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قراءة كتاب A Pushcart at the Curb
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mountain
bruising the withered petals
of the last crocuses.
I am alone in the swirling mist
beside the frozen pools of the mountain.
La Maliciosa
XXVI
Infinities away already
are your very slender body
and the tremendous dark of your eyes
where once beyond the laughingness of childhood,
came a breath of jessamine prophetic of summer,
a sudden flutter of yellow butterflies
above dark pools.
Shall I take down my books
and weave from that glance a romance
and build tinsel thrones for you
out of old poets' fancies?
Shall I fashion a temple about you
where to burn out my life like frankincense
till you tower dark behind the sultry veil
huge as Isis?
Or shall I go back to childhood
remembering butterflies in sunny fields
to cower with you when the chilling shadow fleets
across the friendly sun?
Bordeaux
XXVII
And neither did Beatrice and Dante ...
But Beatrice they say
was a convention.
November, 1916——February, 1917.
NIGHTS AT BASSANO
I
DIRGE OF THE EMPRESS TAITU
OF ABYSSINIA
And when the news of the Death of the Empress of that Far Country did come to them, they fashioned of her an Image in doleful wise and poured out Rum and Marsala Sack and divers Liquors such as were procurable in that place into Cannikins to do her Honor and did wake and keen and make moan most piteously to hear. And that Night were there many Marvels and Prodigies observed; the Welkin was near consumed with fire and Spirits and Banashees grumbled and wailed above the roof and many that were in that place hid themselves in Dens and Burrows in the ground. Of the swanlike and grievously melodious Ditties the Minstrels fashioned in that fearsome Night these only are preserved for the Admiration of the Age.
I
Our lady lies on a brave high bed,
On pillows of gold with gold baboons
On red silk deftly embroidered—
O anger and eggs and candlelight—
Her gold-specked eyes have little sight.
Our lady cries on a brave high bed;
The golden light of the candles licks
The crown of gold on her frizzly head—
O candles and angry eggs so white—
Her gold-specked eyes are sharp with fright.
Our lady sighs till the high bed creaks;
The golden candles gutter and sway
In the swirling dark the dark priest speaks—
O his eyes are white as eggs with fright
—Our lady will die twixt night and night.
Our lady lies on a brave high bed;
The golden crown has slipped from her head
On the pillows crimson embroidered—
O baboons writhing in candlelight—
Her gold-specked soul has taken flight.
II
ZABAGLIONE
Champagne-colored
Deepening to tawniness
As the throats of nightingales
Strangled for Nero's supper.
Champagne-colored
Like the coverlet of Dudloysha
At the Hotel Continental.
Thick to the lips and velvety
Scented of rum and vanilla
Oversweet, oversoft, overstrong,
Full of froth of fascination,
Drink to be drunk of Isoldes
Sunk in champagne-colored couches
While Tristans with fair flowing hair
And round cheeks rosy as cherubs
Stand and stretch their arms,
And let their great slow tears
Roll and fall,
And splash in the huge gold cups.
And behind the scenes with his sleeves rolled up,
Grandiloquently
Kurwenal beats the eggs
Into spuming symphonic splendor
Champagne-colored.
Red-nosed gnomes roll and tumble
Tussle and jumble in the firelight
Roll on their backs spinning rotundly,
Out of earthern jars
Gloriously gurgitating,
Wriggling their huge round bellies.
And the air of the cave is heavy
With steaming Marsala and rum
And hot bruised vanilla.
Champagne-colored, one lies in a velvetiness
Of yellow moths stirring faintly tickling wings
One is heavy and full of languor
And sleep is a champagne-colored coverlet,
the champagne-colored stockings of Venus ...
And later
One goes
And pukes beautifully beneath the moon,
Champagne-colored.
II
ODE TO ENNUI
The autumn leaves that this morning danced with the wind,
curtseying in slow minuettes,
giddily whirling in bacchanals,
balancing, hesitant, tiptoe,
while the wind whispered of distant hills,
and clouds like white sails, sailing
in limpid green ice-colored skies,
have crossed the picket fence
and the three strands of barbed wire;
they have leapt the green picket fence
despite the sentry's bayonet.
Under the direction of a corporal
three soldiers in khaki are sweeping them up,
sweeping up the autumn leaves,
crimson maple leaves, splotched with saffron,
ochre and cream,
brown leaves of horse-chestnuts ...
and the leaves dance and curtsey round the brooms,
full of mirth,
wistful of the journey the wind promised them.
This morning the leaves fluttered gaudily,
reckless, giddy from the wind's dances,
over the green picket fence
and the three strands of barbed wire.
Now they are swept up
and put in a garbage can
with cigarette butts
and chewed-out quids of tobacco,
burnt matches, old socks, torn daily papers,
and dust from the soldiers' blankets.
And the wind blows tauntingly
over the mouth of the garbage can,
whispering, Far away,
mockingly, Far away ...
And I too am swept up
and put in a garbage can
with smoked cigarette ash
and chewed-out quids of tobacco;
I am fallen into the dominion
of the great dusty queen ...
Ennui, iron goddess, cobweb-clothed
goddess of all useless things,
of attics cluttered with old chairs
for centuries unsatupon,
of strong limbs wriggling on office stools,
of ancient cab-horses and cabs
that sleep all day in silent sunny squares,
of camps bound with barbed wire,
and green picket fences—
bind my eyes with your close dust
choke my ears with your grey cobwebs
that I may not see the clouds
that sail away across the sky,
far away, tauntingly,
that I may not hear the wind
that mocks and whispers and is gone
in pursuit of the horizon.
III
TIVOLI
TO D. P.
The ropes of the litter creak and groan
As the bearers turn down the steep path;
Pebbles scuttle under slipping feet.
But the Roman poet lies back confident
On his magenta cushions and mattresses,
Thinks of Greek bronzes
At the sight of the straining backs of his slaves.
The slaves' breasts shine with sweat,
And they draw deep breaths of the cooler air
As they lurch through tunnel after tunnel of leaves.
At last, where the spray swirls like smoke,
And the river roars in a cauldron of green,
The poet feels his fat arms quiver
And his eyes and ears drowned and exalted
In the reverberance of the fall.
The ropes of the litter