gas. 


Does no one realise that love should be intense, individual, 

Not boundless. 

This boundless love is like the bad smell 

Of something gone wrong in the middle. 

All this philanthropy and benevolence on other people's 

Just a bad smell. 

Yet, America, 

Your elvishness. 

Your New England uncanniness, 

Your western brutal faery quality. 

My soul is half-cajoled, half-cajoled. 

Something in you which carries me beyond 

Yankee, Yankee, 

What we call human. 

Carries me where I want to be carried . . . 

Or don't I ? 

What does it matter 

What we call human, and what we don't call human ? 

The rose would smell as sweet. 

And to be limited by a mere word is to be less than a 

hopping flea, which hops over such an obstruction at 

first jump. 

Your horrible, skeleton, aureoled ideal. 

Your weird bright motor-productive mechanism, 

Two spectres. 


But moreover 

A dark, untathonied will, that is not un-.Je\vish ; 

A set, stoic endurance, non-European ; 

An ultimate desperateness, un-AfVican ; 

A deliberate generosity, non-Oriental. 

The strange, unaccustomed geste of your demonish 

\ew World nature 
Glimpsed now and then. 

Nobody knows you. 

You don't know yourself. 

And I, who am half in love with you. 

What am I in love with ? 

My own imaginings ? 

Say it is not so. 

Say, through the branches 

America, America 

Of all your machines. 

Say, in the deep sockets of your idealistic skull. 

Dark, aboriginal eyes 

Stoic, able to wait through ages 


Say, in the sound of all your machines 
And white words, white-wash American, 
Deep pulsing of a strange heart 

New tiirob, like a stirring under the false dawn that 
precedes the real. 


Nascent American 

Demonish, lurking among the undergrowth 
Of many-stemmed machines and chimneys that smoke 
hke pine-trees. 

Dark, elvish, 

Modern, unissued, uncanny America, 

Your nascent demon people 

Lurking among the deeps of your industrial thicket 

Allure me till I am beside myself, 

A nympholepht. 

" These States ! " as Whitman said, 
Whatever he meant. 




Peace is written on the doorstep 
In lava. 

Peace, black peace congealed. 
My heart will know no peace 
Till the hill bursts. 

Brilliant, intolerable lava 
Brilliant as a powerful burning-glass 
Walking like a royal snake down the mountain to- 
wards the sea. 

Forests, cities, bridges 
Gone again in the bright trail of lava. 
Naxos thousands of feet below the olive-roots, 
And now the olive leaves thousands of feet below the 
lava fire. 

Peace congealed in black lava on the doorstep. 

Within, white-hot lava, never at peace 

Till it burst forth blinding, withering the earth ; 

To set again into rock 

Grey-black rock. 

Call it Peace ? 





Tuscan cypresses, 
What is it ? 

Folded in like a dark thouj^ht 
For which the language is lost, 
Tuscan cypresses. 
Is there a great secret? 
Are our words no good r 

The undeliverable secret, 

Dead with a dead race and a dead speech, and yet 

Darkly monumental in you, 

Etruscan cypresses. 

Ah, how I admire your fidelity. 
Dark cypresses, 

Is it the secret of the long-nosed Etruscans ? 

The long-nosed, sensitive - footed, subtly -smiling 

Who made so little noise outside the cypress groves ? 

Among the sinuous, flame-tall cypresses 
That swayed their length of darkness all around 
Etruscan-dusky, wavering men of old Etruria : 
Naked except for fanciful long shoes. 
Going with insidious, half-smiling quietness 
And some of Africa's imperturbable sang-froid 
About a forgotten business. 


What business, then ? 

Nay, tongues are dead, and words are hollow as hollow 

Having shed their sound and finished all their echoing 
Etruscan syllables. 
That had the telling. 


Yet more I see you darkly concentrate, 

Tuscan cypresses, 

On one old thought : 

On one old slim imperishable thought, while you remain 

Etruscan cypresses ; 

Dusky, slim marrow-thought of slender, flickering men of 

Whom Rome called vicious. 

Vicious, dark cypresses : 

Vicious, you supple, brooding, softly-swaying pillars of dark 

Monumental to a dead, dead race 
Embalmed in you ! 

Were they then vicious, the slender, tender-footed, 
Long-nosed men of Etruria ? 

Or was their way only evasive and different, dark, like cypress- 
trees in a wind .'' 

They are dead, with all their vices. 

And all that is left 

Is the shadowy monomania of some cypresses 

And tombs. 


The smile, the subtle Etruscan smile still lurking 

Within the tombs, 

Etruscan cypresses. 

He laughs longest who laughs last ; 

Nay, Leonardo only b ungle d the pure Etruscan smile.. 

What would I not give 

To bring back the rare and orchid-like 

Evil-ycle£t Etruscan ? 

For as to the evil 
'^ We have only Roman word for it, 

Which I, being a little weary of Roman virtue, 
Don't hang much weight on. 

For oh, I know, in the dust where we have buried 

The silenced races and all their abominations, 

We have buried so much of the delicate magic of life. 

There in the deeps 

That churn the frankincense and ooze the myrrh, 

Cypress shadowy. 

Such an aroma of lost human life ! 

They say the fit survive, 

But I invoke the spirits of the lost. 

Those that have not survived, the darkly lost. 

To bring their meaning back into life again. 

Which they have taken away 

And wrapt inviolable in soft cypress-trees, 

Etruscan cypresses. 


Evil, what is evil ? 

There is only one evil, to deny life 

As Rome denied Etruria 

And mechanical America Montezuma still. 

' n Fiesole. 



Fig-trees, weird fig-trees 

Made of thick smooth silver, 

Made of sweet, untarnished silver in the sea-southern air — 

I say untarnished, but I mean opaque — 

Thick, smooth-fleshed silver, dull only as human limbs are 

With the life-lustre, 

Nude with the dim light of full, healthy life 
That is always half-dark, 
And suave like passion-flower petals, 
Like passion-flowers, 
With the half-secret gleam of a passion-flower hanging from 

the rock. 
Great, complicated, nude fig-tree, stemless flower-mesh, 
Flowerily naked in flesh, and giving off hues of life. 

Rather like an octopus, but strange and sweet-myriad-limbed 

octopus ; 
Like a nude, like a rock-living, sweet-fleshed sea-anemone. 
Flourishing from the rock in a mysterious arrogance. 

Let me sit down beneath the many-branching candelabrum 
That lives upon this rock 

And laugh at Time, and laugh at dull Eternity, 
And make a joke of stale Infinity, 
Within the flesh-scent of this wicked tree. 
That has kept so many secrets up its sleeve, 


And has been laughing through so many ages 

At man and his uncomfortablenesses. 

And his attempt to assure himself that what is so is not so, 

Up its sleeve. 

Let me sit down beneath this many-branching candelabrum, 
The Jewish seven -branched, tallow- stinking candlestick 

kicked over the cliff 
And all its tallow righteousness got rid of, 
And let me notice it behave itself. 

And watch it putting forth each time to heaven. 

Each time straight to heaven. 

With marvellous naked assurance each single twig. 

Each one setting off straight to the sky 

As if it were the leader, the main-stem, the forerunnei". 

Intent to hold the candle of the sun upon its socket-tip. 

It alone. 

Every young twig 

No sooner issued sideways from the thigh of his predecessor 

Than off he starts without a qualm 

To hold the one and only lighted candle of the sun in his 

He casually gives birth to another young bud from his thigh. 
Which at once sets off to be the one and only, 
And hold the lighted candle of the sun. 

Oh many-branching candelabrum, oh strange up-starting fig- 
Oh weird Demos, where every twig is the arch twig, 


Each imperiously over-equal to each, equality over-reaching 

Like the snakes on Medusa's head, 

Oh naked fig-tree ! 

Still, no doubt every one of you can be the sun-socket as 

well as every other of you. 
Demos, Demos, Demos ! 
Demon, too, 
Wicked fig-tree, equality puzzle, with your self-conscious 

secret fruits. 




Wet almond-trees, in the rain, 
Like iron sticking grimly out of earth ; 
Black almond trunks, in the rain, 

Like iron implements twisted, hideous, out of the earth, 
Out of the deep, soft fledge of Sicilian winter-green, 
Earth-grass uneatable, 

Almond trunks curving blackly, iron-dark, climbing the 

Almond-tree, beneath the terrace rail. 
Black, rusted, iron trunk. 
You have welded your thin stems finer. 
Like steel, like sensitive steel in the air, 

Grey, lavender, sensitive steel, curving thinly and brittly up 
in a parabola. 

What are you doing in the December rain .^ 

Have you a strange electric sensitiveness in your steel tips ? 

Do you feel the air for electric influences 

Like some strange magnetic apparatus ? 

Do you take in messages, in some strange code. 

From heaven's wolfish, wandering electricity, that prowls so 

constantly round Etna ? 
Do you take the whisper of sulphur from tlie air } 
Do you hear the chemical accents of the sun ? 
Do you telephone the roar of the waters over the earth ? 
And from all this, do you make calculations ? 


Sicily, December's Sicily in a mass of rain 

With iron branching blackly, rusted like old, twisted 

And brandishing and stooping over earth's wintry Hedge, 

climbing the slopes 
Of uneatable soft green ! 


- Vcr7 



Sun, dark sun 

Sun of black void heat 

Sun of the torrid mid-day's horrific darkness. 

Behold my hair twisting and going black. 
Behold my eyes turn tawny yellow 
Negroid ; 

See the milk of northern spume 
Coagulating and going black in my veins 
Aromatic as frankincense. 

Columns dark and soft 

Sunblack men 

Soft shafts, sunbreathing mouths 

Eyes of yellow, golden sand 

As frictional, as perilous, explosive as brimstone. 

Rock, waves of dark heat ; 

Waves of dark heat, rock, sway upwards 

Waver perpendicular. 

What is the horizontal rolling of water 
Compared to the flood of black heat that rolls upward 
past my eyes } 




Come up, thou red thing. 
* Come up, and be called a moon. 

The mosquitoes are biting to-night 
Like memories. 

Memories, northern memories, 
Bitter-stinging white world that bore us 
Subsiding into this night. 

Call it moonrise 
This red anathema "i 

Rise, thou red thing. 

Unfold slowly upwards, blood-dark ; 

Burst the night's membrane of tranquil stars 



The red Macula. 






Even iron can put forth, 
Even iron. 

This is the iron age, 

But let us take heart 

Seeing iron break and bud, 

Seeing rusty iron puff with clouds of blossom. 

The almond-tree, 

December's bare iron hooks sticking out of earth. 

The almond-tree, 

That knows the deadliest poison, like a snake 

In supreme bitterness. 

Upon the iron, and upon the steel, 

Odd flakes as if of snow, odd bits of snow. 

Odd crumbs of melting snow. 

But you mistake, it is not from the sky ; 
From out the iron, and from out the steel. 
Flying not down from heaven, but storming up. 
Strange storming up from the dense under-earth 
Along the iron, to the living steel 
In rose-hot tips, and flakes of rose-pale snow 
Setting supreme annunciation to the world. 


Nay, what a heart of delicate super-faith, 


The rusty swords of almond-trees. 

Trees suffer, like races, down the long ages. 

They wander and are exiled, they live in exile through long 

Like drawn blades never sheathed, hacked and gone black. 
The alien trees in alien lands : and yet 
The heart of blossom. 
The unquenchable heart of blossom I 

Look at the many-cicatrised frail vine, none more scarred 

and frail. 
Yet see him fling himself abroad in fresh abandon 
From the small wound-stump. 

Even the wilful, obstinate, gummy fig-tree 

Can be kept down, but he'll burst like a polyp into prolixity. 

And the almond-tree, in exile, in the iron age ! 

This is the ancient southern earth whence the vases were 
baked, amphoras, craters, cantharus, OL-nochou, and open- 
hearted cylix. 

Bristling now with the iron of almond-trees 

Iron, but unforgotten. 

Iron, dawn-hearted, 

Ever-beating dawn-heart, enveloped in iron against the exile. 

against the ages. 


See it come forth in blossom 
I'Vom the snow-rememberincp heart 
In lonij-nighted Januaryj 

In the long dark nights of the evening star, and SiriuSj and 
the Etna snow-wind through the long night. 

Sweating his drops of blood through the long-nighted 

Into blossonij into pride, into honey-triumph, into most 

exquisite splendour. 
Oh, give me the tree of life in blossom 
And the Cross sprouting its superb and fearless flowers ! 

Something must be reassuring to the almond, in the 
evening star, and the snow-wind, and the long, long, 

Some memory of far, sun-gentler lands, 

So that the faith in his heart smiles again 

And his blood ripples with that untellable delight of once- 
more-vindicated faith, 

And the Gethsemane blood at the iron pores unfolds, 

Pearls itself into tenderness of bud 

And in a great and sacred forthcoming steps forth, steps out 
in one stride 

A naked tree of blossom, like a bridegroom bathing in dew, 
divested of cover. 

Frail-naked, utterly uncovered 

To the green night-baying of the dog-star, Etna's snow-edged 

And January's loud-seeming sun. 

Think of it, from the iron fastness 

Suddenly to dare to come out naked, in perfection of blossom, 

beyond the sword-rust. 
Think, to stand there in full-unfolded nudity, smiling, 
With all the snow-wind, and the sun-glare, and the dog-star 

baying epithalamion. 

Oh, honey-bodied beautiful one. 

Come forth from iron, 

Red your heart is. 

Fragile-tender, fragile-tender life-body. 

More fearless than iron all the time. 

And so much prouder, so disdainful of reluctances. 

In the distance like hoar-frost, like silvery ghosts communing 

on a green hill, 
Hoar-frost-like and mysterious. 

In the garden raying out 

With a body like spray, dawn - tender, and looking 

With such insuperable, subtly-smiling assurance. 


No bounds being set. 

Flaked out and come unpromised, 

The tree being life-divine. 

Fearing nothing, life-blissful at the core 

Within iron and earth. 


Knots of pink, fish-silvery 

In heaven, in bhie, blue heaven, 

Soundless, bliss-full, wide-rayed, honey-bodied, 

Red at the core, 

Red at the core. 

Knotted in heaven upon the fine light. 



Five times wide open. 

Six times wide open. 

And given, and perfect ; 

And red at the core with the last sore-heartedness, 


Fontanel Vecchia. 



JVho gave u.t jloivers ? 
Heaven ? The ii'Iiite God ? 

Nonsense I 
Up out of hell, 
From Hades ; 
Infernal Uis ! 

Jesus the god ofjlowers ? 

Not he. 

Or sun-bright Apollo, him so musical ? 

Him neither. 

Who then ? 

Say who. 

Say it — and it is Pluto, 


The dark one, 

Proserpine's master. 

Who contradicts ? 

When she broke forth from below, 
Flowers came, hell-hounds on her heels. 
Dis, the dark, the jealous god, the husband. 

Go then, he said. 

And in Sicily, on the meadows of Enna, 

She thought she had left him ; 

Hut opened around her purple anemones, 


Little hells of colour, caves of darkness, 

Hell, risen in pursuit of her; royal^ sumptuous 


All at her feet 

Hell opening; 

At her white ankles 

Hell rearing its husband-splendid, serpent heads, 

Hell-purple, to get at her — 

JVhy did he let her go ? 

So he could track her down again, white victim. 

Ah mastery ! 

Hell's husband-blossoms 

Out on earth again. 

Look out, Persephone ! 

You, Madame Ceres, mind yourself, the enemy is upon you. 

About your feet spontaneous aconite, 

Hell-glamorous, and purple husband-tyranny 

Enveloping your late-enfranchised plains. 

You thought your daughter had escaped .'' 

No more stockings to darn for the (lower-roots, down in 

hell ? 
I?iit ail my dear ! 


Aha, the stripe-cheeked whelps, whippet-slim crocuses, 

At 'em, boys, at 'em ! 

Ho golden-spaniel, sweel alert narcissus, 

Smell 'em, smell 'em out ! 

Those two enfranchised women. 

Somebody is coming ! 
Oho there ! 

Dark blue anemones ! 

Hell is up ! 

Hell on earth, and Dis within the depths ! 

Run, Persephone, he is after you already. 

Why did he let her go ? 
To track her down ; 

All the sport of summer and spring, and flowers snap- 
ping at her ankles and catching her by the hair ! 
Poor Persephone and her rights for women. 

Husband-snared hell-queen, 
It is spring. 

It is spring, 

And pomp of husband-strategy on earth. 

Ceres, kiss your girl, you thiyik you've got her hack. 
The bit of husbatid-tilth she is, 
Persephone ! 


Poor mothers-in-law ! 
They are always sold. 

It is spring. 




When he pushed his bush of black hair off his brow : 

When she lifted her mop from her eyes, and screwed it in a 

knob behind 

— O act of fearful temerity ! 
When they felt their foreheads bare, naked to heaven, their 

eyes revealed : 
When they felt the light of heaven brandished like a knife 

at their defenceless eyes, 
And the sea like a blade at their face, 
Mediterranean savages : 
When they came out, face-revealed, under heaven, from the 

shaggy undergrowth of their own hair 
For the first time, 
They saw tiny rose cyclamens between their toes, 

Where the slow toads sat brooding on the past. 

Slow toads, and cyclamen leaves 

Stickily glistening with eternal shadow 

Keeping to earth. 

Cyclamen leaves 

Toad-filmy, earth-iridescent 



Spumed with mud 


Low down. 


The shakinjT aspect of the sea 

And man's defenceless bare face 

And cyclamens putting their ears back. 

Long, pensive, slim-muzzled greyhound buds 
Dreamy, not yet present, 
Drawn out of earth 
At his toes. 


Sub-delighted, stone-engendered 

Cyclamens, young cyclamens 


Waking, pricking their ears 

Like delicate very-young greyhound bitches 

Half-yawning at the open, inexperienced 

Vista of day, 

Folding back their soundless petalled ears. 

Greyhound bitches 
t. Sending their rosy muzzled' pensive down. 

And breathing soft, unwilling to wake to the new day 
Yet sub-delighted. 

Ah Mediterranean morning, when our world began ! 
Far-off Mediterranean mornings, 
Pelasgic faces uncovered, 
And unbudding cyclamens. 

The hare suddenly goes uphill 
Laying back tier long ears with unwinking bliss. 


And up the pallid, sea-blenched Mediterranean stone-slopes 

Rose cyclamen, ecstatic fore-runner ! 

Cyclamens, ruddy-muzzled cyclamens 

In little bunches like bunches of wild hares 

Muzzles together, ears-aprick 

Whispering witchcraft 

Like women at a well, the dawn-fountain. 

Greece, and the world's morning 

Where all the Parthenon marbles still fostered the roots of 

the cyclamen. 

Pagan, rosy-muzzled violets 

Among squat toad-leaves sprinkling the unborn 
Erechtheion marbles. 




Hark/ Hark/ 

The dogs du bark / 

It's the sucialixls come to tonn, 

Xone in rags and none in tags, 

Swaggering up arid down. 

Sunday morning, 

And from the Sicilian townlets skirting P^tna 

The socialists have gathered upon us, to look at us. 

How shall we know them when we see them ? 
How shall we know them now they've come ? 

Not by their rags and not by their tags, 
Nor by any distinctive gown ; 
The same unremarkable Sunday suit 
And hats cocked up and down. 

Yet there they are, youths, loutishly 
Strolling in gangs and staring along the Corso 
With the gang-stare 
And a half-threatening envy 
At every Jbrestiere, 

Every lordly tuppenny foreigner from the hotels, 
fattening on the exchange. 

Hark/ Hark/ 
The dogs do hark / 
It's the socialists in the town. 


Sans rags, sans tags, 

Sans beards, sans bags, 

Sans any distinction at all except loutish commonness. 

How do we know then, that they are they ? 





-Istsl -Ists! 

Alas, salvia and hibiscus flowers. 
Salvia and hibiscus flowers. 

Listen again. 

Salvia and hibiscus flowers. 

Is it not so ? 

Salvia and hibiscus flowers. 

Hark/ Hark.' 

The dogs do hark ! 

Salvia and hibiscus flowers. 

Who smeared their doors with blood } 
Who on their breasts 
Put salvias and hibiscus .'' 

Rosy, rosy scarlet, 

And flame-rage, golden-throated 

Bloom along the Corso on the living, perambulating bush. 

Who said they might assume these blossoms t 
What god did they consult i 


Rose-red, princess hibiscus, rolling her pointed Chinese 

petals ! 
Azalea and camellia, single peony 
And pomegranate bloom and scarlet mallow-flower 
And all the eastern, exquisite royal plants 
That noble blood has brought us down the ages ! 
Gently nurtured, frail and splendid 
Hibiscus flower — 
Alas, the Sunday coats of Sicilian bolshevists ! 

Pure blood, and noble blood, in the fine and rose-red veins ; 

Small, interspersed with jewels of white gold 

Frail-filigreed among the rest ; 

Rose of the oldest races of princesses, Polynesian 


Eve, in her happy moments. 
Put hibiscus in her hair, 

Before she humbled herself, and knocked her knees with 

Sicilian bolshevists, 

With hibiscus flowers in the buttonholes of your Sunday suits, 
Come now, speaking of rights, what right have you to this 
flower ? 

The exquisite and ageless aristocracy 

Of a peerless soul, 

Blessed are the pure in heart and the fathomless in bright 

pride ; 
The loveliness that knows noblesse oblige ; 
The native royalty of red hibiscus flowers ; 
E 6'5 

The exquisite assertion of new delicate life 
Risen from the roots : 

Is this how you'll have it, red-decked socialists, 
Hibiscus-breasted ? 

If it be so, I fly to join you, 

And if it be not so, brutes to pull down hibiscus flowers ! 

Or salvia ! 

Or dragon-mouthed salvia with gold throat of wrath ! 
Flame-flushed, enraged, splendid salvia, 
Cock-crested, crowing your orange scarlet like a tocsin 
Along the Corso all this Sunday morning. 

Is your wrath red as salvias. 

You socialists ? 

You with your grudging, envious, furtive rage. 

In Sunday suits and yellow boots along the Corso. 

You look well with your salvia flowers, I must say. 

Warrior-like, dawn-cock's-comb flaring flower 

Shouting forth flame to set the world on fire. 

The dust-heap of man's filthy world on fire. 

And burn it down, the glutted, stuffy world. 

And feed the young new fields of life with ash, 

With ash I say, 


Your ashes even, my friends, 

Among much other ash. 


If there were salvia-savage bolshevists 
To burn the world back to manure-good ash. 
Wouldn't I stick the salvia in my coat ! 
But these themselves must burn, these louts ! 


The dragon-faced, 

The anfjer-reddened, golden-throated salvia 

With its long antenna? of rage put out 

Upon the frightened air. 

Ugh, how I love its fangs of perfect rage 

That gnash the air ; 

The molten gold of its intolerable rage 

Hot in the throat. 

I long to be a bolshevist 

And set the stinking rubbish-heap of this foul world 

Afire at a myriad scarlet points, 

A bolshevist, a salvia-face 

To lick the world with flame that licks it clean. 

I long to see its chock-full crowdedness 

And glutted squirming j)opulousness on fire 

Like a field of filthy weeds 

Burnt back to ash, 

And then to see the new, real souls sprout up. 

Not this vast rotting cabbage patch we call the world ; 
But from the ash-scarred fallow 
New wild souls. 

Nettles, and a rose sprout, 
Hibiscus, and mere grass, 
Salvia still in a rage 
And almond honey-still, 

And fig-wort stinking for the carrion wasp ; 
All the lot of them, and let them fight it out. 


But not a trace of foul equality, 

Nor sound of still more foul human perfection. 

You need not clear the world like a cabbage patch for me ; 

Leave me my nettles. 

Let me fight the wicked, obstreperous weeds myself, and put 

them in their place, 
Severely in their place. 
I don't at all want to annihilate them, 
I like a row with them. 
But I won't be put on a cabbage-idealistic level of equality 

with them. 

What rot, to see the cabbage and hibiscus-tree 

As equals ! 

What rot, to say the louts along the Corso 

In Sunday suits and yellow shoes 

Are my equals ! 

I am their superior, saluting the hibiscus flower, not them. 

The same I say to the profiteers from the hotels, the money- 

Profiteers here being called dog-fish, stinking dog-fish, 

The same I say to the pale and elegant persons. 

Pale-face authorities loitering tepidly : 

That I salute the red hibiscus Jlowers 

And send mankind to its inferior blazes. 

Mankind's inferior blazes. 

And these along with it, all the inferior lot — 

These bolshevists, 

These dog-fish, 

These precious and ideal ones, 

All rubbish ready for fire. 


And I salute hibiscus and the salvia flower 
Upon the breasts of loutish bolshevists, 
Damned loutish bolshevists, 
Who perhaps will do the business after all, 
In the long run, in spite of themselves. 

Meanwhile, alas 

For me no fellow-men, 

No salvia-frenzied comrades, antenna? 

Of yellow-red, outreaching, living wrath 

Upon the smouldering air. 

And throat of brimstone-molten angry gold. 

Red, angry men are a race extinct, alas ! 


To be a bolshevist 

With a hibiscus flower behind my ear 

In sign of life, of lovely, dangerous life 

And passionate disquality of men ; 

In sign of dauntless, silent violets. 

And impudent nettles grabbing the under-earth. 

And cabbages born to be cut and eat, 

And salvia fierce to crow and shout for fight. 

And rosy-red hibiscus wincingly 

Unfolding all her coiled and lovely self 

In a doubtful world. 

Never, bolshevistically 
To be able to stand for all these ! 
Alas, alas, I have got to leave it all 
To the youths in Sunday suits and yellow shoes 
Who have pulled down the salvia flowers 


And rosy delicate hibiscus flowers 

And everything else to their disgusting level. 

Never, of course, to put anything up again. 

But yet 

If they pull all the world down, 

The process will amount to tlie same in the end. 

Instead of flame and flame-clean ash 

Slow watery rotting back to level muck 

And final humus. 

Whence the re-start. 

And still I cannot bear it 

That they take hibiscus and the salvia flower. 





They are not all beasts. 

One is a man, for example, and one is a bird. 

I, Matthew, am a man. 

" And I, if I be lifted up, will draw all men unto me " — 

That is Jesus. 

But then Jesus was not quite a man. 

He was the Son of Man 

Filius Meus, O remorseless logic 

Out of His own mouth. 

I, Matthew, being a man 

Cannot be lifted up, the Paraclete 

To draw all men unto me, 

Seeing I am on a par with all men. 

I, on the other hand. 

Am drawn to the Uplifted, as all men are drawn. 

To the Son of Man 

Filius Mens. 

Wilt ihou lift me up, Sun uf Man ? 
How my heart beats ! 
I am man. 

I am man, and therefore my heart beats, and throws 

the dark blood from side to side 
All the time I am lifted up. 


Yes, even during my uplifting. 

And if it ceased ? 

If it ceased, I should be no longer man 

As I am, if my heart in uplifting ceased to beat, to toss the 

dark blood from side to side, causing my myriad secret 


After the cessation 

I might be a soul in bliss, an angel, approximating to the 

Uplifted ; 
But that is another matter ; 
I am Matthew, the man. 
And I am not that other angelic matter. 

So I will be lifted up. Saviour, 

But put me down again in time. Master, 

Before my heart stops beating, and I become what I am not. 

Put me down again on the earth, Jesus, on the brown soil 

Where flowers sprout in the acrid humus, and fade into 

humus again. 
Where beasts drop their unlicked young, and pasture, and 

drop their droppings among the turf. 
Where the adder darts horizontal. 

Down on the damp, unceasing ground, where my feet belong 
And even my heart. Lord, forever, after all uplifting: 
The crumbling, damp, fresh land, life horizontal and ceaseless. 

Matthew I am, the man. 

And I take the wings of the morning, to Thee, Crucified, 

But while flowers club their petals at evening 


And rabbits make pills among the short grass 

And long snakes quickly glide into the dark hole in the 

wall, hearing man approach, 
I must be put down. Lord, in the afternoon, 
And at evening I must leave off my wings of the spirit 
As I leave off my braces 
And I must resume my nakedness like a fish, sinking down 

the dark reversion of night 
Like a fish seeking the bottom, Jesus, 


Face downwards 

Veering slowly 

Down between the steep slopes of darkness, fucus-dark, 

seaweed-fringed valleys of the waters under the sea 
Over the edge of the soundless cataract 
Into the fathomless, bottomless pit 
Where my soul falls in the last throes of bottomless convulsion, 

and is fallen 
Utterly beyond Thee, Dove of the Spirit ; 
Beyond everything, except itself. 

Nay, Son of Man, I have been lifted up. 

To Thee I rose like a rocket ending in mid-heaven. 

But even Thou, Son of Man, canst not quaff out the dregs 

of terrestrial manhood ! 
They fall back from Thee. 

They fall back, and like a dripping of quicksilver taking the 

downward track. 
Break into drops, burn into drops of blood, and dropping. 

dropping take wing 
Membraned, blood-veined wings. 


On fans of unsuspected tissue, like bats 

They thread and thrill and flicker ever downward 

To the dark zenith of Thine antipodes 

Jesus Uplifted. 

Bat-winged heart of man 

Reversed flame 

Shuddering a strange way down the bottomless pit 

To the great depths of its reversed zenith. 

Afterwards, afterwards 

Morning comes, and I shake the dews of night from the 

wings of my spirit 
And mount like a lark, Beloved. 

But remember, Saviour, 

That my heart which like a lark at heaven's gate singing, 

hovers morning-bright to Thee, 
Throws still the dark blood back and forth 
In the avenues where the bat hangs sleeping, upside-down 
And to me undeniable, Jesus. 

Listen, Paraclete. 

I can no more deny the bat-wings of my fathom-flickering 

spirit of darkness 
Than the wings of the Morning and Thee, Thou Glorified. 

I am Matthew, the Man : 
It is understood. 

And Thou art Jesus, Son of Man 

Drawing all men unto Thee, but bound to release them 
when the hour strikes. 


I have been, ami I have returned. 

I have mounted up on the winp;s of the morning, and I 

have dredged down to the zenith's reversal. 
Which is my way, being man. 
Gods may stay in mid-heaven, the Son of Man has climbed 

to the Whitsun zenith, 
But I, Matthew, being a man 
Am a traveller back and forth. 
So be it. 



There was a lion in Judah 
V\'liich whelped, and was Mark. 

But winged. 

A lion with wings. 

At least at Venice. 

Even as late as Daniele Manin. 

Why should he have wings ? 

Is he to be a bird also ? 

Or a spirit ? 

Or a winged thought ? 

Or a soaring consciousness ? 

Evidently he is all that 
The lion of the spirit. 

Ah, Lamb of God 

Would a wingless lion lie down before Thee, as this 
winged lion lies ? 

The lion of the spirit. • 

Once he lay in the mouth of a cave 
And sunned his whiskers, 
And lashed his tail slowly, slowly 
Thinking of voluptuousness 
Even of blood. 


Hut later, in the sun of the afternoon 

Having tasted all there was to taste, and having slept his fill 
He fell to frowning, as he lay with his head on his paws 
And the sun coming in through the narrowest fibril of a 
slit in his eyes. 

So, nine-tenths asleep, motionless, bored, and statically 

He saw in a shaft of light a lamb on a pinnacle, balancing a 

flag on its paw. 
And he was thoroughly startled. 

Going out to investigate 

He found the lamb beyond him, on the inaccessible pinnacle 

of light. 
So he put his paw to his nose, and pondered. 

" Guard my sheep," came the silvery voice from the 

" And I will give thee the wings of the morning." 
So the lion of the senses thought it was worth it. 

Hence he became a curly sheep-dog with dangerous pro- 

As Carpaccio will tell you : 

Ramping round, guarding the flock of mankind. 

Sharpening his teeth on the wolves. 

Ramping up through the air like a kestrel 

And lashing his tail above the world 

And enjoying the sensation of heaven and righteousness and 
voluptuous wrath. 


There is a new sweetness in his voluptuously licking his paw 

Now that it is a weapon of heaven. 

There is a new ecstasy in his roar of desirous love 

Now that it sounds self-conscious through the unlimited sky. 

He is well aware of himself 

And he cherishes voluptuous delights, and thinks about 

And ceases to be a blood-thirsty king of beasts 

And becomes the faithful sheep-dog of the Shepherd, think- 
ing of his voluptuous pleasures of chasing the sheep to 
the fold 

And increasing the flock, and perhaps giving a real nip here 
and there, a real pinch, but always well meant. 

And somewhere there is a lioness 

The she-mate. 

Whelps play between the paws of the lion 

The she-mate purrs 

Their castle is impregnable, their cave. 

The sun comes in their lair, they are well-off 

A well-to-do family. 

Then the proud lion stalks abroad, alone 
And roars to announce himself to the wolves 
And also to encourage the red-cross Lamb 
And also to ensure a goodly increase in the world. 

Look at him, with his paw on the world 
At Venice and elsewhere. 
Going blind at last. 



A wAi.i,, a bastion, 

A living forehead with its slow whorl of hair 

And a bull's large, sombre, glancing eye 

And glistening, adhesive muzzle 

With cavernous nostrils where the winds run hot 

Snorting defiance 

Or greedily snuffling behind the cows. 


The golden horns of power. 

Power to kill, power to create 

Such as Moses had, and God, 


Shall great wings flame from his shoulder-sockets 

Assyrian-wise ? 

It would be no wonder. 

Knowing the thunder of his heart 
The massive thunder of his dew-lapped chest 
Deep and reverberating. 

It would be no wonder if great wings, like flame, fanned 
out from the furnace-cracks of his shoulder-sockets. 

Thud ! Thud ! Thud ! 

And the roar of black bull's blood in the mighty passages of 
his chest. 

F 81 1 

Ahj the dewlap swings pendulous with excess. 
The great, roaring weight above 
Like a furnace dripping a molten drip. 

The urge, the massive, burning ache 

Of the bull's breast. 

The open furnace-doors of his nostrils. 

For what does he ache, and groan .'* 

In his breast a wall .'' 

Nay, once it was also a fortress wall, and the weight of a 

vast battery. 
But now it is a burning hearthstone only. 
Massive old altar of his own burnt offering. 

It was always an altar of burnt offering 

His own black blood poured out like a sheet of flame over 

his fecundating herd 
As he gave himself forth. 

But also it was a fiery fortress frowning shaggily on the world 
And announcing battle ready. 

Since the Lamb bewitched him with that red-struck flag 

His fortress is dismantled 

His fires of wrath are banked down 

His horns turn away from the enemy. 

He serves the Son of Man. 


And hear him bellow, after many years, the bull that serves 

the Son of Man. 
Moaning, booing, roaring hollow 
Constrained to pour forth all his fire down the narrow sluice 

of procreation 
Through such narrow loins, too narrow. 

Is he not over-charged by the dammed-up pressure of his 

own massive black blood 
Luke, the Bull, the father of substance, the Providence Bull, 

after two thousand years ? 
Is he not over-full of offering, a vast, vast offer of himself 
Which must be poured through so small a vent ? 

Too small a vent. 

Let him remember his horns, then. 

Seal up his forehead once more to a bastion, 

Let it know nothing. 

Let him charge like a mighty catapult on the red-cross flag, 

let him roar out challenge on the world 
And throwing himself upon it, throw off the madness of his 

Let it be war. 

And so it is war. 

The bull of the proletariat has got his head down. 



John, oh John, 
Thou honourable bird 
Sun-peering eagle. 

Taking a bird's-eye view 

Even of Calvary and Resurrection 

Not to speak of Babylon's whoredom. 

High over the mild effulgence of the dove 

Hung all the time, did we but know it, the all-knowing 

Of John's great gold-barred eagle. 

John knew all about it 
Even the very beginning. 

" In the beginning was the Word 

And the Word was God 

And the Word was with God." 

Having been to school 

John knew the whole proposition. 

As for innocent Jesus 

He was one of Nature's phenomena, no doubt. 

Oh that mind-soaring eagle of an Evangelist 

Staring creation out of countenance 

And telling it off 

As an eagle staring down on the Sun I 


The Logos, the Logos ! 

'• In the beginning was the Word," 

Is there not a great Mind pre-ordaining ? 
Does not a supreme Intellect ideally procreate the Universe ? 
Is not each soul a vivid thought in the great consciousness 
stream of God ? 

Put salt on his tail 
The sly bird of John. 

Proud intellect, high-soaring Mind 

Like a king eagle, bird of the most High, sweeping the 

round of heaven 
And casting the cycles of creation 
On two wings, like a pair of compasses ; 
Jesus' pale and lambent dove, cooing in the lower boughs 
On sufferance. 

In the beginning was the Word, of course. 

And the word was the first offspring of the almighty Johannine 

Chick of the intellectual eagle. 

Yet put salt on the tail of the Johannine bird 
Put salt on its tail 
John's eagle. 

Shoo it down out of the empyrean 

Of the all-seeing, all-fore-ordaining ideal. 

Make it roost on bird-spattered, rocky Patmos 

And let it moult there, among the stones of the bitter sea. 

For the almighty eagle of the fore-ordaining Mind 

Is looking rather shabby and island-bound these days : 

Moulting, and rather naked about the rump, and down in 

the beak, 
Rather dirty, on dung-whitened Patmos. 

From which we are led to assume 
That the old bird is weary, and almost willing 
That a new chick should chip the extensive shell 
Of the mundane egg. 

The poor old golden eagle of the creative spirit 
Moulting and moping and waiting, willing at last 
For the fire to burn it up, feathers and all 
So that a new conception of the beginning and end 
Can rise from the ashes. 

Ah Phoenix, Phoenix 
John's Eagle ! 

You are only known to us now as the badge of an insurance 

Phoenix, Phoenix 
The nest is in flames 
Feathers are singeing. 

Ash flutters flocculent, like down on a blue, wan fledgeling. 

San Gervasio. 




When did you start your tricks 

What do you stand on such high legs for ? 
Why this length of shredded shank 
You exaltation ? 

Is it so that you shall lift your centre of gravity upwards 
And weigh no more than air as you alight upon me, 
Stand upon me weightless, you phantom ? 

I heard a woman call you the Winged Victory 

In sluggish Venice. 

You turn your head towards your tail, and smile. 

How can you put so much devilry 
Into that translucent phantom shred 
Of a frail corpus ? 

Queer, with your thin wings and your streaming legs 
How you sail like a heron, or a dull clot of air, 
A nothingness. 

Yet what an aura surrounds you ; 

Your evil little aura, prowling, and casting a numbness on 
my mind. 


That is your trick, your bit of filthy magic : 
Invisibility, and the ana-sthetic power 
To deaden my attention in your direction. 

But I know your game now, streaky sorcerer. 

Queer, how you stalk and prowl the air 
In circles and evasions, enveloping me, 
Ghoul on wings 
Winged Victory. 

Settle, and stand on long thin shanks 

Eyeing me sideways, and cunningly conscious that I am aware, 

You speck. 

I hate the way you lurch off sideways into air 
Having read my thoughts against you. 

Come then, let us play at unawares. 

And see who wins in this sly game of bluff. 

Man or mosquito. 

You don't know that I exist, and I don't know that you exist. 
Now then ! 

It is your trump 

It is your hateful little trump 

You pointed fiend. 

Which shakes my sudden blood to hatred of you : 

It is your small, high, hateful bugle in my ear. 

Why do you do it ? 
Surely it is bad policy. 


They say you can't help it. 

If that is so, then I believe a little in Providence pro- 
tecting the innocent. 
But it sounds so amazingly like a slogan 
A yell of triumph as you snatch my scalp. 

Blood, red blood 
Forbidden liquor. 

I behold you stand 

For a second enspasmed in oblivion, 

Obscenely ecstasied 

Sucking live blood 

My blood. 

Such silence, such suspended transport. 

Such gorging, 

Such obscenity of trespass. 

You stagger 
As well as you may. 
Only your accursed hairy frailty 
Your own imponderable weightlessness 
Saves you, wafts you away on the very draught my 
anger makes in its snatching. 

Away with a paean of derision 
You winged blood-drop. 


Can I not overtake you ? 

Are you one too many for me 

Winged Victory ? 

Am I not mosquito enough to out-mosquito you ? 

Queer, what a big stain my sucked blood makes 
Beside the infinitesimal faint smear of you! 
Queer, what a dim dark smudge you have disappeared into ! 



•^ FISH 

Fish, oh Fish, 
So little matters I 

Whether the waters rise and cover the earth 
Or whether the waters wilt in the hollow places, 
All one to you. 

Aqueous, subaqueous, 


And wave-thrilled. 

As the waters roll 
Roll you. 

The waters wash, 
You wash in oneness 
And never emerge. 

Never know. 
Never grasp. 

Your life a sluice of sensation along your sides, 

A flush at the flails of your fins, down the whorl of your 

And water wetly on fire in the grates of your gills ; 
Fixed water-eyes. 

Even snakes lie together. 

But oh, fish, that rock in water. 
You lie only with the waters ; 
One touch. 


No fingers, no hands and feet, no lii)s; 

No tender muzzles, 

No wistful bellies, 

No loins of desire, 


You and the naked element. 


Curvetting bits of tin in the evening light. 

Who is it ejects his sperm to the naked flood ? 
In the wave-mother.^ 
Who swims enwombed ? 

Who lies with the waters of his silent passion, womb- 
element } 
— Fish in the waters under the earth. 

What price his bread upon the waters .'' 

Himself all silvery himself 
In the element 
No more. 

Nothing more. 


And the element. 
Food, of course ! 
Watei*-eager eyes. 
Mouth-gate open 
And strong spine urging, driving : 
And desirous belly gulping. 


Fear also ! 

He knows fear ! 

Water-eyes craning, 

A rush that ahnost screams, 

Almost fish-voice 

As the pike comes. . . . 

Then gay fear, that turns the tail sprightly, from a shadow. 

Food, and fear, and joie de vivre. 
Without love. 

The other way about : 

Joie de vivre, and fear, and food. 

All without love. 

Quelle joie de vivre 
Dans I'eau ! 

Slowly to gape through the waters. 
Alone with the element; 

To sink, and rise, and go to sleep with the waters ; 
To speak endless inaudible wavelets into the wave ; 
To breathe from the flood at the gills. 

Fish-blood slowly running next to the flood, extracting fish- 
fire ; 
To have the element under one, like a lover ; 
And to spring away with a curvetting click in the air. 

Dropping back with a slap on the face of the flood. 
And merging oneself! 

To be a fish ! 


So utterly without misgiving 
To be a fish 
In the waters. 

Loveless, and so lively ! 

Born before God was love, 

Or life knew loving. 

Beautifully beforehand with it all. 

Admitted, they swarm in companies. 


They drive in shoals. 

But soundless, and out of contact. 

They exchange no word, no spasm, not even anger. 

Not one touch. 

Many suspended together, forever apart. 

Each one alone with the waters, upon one wave with the rest. 

A magnetism in the water between them only. 

I saw a water-serpent swim across the Anapo, 
And I said to my heart, look, look at him ! 
With his head up, steeritig like a bird ! 
He's a rare o?ie, but he belongs . . . 

But sitting in a boat on the Zeller lake 

And watching the fishes in the breathing waters 

Lift and swim and go their way — 

I said to my heart, who are these ? 
And my heart couldn't own them. . . . 


A slim youiirj P'l^Cj with smart fins 
And prey-striped suit, a young cub of a pike 
Slouching along away below, half out of sight, 
Like a lout on an obscure pavement. . . . 

Aha, there's somebody in the know I 

But watching closer 

That motionless deadly motion, 

That unnatural barrel body, that long ghoul nose, . . , 

I left ort' hailing him. 

I had made a mistake, I didn't know him, 
This grey, monotonous soul in the water. 
This intense individual in shadow. 

I didn't know his God, 
I didn't know his God. 

Which is perhaps the last admission that life has to wring 
out of us. 

I saw, dimly, 

Once a big pike rush. 

And small fish fly like splinters. 

And I said to my heart, Ihcre are limits 

To you, my heart ; 

And to the one God. 

Fish are beyond vie. j 

Other Gods 

Beyond my range . . . gods beyond my God. . 
G 97 

They are beyond me, are fishes. 

1 stand at the pale of my being 

And look beyond, and see 

Fish, in the outerwards, 

As one stands on a bank and looks in. 

I have waited with a lon<j rod 

And suddenly pulled a gold-and-greenish, lucent fish from 

And had him fly like a halo round my head, 
Lunging in the air on the line. 

Unhooked his gorping, water-horny mouth. 
And seen his horror-tilted eye, 

His red-gold, water-precious, mirror-flat bright eye ; 
And felt him beat in my hand, with his mucous, leaping 

And my heart accused itself 

Thinking : / o;w not the measure of creation. 

This is beyond me, this^/ish. 

His God stands outside my God. 

And the i;oId- and- green pure lacquer-mucus comes off in my 

And the ced-gflld^ mirror- eye stares and dies, 
And the water-suave contour dims. 

But not before I have had to know 
He was born in front of my sunrise. 
Before my day. 


He outstarts me. 

And I, a many-fingered honor of daylight lo him, 

Have made him die. 

Fishes, I 

With their gold, red eyes, and green-pure gleam, and 

And their pre-world loneliness, 
And more-than-lovelessness. 
And white meat ; 
They move in other circles. 


Things of one element. 
Each by itself. 

Cats, and the Neapolitans, 

Sulphur sun-beasts. 

Thirst for fish as for more-than-water ; 


To quench their over-sulphureous lusts. 

But I, I only wonder 
And don't know. 
I don't know fishes. 

In the beginning 

Jesus was called The Fish. 

And in the end. 




At evening, sitting on this terrace, 

When the sun from the west, beyond Pisa, beyond the 

mountains of Carrara 
Departs, and the world is taken by surprise . . . 

When the tired flower of Florence is in gloom beneath the 

Brown hills surrounding . . . 

When under the arches of the Ponte Vecchio 

A green light enters against stream, flush from the west, 

Against the current of obscure Arno . . . 

Look up, and you see things flying 
Between the day and the night ; 

Swallows with spools of dark thread sewing the shadows 

A circle swoop, and a quick parabola under the bridge arches 

Where light pushes through ; 

A sudden turning upon itself of a thing in the air. 

A dip to the water. 

And you think : 

" The swallows are flying so late ! " 

Swallows ? 


Dark air-life loopinjj 

Yet missing the pure loop . . . 

A twitch, a twitter, an elastic shudder in flight 

And serrated wings against the sky. 

Like a glove, a black glove thrown up at the liglit, 

And falHntr back. 


Never swallows ! 


The swallows are gone. 

At a wavering instant the swallows gave way to bats 
By the Ponte Vecchio , . . 
Changing guard. 

Bats, and an uneasy creeping in one's scalp 
As the bats swoop overhead ! 
Flying madly. 

Pipistrello ! 

Black piper on an infinitesimal pipe. 

Little lumps that fly in air and have voices indefinite, wildlj' 
vindictive ; 

Wings like bits of umbrella. 


Creatures that hang themselves up like an old rag, to 

sleep ; 
And disgustingly upside down. 


Hanging upside down like rows of disgusting old rags 

And grinning in their sleep. 


Not for me ! 



Whkn I went into my room, at mid-morning, 
Say ten o'clock . . . 

My room, a crash-box over that great stone rattle 
The Via de' Bardi. ... 

When I went into my room at mid-morning 
/r/ij/ ? . . . a bird ! 

A bird 

Flying round the room in insane circles. 

Ill insane circles ! 
. . . A bat! 

A disgusting bat 

At mid- morning I . . . 

Old ! Go out ! 

Round and round and round 

With a twitchy, nervous, intolerable Hight, 

And a neurasthenic lunge. 

And an impure frenzy ; 

A bat, big as a swallow. 

Out, out oj my room ! 



The Venetian sliutters I pusli wide 
To the free, calm upper air ; 
Loop back the curtains. ... 

Now out, uiil Jrui/i iiiij ruuvi J 

So to drive him out, flicking with my white handkerchief: 

But he will not. 

Round and round and round 
In an impure haste, 
Fumbling, a beast in air, 

And stumbling, lunging and touching the walls, the bell- 
About my room ! 

Always refusing to go out into the air 
Above that crash-gulf of the Via de' Bardi, 
Yet blind with frenzy, with cluttered fear. 

At last he swerved into the window bay, 

But blew back, as if an incoming wind blew him in again. 

A strong inrushing wind. 

And round and round and round ! 

Blundering more insane, and leaping, in throbs, to clutch at 

a corner, 
At a wire, at a bell-rope : 
On and on, watched relentless by me, round and round in 

my room, 


Round and round and dithering witli tiredness and haste and 

increasing delirium 
I'licker-splashing round my room. 

I would not let him rest ; 

Not one instant cleave, cling like a blot with his breast to 

the wall 
In an obscure corner. 
Not an instant ! 

I Hicked him on, 

Trying to drive him through the window. 

Again he swerved into the window bay 

And I ran forward, to frighten him forth. 

But he rose, and from a terror worse than me he flew past me 

Back into my room, and round, round, round in my room 

Clutch, cleave, stagger. 

Dropping about the air 

Getting tired. 


Something seemed to blow him back from the window 

Every time he swerved at it; 

Back on a strange parabola, then round, round, dizzy in my 


He could not go out, 
I also realised. . . . 

It was the light of day which he could not enter. 
Any more than I could enter the white-hot door of a blast- 


He could not plunge into the daylight that streamed at the 

It was asking too much of his nature. 

Worse even than the hideous terror of me with my hand- 
Saying : Out, go out .' . . . 
Was the horror of white daylight in the window ! 

So I switched on the electric light, thinking : Xotr 
The outside will seem brown. . . . 

But no. 

The outside did not seem brown. 

And he did not mind the yellow electric light. 


He was having a silent rest. 

But never ! 

Not in my room. 

Round and round and round 

Near the ceiling as if in a web, 

Staggering ; 

Plunging, falling out of the web, 

Broken in heaviness, 

Lunging blindly. 

Heavier ; 

And clutching, clutching for one second's pause, 

Always, as if for one drop of rest, 

One little drop. 


And I ! 

Sever, I say. . . . 

Go out ! 

Flying slower, 

Seeming to stumble, to fall in air. 


Yet never able to pass the whiteness of light into 

freedom . . . 
A bird would have dashed through, come what might. 

Fall, sink, lurch, and round and round 
Flicker, flicker-heavy ; 
Even wings heavy : 

And cleave in a high corner for a second, like a clot, also a 

Bui no. 

Out, yoti beast. 

Till he fell in a corner, palpitating, spent. 

And there, a clot, he squatted and looked at me. 

With sticking-out, bead-berry eyes, black. 

And improper derisive ears. 

And shut wings. 

And br wn, furry body. 

Brown, nut-brown, fine fur! 

But it might as well have ])een hair on a spider; thing 

With long, black-paper ears. 


So, a dilemma ! 

He squatted tliere like something unclean. 

No, he must not squat, nor hang, obscene, in my room ! 

Yet nothing on earth will give him courage to pass the 
sweet fire of day. 

What then ? 

Hit him and kill him and throw him away ? 


I didn't create him. 

Let the God that created him be responsible for his death . . . 

Only, in the bright day, I will not have this clot in my room. 

Let the God who is maker of bats watch with them in their 

unclean corners. . . . 
I admit a God in every crevice. 
But not bats in my room ; 
Nor the God of bats, while the sun shines. 

So out, out you brute ! . . . 

And he lunged, flight-heavy, away from me, sideways, a 

sshembo ! 
And round and round and round my room, a clot with wings. 
Impure even in weariness. 

Wings dark skinny and flapping the air. 

Lost their flicker. 



He fell again willi a little thud 
Near the curtain on the Hoor. 
And there lav. 

Ah death, death 
You are no solution I 
Bats must be bats. 

Only life has a way out. 

And the human soul is fated to wide-eyed responsibility 

In life. 

So I picked him up in a flannel jacket, 

Well covered, lest he should bite me. 

For I would have had to kill him if he'd bitten me, the 

impure one. . . . 
And he hardly stirred in my hand, muffled up. 

Hastily, I shook him out of the window. 

And away he went ! 

Fear craven in his tail. 

Great haste, and straight, almost bird straight above the Via 

de' Bardi. 
Above that crash-gulf of exploding whips. 
Towards the Borgo San Jacopo. 

And now, at evening, as he flickers over the river 
Dipping with petty triumphant flight, and tittering over the 
sun's departure, 


I believe he chirps, pipistrello, seeing me here on this 

terrace writing 

There he sits, the long loud one I 
But I am greater than he . . . 
I escaped him. . . . 





A SNAKE came to my water-trough 

On a hot, hot day, and I in pyjamas for the heat, 

To drink there. 

In the deep, strange-scented shade of the great dark carob- 

I came down the steps with my pitcher 
And must wait, must stand and wait, for there he was at the 

trough before me. 

He reached down from a fissure in the earth-wall in the gloom 
And trailed his yellow-brown slackness soft-bellied down, 

over the edge of the stone trough 
And rested his throat upon the stone bottom, 
And where the water had dripped from the tap, in a small 

He sipped with his straight mouth. 
Softly drank through his straight gums, into his slack long 


Someone was before me at my water-trough. 

And I, like a second comer, waiting. 

He lifted his head from his drinking, as cattle do. 
And looked at me vaguely, as drinking cattle do, 
And flickered his two-forked tongue from his lips, and mused 
a moment, 

H 113 

And stooped and drank a little more, 

Being earth-brown, earth-golden from the burning bowels of 

the earth 
On the day of Sicilian July, with Etna smoking. 

The voice of my education said to me 
He must be killed, 

For in Sicily the black, black snakes are innocent, the gold 
are venomous. 

And voices in me said, If you were a man 
You would take a stick and break him now, and finish 
him off. 

But must I confess how I liked him, 

How glad I was he had come like a guest in quiet, to drink 

at my water-trough 
And depart peaceful, pacified, and thankless, 
Into the burning bowels of this earth ? 

Was it cowardice, that I dared not kill him ? 
Was it perversity, that I longed to talk to him ? 
Was it humility, to feel so honoured ? 
I felt so honoured. 

And yet those voices : 

If you were not afraid, you would kill him! 

And truly I was afraid, I was most afraid. 
But even so, honoured still more 
That he should seek my hospitality 
From out the dark door of the secret earth. 


He drank enough 

And lifted his head, dreamily, as one who has drunken, 

And flickered his tongue like a forked night on the air, so 

Seeming to lick his lips. 

And looked around like a god, unseeing, into the air, 
And slowly turned his head. 
And slowly, very slowly, as if thrice adream, 
Proceeded to draw his slow length curving round 
And climb again the broken bank of my wall-face. 

And as he j)ut his head into that dreadful hole. 

And as he slowly drew up, snake-easing his shoulders, and 

entered farther, 
A sort of horror, a sort of protest against his withdrawing 

into that horrid black hole. 
Deliberately going into the blackness, and slowly drawing 

himself after. 
Overcame me now his back was turned. 

I looked round, I put down my pitcher, 

I picked up a clumsy log 

And threw it at the water-trough with a clatter, 

I think it did not hit him. 

But suddenly that part of him that was left behind convulsed 
in undignified haste. 

Writhed like lightning, and was gone 

Into the black hole, the earth-lipped fissure in the wall- 

At which, in the intense still noon, I stared with fascination. 


And immediately I regretted it. 

I thought how paltry, how vulgar, what a mean act I 
I despised myself and the voices of my accursed human 

And I thought of the albatross, 

And I wished he would come back, my snake. 

For he seemed to me again like a king. 

Like a king in exile, uncrowned in the underworld. 

Now due to be crowned again. 

And so, I missed my chance with one of the lords 

Of life. 

And 1 have something to expiate ; 

A pettiness. 





/You know wliat it is to be born alone, 
Baby tortoise ! 

The first day to heave your feet little by little from the 

Not yet awake, 
And remain lapsed on earth. 
Not quite alive. 

A tiny, fragile, half-animate bean. 

To open your tiny beak-mouth, that looks as if it would 

never open, 
Like some iron door ; 

To lift the upper hawk-beak from the lower base 
And reach your skinny little neck 
And take your first bite at some dim bit of herbage. 
Alone, small insect, 
Tiny bright-eye. 
Slow one. 

To take your first solitary bite 

And move on your slow, solitary hunt. 

Your bright, dark little eye, 

Your eye of a dark disturbed night, 

Under its slow lid, tiny baby tortoise. 

So indomitable. 


No one ever heard you complain. 

You draw your head forward, slowly, from your little wimple 
And set forward, slow-dragging, on your four-pinned toes, 
Rowing slowly forward. 
Whither away, small bird ? 

Rather like a baby working its limbs. 
Except that you make slow, ageless progress 
And a baby makes none. 

The touch of sun excites you. 

And the long ages, and the lingering chill 

Make you pause to yawn. 

Opening your impervious mouth, 

Suddenly beak-shaped, and very wide, like some suddenly 

gaping pincers ; 
Soft red tongue, and hard thin gums. 
Then close the wedge of your little mountain front, 
Your face, baby tortoise. 

Do you wonder at the world, as slowly you turn your head 

in its wimple 
And look with laconic, black eyes? 
Or is sleep coming over you again. 
The non-life .'' 

You are so hard to wake. 

Are you able to wonder ? 

Or is it just your indomitable will and pride of the first life 


Looking; rouiul 

And slowly pitching itself against the inertia 

Which had seemed invincible ? 

The vast inanimate, 

And the fine brilliance of your so tiny eye, 


Nay, tiny shell-bird, 

What a huge vast inanimate it is, that you must row against, 

What an incalculable inertia. 


Little Ulysses, fore-runner, 
No bigger than my thumb-nail, 
Buon viaggio. 

All animate creation on your shoulder, 

Set forth, little Titan, under your battle-shield. 

The ponderous, preponderate. 

Inanimate universe; 

And you are slowly moving, pioneer, you alone. 

How vivid your travelling seems now, in the troubled sun- 
Stoic, Ulyssean atom ; 
Suddenly hasty, reckless, on high toes. 

Voiceless little bird. 

Resting your head half out of your wimple 

In the slow dignity of your eternal pause. 

Alone, with no sense of being alone, 

And hence six times more solitary ; 

Fulfilled of the slow passion of pitching through immemorial 


Your little round house in the midst of chaos. 

Over the garden earth, 

Small bird, 

Over the edge of all things. 


With your tail tucked a little on one side 

Like a gentleman in a long-skirted coat. 


All life carried on your shoulder, 
Invincible fore-runner. 



The Cross, the Cross 

Goes deeper in than we know, 

Deeper into life ; 

Right into the marrow 

And through the bone. 


Along the back of the baby tortoise 

The scales are locked in an arch like a bridge. 

Scale-lapping, like a lobster's sections 

Or a bee's. 

Then crossways down his sides 
Tiger-stripes and wasp-bands. 

Five, and five again, and five again. 

And round the edges twenty-five little ones. 

The sections of the baby tortoise shell. 

Four, and a keystone ; 
Four, and a keystone ; 
Four, and a keystone ; 
Then twenty-four, and a tiny little keystone. 

It needed Pythagoras to see life playing with counters on the 
living back 

Of the baby tortoise ; 

Life establishing the first eternal mathematical tablet. 

Not in stone, like the .ludean Lord, or bronze, but in life- 
clouded, life-rosy tortoise shell. 


The first little mathematical gentleman 

Stepping, wee mite, in his loose trousers 

Under all the eternal dome of mathematical law. 

Fives, and tens, 

Threes and fours and twelves, 

All the volte face of decimals, 

The whirligig of dozens and the pinnacle of seven. 

Turn him on his back, 

The kicking little beetle, 

And there again, on his shell-tender, earth-touching belly, 

The long cleavage of division, upright of the eternal cross 

And on either side count five. 

On each side, two above, on each side, two below 

The dark bar horizontal. 

The Cross ! 

It goes right through him, the sprottling insect. 
Through his cross-wise cloven psyche, 
Through his five-fold complex-nature. 

So turn him over on his toes again ; 
Four pin-point toes, and a problematical thumb-piece. 
Four rowing limbs, and one wedge-balancing head. 
Four and one makes five, which is the clue to all 

The Lord wrote it all down on the little slate 
Of the baby tortoise. 

Outward and visible indication of the plan within, 
The complex, manifold involvedness of an individual creature 


Plotted out 

On this small bird, this rudiment, 

This little dome, this pediment 

Of all creation. 

This slow one. 

1 2ti 


On he goes, the little one, 
Bud of the universe, 
Pediment of life. 

Setting off somewhere, apparently. 
Whither away, brisk egg ? 

His mother deposited him on the soil as if he were no more 

than droppings. 
And now he scuffles tinily past her as if she were an old 

rusty tin. 

A mere obstacle. 

He veers round the slow great mound of her — 

Tortoises always foresee obstacles. 

It is no use my saying to him in an emotional voice : 
"This is your Mother, she laid you when you were an egg.'' 

He does not even trouble to answer : " Woman, what have I 

to do with thee ?" 
He wearily looks the other way, 
And she even more wearily looks another way still, 
Each with the utmost apathy, 


As for papa, 

He snaps when I Dfl'er him his ofi'sprinj;, 

Just as he snaps when I poke a hit of stick at him, 

Because he is irascible this morning, an irascible tortoise 

Being touched with love, and devoid of fatherliness. 

Father and mother. 

And three little brothers. 

And all rambling aimless, like little perambulating pebbles 

scattered in the garden. 
Not knowing each other from bits of earth or old tins. 

Except that papa and mama are old acquaintances, of course. 
Though family feeling there is none, not even the beginnings. 

Fatherless, motherless, brotherless, sisterless 
Little tortoise. 

Row on then, small pebble, 

Over the clods of the autumn, wind-chilled sunshine, 

Young gaiety. 

Does he look for a companion ? 

No, no, don't think it. 
He doesn't know he is alone ; 
Isolation is his birthright, 
This atom. 

To row forward, and reach himself tall on spiny toes. 
To travel, to burrow into a little loose earth, afraid of the 


To crop a little substance, 

To move, and to be quite sure that he is moving : 

Basta ! 

To be a tortoise ! 

Think of it, in a garden of inert clods 

A brisk, brindled little tortoise, all to himself— 

Croesus ! 

In a garden of pebbles and insects 

To roam, and feel the slow heart beat 

Tortoise-wise, the first bell sounding 

From the warm blood, in the dark-creation morning. 

Moving, and being himself. 

Slow, and unquestioned. 

And inordinately there, O stoic ! 

Wandering in the slow triumph of his own existence, 

Ringing the soundless bell of his presence in chaos. 

And biting the frail grass arrogantly. 

Decidedly arrogantly. 



She is large and matronly 

And rather dirty, 

A little sardonic-looking, as if domesticity had driven her 

to it. 

Though what she does, except lay four eggs at random in 

the garden once a year 
And put up with her husband, 
I don't know. 

She likes to eat. 

She hurries up, striding reared on long uncanny legs, 

When food is going. 

Oh yes, she can make haste when she likes. 

She snaps the soft bread from my hand in great mouth fuls. 

Opening her rather pretty wedge of an iron, pristine face 

Into an enormously wide-beaked mouth 

Like sudden curved scissors. 

And gulping at more than she can swallow, and working 

her thick, soft tongue, 
And having the bread hanging over her chin. 

O Mistress, Mistress, 

Reptile mistress. 

Your eye is very dark, very bright, 

And it never softens 

Although you watch. 


She knows, 

She knows well enough to come for food, 

Yet she sees me not ; 

Her bright eye sees, but not me, not anything, 

Sightful, sightless, seeing and visionless, 

Reptile mistress. 

Taking bread in her curved, gaping, toothless mouth, 

She has no qualm when she catches my finger in her steel 

overlapping gums, 
But she hangs on, and my shout and my shrinking are 

nothing to her. 
She does not even know she is nipping me with her curved 

Snake-like she draws at my finger, while I drag it in horror 


Mistress, reptile mistress. 

You are almost too large, I am almost frightened. 

He is much smaller. 
Dapper beside her. 
And ridiculously small. 

Her laconic eye has an earthy, materialistic look, 
His, poor darling, is almost fiery. 

His wimple, his blunt-prowed face, 

His low forehead, his skinny neck, his long, scaled, striving 

So striving, striving. 
Are all more delicate than she, 
And he has a cruel scar on his shell. 


Poor darlin<j^, biting at her feet, 

Running beside her like a dog, biting her earthy, splay feet, 
Nipping her ankles, 

Which she drags apathetic away, though without retreating 
into her shell. 

Agelessly silent. 

And with a grim, reptile determination. 

Cold, voiceless age-after-age behind him, serpents' long 

Of horizontal persistence. 

Little old man 

Scuffling beside her, bending down, catching his ojiportunity. 

Parting his steel-trap face, so suddenly, and seizing her scaly 

And hanging grimly on. 
Letting go at last as she drags away. 
And closing his steel-trap face. 

His steel-trap, stoic, ageless, handsome face. 
Alas, what a fool he looks in this scuttle. 

And how he feels it ! 

The lonely rambler, the stoic, dignified stalker through 

The immune, the animate. 
Enveloped in isolation. 
Now look at him ! 

Alas, the spear is through the side of his isolation. 
His adolescence saw him crucified into sex, 
I 12[) 

Doomed, in the long crucifixion of desire, to seek his con- 
summation beyond himself. 

Divided into passionate duality, 

He, so finished and immune, now broken into desirous 

Doomed to make an intolerable fool of himself 

In his effort toward completion again. 

Poor little earthy house-inhabiting Osiris, 

The mysterious bull tore him at adolescence into pieces. 

And he must struggle after reconstruction, ignominiously. 

And so behold hiui following the tail 

Of that mud-hovel of his slowly rambling spouse, 

Like some unhappy bull at the tail of a cow, 

But with more than bovine, grim, earth-dank persistence. 

Suddenly seizing the ugly ankle as she stretches out to walk, 
Roaming over the sods, 

Or, if it happen to show, at her pointed, heavy tail 
Beneath the low-dropping back-board of her shell. 

Their two shells like domed boats bumping. 

Hers huge, his small ; 

Their splay feet rambling and rowing like paddles. 

And stumbling mixed up in one another. 

In the race of love — 

Two tortoises. 

She huge, he small. 

She seems earthily apathetic. 
And he has a reptile's awful persistence. 


I heard a woman pitying her, pitying the Mere Tortue. 
While I, I pity Monsieur. 

" He pesters her and torments her," said the woman. 
How much more is he pestered and tormented, say I. 

What can he do } 

He is dumb, he is visionless, 


His black, sad-lidded eye sees but beholds not 

As her earthen mound moves on, 

But he catches the folds of vulnerable, leathery skin, 

Nail-studded, that shake beneath her shell, 

And drags at these with his beak. 

Drags and drags and bites. 

While she pulls herself free, and rows her dull mound along 



Making his advances 

He does not look at her, nor snifF at her, 

No, not even sniff at her, his nose is blank. 

Only he senses the vulnerable folds of skin 

That work beneath her while she sprawls along 

In her ungainly pace, 

Her folds of skin that work and row 

Beneath the earth-soiled hovel in which she moves. 

And so he strains beneath her housey walls 

And catches her trouser-legs in his beak 

Suddenly, or her skinny limb, 

And strange and grimly drags at her 

Like a dog, 

Only agelessly silent, with a reptile's awful persistency 

Grim, gruesome gallantry, to which he is doomed. 

Dragged out of an eternity of silent isolation 

And doomed to partiality, partial being, 

Ache, and want of being. 


Self-exposure, hard humiliation, need to add hintiself on to her 

Born to walk alone, 

Now suddenly distracted into this mazy side-track. 
This awkward, harrowing pursuit. 
This grim necessity from within. 


Does she know 

As she moves eternally slowly away ? 

Or is he driven against her with a l).in<^, like a bird flying in 

the dark against a window, 
All knowledgeless? 

The awful concussion, 

And the still more awful need to persist, to follow, follow, 

Driven, after aeons of pristine, fore -god-like singleness and 

At the end of some mysterious, red-hot iron, 
Driven away from himself into her tracks. 
Forced to crash against her. 

Stiff, gallant, irascible, crook-legged reptile. 

Little gentleman, 

Sorry plight. 

We ought to look the other way. 

Save that, having come with you so far, 
We will go on to the end. 



I THOUGHT he was dumb, 
I said he was dumb, 
Yet I've heard him cry. 

First faint scream, 

Out of Hfe's unfathomable dawn. 

Far off, so far, like a madness, under the horizon's dawning rim, 

Far, far off, far scream. 

Tortoise i?i extremis. 

Why were we crucified into sex ? 

Why were we not left rounded off, and finished in ourselves, 

As we began. 

As he certainly began, so perfectly alone ? 

A far, was-it-audible scream. 

Or did it sound on the plasm direct ? 

Worse than the cry of the new-born, 
A scream, 
A yell, 
A shout, 
A ptean, 
A death-agony, 
A birth-cry, 
A submission. 

All tiny, tiny, far away, reptile under the first dawn. 


War-cry, triumph, acute delight, death-scream reptilian, 

Why was the veil torn ? 

The silken shriek of the soul's torn membrane ? 

The male soul's membrane 

Torn with a sliritk half music, half horror. 


Male tortoise, c leavi ng behind the hovel-wall of that dense 

Mounted and tense, spread-eagle, out-reaching out of the 

In tortoise-nakedness, 
Long neck, and long vulnerable limbs extruded, spread-eagle 

over her house-roof, 
And the deep, secret, all-penetrating tail curved beneath 

lier walls. 
Reaching and gripping tense, more reaching anguish in 

uttermost tension 
Till suddenly, in the spasm of coition, tupping like a jerking 

leap, and oh ! 
Opening its clenched face from his outstretched neck 
And giving that fragile yell, that scream. 

From his pink, cleft, old-man's mouth, 
Giving up the ghost, 
Or screaming in Pentecost, receiving the ghost. 

His scream, and his moment's subsidence. 
The moment of eternal silence. 

Yet unreleased, and after the moment, the sudden, startling 
jerk of coition, and at once 


The inexpressible faint yell — 

And so on, till the last plasm of my body was melted 

To the primeval rudiments of life, and the secret. 

So he tups, and screams 
Time after time that frail, torn scream 
After each jerk, the longish interval, 
The tortoise eternity. 
Age-long, reptilian persistence. 

Heart-throb, slow heart-throb, persistent for the next 

I remember, when I was a boy, 

I heard the scream of a frog, which was caught with his foot 

in the mouth of an up-starting snake ; 
I remember when I first heard bull-frogs break into sound 

in the spring ; 
I remember hearing a wild goose out of the throat of night 
Cry loudly, beyond the lake of waters ; 
I remember the first time, out of a bush in the darkness, 

a nightingale's piercing cries and gurgles startled the 

depths of my soul ; 
I remember the scream of a rabbit as I went through a wood 

at midnight ; 
I remember the heifer in her heat, blorting and blorting 

through the hours, persistent and irrepressible ; 
I remember my first terror hearing the howl of weird, 

amorous cats ; 
I remember the scream of a terrified, injured horse, the 



And runiiiiiij ;iway from the sound of a woman in labour, 

something like an owl whooing, 
And listening inwardly to the first bleat of a lamb, 
Tiie first wail of an infant, 
And my mother singing to herself. 
And the first tenor singing of the passionate throat of a 

young collier, who has long since drunk himself to 

The first elements of foreign speech 
On wild dark lips. 

And more than all these, 
And less than all these. 
This last, 

Strange, faint coition yell 
Of the male tortoise at extremity, 

Tiny from under the very edge of the farthest far-off horizon 
of life. 

The cross. 

The wheel on which our silence first is broken. 

Sex, which breaks up our integrity, our single inviolability, 

our deep silence 
Tearing a cry from us. 

Sex, which breaks us into voice, sets us calling across the 
deeps, calling, calling for the complement. 

Singing, and calling, and singing again, being answered, 
having found. 

Torn, to become whole again, after long seeking for what 
is lost, 


The same cry from the tortoise as from Christ, the Osiris-cry 

of abandonment, 
That which is whole, torn asunder, 
That which is in part, finding its whole again throughout the 





You rutHed black blossom; 
You glossy dark wind. 

Your sort of gorgeousness, 

Dark and lustrous 

And skinny repulsive 

And poppy-glossy, 

Is the gorgeousness that evokes my most puzzled admiration. 

Your aboriginality 
Deep, unexplained, 

Like a Red Indian darkly unfinished and aloof. 
Seems like the black and glossy seeds of countless 

Your wattles are the colour of steel-slag which has been 

And is going cold. 
Cooling to a powdery, pale-oxydised sky-blue. 

Why do you have wattles, and a naked, wattled head }■ 
Why do you arch your naked-set eye with a niore-than- 
comprehensible arrogance ? 

The vulture is bald, so is the condor, obscenely. 

Hut only you have thrown this amazing mantilla of oxydised 

And hot red over you. 


This queer dross shawl of bhie and vermilion. 
Whereas the peacock has a diadem. 

I wonder why. 

Perhaps it is a sort of uncanny decoration, a veil of loose 

Perhaps it is your assertion, in all this ostentation, of raw 

Your wattles drip down like a shawl to your breast 

And the point of your mantilla drops across your nose, un- 

Or perhaps it is something unfinished 

A bit of slag still adhering, after your firing in the furnace 
of creation. 

Or perhaps there is something in your wattles of a bull's 

Which slips down like a pendulum to balance the throbbing 

mass of a generous breast. 

The over-drip of a great passion hanging in the balance. 
Only yours would be a raw, unsmelted passion, that will not 
quite fuse from the dross. 

You contract yourself, 
You arch yourself as an archer's bow 
Which quivers indrawn as you clench your spine 
Until your veiled head almost touches backward 
To the root-rising of your erected tail. 
And one intense and backward-curving frisson 
Seizes you as you clench yourself together 
Like some fierce magnet bringing its poles together. 


Biiriiinjj, pale positive pole of your wattled head I 
And from the darkness of that opposite one 
Tlie upstart of your round-barred, sun-round tail I 

Whilst between the two, along the tense arch of your 

Hlows the magnetic current in fierce blasts, 
Ruffling black, shining feathers like lifted mail. 
Shuddering storm wind, or a water rushing through. 

Your brittle, super-sensual arrogance 

Tosses the crape of red across your brow and down your 

As you draw yourself upon yourself in insistence. 

It is a declaration of such tension in will 

As time has not dared to avouch, nor eternity been able to 

Do what it may. 
A raw American will, that has never been tempered by 

You brittle, will-tense bird with a foolish eye. 

The peacock lifts his rods of bronze 

And struts blue-brilliant out of the far East. 

Rut watch a turkey prancing low on earth 

Drumming his vaulted wings, as savages drum 

Their rhythms on long-drawn, hollow, sinister drums. 

The ponderous, sombre sound of the great drum of Huichi- 

In pyramid Mexico, during sacrifice. 


Drum, and the turkey onrush 

Sudden, demonic dauntlessness, full abreast, 

All the bronze gloss of all his myriad petals 

Each one apart and instant. 

Delicate frail crescent of the gentle outline of white 

At each feather-tip 

So delicate ; 

Yet the bronze wind-well suddenly clashing 

And the eye over-weening into madness. 

Turkey-cock, turkey-cock 

Are you the bird of the next dawn ? 

Has the peacock had his day, does he call in vain, screecher, 

for the sun to rise .'' 
The eagle, the dove, and the barnyard rooster, do they call 

in vain, trying to wake the morrow .'' 
And do you await us, wattled father. Westward ? 
Will your yell do it ? 

Take up the trail of the vanished American 
Where it disappeared at the foot of the crucifix. 
Take up the primordial Indian obstinacy. 
The more than human, dense insistence of will. 
And disdain, and blankness, and onrush, and prise open the 
new day with them .'' 

The East a dead letter, and Europe moribund. ... Is that so.'' 
And those sombre, dead, feather-lustrous Aztecs, Amer- 
In all the sinister splendour of their red blood sacrifices, 


Do they stand uiukr the dawn, lialf-godly, half-demon, 
awaiting the cry of the turkey-cock ? 

Or must you go through the fire once more, till you're 

smelted pure, 
Slag-wattled turkey-cock, 
Dross-jabot ? 




I CAN imagine, in some otherworld 

Primeval-dumb, far back 

In that most awful stillness, that only gasped and hummed, 

Humming-birds raced down the avenues. 

Before anything had a soul, 

While life was a heave of Matter, half inanimate. 

This little bit chipped off in brilliance 

And went whizzing through the slow, vast, succulent stems. 

I believe there were no flowers, then 

In the world where the humming-bird flashed ahead of 

I believe he pierced the slow vegetable veins with his long 


Probably he was big 

As mosses, and little lizards, they say were once big. 

Probably he was a jabbing, terrifying monster. 

We look at him through the wrong end of the long telescope 

of Time, 
Luckily for us. 





Towards the sun, towards the south-west 

A scorched^ breast. '^ 

A scorched breast,^ breasting the sun like an answer, 1' 

Like a retort. 

An eagle at the top of a low cedar-bush 

On the sage-ash desert 

Reflectini; the scorch of the sun from his breast ; 

Eagle, with the sickle dripping darkly above. 

Erect, ^corched-pallid out of the hair of the cedar. 

Erect, with the god-thrust entering him from below. 

Eagle gloved in feathers 

In scorched v.hite feathers 

In burnt dark feathers 

In feathers still fire-rusted ; 

Sickle-overswept, sickle dripping over and above. 


Staring two ways at once, Lo right and left ; 

With iron between your two eyes ; 
You feather-gloved 
To the feet ; 
Foot-fierce ; 
Erect one ; 

The god-thrust entering you steadily from below. 


You never look at the sun with your two eyes. 
Only the inner eye of your scorched broad breast J 
Looks straight at the sun. 

You are dark 

Except scorch-pale-breasted ; 

And dark cleaves down and weapon-hard downward curving 

At your scorched breast, 

Like a sword of Damoclesj 

Beaked eagle. 

You've dipped it in blood so many times 
That dark face-weapon, to temper it well, 
Blood-thirsty bird. 

Why do you front the sun so obstinately, 
American eagle ? 

As if you ow^ed him an old^ old grudge, great sun : or an ^ d, 
old allegiance. 

When you pick the red sm.oky heart from a rabbit or a light- 
blooded bird 

Do you lift it to the sun, as the Aztec priests used to lift 
red hearts of men ? 

Does the sun need steam of blood do you think 
In America, still, 
Old eagle .'' 

Does the sun in New Mexico sail like a fiery bird of prey in 

the sky 
Hovering ? 


Does he shriek for blood? 

Does he fan great wings above the prairie, like a hovering, 
blood-thirsty bird ? 

And are you his priest, big eagle 

Whom the Indians aspire to? 

Is there a bond of bloodshed between you ? 

Is your continent cold from the ice-age still, that the sun is 

so angry ? 
Is the blood of your continent somewhat reptilian still. 
That the sun should be greedy for it ? 

I don't yield to you, big, jowl-faced eagle. c#s4-VJ*>^gl»*- 
Nor you nor your blood-thirsty sun 
That sucks up blood 
Leaving a nervous people. 

Fly off, big bird with a big black back. 

Fly slowly away, with a rust of fire in your tail. 

Dark as you are on your dark side, eagle of heaven. 

Even the ^Siin in heaven can be curbed and chastened at last 

By the life in the hearts of men. 

And you, great bird, sun-starer, heavy black beak 

Can be put out of office as sacrifice bringer. 




The blue jay with a crest on his head 
Comes round the cabin in the snow. 
He runs in the snow like a bit of blue metal. 
Turning his back on everything. 

From the pine-tree that towers and hisses like a pillar of 

shaggy cloud 
Immense above the cabin 
Comes a strident laugh as we approach, this little black dog 

and I. 
So halts the little black bitch on four spread paws in the snow 
And looks up inquiringly into the pillar of cloud. 
With a tinge of misgiving. 
Ca-a-a ! comes the scrape of ridicule out of the tree. 

Wluit voice of the Lord is that, from tlie tree of smoke ? 

Oh Bibbles, little black bitch in the snow, 

With a pinch of snow in the groove of your silly snub nose. 

What do you look at me for } 

What do you look at me for, with such misgiving } 

It's the blue jay laughing at us. 
It's the blue jay jeering at us. Bibs. 

Every day since the snow is here 

The blue jay paces round the cabin, very busy, picking up 


Turning his back on us all, 

And bobbini; his thick dark crest about the snow, as if 

darkly saying : 
/ ignore those folk who look out. 

You acid-blue metallic bird, 

You thick bird with a strong crest 

Who are you ? 

Whose boss are you, with all your bully way ? 

You copper-sulphate blue-bird! 





The long-drawn bray of the ass 
In the Sicilian twilight — 

All marcs arc dead ! 

All marcs are dead ! 

Oh-h ! 

Oh-h-h ! 

Oh-h-h-h-k—h I. ! 

I cant bear it, I can't hear it, 

I cant ! 

Ok, 1 cant ! 


There's unc left ! 

There's one left ! 

One ! 

There's one . . . left. . . . 

So ending on a grunt of agonised relief. 

This is the authentic Arabic interpretation of the braying 

of the ass. 
And Arabs should know. 

And yet, as his brass-resonant howling yell resounds 

through the Sicilian twilight 
I am not sure — 

His big, furry head. 
His big, regretful eyes, 


His diminished, drooping hindquarters, 
His small toes. 

Such a dear ! 

Such an ass ! 

With such a knot inside him ! 

He regrets something that he remembers. 

That's obvious. 

The Steppes of Tartary, 

And the wind in his teeth for a bit. 

And noli me tangere. 

Ah then, when he tore the wind with his teeth, 
And trod wolves underfoot. 

And over-rode his mares as if he were savagely leaping an 
obstacle, to set his teeth in the sun. . . . 

Somehow, alas, he fell in love, 
And was sold into slavery. 

He fell into the rut of love. 

Poor ass, like man, always in a rut, 

The pair of them alike in that. 

All his soul in his gallant member 

And his head gone heavy with the knowledge of desire 

And humiliation. 

The ass was the first of all animals to fall finally into love, 
From obstacle-leaping pride, 
Mare obstacle, 

Into love, mare-goal, and the knowledge of love. 


Hence Jesus rode him in the Triuniph.inl Entry. 

Hence his beautiful eyes. 

Hence his ponderous head, brooding over desire, and down- 
fall, Jesus, and a pack-saddle, 

Hence he uncovers his big ass-teeth and howls in that agony 
that is half- insatiable desire and half- unquenchable 

Hence the black cross on his shoulders. 

I'he Arabs were only half right, though they hinted the 

whole ; 
Everlasting lament in everlasting desire. 

See him standing with his head down, near the Porta 

Somaro ; 
With the half-veiled, beautiful eyes, and the pensive face 

not asleep, 
Motionless, like a bit of rock. 

Has he seen the Gorgon's head, and turned to stone .'' 

Alas, Love did it. 

Now he's a jackass, a pack-ass, a donkey, somaro, burro, 

with a boss piling loads on his back. 
Tied by the nose at the Porta Cappuccini. 
And tied in a knot, inside, dead-licked between two 

desires : 
To overleap like a male all mares as obstacles 
In a leap at the sun ; 


And to leap in one last heart-bursting leap like a male at 

the goal of a mare, 
And there end. 
Well, you can't have it both roads. 

Hee! Heef Ehee I Ehotv ! Khaw ! ! Oh! Oh J Oh-h-h ! ! 

The wave of agony bursts in the stone that he was. 

Bares his long ass's teeth, flattens his long ass's ears, 

straightens his donkey neck. 
And howls his pandemonium on the indignant aii". 

Yes, it's a quandary. 

Jesus rode on him, the first burden on the first beast of 

Love on a submissive ass. 
So the tale began. 

But the ass never forgets. 

The horse, being nothing but a nag, will forget. 

And men, being mostly geldings and knacker-boned hacks, 

have almost all forgot. 
But the ass is a primal creature, and never forgets. 

The Steppes of Tartary, 

And Jesus on a meek ass-colt : mares : Mary escaping to 
Egypt : Joseph's cudgel. 

Hee ! Hee ! Ehee 1 Ehow—oiv-l-ow !-aw I-aw 1-aw ! 
All mares are dead ! 


Or vise I mil (lead / 

Otic of Its, or the pair of us, 

I don't knoH'—ow !—oiv ! 

Which / 

A'o/ surc-itrc-urc 

Quite which / 

Which I 





See his black nose snubbed back, pressed over like a whale's 

As if his nostrils were going to curve back to the root of 

his tail. 

As he charges slow among the herd 

And rows among the females like a ship pertinaciously, 

Heavy with a rancid cargo, through the lesser ships — 

Old father 

Sniffing forever ahead of him, at the rear of the goats, that 

they lift the little door, 
And rowing on, unarrived, no matter how often he enter : 
Like a big ship pushing her bowsprit over the little ships 
Then swerving and steering afresh 
And never, never arriving at journey's end, at the rear of the 

female ships. 

Yellow eyes incomprehensible with thin slits 
To round-eyed us. 

Yet if you had whorled horns of bronze in a frontal dark wall 
At the end of a back-bone ridge, like a straight sierra 

And nerves urging forward to the wall, you'd have eyes like 

Especially if, being given a needle's eye of egress elsewhere 
You tried to look back to it, and couldn't. 


Sometimes he turns with a start, to fight, to challenge, to 

suddenly butt. 
And then you see the God that he is, in a cloud of black 

And storm-lightning-slitted eye. 
Splendidly planting his feet, one rocky foot striking the 

ground with a sudden rock-hammer announcement. 

/ am here ! 

And suddenly lowering his head, the whorls of bone and of 

Slowly revolving towards unexploded explosion, 
As from the stem of his bristling, lightning-conductor 

In a rush up the shrieking duct of his vertebi*al way 
Runs a rage drawn in from the other divinely through 

Towards a shock and a crash and a smiting of horns 


That is a grand old lust of his, to gather the great 
Rage of the sullen-stagnating utmosj)here of goats 
And bring it hurtling to a head, with crash of horns against 

the horns 
Of the opposite enemy goat, 
Thus hammering the mettle of goats into proof, and smiting 

The godhead of goats from the shock. 
Things of iron are beaten on the anvil. 
And he-goat is anvil to he-goat, and hammer to he-goat 
In the business of beating the mettle of goats to a god- 

L 161 

But they've taken his enemy from him 

And left him only his libidinousness, 

His nostrils turning back, to sniff at even himself 

And his slitted eyes seeking the needle's eye, 

His own, unthreaded, forever. 

So it is, when they take the enemy from us, 
And we can't fight. 

He is not fatherly, like the bull, massive Providence of hot 

blood ; 
The goat is an egoist, aware of himself, devilish aware of 

And full of malice prepense, and overweening, determined 

to stand on the highest peak 
Like the devil, and look on the world as his own. 

And as for love : 

With a needle of long red flint he stabs in the dark 

At the living rock he is up against ; 

While she with her goaty mouth stands smiling the while as 

he strikes, since sure 
He will never quite strike home, on the target-quick, for her 

Is just beyond range of the arrow he shoots 
From his leap at the zenith in her, so it falls just short of the 

mark, far enough. 
It is over before it is finished. 
She, smiling with goaty munch-mouth, Mona Lisa, arranges 

it so. 


Orgasm after off^asm after orgasm 

And he smells so rank and his nose ^oes l)ack, 

And never an enemy brow-metalled to thresh it out with in 

the open field ; 
Never a mountain peak, to be king of the castle. 
Only those eternal females to overleap and surpass, and 

never succeed. 

The involved voluptuousness of the soft-footed cat 
Who is like a fur folding a fur, 
The cat who laps blood, and knows 

The soft welling of blood invincible even beyond bone or 
metal of bone. • 

The soft, the secret, the unfathomable blood 
The cat has lapped 

And known it subtler than frisson-shaken nerves. 
Stronger than multiplicity of bone on bone 
And darker than even the arrows of violentest will 
Can pierce, for that is where will gives out, like a sinking 
stone that can sink no further. 

But he-goat, 

Black procreant male of the selfish will and libidinous desire, 

God in black cloud with curving horns of bronze. 

Find an enemy. Egoist, and clash the cymbals in face-to-face 

And let the lightning out of your smothered dusk. 

Forget the female herd for a bit, 
And fight to be boss of the world. 

163 , 

Fight, old Satan with a selfish will, fight for your selfish will ; 
Fight to be the devil on the tip of the peak 
Overlooking the world for his own. 


But bah, how can he, poor domesticated beast I 




Goats go past the back of tl»e house like dry leaves in the 

And up the hill like a river, if you watch. 

At dusk they patter back like a bough being dragged on the 

Raising dusk and acridity of goats, and bleating. 

Our old goat we tie up at night in the shed at the back of 

the broken Greek tomb in the garden, 
And when the herd goes by at dawn she begins to bleat for 

me to come down and untie her. 

Merr-err-err ! Mcrr-er-errr ! Mer I Me ! 

Wail, wail a hit, I'll come when I've III Ihejire. 

Merrr ! 


Me! Mer! MerrrrrrrH! 

Tacc, III, crapa, heslia ! 

Merr-ererrr-ererrrr ! MerriT ! 

She is such an alert listener, with her ears wide, to know 

am I coming I 
Such a canny listener, from a distance, looking upwards, 

lending first one ear, then another. 

There she is, perched on her manger, looking over the 

boards into the day 
Like a belle at her window. 

1 fi.O 

And immediately slie sees me she blinks, stares, doesn't 
know me, turns her head and ignores me vulgarly with 
a wooden blank on her face. 

What do I care for her, the ugly female, standing up there 
with her long tangled sides like an old rug thrown 
over a fence. 

But she puts her nose down shrewdly enough when the knot 
is untied. 

And jumps staccato to earth, a sharp, dry jump, still ignor- 
ing me, 

Pretending to look round the stall. 

Come on, you, crapa ! I'm not your servant ! 

She turns her head away with an obtuse, female sort of 
deafness, bete. 

And then invariably she crouches her rear and makes 

That being her way of answer, if I speak to her. — Self- 
conscious ! 

he bestie non parlano, poverine 1 

She was bought at Giardini fair, on the sands, for six 
hundred lire. 

An obstinate old witch, almost jerking the rope from my 
hands to eat the acanthus, or bite at the almond buds, 
and make me wait. 

Yet the moment I hate her she trips mild and smug like a 
woman going to mass. 

The moment I really detest her. 


Queer it is, suddenly, in the garden 

To catch sight of her standing like some huge, ghoulish 

grey bird in the air, on the bough of the leaning 

Straight as a board on the bough, looking down like 

some hairy horrid God the Father in a William Blake 

Come dotru, crapa, out of tliat almond tree / 

Instead of which she strangely rears on her perch in the 

air, vast beast. 
And strangely paws the air, delicate. 

And reaches her black-striped face up like a snake, far up. 
Subtly, to the twigs overhead, far up, vast beast. 
And snaps them sharp, with a little twist of her anaconda 

head ; 
All her great hairy-shaggy belly open against the morning. 

At seasons she curls back her tail like a green leaf in the fire, 

Or like a lifted hand, hailing at her wrong end. 

And having exposed the pink place of her nakedness, fixedly. 

She trots on blithe toes. 

And if you look at her, she looks back with a cold, sardonic 

Sardonic, sardonyx, rock of cold fire. 
See me ? She says, Thai's me I 

That's her. 

Then she leaps the rocks like a quick rock. 
Her back-bone sharp as a rock, 
Sheer will. 


Along which ridge of libidinous magnetism 

Defiant, curling the leaf of her tail as if she were curling 

her lip behind her at all life. 
Libidinous desire runs back and forth, asserting itself in that 

little lifted bare hand. 

Yet she has such adorable sjiurty kids, like spurts of black 

And in a month again is as if she had never had them. 

And when the billy goat mounts her 
She is brittle as brimstone. 

While his slitted eyes squint back to the roots of his ears. 




Yoy -go down shade to the river, where naked men sit on 

flat brown rocks, to watch the ferry, in the sun ; 
And you cross the ferry with the naked people, go up the 

tropical lane 
Through the palm-trees and past hollow paddy-fields where 

naked men are threshing rice 
And the monolithic water-buffaloes, like old, muddy stones 

with hair on them, are being idle ; 
And through the shadow of bread-fruit trees, with their dark 

green, glossy, fanged leaves 
Very handsome, and some pure yellow fanged leaves ; 
Out into the open, where the path runs on the top of a dyke 

between paddy-fields : 
And there, of course, you meet a huge and mud-grey 

elephant advancing his frontal bone, his trunk curled 

round a log of wood : 
So you step down the bank, to make way. 

Shuffle, shuffle, and his little wicked eye has seen you as he 

advances above you. 
The slow beast curiously spreading his round feet for the 

And the slim naked man slips down, and the beast deposits 

the lump of wood, carefully. 
The keeper hooks the vast knee, the creature salaams. 

White man, you are saluted. 
Pay a few cents. 


But the best is the Pera-hera^ at midnight, under the tropical 

With a pale little wisp of a Prince of Wales, diffident, up in 

a small pagoda on the temple side 
And white people in evening dress buzzing and crowding the 

stand upon the grass below and opposite : 
And at last the Pera-hera procession, flambeaux aloft in the 

tropical night, of blazing cocoa-nut, 
Naked dark men beneath. 
And the huge frontal of three great elephants stepping forth 

to the tom-tom's beat, in the torch-light. 
Slowly sailing in gorgeous apparel through the flame-light, 

in front of a towering, grimacing white image of wood. 

The elephant bells striking slow, tong-tong, tong-tong. 

To music and queer chanting : 

Enormous shadow-processions filing on in the flare of fire 

In the fume of cocoa-nut oil, in the sweating tropical night, 

In the noise of the tom-toms and singers ; 

Elephants after elephants curl their trunks, vast shadows, 

and some cry out 
As they approach and salaam, under the dripping fire of the 

That pale fragment of a Prince up there, whose motto is 

Ich dien. 

Pale, dispirited Prince, with his chin on his hands, his nerves 

tired out. 
Watching and hardly seeing the trunk-curl approach and 

clumsy, knee-lifting salaam 
Of the hugest, oldest of beasts in the night and the fire-flare 



He is royalty, pale and dejected fragment up aloft. 
And down below huge homage of shadowy beasts ; bare- 
foot and trunk lipped in the night. 

Chieftiiins, three of them abreast, on foot 

Strut like peg-tops, wound around with hundreds of yards 

of fine linen. 
They glimmer with tissue of gold, and golden threads on a 

jacket of velvet, 
And their faces are dark, and fat, and important. 

They are royalty, dark-faced royalty, showing the conscious 

whites of their eyes 
And stepping in homage, stubborn, to that nervous pale lad 

up there. 

More elephants, tong, tong-tong, loom up. 

Huge, more tassels swinging, more dripping fire of new 

cocoa-nut cressets 
High, high flambeaux, smoking of the east ; 
And scarlet hot embers of torches knocked out of the sockets 

among bare feet of elephants and men on the path in 

the dark. 
And devil dancers luminous with sweat, dancing on to the 

shudder of drums. 
Tom-toms, weird music of the devil, voices of men from the 

jungle singing; 
I Endless, under the Prince. 

Towards the tail of the everlasting procession 

In the long hot night, mere dancers from insignificant 

And smaller, more frightened elephants. 


Men-peasants from jungle villages dancing and running with 

sweat and laughing, 
Naked dark men with ornaments on, on their naked arms 

and their naked breasts, the grooved loins 
Gleaming like with running sweat as they suddenly 

turn, feet apart, 
And dance, and dance, forever dance, with breath half 

sobbing in dark, sweat-shining breasts, 
And lustrous great tropical eyes unveiled now, gleaming a 

kind of laugh, 
A naked, gleaming dark laugh, like a secret out in the dark. 
And flare of a tropical energy, tireless, afire in the dark, slim 

limbs and breasts. 
Perpetual, fii-e-laughing motion, among the slow shuffle 
Of elephants. 
The hot dark blood of itself a-laughing, wet, half-devilish, 

men all motion 
Approaching under that small pavilion, and tro|)ical eyes 

dilated look up 
Inevitably look up 
To the Prince 

To that tired remnant of royalty up there 
Whose motto is Ich dien. 

As if the homage of the kindled blood of the east 

Went up in wavelets to him, from the breasts and eyes of 

jungle torch-men, 
And he couldn't take it. 

What would they do, those jungle men running with sweat, 

with the strange dark laugh in their eyes, glancing up, 
And the sparse-haired elephants slowly following, 


If tlicy knew his motto was Ich dicn} 
And that he meant it. 

They begin to understand 

The rickshaw boys begin to understand 

And then the devil comes into their faces, 

But a different sort, a cold, rebellious, jeering devil. 

In elephants and the east are two devils, in all men maybe. 
The mystery of the dark mountain of blood, reeking in 

homage, in lust, in rage. 
And passive with everlasting patience. 
Then the little, cunning pig-devil of the elephant's lurking 

eyes, the unbeliever. 

We dodged, when the Pera-hera was finished, under the 

hanging, hairy pigs' tails 
And the flat, flaccid mountains of the elephants' standing 

Vast-blooded beasts. 
Myself so little dodging rather scared against the eternal 

wrinkled pillars of their legs, as they were being dis- 
mantled ; 
Then I knew they were dejected, having come to hear the 

Royal summons : Dient Ilir ! 
Serve ! 
Serve, vast mountainous hlood, in submission and splendour, serve 

Instead of which, the silent, fatal emission from that pale, 

shattered boy up there : 
Icli dial. 


That's why the night fell in frustration. 

That's why, as the elephants ponderously, with unseeming 

swiftness, galloped uphill in the night, going back to 

the jungle villages, 
As the elephant bells sounded tong-tong-tong, bell of the 

temple of blood in the night, swift-striking, 
And the crowd like a field of rice in the dark gave way like 

liquid to the dark 
Looming gallop of the beasts. 
It was as if the great bare bulks of elephants in the obscure 

light went over the hill-brow swiftly, with their tails 

between their legs, in haste to get away, 
Their bells sounding frustrate and sinister. 

And all the dark-faced, cotton-wrapped people, more 

numerous and whispering than grains of rice in a rice- 
; field at night, 

! All the dark-faced, cotton-wrapped people, a countless host 

on the shores of the lake, like thick wild rice by the 

water's edge, 
Waiting for the fireworks of the after-show, 
As the rockets went up, and the glare passed over countless 

faces, dark as black rice growing. 
Showing a glint of teeth, and glancing tropical eyes aroused 

in the night. 
There was the faintest twist of mockery in every face, across 

the hiss of wonders as the rocket burst 
High, high up, in flakes, shimmering flakes of blue fire, 

above the palm-trees of the islet in the lake, 
O faces upturned to the glare, O tropical wonder, wonder, 

a miracle in heaven ! 


And the shadow of a jeer, of underneath disappointment, as 
the rocket-coruscation died, and shadow was the same 
as before. 

They were foiled, the myriad whispering dark-faced cotton- 
wrapped people. 

They had come to see royalty. 

To bow before royalty, in the land of elephants, bow deep, 
bow deep. 

Bow deep, for it's good us a draught of cool water to bow 
very, very low to the royal. 

And all there was to bow to, a weary, diffident boy whose 

motto is Ich dien. 
I serve ! I serve ! in all the weary iron of his mien — ' Tis I who 

serve ! 
Drudge to the public. 

I wish they had given the three feathers to me ; 

That I had been he in the pavilion, as in a pepper-box aloft 

and alone 
To stand and hold feathers, three feathers above the world. 
And say to them : Dient Ihr ! Dient / 
Omnes, vos omnes, servile. 
Serve me, I am meet to be served. 
Being royal of the gods. 

And to the elephants: 

First great beasts of the earth 

A prince has come back to you, 


Crook the knee and be glad. 




In the northern hemisphere 

Life seems to leap at the air, or skim under the wind 
Like stags on rocky ground, or pawing horses, or springy 
scut-tailed rabbits. 

Or else rush horizontal to charge at the sky's horizon, 
Like bulls or bisons or wild pigs. 

Or slip like water slippery towards its ends, 
As foxes, stoats, and wolves, and prairie dogs. 

Only mice, and moles, and rats, and badgers, and beavers, 

and perhaps bears 
Seem belly-plumbed to the earth's mid-navel. 
Or frogs that when they leap come flop, and flop to the 

centre of the earth. 

But the yellow antipodal Kangaroo, when she sits up. 
Who can unseat her, like a liquid drop that is heavy, and 
just touches earth. 

The downward drip. 

The down-urge. 

So much denser than cold-blooded frogs. 

Delicate mother Kangaroo 

Sitting up there rabbit-wise, but huge, plumb-weighted, 


And lifting her beautiful slender face, oh I so much more 
fjently and finely lined than a rabbit's, or than a hare's. 

Lifting her face to nibble at a round white peppermint drop, 
which she loves, sensitive mother Kangaroo. 

Her sensitive, long, pure-bred face. 
Her full antipodal eyes, so dark. 

So big and quiet and remote, having watched so many empty 
dawns in silent Australia. 

Her little loose hands, and drooping Victorian shoulders. 
And then her great weight below the waist, her vast pale belly 
With a thin young yellow little paw hanging out, and 

straggle of a long thin ear, like ribbon, 
Like a funny trimming to the middle of her belly, thin little 

dangle of an immature paw, and one thin ear. 

Her belly, her big haunches 

And in addition, the great muscular python-stretch of 
her tail. 

There, she shan't have any more peppermint drops. 
So she wistfully, sensitively sniffs the air, and then turns, 
goes off in slow sad leaps 

On the long flat skis of her legs. 

Steered and propelled by that steel-strong snake of a tail. 

Stops again, half turns, inquisitive to look back. 

While something stirs quickly in her belly, and a lean little 

face comes out, as from a window, 
Peaked and a bit dismayed, 

M 177 

Only to disappear again quickly away from the sight of the 

world, to snuggle down in the warmth, 
Leaving the trail of a different paw hanging out. 

Still she watches with eternal, cocked wistfulness ! 

How full her eyes are, like the full, ftithomless, shining eyes 

of an Australian black-boy 
Who has been lost so many centuries on the margins of 

existence ! 

She watches with insatiable wistfulness. 
Untold centuries of watching for something to come, 
For a new signal from life, in that silent lost land of the 

Where nothing bites but insects and snakes and the sun, 

small life. 
Where no bull roared, no cow ever lowed, no stag cried, no 

leopard screeched, no lion coughed, no dog barked. 
But all was silent save for parrots occasionally, in the 

haunted blue bush. 

Wistfully watching, with wonderful liquid eyes. 

And all her weight, all her blood, dripping sack-wise down 

towards the earth's centre, 
And the live little one taking in its paw at the door of her 


Leap then, and come down on the line that draws to the 
earth's deep, heavy centre. 





Little black dog in New Mexico, 

Little black snub-nosed bitch with a shoved-out jaw 

And a wrinkled reproachful look ; 

Little black female pup, sort of French bull, they say. 

With bits of brindle coming through, like rust, to show 

you're not jnire ; 
Not pure, Bibbles, 
Bubsey, bat-eared dog ; 
Not black enough ! 


First live thing Lve "owned" since the lop-eared rabbits 
when I was a lad. 

And those over-prolific white mice, and Adolf, and Rex 
whom I didn't own. 

And even now, Bibbles, little Ma'am, it's you who appro- 
priated me, not I you. 

As Benjamin Franklin appropriated Providence to his 

Oh Bibbles, black little bitch 

I'd never have let you appropriate me, had I known. 

I never dreamed, till now, of the awful time the Lord must 

have, "owning" humanity. 
Especially democratic live-by-love humanity. 

Oh Bibbles, oh Pips, oh I'ipsey 
You little black love-bird ! 


Don't you love everybody ! 

Just everybody. 

You love 'em all. 

Believe in the One Identity, don't you, 

You little Walt-Whitmanesque bitch .'' 

First time I lost you in Taos plaza, 

And found you after endless chasing, 

Came upon you prancing round the corner in exuberant, 

bibbling affection 
After the black-green skirts of a yellow-green old Mexican 

Who hated you, and kept looking round at you and cui'sing 

you in a mutter. 
While you pranced and bounced with love of her, you 

indisci'iminating animal. 
All your wrinkled miserere Chinese black little face 

And your black little body bouncing and wriggling 
With indiscriminate love, Bibbles ; 
I had a moment's pure detestation of you. 

As I rushed like an idiot round the coi'ner after you 
Yelling: Pips/ Pips! Bibbles/ 

I've had moments of hatred of you since. 

Loving everybody ! 

" To you, whoever you are, with endless embrace ! " — 

That's you, Pipsey, 

With your imbecile bit of a tail in a love-flutter. 

You omnipip. 


Not tliat you're merely a softy, oh dear me no. 

You know which side your bread is buttered. 

You don't care a rap for anybody. 

But you love lying warm between warm human thighs, 

And you love to make somebody love you, indiscriminate, 
You love to lap up affection, to wallow in it, 
And tlien turn tail to the next comer, for a new dollop. 

And start prancing and licking and cuddling again, indis- 

Oh yes, I know your little game. 

Yet you're so nice. 

So quick, like a little black dragon. 

So fierce, when the coyotes howl, barking like a whole 

little lion, and rumbling. 
And starting forward in the dusk, with your little black fur 

all bristling like plush 
Against those coyotes, who would swallow you like an oyster. 

And in the morning, when the bedroom door is opened. 
Rushing in like a little black whirlwind, leaping straight as 

an arrow on the bed at the pillow 
And turning the day suddenly into a l)lack tornado of 

joie de vivre, Chinese dragon. 

So funny 

Lobbing wildly through deep snow like a rabbit, 
Hurtling like a black ball through the snow, 
Champing it, tossing a mouthful, 
Little black spot in the landscape! 


So absurd 

Pelting behind on the dusty trail when the horse sets off 

home at a gallop : 
Left in the dust behind like a dust-ball tearing along 
Coming up on fierce little legs, tearing fast to catch up, a 

real little dust-pig, ears almost blown away, 
And black eyes bulging bright in a dust-mask 
Chinese-dragon-wrinkled, with a pink mouth grinning, under 

jaw shoved out 
And white teeth showing in your dragon-grin as you race, 

you split-face. 
Like a trundling projectile swiftly whirling up, 
Cocking your eyes at me as you come alongside, to see if 

I'm I on the horse, 
And panting with that split grin, 
All your game little body dust-smooth like a little pig, 

poor Pips. 

Plenty of game old spirit in you, Bibbles. 
Plenty of game old spunk, little bitch. 

How you hate being brushed with the boot-brush, to brush 

all that dust out of your wrinkled face. 
Don't you .'' 

How you hate being made to look undignified. Ma'am ; 
How you hate being laughed at. Miss Superb ! 

Blackberry face ! 

Plenty of conceit in you. 
Unblemished belief in your own perfection 


And utter lovableness, you ugly-mug; 

Chinese puzzle- face, 

Wrinkled underhung physiog that looks as if it had done 

with everything, 
Through with everything. 

Instead of which you sit there and roll your head like a 

And show a tiny bunch of white teeth in your underhung 

Self-conscious little bitch, 
Aiming again at being loved. 

Let the merest scallywag come to the door and you leap 

your very dearest-love at him. 
As if now, at last, here was the one you finally loved. 
Finally loved ; 

And even the dirtiest scallywag is taken in. 
Thinking : This dog sure has taken a fanci/ to me. 

You miserable little bitch of love-tricks, 
I know your game. 

Me or the Mexican who comes to chop wood 

All the same, 

All humanity is jam to you. 


Everybody so dear, and yourself so ultra-beloved 
That you have to run out at last and eat filth. 
Gobble up filth, you horror, swallow utter abomination and 
fresh-dropped d ung. 


You stinker. 

You worse than a carrion-crow. 

Reeking dung-mouth. 

You love-bird. 

Reject nothing, sings Walt Whitman. 

So you, you go out at last and eat the unmentionable. 

In your appetite for affection. 

And then you run in to vomit it in my house ! 

I get my love back. 

And I have to clean up after you, filth which even blind 

Nature rejects 
From the pit of your stomach ; 
But you, you snout-face, you reject nothing, you merge so 

much in love 
You must eat even that. 

Then when I dust you a bit with a juniper twig 

You run straight away to live with somebody else, 

Fawn before them, and love them as if they were the ones 

you had realh) loved all along. 
And they're taken in. 
They feel quite tender over you, till you play the same trick 

on them, dirty bitch. 

Fidelity ! Loyalty ! Attachment ! 
Oh, these are abstractions to your nasty little belly. 
You must always be a-waggle with LOVE. 
Such a waggle of love you can hardly distinguish one human 
from another. 


Vou love one after another, on one condition, that each 

one loves you most. 
Democratic little bull-bitch, dirt-eating little swine. 

But now, my lass, you've got your Nemesis on your track. 
Now you've come sex-alive, and the great ranch-dogs are all 

after you. 
They're after what they can get, and don't you turn tail ! 
You loved 'em all so much before, didn't you, loved 'em 

You don't love 'em now. 
They want something of you, so you squeak and come 

pelting indoors. 

Come pelting to me, now the other folk have found you out, 

and the dogs are after you. 
Oh yes, you're found out. I heard them kick you out of the 

ranch house. 
Get out, you little, soft fool ! ! 

And didn't you turn your eyes up at me then .'' 
And didn't you cringe on the floor like any inkspot ! 
And crawl away like a black snail ! 
And doesn't everybody loathe you then ! 

And aren't your feelings violated, you high bred little love- 
bitch ! 

For you're sensitive, 
In many ways very finely bred. 
But bred in conceit that the world is all for love 
Of you, my bitch : till you get so far you eat filth. 
Fool, in spite of your pretty ways, and quaint, know all, 
wrinkled old aunty's face. 


So now, what with great Airedale dogs, 

And a kick or two, 

And a few vomiting bouts, 

And a juniper switch. 

You look at me for discrimination, don't you ? 

Look up at me with misgiving in your bulging eyes. 

And fear in the smoky whites of your eyes, you nigger ; 

And you're puzzled, 

You think you'd better mind your P's and Q's for a bit. 

Your sensitive love-pride being all hurt. 

All right, my little bitch. 

You learn loyalty rather than loving, 

And I'll protect you. 




Climbing through the January snow, into the Lobo canyon 
Dark grow the spruce-trees, blue is the balsam, water sounds 
still unfrozen, and the trail is still evident. 

Men ! 

Two men ! 

Men ! The only animal in the world to fear ! 

They hesitate. 
We hesitate. 
They have a gun. 
We have no gun. 

Then we all advance, to meet. 

Two Mexicans, strangers, emerging out of the dark and snow 

and inwardness of the Lobo valley. 
What are they doing here on this vanishing trail ? 

What is he carrying ? 
Something yellow. 
A deer r 

Que liene, amigo ? 
Lam — 

He smiles, foolishly, as if he were caught doing wrong. 
And we smile, foolishly, as if we didn't know. 
He is quite gentle and dark-faced. 


It is a mountain lion, 

A long, long slim cat, yellow like a lioness. 


He trapped her this morning, he says, smiling foolishly. 

Lift up her face, 

Her round, bright face, bright as frost. 

Her round, fine-fashioned head, with two dead ears ; 

And stripes in the bi'illiant frost of her face, sharp, fine 

dark rays. 
Dark, keen, fine rays in the brilliant frost of her face. 
Beautiful dead eyes. 

Hermoso es ! 

They go out towards the open ; 

We go on into the gloom of Lobo. 

And above the trees I found her lair, 

A hole in the blood-orange brilliant rocks that stick up, a 

little cave. 
And bones, and twigs, and a perilous ascent. 

So, she will never leap up that way again, with the yellow 

flash of a mountain lion's long shoot ! 
And her bright striped frost face will never watch any more, 

out of the shadow of the cave in the blood-orange 

Above the trees of the Lobo dark valley-mouth ! 

Instead, I look out. 

And out to the dim of the desert, like a dream, never real ; 


To the snow of the Sangre de Cristo mountains, the ice of 

the mountains of Picoris, 
And near across at the opposite steep of snow, green trees 

motionless standing in snow, like a Christmas toy. 

And I think in this empty world there was room for me , 

and a mountain lion. 
And I think in the world beyond, how easily we might 

spare a million or two of humans 
And never miss them. 
Yet what a gap in the world, the missing white frost face 

of that slim vellow mountain lion ! 




Over the heart of the west, the Taos desert 

Circles an eagle, 

And it's dark between me and him. 

The sun, as he waits a moment, huge and liquid 

Standing without feet on the rim of the far-off" mesa 

Says : Look for a last long time then / Look / Look well ! I 

am going. 
So he pauses and is beholden, and straightway is gone. 

And the Indian, in a white sheet 

Wrapped to the eyes, the sheet bound close on his brows. 

Stands saying: See, I'm invisible! 

Behold how you cant behold me I 

The invisible in its shroud ! 

Now that the sun has gone, and the aspen leaves 
And the cotton-wood leaves are fallen, as good as fallen. 
And the ponies are in corral. 
And it's night. 


Why, more has gone than all these ; 

And something has come. 

A red wolf stands on the shadow's dark red rim. 

Day has gone to dust on the sage-grey desert 
Like a white Christus fallen to dust from a cross ; 
To dust, to ash, on the twilit floor of the desert. 


And a black crucifix like a dead tree spreading wings; 
Maybe a black eagle with its wings out 
Left lonely in the night 
In a sort of worship. 

And coming down upon us, out of the dark concave 

Of the eagle's wings, 

And the coffin-like slit where the Indians' eyes are, 

And the absence of cotton-wood leaves, or of aspen, 

Even the absence of dark-crossed donkeys : 

Come tall old demons, smiling 

The Indian smile, 

Saying : How do you do, you pale-Jace ? 

I am very well, old demon. 
How are you ? 

Call me Harry if you ivill, 
Call me Old Harry says he. 
Or the abbreviation of Nicolas, 
fs'ick. Old Nick, maybe. 

Well, you're a vla-rk old demon, 

And I'm a pale-face like a homeless dog 

That has followed the sun from the dawn through the east 

Trotting east and east and east till the sun himself went home. 

And left me homeless here in the dark at your door. 

How do you think we'll get on, 

Old demon, you and I .'' 

You ami I, you pale-face, 
Pale-face you aiul I 
Don't get on. 


Mightn't we try ? 

Where's your God, you white one ? 
Where's your whiic God ? 

He fell to dust as the twilight fell, 

Was fume as I trod 

The last step out of the east. 

Then you're a lost white dog of a pale-face, 
And the day's no?v dead. . . . 

Touch me carefully, old father. 
My beard is red. 

Thin red wolf of a pale-face, 
( Thin red wolf, go home. 

I have no home, old father, 
That's why I come. 

We take no hungry stray from the pale-face . . . 

Father, you are not asked. 

I am come. I am here. The red-dawn-wolf 

Sniffs round your place. 

Lifts up his voice and howls to the walls of the pueblo. 

Announcing he's here. 

The dogs of the dark pueblo 
Have long fangs . . . 

Has the red wolf trotted east and east and east 
From the far, far other end of the day 

To fear a few fangs .'' 


Across the pueblo river 

That dark old demon and I 

Thus say a few words to each other 

And wolf, he calls me, and red. 
I call him no names. 
He says, however, he is Star- Road. 
I say, he can go back the same gait. 

As for me . . . 

Since I trotted at the tail of the sun as far as ever the 

creature went west. 

And lost him here, 

I'm going to sit down on my tail right here 

And wait for him to come back with a new story. 

I'm the red wolf, says the dark old father. 

All right, the red dawn wolf I am. 


N 193 



Mountains blanket-wrapped 
Round a white hearth of desert — 

While the sun goes round 

And round and round the desert, 

The mountains never get up and walk about. 

They can't, they can't wake. 

They camped and went to sleep 
In the last twilight 
Of Indian gods ; 
And they can't wake. 

Indians dance and run and stamp — 

\o good. 

White men make gold-mines and the mountains unmake them 

In their sleep. 

The Indians laugh in their sleep 

From fear, 

Like a man when he sleeps and his sleep is over, and he 

can't wake up, 
And he lies like a log and screams and his scream is silent 
Because his body can't wake up ; 
So he laughs from fear, pure fear, in the grip of the sleep. 

A dark membrane over the will, holding a man down 
Even when the mind has flickered awake ; 
A membrane of sleep, like a black blanket. 


We walk in our sleep, in this land, 
Somnambulist wide-eyed afraid. 

We scream for someone to wake us 

And our scream is soundless in the paralysis of sleep. 

And we know it. 

The Penitentes lash themselves till they run with blood 
In their efforts to come awake for one moment ; 
To tear the membrane of this sleep . . . 
No good. 

The Indians thought the white man would awake them . . . 
And instead, the white men scramble asleep in the mountains, 
And ride on horseback asleep forever through the desert, 
And shoot one another, amazed and mad with somnambulism, 
Thinking death will awaken something . . . 
No good. 

Born with a caul, 
A black membrane over the face. 
And unable to tear it, 
Though the mind is awake. 

Mountains blanket-wrapped 

Round the ash-white hearth of the desert ; 

And though the sun leaps like a thing unleashed in the sky 

They can't get up, they are under the blanket. 




Over the rounded sides of the Rockies, the aspens of autumn, 

The aspens of autumn, 

Like yellow hair of a tigress brindled with pins. 

Down on my hearth-rug of desert, sage of the mesa. 

An ash-grey pelt 

Of wolf all hairy and level, a wolfs wild pelt. 

Trot-trot to the mottled foot-hills, cedar-mottled and piiion ; 

Did you ever see an otter ? 

Silvery-sided, fish-fanged, fierce-faced whiskered, mottled. 

When I trot my little pony through the aspen-trees of the 

Behold me trotting at ease betwixt the slopes of the golden 
Great and glistening-feathered legs of the hawk of Horus ; 
The golden hawk of Horus 
Astride above me. 

But under the pines 

I go slowly 

As under the hairy belly of a great black bear. 

Glad to emerge and look back 

On the yellow, pointed aspen-trees laid one on another like 

Feather over feather on the breast of the great and golden 
Hawk as I say of Horus. 


Pleased to be out in the sage and the pine fish-dotted foot- 
Past the otter's whiskers, 
On to the fur of the wolf-pelt that strews the plain. 

And then to look back to the rounded sides of the squatting 

Tigress brindled with aspen 
Jaguar-splashed, puma-yellow, leopard-livid slopes of America. 

Make big eyes, little pony 

At all these skins of wild beasts ; 

They won't hurt you. 

Fangs and claws and talons and beaks and hawk-eyes 
Are nerveless just now. 
So be easy. 




England seems full of graves to me, ^ f 

Full of graves. 

Women I loved and cherished, like my mother ; 
Yet I had to tell them to die. -- 

England seems covered with graves to me. 
Women's graves. 

Women who were gentle 
And who loved me 
And whom I loved 
And told to die. 

Women with the beautiful eyes of the old days, 
Belief in love, and sorrow of such belief, 
" Hush, my love, then, hush. 
Hush, and die, my dear ! " 

Women of the older generation, who knew '' 

The full doom of loving and not being able to take back. 
Who understood at last what it was to be told to die. 

Now that the graves are made, and covered ; 

Now that in England pansies and such-like grow on the 

graves of women ; 
Now that in England is silence, where before was a moving 

of soft-skirted women, 


Women with eyes that were gentle in olden behef in 

love ; 
Now then that all their yearning is hushed, and covered 

over with earth. 

England seems like one grave to me. 

And I, I sit on this high American desert 

With dark-wrapped Rocky Mountains motionless squatting 

around in a ring, 
Remembering I told them to die, to sink into the grave in 

The gentle-kneed women. 

So now I whisper : Come away, 

Come away from the place of graves, come fvesf, 


Women whom I loved and told to die. 

Come back to me now, 

Now the divided yearning is over ; 

Now you are husbandless indeed, no more husband to cherish like 

a child 
And wrestle tvith for the prize oj' perfect love. 
No more children to launch in a world you mistrust. 
Now you need know in part 

No longer, or carry the burden of a man on your heart, 
Or the burden of Man writ large. 

Now you are disemburdened of Man a7id a man 
Come back to me. 

Now you are free of the toils of a would-be-perfect love 
Come to me and be still. 


Come back then, you who were wives and mothers 

And always virgins 


Come back then, mother, my love, whom I told to die. 

It was only I who saw the virgin you 

That had no home. ~~^ 

The overlooked virgin, 
My love. 

You overlooked her too. 

Now that the grave is made of mother and wife. 
Now that the grave is made and lidded over with turf. 

Come, delicate, overlooked virgin, come back to me 
And be still, 
Be glad. 

I didn't tell you to die, for nothing. 

I wanted the virgin you to be home at last 

In my heart. 

Inside my innermost heart, 

Where the virgin in woman comes home to a man. 

The homeless virgin 

Who never in all her life could find the way home 

To that difficult innermost place in a man. 

No7v come west, come home. 
Women I've loved for gentleness, 


For the virginal i/ou. 

Find the ivay now that you never could Jind in life, 

So I told you to die. 

Virginal first and last 

Is woman. 

Now at this last, my love, my many a love. 

You whom I loved for gentleness, 

Come home to me. 

They are many, and I loved them, shall always love them, 

And they know it. 

The virgins. 

And my heart is glad to have them at last. 

Now that the wife and mother and mistress is buried in earth. 

In English earth, 

Come home to me, my love, my loves, my many loves, 

Come west to me. 

For virgins are not exclusive of virgins 


As wives are of wives ; 

And motherhood is jealous, 

But in virginity jealousy does not enter. 




The dove of Liberty sat on an egg 
And hatched another eagle. 

But didn't disown the bird. 

Donm Tvilh all eagles! cooed the Dove. 

And down all eagles began to flutter, reeling from their 

perches : 
Eagles with two heads, eagles with one, presently eagles 

with none 
Fell from the hooks and were dead. 

Till the American Eagle was the only eagle left in the world. 

Then it began to fidget, shifting from one leg to the other. 

Trying to look like a pelican. 

And plucking out of his plumage a few loose feathers to 

feather the nests of all 
The new naked little republics come into the world. 

But the feathers were, comparatively, a mere flea-bite. 

And the bub-eagle that Liberty had hatched was growing a 

startling big bird 
On the roof of the world ; 

A bit awkward, and with a funny squawk in his voice, 
His mother Liberty trying always to teach him to coo 
And him always ending with a yawp 
Coo! Coo! Coo! Coo-ark! Coo-otIc! Quark!! (luarkU 
Yawp ! ! ! 


So he clears his throat, the young Cock-eagle I 

Now if the lilies of France lick Solomon in all his glory ; 

And the leopard cannot change his spots ; 

Nor the British lion his appetite ; 

Neither can a young Cock-eagle sit simpering 

With an olive-sprig in his mouth. 

It's not his nature. 

The big bird of the Amerindian being the eagle, 

Red Men still stick themselves over with bits of his fluff, 

And feel absolutely IT. 

So better make up your mind, American Eagle, 

Whether you're a sucking dove, Roo — coo — ooo! Quark/ 

Yawp ! ! 
Or a pelican 
Handing out a few loose golden breast-feathers, at moulting 

Or a sort of prosperity-gander 
Fathering endless ten-dollar golden eggs. 

Or whether it actually is an eagle you are, 
With a Roman nose 

And claws not made to shake hands with, 
And a Me- Almighty eye. 

The new Pi-oud Republic 
Based on the mystery of pride. 

Overweening men, full of power of life, commanding a 
teeming obedience. 


Eagle of the Rockies, bird of men that are masters, 

Lifting the rabbit-blood of the myriads up into something 

Leaving a few bones ; 

Opening great wings in the face of the sheep-faced ewe 
Who is losing her lamb, 
Drinking a little blood, and loosing another royalty unto the 


Is that you, American Eagle? 

Or are you the goose that lays the golden egg ? 
Which is just a stone to anyone asking for meat. 
And are you going to go on for ever 
Laying that golden egg, 
That addled golden egg ? 



CC ^",'''- 






PR Lawrence, David Herbert 

^23 Birds, beasts and flowers