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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/26918-h.zip b/26918-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..bb24be9 --- /dev/null +++ b/26918-h.zip diff --git a/26918-h/26918-h.htm b/26918-h/26918-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..94b7d0d --- /dev/null +++ b/26918-h/26918-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2055 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=windows-1252"> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Spectra by Anne Knish and Emanual Morgan +</title> +<style type="text/css"> + body {margin-top:100px; + margin-left:10%; + margin-right:10%; + text-align:justify} + hr { width: 100%; + height: 5px; } + a:link {color:blue; + text-decoration:none} + link {color:blue; + text-decoration:none} + a:visited {color:blue; + text-decoration:none} + a:hover {color:red} + pre {font-size: 75%;} +</style> + +</head> + +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Spectra, by Arthur Ficke and Witter Bynner + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Spectra + A Book of Poetic Experiments + +Author: Arthur Ficke + Witter Bynner + +Release Date: October 14, 2008 [EBook #26918] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SPECTRA *** + + + + +Produced by Ruth Hart + + + + + +</pre> + + +<center> + +<p>SPECTRA</p> + +<p>A BOOK OF POETIC EXPERIMENTS</p> + +<p>BY</p> + +<p>ANNE KNISH<br> +AND<br> +EMANUEL MORGAN</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>NEW YORK<br> +MITCHELL KENNERLEY<br> +1916</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>COPYRIGHT 1916 BY<br> +MITCHELL KENNERLEY</p> +<br> +<p>PRINTED IN AMERICA</p> + +<br> +<br> + +<p>CONTENTS</p> + +<br> +<table> + +<tr><td align="right"> </td><td> </td><td align="right">PAGE</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right"> </td><td><a href="#x">To Remy de Gourmont (Emanuel + Morgan)</a></td><td align="right">vii</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right"> </td><td><a href="#xx">Preface (Anne Knish)</a></td><td align="right"> ix</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right"> </td><td> </td><td align="right"> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="right"> </td><td>SPECTRA BY EMANUEL MORGAN</td><td align="right"> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">OPUS</td><td> </td><td align="right">PAGE</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">1</td><td><a href="#1">Drums</a></td><td align="right"> 53</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">2</td><td><a href="#2">Hope</a></td><td align="right"> 14</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">6</td><td><a href="#6">If I Were Only Dafter</a></td><td align="right"> 56</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">7</td><td><a href="#7">A Bunch of Grapes</a></td><td align="right">8</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">9</td><td><a href="#9">Frogs' Legs on a Plate</a></td><td align="right">57</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">13</td><td><a href="#13">A Peacock-Feather</a></td><td align="right">11</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">14</td><td><a href="#14">I Had Put Out My Leaves</a></td><td align="right">51</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">15</td><td><a href="#15">Despair Comes</a></td><td align="right">6</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">16</td><td><a href="#16">The Guillotine</a></td><td align="right">20</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">17</td><td><a href="#17">Needles and Pins</a></td><td align="right">46</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">29</td><td><a href="#29">Knives</a></td><td align="right">31</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">31</td><td><a href="#31">Thank God that We Can Laugh</a></td><td align="right"> 27</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">40</td><td><a href="#40">Two Cocktails Round a Smile</a></td><td align="right"> 35</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">41</td><td><a href="#41">Spectres</a></td><td align="right"> 2</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">45</td><td><a href="#45">The Locust-Tree</a></td><td align="right"> 49</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">46</td><td><a href="#46">No Other Angle</a></td><td align="right"> 40</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">47</td><td><a href="#47">Giver of Bribes in the Brightness + of Morning</a></td><td align="right"> 37</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">55</td><td><a href="#55">The Impossible</a></td><td align="right"> 43</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">62</td><td><a href="#62">Three Little Creatures</a></td><td align="right">16</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">63</td><td><a href="#63">Spears</a></td><td align="right">23</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">78</td><td><a href="#78">I Am Beset</a></td><td align="right"> 63</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">79</td><td><a href="#79">Only Lovers</a></td><td align="right"> 66</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">101</td><td><a href="#101">The Piano</a></td><td align="right"> 61</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">104</td><td><a href="#104">Madagascar</a></td><td align="right"> 59</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right"> </td><td> </td><td align="right"> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="right"> </td><td>SPECTRA BY ANNE KNISH</td><td align="right"> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">OPUS</td><td> </td><td align="right">PAGE </td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">1</td><td><a href="#1a">The Seconds Bob By</a></td><td align="right"> 41</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">40</td><td><a href="#40a">I Have not Written—That You May + Read</a></td><td align="right"> 26</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">50</td><td><a href="#50a">The Piano Lives in a Dusk</a></td><td align="right"> 1</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">67</td><td><a href="#67a">I Would Not in the Early Morning</a></td><td align="right"> 10</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">76</td><td><a href="#76a">Years Are Nothing</a></td><td align="right"> 4</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">80</td><td><a href="#80a">Oh, My Little House of Glass</a></td><td align="right"> 52</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">88</td><td><a href="#88a">So We Came Back Again</a></td><td align="right"> 36</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">96</td><td><a href="#96a">You Are the Delphic Oracle</a></td><td align="right"> 33</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">118</td><td><a href="#118a">If Bathing Were a Virtue</a></td><td align="right"> 7</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">122</td><td><a href="#122a">Upstairs There Lies a Sodden + Thing</a></td><td align="right"> 39</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">126</td><td><a href="#126a">His Eyes</a></td><td align="right"> 12</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">131</td><td><a href="#131a">I Am Weary</a></td><td align="right"> 18</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">134</td><td><a href="#134a">Listen, My Friend</a></td><td align="right"> 21</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">135</td><td><a href="#135a">In a Tomb of Argolis</a></td><td align="right"> 64</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">150</td><td><a href="#150a">Sounds</a></td><td align="right"> 29</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">151</td><td><a href="#151a">Candle, Candle</a></td><td align="right"> 15</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">181</td><td><a href="#181a">Skeptical Cat</a></td><td align="right"> 62</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">182</td><td><a href="#182a">He's the Remnant of a Suit</a></td><td align="right"> 60</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">187</td><td><a href="#187a">I Do Not Know Very Much</a></td><td align="right"> 58</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">191</td><td><a href="#191a">The Black Bark of a Dog</a></td><td align="right"> 48</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">195</td><td><a href="#195a">Her Soul Was Freckled</a></td><td align="right"> 55</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">200</td><td><a href="#200a">If I Should Enter to his + Chamber</a></td><td align="right"> 45</td></tr> + +</table> + + +</center> + +<br> +<a name="x"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>TO REMY DE GOURMONT</p> +<p> POET, a wreath!—<br> +No matter how we had combined our flowers,<br> +You would have worn them—being ours. . . .<br> +On you, on them, the showers—<br> + O roots beneath!<br> + EMANUEL MORGAN.</p> + +<br> +<a name="xx"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>PREFACE</p> + +<p>THIS volume is the first compilation of the +recent experiments in Spectra. It is the +aim of the Spectric group to push the possibilities of poetic expression into +a new region,—to attain a fresh brilliance of impression by a +method not so wholly different from the methods of Futurist Painting.</p> + +<p>An explanation of the term "Spectric" will indicate something of +the nature of the technique which it describes. "Spectric" has, in +this connection, three separate but closely related meanings. In the first place, it speaks, +to the mind, of that process of diffraction by +which are disarticulated the several colored and other rays of which light is +composed. It indicates our feeling that the theme of a poem +is to be regarded as a prism, upon which the +colorless white light of infinite existence falls +and is broken up into glowing, beautiful, and +intelligible hues. In its second sense, the term +Spectric relates to the reflex vibrations of physical sight, and suggests the luminous appearance +which is seen after exposure of the eye to intense light, and, by analogy, the after-colors of +the poet's initial vision. In its third sense, Spectric connotes the overtones, adumbrations, or +spectres which for the poet haunt all objects +both of the seen and the unseen world,—those +shadowy projections, sometimes grotesque, +which, hovering around the real, give to the real +its full ideal significance and its poetic worth. +These spectres are the manifold spell and true +essence of objects,—like the magic that would +inevitably encircle a mirror from the hand of +Helen of Troy.</p> + +<p>Just as the colors of the rainbow recombine +into a white light,—just as the reflex of the +eye's picture vividly haunts sleep,—just as the +ghosts which surround reality are the vital part +of that existence,—so may the Spectric vision, +if successful, synthesize, prolong, and at the +same time multiply the emotional images of the +reader. The rays which the poet has dissociated into colorful beauty should recombine in +the reader's brain into a new intensity of unified +brilliance. The reflex of the poet's sight should +sustain the original perception with a haunting +keenness. The insubstantiality of the poet's +spectres should touch with a tremulous vibrancy of ultimate fact the reader's sense of the immediate theme.</p> +<p>If the Spectrist wishes to describe a landscape, he will not attempt a map, but will put +down those winged emotions, those fantastic +analogies, which the real scene awakens in his +own mind. In practice this will be found to be +the vividest of all modes of communication, as +the touch of hands quickens a mere exchange +of names.</p> + +<p>It may be noted that to Spectra, to these reflected experiences of life, as we perceive them, +adheres often a tinge of humor. Occidental +art, in contrast to art in the Orient, has until +lately been afraid of the flash of humor in its +serious works. But a growing acquaintance +with Chinese painting is surely liberating in +our poets and painters a happy sense of the +disproportion of man to his assumed place +in the universe, a sense of the tortuous grotesque +vanity of the individual. By this weapon, man +helps defend his intuition of the Absolute and +of his own obscure but real relation to it.</p> + +<p>The Spectric method is as yet in its infancy; +and the poems that follow are only experimental +efforts toward the desired end. Among them, +the most obvious illustrations of the method are perhaps Opus 41 by Emanuel Morgan and +Opus 76 by Anne Knish.</p> + +<p>Emanuel Morgan, with whom the Spectric +theory originated, has found the best expression of his genius in regular metrical forms and +rhyme. Anne Knish, on the other hand, has +used only free verse. We wish to make it clear +that the Spectric manner does hot necessitate the employment of either of these +metrical systems to the exclusion of the other.</p> + +<p>Although the members of our group would by +no means attempt to establish a claim as actual +inventors of the Spectric method, yet we can +justifiably say that we have for the first time +used the method consciously and consistently, +and formulated its possibilities by means of +elaborate experiment. Among recent poets in English, we have noted few who can +be regarded in a sure sense as Spectrists.<br> + ANNE KNISH.</p> + +<br> +<a name="50a"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>ANNE KNISH<br> +<i>Opus 50</i></p> + +<p>THE piano lives in a dusk<br> +Where rich amber lights<br> +Quiver obscurely.</p> + +<p> It exists only at twilight;<br> +And somewhere afar<br> +In the depths of a tropic forest<br> +The sun is now setting, and the phoenix looks<br> +Mysteriously toward the gold.</p> + +<p> I think I must have been born in such a forest,<br> +Or in the tangle of a Chinese screen.</p> + +<p> There is indigo in this music;<br> +This dusk is filled with amber lights;<br> +Through the tangled evening of heavy flower-scents<br> +Come footfalls<br> +That surely I can almost remember.</p> + +<br> +<a name="41"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>EMANUEL MORGAN<br> +<i>Opus 41</i></p> + +<p>SPECTRES came dancing up the wind,<br> + +Trailing down the long grass,<br> +Shooting high, undisciplined,<br> + To join the sun and see you pass . . .<br> + +The colors of the pointed glass.</p> + +<p>Under a willow-maze you went<br> + Unsaddened . . . But a violet beam<br> +Fell on the white face, backward bent,<br> + +Of a body in a stream.</p> + +<p>Into the sun you came again,<br> + With sun-red light your feet were shod . . .<br> +And round you stood a ring of feathered men<br> + With naked arms acknowledging a god.</p> +<p>Indigo-birds and squirrels on a tree<br> + And orioles flashed in and out . . .<br> +The yellow outline of Eurydice<br> + Waited for Orpheus in a black redoubt</p> + +<p>With a beaded fern you waved away a gnat . . .<br> + And maidens, hung with vivid beads of green,<br> +One of them bearing in her arms an orange cat,<br> + Held palms about a queen.</p> + +<p>Then you were lost to sight<br> + And locking trees became the clouds of you,<br> +Till you emerged, the moon upon your shoulder, +and the night<br> + Bloomed blue.</p> + +<br> +<a name="76a"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>ANNE KNISH<br> +<i>Opus 76</i></p> + +<p>YEARS are nothing;<br> +Days alone count;<br> +These, and the nights.<br> +I have seen the grey stars marching,<br> +And the green bubbles in wine,<br> +And there are Gothic vaults of sleep.</p> + +<p> My cathedral<br> +Has one great spire<br> +Tawny in the sunlight.<br> +Gargoyles haunt its nave;<br> +High up amid its dark-arches<br> +Forgotten songs live shadowy.<br> +Gold and sardonyx<br> +Deck its altars.<br> +Its mighty roof<br> +Is copper rivering with the rain.</p> +<p> Tomorrow lightning swords will come<br> +And thunder of cannon.<br> +They will unrivet this roof<br> +Of mighty copper.<br> +Before the eyes of my gargoyles,<br> +In the sound of my forgotten songs,<br> +They will take it.<br> +And as the rain sluices down<br> +I shall have to follow my roof into the war.</p> + +<br> +<a name="15"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>EMANUEL MORGAN<br> +<i>Opus 15</i></p> + +<p>DESPAIR comes when all comedy<br> + +Is tame<br> +And there is left no tragedy<br> + In any name,<br> +When die round and wounded breathing<br> + Of love upon the breast<br> +Is not so glad a sheathing<br> + +As an old brown vest.</p> + +<p>Asparagus is feathery and tall,<br> +And the hose lies rotting by the garden-wall.</p> + +<br> +<a name="118a"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>ANNE KNISH<br> +<i>Opus 118</i></p> + +<p>IF bathing were a virtue, not a lust,<br> +I would be dirtiest.</p> + +<p> To some, housecleaning is a holy rite.<br> +For myself, houses would be empty<br> +But for the golden motes dancing in sunbeams.</p> + +<p> Tax-assessors frequently overlook valuables.<br> +Today they noted my jade.<br> +But my memory of you escaped them.</p> + +<br> +<a name="7"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>EMANUEL MORGAN<br> +<i>Opus 7</i></p> + +<p>BEYOND her lips in the dark are a man's +feet<br> + Composed and dead . . .<br> +In the light between her lips is a moving tongue-rip sweet,<br> + +Red.</p> + +<p>Her arms are his white robes,<br> + They cover a king,<br> +His ornaments her crescent lobes<br> + And two moons on a string.</p> + +<p><i>Sheba, Sheba, Proserpina, Salome,<br> + +See, I am come!—king, god, saint!—<br> +With the stone of a volcano O show that you know me,<br> + +Pound till the true blood pricks through the paint!</i></p> + +<p>Twitch of the dead man's feet if he remembers<br> + +A bunch of grapes and a ripped-open +gown.—<br> +And the live man's eyes are night after embers,<br> + Two black spots on a white-faced down . . .</p> +<p>And in the dawn, lava . . . rolling down . . .<br> +Down-rolling lava on an up-pointing town.</p> + +<br> +<a name="67a"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>ANNE KNISH<br> +<i>Opus 67</i></p> + +<p>I WOULD not in the early morning<br> +Start my mind on its inevitable journey<br> +Toward the East.<br> +There are white domes somewhere<br> +Under that blue enameled sky, white domes, white domes;<br> +Therefore even the cream<br> +Is safest yellow.<br> +Cream is better than lemon<br> +In tea at breakfast<br> +I think of tigers as eating lemons.<br> +Thank God this tea comes from the green grocer,<br> +Not from Ceylon.</p> + +<br> +<a name="13"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>EMANUEL MORGAN<br> +<i>Opus 13</i></p> + +<p>O PEACOCK-FEATHER<br> + +Drawn through a death-dim hole,<br> +With colors blurred together,<br> + +Persian pattern of a soul—</p> + +<p>Is it enough to have belonged<br> + +To the exaltation of a bird<br> +Round whom they thronged<br> + +Each time her high tail stirred?</p> + +<p>. . . I loved a woman whose two eyes,<br> + +One blue, one gray,<br> + Would block<br> +Like cliffs my foothold in the skies . . .<br> + She is dead, they say—<br> + +Dead as a peacock.</p> + +<br> +<a name="126a"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>ANNE KNISH<br> +<i>Opus 126</i></p> + +<p>HIS eyes<br> +Are the resurrection.<br> +Once when beneath the moonrise<br> +They looked into mine,<br> +Grey mists held mastery between us,<br> +And I knew that his soul<br> +Had gone down into death.<br> +But tonight a golden star-dust<br> +Is pouring through space,<br> +And the mist is burned away by it.<br> +Tonight his soul awakens<br> +Out of its splendid cerements,<br> +And through his eyes the miracle<br> +Arises to the earth.</p> + +<p> I have prayed long beside the tomb<br> +And touched the grave-cloths<br> +With living fingers.<br> +I have lain my breasts<br> +Against the granite<br> +Of the sarcophagus<br> +Where he was.<br> +Prayers for the dead I offered up<br> +And hecatombs.</p> + +<p> Today there was a wonder in the sunrise.<br> +I knew that there were glories in the sky<br> +And new branches of willow on the earth.<br> +And my soul trembled with prophecy.</p> +<p> I prophesied<br> +The resurrection.<br> +Now it has come.<br> +And I lie shaken<br> +Before its tumult.</p> + +<br> +<a name="2"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>EMANUEL MORGAN<br> +<i>Opus 2</i></p> + +<p>HOPE<br> +Is the antelope<br> +Over the hills;<br> +Fear<br> +Is the wounded deer<br> +Bleeding in rills;<br> +Care<br> +Is the heavy bear<br> +Tearing at meat;<br> +Fun<br> +Is the mastodon<br> +Vanished complete . . .</p> + +<p>And I am the stag with the golden horn<br> +Waiting till my day is born.</p> + +<br> +<a name="151a"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>ANNE KNISH<br> +<i>Opus 151</i></p> + +<p>CANDLE, candle,<br> + Flicker and flow—<br> +I knew you once—<br> + But it was not long ago,<br> + it was</p> + +<p>Last night.<br> +And you spoiled my otherwise bright<br> + evening.</p> + +<br> +<a name="62"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>EMANUEL MORGAN<br> +<i>Opus 62</i></p> + +<p>THREE little creatures gloomed across the floor<br> + +And stood profound in front of me,<br> +And one was Faith, and one was Hope,<br> + +And one was Charity.</p> + +<p>Faith looked for what it could not find,<br> + Hope looked for what was lost,<br> +(Love looked and looked but Love was blind),<br> + Charity's eyes were crossed.</p> + +<p>Then with a leap a single shape,<br> + With beauty on its chin,<br> +Brandished a little screaming ape . . .<br> + And each one, like a pin,</p> + +<p>Fell to a pattern on the rug<br> + As flat as they could be—<br> +And died there comfortable and snug,<br> + Faith, Hope and Charity.</p> + +<p>That shape, it was my shining soul<br> + +Bludgeoning every sham . . .<br> +O little ape, be glad that I<br> + +Can be the thing I am!</p> + +<br> +<a name="131a"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>ANNE KNISH<br> +<i></i>Opus 131</p> + +<p>I AM weary of salmon dawns<br> +And of cinnamon sunsets;<br> +Silver-grey and iron-grey<br> +Of winter dusk and morn<br> +Torture me; and in the amethystine shadows<br> +Of snow, and in the mauve of curving clouds<br> +Some poison has dwelling.</p> + +<p> Ivory on a fan of Venice,<br> +Black-pearl of a bowl of Japan,<br> +Prismatic lustres of Phoenician glass,<br> +Fawn-tinged embroideries from looms of Bagdad,<br> +The green of ancient bronze, cinereous tinge<br> +Of iron gods,—<br> +These, and the saffron of old cerements,<br> +Violet wine,<br> +Zebra-striped onyx,<br> +Are to me like the narrow walls of home<br> +To the land-locked sailor.</p> + +<p> I must have fire-brands!<br> +I must have leaves!<br> +I must have sea-deeps!</p> + +<br> +<a name="16"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>EMANUEL MORGAN<br> +<i>Opus 16</i></p> + +<p>DEATH on a cross was not the blade<i><br> + </i>In Mary's heart . . .<br> +For the mother of man and the son of the maid<br> + Had walked one night apart,<br> +When his beard was not yet grown—and, +afraid,<br> + She had seen his young words dart.</p> + +<p>Between a mother and a son,<br> + The guillotine . . .<br> +It falls, it falls, and one by one,<br> + Unseeing and unseen,<br> +They face the great sharp shining ton<br> + That time has eaten green.</p> + +<p>Between the shoulder and the head<br> + The guillotine must play<br> +And cleave with clash unmerited<br> + The generating day . . .<br> +Till the separated parts, not dead,<br> + Rise and walk away.</p> + +<br> +<a name="134a"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>ANNE KNISH<br> +<i>Opus 134</i></p> + +<p>LISTEN, my friend,<br> +That you may understand me.—</p> +<p> In my earliest youth<br> +I dreamed in hues volcanic.<br> +I saw each day open<br> +Like a curtain of flame.<br> +Black slaves attended<br> +My waking moments;<br> +Three ebony slaves<br> +Washed sleep from my white body.<br> +Three ebony slaves<br> +Around my ivory smoothness<br> +Folded heavy robes<br> +Of crimson and white.<br> +And as I issued forth<br> +Into the blue vault of the daylight<br> +A grey ape pranced before me<br> +And a leopard crept behind.</p> + +<p> This was the state<br> +Of my young heritage.<br> +Scarlet as the voice of trumpets<br> +Was the pageant of my days.<br> +Can I accept now<br> +The twilight?<br> +And soon the dark, where all colors<br> +Die?</p> + +<p> Before I die, I will hold one last revel!<br> +I will have golden cups and poppy curtains!—<br> +And yet—</p> + +<p> No! . . . In a black hall<br> +The black table shall spread far down before me<br> +And all the feasters garbed in black.<br> +Then, at the feast's height, I arising<br> +Shall with a gesture like the midnight<br> +Throw back my midnight robe and suddenly stand<br> +Naked, the sole white flame of the world.</p> + +<br> +<a name="63"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>EMANUEL MORGAN<br> +<i></i>Opus 63</p> + +<p>THE seven deathly spears of memory<br> +Setting behind a god, a golden glorious<br> +Halo of land and sea<br> +Even for you and me,<br> + Even for us . . .</p> + +<p> The spear of Egypt,<br> +Orange,<br> +Through the sleeping lid,<br> +With all the power of the bulk of a pyramid.</p> +<p> The spear of Chile,<br> +Yellow,<br> +Through the thrilling cheek,<br> +With all the push of an upturned Andean peak.</p> + +<p> The spear of Thibet,<br> +Violet,<br> +Through the eager hand,<br> +The thrust of the iron of a silent land.</p> +<p> The spear of the Ice-Poles,<br> +Green,<br> +Through the warm-breathing breast,<br> +The glacial east and the glacial west</p> + +<p> The spear of Norway,<br> +Blue,<br> +Through the curved arm-pit,<br> +The cheerless sun majestic in a jagged slit.</p> +<p> The spear of India,<br> +Indigo,<br> +Through the holy side,<br> +A heaven-touching temple-roof down a mountain-slide.</p> +<p> The spear of Europe,<br> +Red,<br> +In the mouth's breath,<br> +The million-splintering scream of death . . .</p> + +<p> Even to us,<br> +The seven-spearing sun,<br> +The sword of separation before our love is +done;<br> + Even for us,<br> +A simian shape<br> +Throwing seven souls on the sea-wet cape;<br> + Even for us<br> +Who smile mouth to mouth,<br> +The full tornado from the seven-forked south;<br> + Even to us<br> +Who clasp with our knees,<br> +The scattering upheaval of the seven cold seas!</p> + +<p> And this is as near as lovers ever come,<br> +Their words are dumb;<br> +This is as near as they have ever kissed,<br> +Their lips are ocean-mist.</p> +<p> Yet what avail the seven<br> +Spears of memory<br> +Against the obstinate archery<br> +Of light, the spears of heaven?</p> + +<br> +<a name="40a"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>ANNE KNISH<br> +<i>Opus 40</i></p> + +<p>I HAVE not written, reader,<br> +That you may read. . . .<br> +They sit in rows in the bare school-room<br> +Reading.<br> +Throwing rocks at windows is better,<br> +And oh the tortoise-shell cat with the can tied on!<br> +I would rather be a can-tier<br> +Than a writer for readers.</p> +<p> I have written, reader,<br> +For abstruse reasons.<br> +Gold in the mine . . .<br> +Black water seeping into tunnels . . .<br> +A plank breaks, and the roof falls . . .<br> +Three men suffocated.<br> +The wife of one now works in a laundry;<br> +The wife of another has married a fat man;<br> +I forget about the third.</p> + +<br> +<a name="31"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>EMANUEL MORGAN<br> +<i>Opus 31</i></p> + +<p>THE night is growing deep with snow<br> + O put your hand in mine,<br> +While the mirthful secrets that we know<br> + Bloom in the fire-shine—<br> +Flakes falling with an undertow<br> + +Of delicate design.</p> + +<p>Hushed are the courts where ladies went<br> + Unquestioning to quaff<br> +Goblets of liquid firmament—<br> + Thank God that we can laugh!</p> + +<p>Hushed are the plains where Asia poured<br> + +The blood of peacock kings—<br> +But we can echo, thank the Lord,<br> + +What the China teapot sings:</p> + +<p><i> Nothing bereaves<br> + +The eternal tune<br> + +Of little crisp leaves<br> + +Green in the moon.</i></p> + +<p>The night is deeper still with snow . . .<br> + O let us never stir<br> +From the mirthful secrets that we know<br> + Of old diameter!<br> +Eve laughed at Adam long ago,<br> + And Adam laughed at her.</p> + +<br> +<a name="150a"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>ANNE KNISH<br> +<i>Opus 150</i></p> + +<p>SOUNDS, pure sounds—<br> +Nothing—<br> +Vibrancies of the air—<br> +And yet—</p> + +<p> This summer night<br> +There are crickets shrilling<br> +Beyond the deep bassoon of frogs.<br> +They cease for a moment<br> +As the rattling clangor<br> +Of the trolley<br> +Bumps by.<br> +I hear footsteps<br> +Hollow on the pavement<br> +Now deserted<br> +And blank of sound.<br> +They die.<br> +The crickets now are sleeping;<br> +Even the leaves<br> +Grow still.</p> + +<p> And slowly<br> +Out of the blankness, out of the silence<br> +Emerges on soundless wings!<br> +The long sweet-sloping<br> +Rise and fall of far viol notes,—<br> +The mad Nirvana,<br> +The faint and spectral<br> +Dream-music<br> +Of my heart's desire.</p> + +<br> +<a name="29"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>EMANUEL MORGAN<br> +<i>Opus 29</i></p> + +<p>KNIVES for feet, and wheels for a chin,<br> +And the long smooth iron bore for a +neck,<br> +And bullets for hands. . . . And the root runs in,<br> +The root of blood no stone can check,<br> +From the breasts of the grinding crash of sin,<br> +From engines hugging in a wreck.</p> + +<p>A thousand round-red mouths of pain<br> +Blaring black,<br> +A twisting comrade on his back<br> +In a round-red stain,<br> +Clotted stalks of red sumac,<br> +Discs of the sun on a bayonet-stack . . .</p> +<p>Blood, flame, a cataract<br> +Thrown upward from a desert place:<br> +Flame and blood, the one blind fact,<br> +Contained, or spouting from the face,<br> +Or coiling out of bellies, packed<br> +In a stinking spent embrace . . .</p> + +<p>Country, a babble of black spume . . .<br> +Faith, an eyeball in the sand . . .<br> +Mother, a nail through a broken hand—<br> +A kissing fume—<br> +And out of her breast the bloody bubbling milk-red breath<br> +Of death.</p> + +<br> +<a name="96a"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>ANNE KNISH<br> +<i>Opus 96</i></p> + +<p>YOU are the Delphic Oracle<br> +Of the Under-World.</p> +<p> As we sit talking,<br> +All of us together,<br> +You flash forth sudden utterance<br> +Of buried things<br> +That writhe in obscure life<br> +Within our minds' last darkness.<br> +That which we think and say not<br> +You say and think not.<br> +In us these thoughts<br> +Like worms stir vilely.<br> +But from you they depart as sudden butterflies<br> +Crimson and green against the pure sky.</p> + +<p> Many are the revelers;<br> +Few are the thyrsus-bearers;<br> +And sole is Dionysus.</p> + +<p> This I inscribe to you,<br> +Singer,<br> +In memory of the crags of Delphi<br> +And the Thessalian vales beyond.</p> + +<br> +<a name="40"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>EMANUEL MORGAN<br> +<i>Opus 40</i></p> + +<p>TWO cocktails round a smile,<br> + +A grapefruit after grace,<br> +Flowers in an aisle<br> + . . . Were your face.</p> + +<p>A strap in a street-car,<br> + +A sea-fan on the sand,<br> +A beer on a bar<br> + . . . Were your hand</p> + +<p>The pillar of a porch,<br> + +The tapering of an egg,<br> +The pine of a torch<br> + . . . Were your leg.—</p> + +<p>Sun on the Hellespont,<br> + +White swimmers in the bowl<br> +Of the baptismal font<br> + +Are your soul.</p> + +<br> +<a name="88a"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>ANNE KNISH<br> +<i>Opus 88</i></p> + +<p>SO we came back again<br> +After some years—<br> +Just revisiting<br> +The scenes of our sin.<br> +Nothing is there but the garden;<br> +And we had expected<br> +That we would be there.</p> + +<p> I heard a wind blowing<br> +Down the sky.<br> +It came with heavy auguries<br> +And passed.<br> +There was a soothsayer once in Rome<br> +Who on a white altar<br> +Inspected the purple entrails of victims.</p> + +<br> +<a name="47"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>EMANUEL MORGAN<br> +<i>Opus 47</i></p> + +<p>GIVER of bribes in the brightness of morning,<br> + +Cities have wavered and rocked and gone down . . .<br> +But the lamps of the altars hang round you, adorning<br> + The niche of your neck and the drift of your +gown.</p> + +<p>O bribe-giver, marked with purple metal—<br> + +Cut in your naked contentment there shows<br> +On the curve of your breast one carven petal<br> + +From heaven's impenetrable rose!</p> + +<p>You open the window to myriad windows,<br> + +The high triangular door of the world . . .<br> +Till the walls and the roofs and the curious keystone,<br> + +The carven rose with its petals uncurled,</p> + +<p>Are swayed in the swathe of the uppermost ether,<br> + +Where stars are the columns upholding a dome,<br> +And the edifice rolls on a corner of ocean,<br> + +Lifts on a wave, poises on foam . . .</p> + +<p>We stand on the rose, we are images golden,<br> + We move interchanging, attaining one crest:<br> +One chin and one mouth and one nose and one forehead,<br> + One mouth and one chin and one neck and +one breast . . .</p> + +<p>I pull you apart from me, struggle to bind you,<br> + I free you, I rend you in seven great rays . . .<br> +And we cling to them all . . . but we lose them, and slowly—<br> + We slip with the rainbow down the blue +bays.</p> + +<br> +<a name="122a"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>ANNE KNISH<br> +<i>Opus 122</i></p> + +<p>UPSTAIRS there lies a sodden thing<br> +Sleeping.<br> +Soon it will come down<br> +And drink coffee.<br> +I shall have to smile at it across the table.<br> +How can I?<br> +For I know that at this moment<br> +It sleeps without a sign of life; it is as good as dead.<br> +I will not consort with reformed corpses,<br> +I the life-lover, I the abundant.<br> +I have known living only;<br> +I will not acknowledge kinship with death.<br> +White graves or black, linen or porphyry,<br> +Are all one to me.<br> +And yet, on the Lybian plains<br> +Where dust is blown,<br> +A king once<br> +Built of baked clay and bulls of bronze<br> +A tomb that makes me waver.</p> + +<br> +<a name="46"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>EMANUEL MORGAN<br> +<i>Opus 46</i></p> + +<p>I ONLY know that you are given me<br> + +For my delight.<br> +No other angle finishes my soul<br> + +But you, you white.</p> +<p>I know that I am given you,<br> + +Black whirl to white,<br> +To lift the seven colors up . . .<br> + +Focus of light!</p> + +<br> +<a name="1a"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>ANNE KNISH<br> +<i>Opus 1</i></p> + +<p>REITERATION! . . .</p> +<p>The seconds bob by,<br> +So many, so many,<br> +Each ugly in its own way<br> +As raw meats are all ugly.<br> +Why do we feed on the dead?<br> +Or would at least it were with cries and lust<br> +Of slaying our human food<br> +Beneath a cannibal sun!<br> +But these old corpses of alien creatures! . . .<br> +I loathe them!<br> +And too many heads go by the window,<br> +All alien—<br> +Filers of saws, doubtless,<br> +Or lechers<br> +Or Sabbath-keepers.<br> +Morality comes from God.<br> +He was busy.<br> +He forgot to make beauty.<br> +Why does he not call back into their hen-house<br> +This ugly straggling flock of seconds<br> +That trail by<br> +With pin-feathers showing?</p> + +<br> +<a name="55"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>EMANUEL MORGAN<br> +<i>Opus 55</i></p> + +<p>WHY ask it of me?—the impossible!—<br> + Shall I pick up the lightning in my hand?<br> +Have I not given homages too well<br> + +For words to understand?—</p> + +<p>Words take you from me, bring you back again,<br> + +Dance in our presence, cover your proud face<br> +With the incredible counterpane,<br> + +Break our embrace . . .</p> + +<p>No, not to you<br> + Your wish,<br> +But to some kangaroo<br> + Or cuttle-fish</p> +<p>Or octopus or eagle or tarantula<br> + Or elephant or dove<br> +Or some peninsula<br> + Let me speak love—</p> + +<p>Or call some battle or some temple-bell<br> + +Or many-curving pine<br> +Or some cool truth-containing well<br> + +Or thin cathedral—mine!</p> + +<br> +<a name="200a"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>ANNE KNISH<br> +<i>Opus 200</i></p> + +<p>IF I should enter to his chamber<br> +And suddenly touch him,<br> +Would he fade to a thin mist,<br> +Or glow into a fire-ball,<br> +Or burst like a punctured light-globe?<br> +It is impossible that he would merely yawn and rub<br> +And say—"What is it?"</p> + +<br> +<a name="17"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>EMANUEL MORGAN<br> +<i>Opus 17</i></p> + +<p>MAN-THUNDER, woman-lightning,<br> + +Rumble, gleam;<br> +Refusal,<br> + +Scream.</p> + +<p>Needles and pins of pain<br> + All pointed the same way;<br> +Parellel lines of pain<br> + When the lips are gray<br> + And know not what they say:<br> +Rain,<br> +Rain.</p> + +<p>But after the whirl of fright<br> + +And great shouts and flashes,<br> + +The pounding clashes<br> + +And deep slashes,<br> + +After the scattered ashes</p> + +<p>Of the night,<br> +Heaven's height<br> + Abashes<br> + With a gleam through unknown lashes<br> +Of delicious points of light.</p> + +<br> +<a name="191a"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>ANNE KNISH<br> +<i>Opus 191</i></p> + +<p>THE black bark of a dog<br> +Made patterns against the night.<br> +And little leaves flute-noted across the moon.</p> +<p> I seemed to feel your soft looks<br> +Steal across that quiet evening room<br> +Where once our souls spoke, long ago.</p> + +<p> For that was of a vastness;<br> +And this night is of a vastness . . .</p> +<p> There was a dog-bark then—<br> +It was the sound<br> +Of my rebellious and incredulous heart<br> +Its patterns twined about the stars<br> +And drew them down<br> +And devoured them.</p> + +<br> +<a name="45"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>EMANUEL MORGAN<br> +<i>Opus 45</i></p> + +<p>AN angel, bringing incense, prays<br> + Forever in that tree . . .<br> +I go blind still when the locust sways<br> + +Those honey-domes for me.</p> + +<p>All the fragrances of dew, O angel, are there,<br> +The myrrhic rapture of young hair,<br> + The lips of lust;<br> + And all the stenches of dust,<br> +Even the palm and the fingers of a hand burnt +bare<br> + With a curling sweet-smelling crust,<br> +And the bitter staleness of old hair,<br> + Powder on a withering bust . . .</p> + +<p>The moon came through the window to our bed.<br> + And the shadows of the locust-tree<br> + +On your white sweet body made of me,<br> + +Of my lips, a drunken bee. . . .<br> +O tree-like Spring, O blossoming days,<br> +I, who some day shall be dead,<br> + Shall have ever a lover to sway with me.<br> +For when my face decays<br> + And the earth moulds in my nostrils, shall there not be<br> + The breath therein of a locust-tree,<br> + +The seed, the shoot of a locust-tree,<br> + +The honey-domes of a locust-tree,<br> + +Till lovers go blind and sway with me?—</p> +<p>O tree-like Spring, O blossomy days,<br> +To sway as long as the locust sways!</p> + +<br> +<a name="14"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>EMANUEL MORGAN<br> +<i>Opus 14</i></p> + +<p>BESIDE the brink of dream<br> + +I had put out my willow-roots and leaves<br> +As by a stream<br> + Too narrow for the invading greaves<br> +Of Rome in her trireme . . .<br> + +Then you came—like a scream<br> +Of beeves.</p> + +<br> +<a name="80a"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>ANNE KNISH<br> +<i>Opus 80</i></p> + +<p>OH my little house of glass!<br> +How carefully<br> +I have planted shrubbery<br> +To plume before your transparency.<br> +Light is too amorous of you,<br> +Transfusing through and through<br> +Your panes with an effulgence never new.<br> +Sometimes<br> +I am terribly tempted<br> +To throw the stones myself.</p> + +<br> +<a name="1"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>EMANUEL MORGAN<br> +<i>Opus 1</i></p> + +<p>THEY enter with long trailing of shadowy cloth,<br> + And each with one hand praying in the air,<br> +And the softness of their garments is the grayness of a moth—<br> + +The lost and broken night-moth of despair.</p> + +<p>And they keep a wounded distance<br> + With following bare feet,<br> +A distance Isadoran—<br> + And the dark moons beat<br> +Their drums.</p> + +<p>More desolate than they are Isadora stands,<br> + +The blaze of the sun on her grief;<br> +The stars of a willow are in both her hands,<br> + +And her heart is the shape of a leaf.</p> + +<p>And they come to her for comfort<br> + +And her black-thrown hair<br> +Is a harp of consolation<br> +Singing anthems in the air.</p> + +<p>With the dark she wrestles, daring alone,<br> + Though their young arms would aid;<br> +Her body wreathes and brightens, never thrown,<br> + +Unvanquished, unafraid . . .</p> + +<p>Till light comes leaping<br> + On little children's feet,<br> +Comes leaping Isadoran—<br> + And the white stars beat<br> +Their drums.</p> + +<br> +<a name="195a"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>ANNE KNISH<br> +<i>Opus 195</i></p> + +<p>HER soul was freckled<br> +Like the bald head<br> +Of a jaundiced Jewish banker.<br> +Her fair and featurous face<br> +Writhed like<br> +An albino boa-constrictor.<br> +She thought she resembled the Mona Lisa.<br> +This demonstrates the futility of thinking.</p> + +<br> +<a name="6"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>EMANUEL MORGAN<br> +<i>Opus 6</i></p> + +<p>IF I were only dafter<br> + +I might be making hymns<br> +To the liquor of your laughter<br> + +And the lacquer of your limbs.</p> + +<p>But you turn across the table<br> + A telescope of eyes.<br> +And it lights a Russian sable<br> + Running circles in the skies. . . .</p> + +<p>Till I go running after,<br> + +Obeying all your whims—<br> +For the liquor of your laughter<br> + +And the lacquer of your limbs.</p> + +<br> +<a name="9"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>EMANUEL MORGAN<br> +<i>Opus 9</i></p> + +<p>WHEN frogs' legs on a plate are brought +to me<br> + As though I were divinity in France,<br> +I feel as God would feel were He to see<br> + +Imperial Russians dance.</p> + +<p>These people's thoughts and gestures and concerns<br> + Move like a Russian ballet made of eggs;<br> +A bright-smirched canvas heaven heaves and burns<br> + +Above their arms and legs.</p> + +<p>Society hops this way and that, well-taught;<br> + But while I watch, in cloudy state,<br> +I feel as God would feel if he were brought<br> + Frogs' legs on a plate.</p> + +<br> +<a name="187a"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>ANNE KNISH<br> +<i>Opus 187</i></p> + +<p>I DO not know very much,<br> +But I know this—<br> +That the storms of contempt that sweep over us,<br> +Ready to blast any edifice before then<br> +Rise from the fathomless maelstrom<br> +Of contempt for ourselves.<br> +If there be a god,<br> +May he preserve me<br> +From striking with these lightnings<br> +Those whom I love.</p> + +<p> Saying which,<br> +Zarathustra strolled on<br> +Down Fifth Avenue.</p> + +<p> The last three lines<br> +Are symptomatic.</p> + +<br> +<a name="104"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>EMANUEL MORGAN<br> +<i>Opus 104</i></p> + +<p>HOW terrible to entertain a lunatic!<br> +To keep his earnestness from coming close!</p> + +<p>A Madagascar land-crab once<br> +Lifted blue claws at me<br> +And rattled long black eyes<br> +That would have got me<br> +Had I not been gay.</p> + +<br> +<a name="182a"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>ANNE KNISH<br> +<i>Opus 182</i></p> + +<p>"HE'S the remnant of a suit that has been drowned;<br> +That's what decided me," said Clarice.<br> +"And so I married him,<br> +I really wanted a merman;<br> +And this slimy quality in him<br> +Won me.<br> +No one forbade the banns.<br> +Ergo—will you love me?"</p> + +<br> +<a name="101"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>EMANUEL MORGAN<br> +<i>Opus 101</i></p> + +<p>HE not only plays<br> +One note<br> +But holds another note<br> +Away from it—<br> +As a lover<br> +Lifts<br> +A waft of hair<br> +From loved eyes.</p> + +<p>The piano shivers,<br> +When he touches it,<br> +And the leg shines.</p> + +<br> +<a name="181a"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>ANNE KNISH<br> +<i>Opus 181</i></p> + +<p>SKEPTICAL cat,<br> +Calm your eyes, and come to me.<br> +For long ago, in some palmed forest,<br> +I too felt claws curling<br> +Within my fingers . . .<br> +Moons wax and wane;<br> +My eyes, too, once narrowed and widened<br> +Why do you shrink back?<br> +Come to me: let me pat you—<br> +Come, vast-eyed one . . .<br> +Or I will spring upon you<br> +And with steel-hook fingers<br> +Tear you limb from limb. . . .</p> + +<p>There were twins in my cradle. . . .</p> + +<br> +<a name="78"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>EMANUEL MORGAN<br> +<i>Opus 78</i></p> + +<p>I AM beset by liking so many people.<br> +What can I do but hide my face away?—<br> +Lest, looking up in love, I see no eyes or lids<br> +In the gleaming whirl of day,<br> +Lest, reaching for the fingers of love,<br> +I know not which are they,<br> +Lest the dear-lipped multitude,<br> +Kissing me, choke me dead!—</p> + +<p>O green eyes in the breakers,<br> +White heave unquieted,<br> +What can I do but dive again, again—again—<br> +To hide my head!</p> + +<br> +<a name="135a"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>ANNE KNISH<br> +<i>Opus 135</i></p> + +<p>IN a tomb of Argolis,<br> +Under an arch of great stones,<br> +Where my eyes were sightless, groping,<br> +I touched this figment of clay.</p> + +<p> Forgotten vase of immemorial Greece,<br> +Colorless form!<br> +I have entered to the blind dark<br> +Of the tomb where you have slept forever<br> +And with the dreams of my importunate hands<br> +I touch you in the profound darkness.</p> + +<p> You are cold and estranged;<br> +Yet the ends of my fingers cling to your porous surface.<br> +You are thin and very tall;<br> +My palm can cover your mouth.<br> +Your lip curves but a little;<br> +Around your throat<br> +My two hands meet,<br> +And then part as I follow the swelling<br> +Rhythm that downward widens,<br> +And I pass around and under,<br> +And the returning line<br> +Ebbs home.</p> + +<p>Beneath your feet I touch cold marble;<br> +My hand returns<br> +To sleep upon your breast<br> +Dreaming it warm.</p> + +<br> +<a name="79"></a> +<br> +<br> + +<p>EMANUEL MORGAN<br> +<i>Opus 79</i></p> + +<p>ONLY the wise can see me in the mist,<br> + +For only lovers know that I am here<br> +After his piping, shall the organist<br> + +Be portly and appear?</p> + +<p>Pew after pew,<br> + Wave after wave . . .<br> +Shall the digger dig and then undo<br> + His own dear grave?</p> + +<p>Hear me in the playing<br> + Of a big brass band . . .<br> +See me, straying<br> + With children hand in hand . . .</p> + +<p>Smell me, a dead fish . . .<br> + Taste me, a rotten tree. . . .<br> +Someday touch me, all you wish,<br> + In the wide sea.</p> + +<br> +<br> +<br> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Spectra, by Arthur Ficke and Witter Bynner + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SPECTRA *** + +***** This file should be named 26918-h.htm or 26918-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/6/9/1/26918/ + +Produced by Ruth Hart + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Spectra + A Book of Poetic Experiments + +Author: Arthur Ficke + Witter Bynner + +Release Date: October 14, 2008 [EBook #26918] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SPECTRA *** + + + + +Produced by Ruth Hart + + + + +SPECTRA + +A BOOK OF POETIC EXPERIMENTS + +BY + +ANNE KNISH +AND +EMANUEL MORGAN + + + +NEW YORK +MITCHELL KENNERLEY +1916 + + + +COPYRIGHT 1916 BY +MITCHELL KENNERLEY + +PRINTED IN AMERICA + + +CONTENTS + + PAGE +To Remy de Gourmont (Emanuel Morgan) vii +Preface (Anne Knish) ix + +SPECTRA BY EMANUEL MORGAN +OPUS PAGE +1 Drums 53 +2 Hope 14 +6 If I Were Only Dafter 56 +7 A Bunch of Grapes 8 +9 Frogs' Legs on a Plate 57 +13 A Peacock-Feather 11 +14 I Had Put Out My Leaves 51 +15 Despair Comes 6 +16 The Guillotine 20 +17 Needles and Pins 46 +29 Knives 31 +31 Thank God that We Can Laugh 27 +40 Two Cocktails Round a Smile 35 +41 Spectres 2 +45 The Locust-Tree 49 +46 No Other Angle 40 +47 Giver of Bribes in the Brightness of Morning 37 +55 The Impossible 43 +62 Three Little Creatures 16 +63 Spears 23 +78 I Am Beset 63 +79 Only Lovers 66 +101 The Piano 61 +104 Madagascar 59 + +SPECTRA BY ANNE KNISH +OPUS PAGE +1 The Seconds Bob By 41 +40 I Have not Written--That You May Read 26 +50 The Piano Lives in a Dusk 1 +67 I Would Not in the Early Morning 10 +76 Years Are Nothing 4 +80 Oh, My Little House of Glass 52 +88 So We Came Back Again 36 +96 You Are the Delphic Oracle 33 +118 If Bathing Were a Virtue 7 +122 Upstairs There Lies a Sodden Thing 39 +126 His Eyes 12 +131 I Am Weary 18 +134 Listen, My Friend 21 +135 In a Tomb of Argolis 64 +150 Sounds 29 +151 Candle, Candle 15 +181 Skeptical Cat 62 +182 He's the Remnant of a Suit 60 +187 I Do Not Know Very Much 58 +191 The Black Bark of a Dog 48 +195 Her Soul Was Freckled 55 +200 If I Should Enter to his Chamber 45 + + + +TO REMY DE GOURMONT + + POET, a wreath!-- +No matter how we had combined our flowers, +You would have worn them--being ours. . . . +On you, on them, the showers-- + O roots beneath! + EMANUEL MORGAN. + + + +PREFACE + +THIS volume is the first compilation of the recent experiments in +Spectra. It is the aim of the Spectric group to push the possibilities +of poetic expression into a new region,--to attain a fresh brilliance +of impression by a method not so wholly different from the +methods of Futurist Painting. + +An explanation of the term "Spectric" will indicate something of the +nature of the technique which it describes. "Spectric" has, in this +connection, three separate but closely related meanings. In the first +place, it speaks, to the mind, of that process of diffraction by +which are disarticulated the several colored and other rays of which +light is composed. It indicates our feeling that the theme of a +poem is to be regarded as a prism, upon which the colorless white +light of infinite existence falls and is broken up into glowing, +beautiful, and intelligible hues. In its second sense, the term +Spectric relates to the reflex vibrations of physical sight, and +suggests the luminous appearance which is seen after exposure of +the eye to intense light, and, by analogy, the after-colors of +the poet's initial vision. In its third sense, Spectric connotes +the overtones, adumbrations, or spectres which for the poet haunt +all objects both of the seen and the unseen world,--those +shadowy projections, sometimes grotesque, which, hovering around the +real, give to the real its full ideal significance and its poetic +worth. These spectres are the manifold spell and true essence of +objects,--like the magic that would inevitably encircle a mirror from +the hand of Helen of Troy. + +Just as the colors of the rainbow recombine into a white light,--just +as the reflex of the eye's picture vividly haunts sleep,--just as +the ghosts which surround reality are the vital part of that +existence,--so may the Spectric vision, if successful, synthesize, +prolong, and at the same time multiply the emotional images of +the reader. The rays which the poet has dissociated into colorful +beauty should recombine in the reader's brain into a new intensity +of unified brilliance. The reflex of the poet's sight should sustain +the original perception with a haunting keenness. The insubstantiality +of the poet's spectres should touch with a tremulous vibrancy of +ultimate fact the reader's sense of the immediate theme. + +If the Spectrist wishes to describe a landscape, he will not +attempt a map, but will put down those winged emotions, those +fantastic analogies, which the real scene awakens in his own mind. +In practice this will be found to be the vividest of all modes of +communication, as the touch of hands quickens a mere exchange of names. + +It may be noted that to Spectra, to these reflected experiences of +life, as we perceive them, adheres often a tinge of humor. Occidental +art, in contrast to art in the Orient, has until lately been afraid +of the flash of humor in its serious works. But a growing acquaintance +with Chinese painting is surely liberating in our poets and painters +a happy sense of the disproportion of man to his assumed place in +the universe, a sense of the tortuous grotesque vanity of the +individual. By this weapon, man helps defend his intuition of the +Absolute and of his own obscure but real relation to it. + +The Spectric method is as yet in its infancy; and the poems that +follow are only experimental efforts toward the desired end. Among +them, the most obvious illustrations of the method are perhaps _Opus +41_ by Emanuel Morgan and _Opus 76_ by Anne Knish. + +Emanuel Morgan, with whom the Spectric theory originated, has +found the best expression of his genius in regular metrical forms +and rhyme. Anne Knish, on the other hand, has used only free +verse. We wish to make it clear that the Spectric manner does +hot necessitate the employment of either of these metrical systems +to the exclusion of the other. + +Although the members of our group would by no means attempt to +establish a claim as actual inventors of the Spectric method, +yet we can justifiably say that we have for the first time +used the method consciously and consistently, and formulated +its possibilities by means of elaborate experiment. Among +recent poets in English, we have noted few who can be regarded +in a sure sense as Spectrists. + ANNE KNISH. + + + +ANNE KNISH +_Opus 50_ + +THE piano lives in a dusk +Where rich amber lights +Quiver obscurely. + + It exists only at twilight; +And somewhere afar +In the depths of a tropic forest +The sun is now setting, and the phoenix looks +Mysteriously toward the gold. + + I think I must have been born in such a forest, +Or in the tangle of a Chinese screen. + + There is indigo in this music; +This dusk is filled with amber lights; +Through the tangled evening of heavy flower-scents +Come footfalls +That surely I can almost remember. + + + +EMANUEL MORGAN +_Opus 41_ + +SPECTRES came dancing up the wind, + Trailing down the long grass, +Shooting high, undisciplined, + To join the sun and see you pass . . . + The colors of the pointed glass. + +Under a willow-maze you went + Unsaddened . . . But a violet beam +Fell on the white face, backward bent, + Of a body in a stream. + +Into the sun you came again, + With sun-red light your feet were shod . . . +And round you stood a ring of feathered men + With naked arms acknowledging a god. + +Indigo-birds and squirrels on a tree + And orioles flashed in and out . . . +The yellow outline of Eurydice + Waited for Orpheus in a black redoubt + +With a beaded fern you waved away a gnat . . . + And maidens, hung with vivid beads of green, +One of them bearing in her arms an orange cat, + Held palms about a queen. + +Then you were lost to sight + And locking trees became the clouds of you, +Till you emerged, the moon upon your shoulder, and the night + Bloomed blue. + + + +ANNE KNISH +_Opus 76_ + +YEARS are nothing; +Days alone count; +These, and the nights. +I have seen the grey stars marching, +And the green bubbles in wine, +And there are Gothic vaults of sleep. + + My cathedral +Has one great spire +Tawny in the sunlight. +Gargoyles haunt its nave; +High up amid its dark-arches +Forgotten songs live shadowy. +Gold and sardonyx +Deck its altars. +Its mighty roof +Is copper rivering with the rain. + + Tomorrow lightning swords will come +And thunder of cannon. +They will unrivet this roof +Of mighty copper. +Before the eyes of my gargoyles, +In the sound of my forgotten songs, +They will take it. +And as the rain sluices down +I shall have to follow my roof into the war. + + + +EMANUEL MORGAN +_Opus 15_ + +DESPAIR comes when all comedy + Is tame +And there is left no tragedy + In any name, +When die round and wounded breathing + Of love upon the breast +Is not so glad a sheathing + As an old brown vest. + +Asparagus is feathery and tall, +And the hose lies rotting by the garden-wall. + + + +ANNE KNISH +_Opus 118_ + +IF bathing were a virtue, not a lust, +I would be dirtiest. + + To some, housecleaning is a holy rite. +For myself, houses would be empty +But for the golden motes dancing in sunbeams. + + Tax-assessors frequently overlook valuables. +Today they noted my jade. +But my memory of you escaped them. + + + +EMANUEL MORGAN +_Opus 7_ + +BEYOND her lips in the dark are a man's feet + Composed and dead . . . +In the light between her lips is a moving tongue-rip sweet, + Red. + +Her arms are his white robes, + They cover a king, +His ornaments her crescent lobes + And two moons on a string. + +Sheba, Sheba, Proserpina, Salome, + See, I am come!--king, god, saint!-- +With the stone of a volcano O show that you know me, + Pound till the true blood pricks through the paint! + +Twitch of the dead man's feet if he remembers + A bunch of grapes and a ripped-open gown.-- +And the live man's eyes are night after embers, + Two black spots on a white-faced down . . . + +And in the dawn, lava . . . rolling down . . . +Down-rolling lava on an up-pointing town. + + + +ANNE KNISH +_Opus 67_ + +I WOULD not in the early morning +Start my mind on its inevitable journey +Toward the East. +There are white domes somewhere +Under that blue enameled sky, white domes, white domes; +Therefore even the cream +Is safest yellow. +Cream is better than lemon +In tea at breakfast +I think of tigers as eating lemons. +Thank God this tea comes from the green grocer, +Not from Ceylon. + + + +EMANUEL MORGAN +_Opus 13_ + +O PEACOCK-FEATHER + Drawn through a death-dim hole, +With colors blurred together, + Persian pattern of a soul-- + +Is it enough to have belonged + To the exaltation of a bird +Round whom they thronged + Each time her high tail stirred? + +. . . I loved a woman whose two eyes, + One blue, one gray, + Would block +Like cliffs my foothold in the skies . . . + She is dead, they say-- + Dead as a peacock. + + + +ANNE KNISH +_Opus 126_ + +HIS eyes +Are the resurrection. +Once when beneath the moonrise +They looked into mine, +Grey mists held mastery between us, +And I knew that his soul +Had gone down into death. +But tonight a golden star-dust +Is pouring through space, +And the mist is burned away by it. +Tonight his soul awakens +Out of its splendid cerements, +And through his eyes the miracle +Arises to the earth. + + I have prayed long beside the tomb +And touched the grave-cloths +With living fingers. +I have lain my breasts +Against the granite +Of the sarcophagus +Where he was. +Prayers for the dead I offered up +And hecatombs. + + Today there was a wonder in the sunrise. +I knew that there were glories in the sky +And new branches of willow on the earth. +And my soul trembled with prophecy. + + I prophesied +The resurrection. +Now it has come. +And I lie shaken +Before its tumult. + + + +EMANUEL MORGAN +_Opus 2_ + +HOPE +Is the antelope +Over the hills; +Fear +Is the wounded deer +Bleeding in rills; +Care +Is the heavy bear +Tearing at meat; +Fun +Is the mastodon +Vanished complete . . . + +And I am the stag with the golden horn +Waiting till my day is born. + + + +ANNE KNISH +_Opus 151_ + +CANDLE, candle, + Flicker and flow-- +I knew you once-- + But it was not long ago, + it was + +Last night. +And you spoiled my otherwise bright + evening. + + + +EMANUEL MORGAN +_Opus 62_ + +THREE little creatures gloomed across the floor + And stood profound in front of me, +And one was Faith, and one was Hope, + And one was Charity. + +Faith looked for what it could not find, + Hope looked for what was lost, +(Love looked and looked but Love was blind), + Charity's eyes were crossed. + +Then with a leap a single shape, + With beauty on its chin, +Brandished a little screaming ape . . . + And each one, like a pin, + +Fell to a pattern on the rug + As flat as they could be-- +And died there comfortable and snug, + Faith, Hope and Charity. + +That shape, it was my shining soul + Bludgeoning every sham . . . +O little ape, be glad that I + Can be the thing I am! + + + +ANNE KNISH +_Opus 131_ + +I AM weary of salmon dawns +And of cinnamon sunsets; +Silver-grey and iron-grey +Of winter dusk and morn +Torture me; and in the amethystine shadows +Of snow, and in the mauve of curving clouds +Some poison has dwelling. + + Ivory on a fan of Venice, +Black-pearl of a bowl of Japan, +Prismatic lustres of Phoenician glass, +Fawn-tinged embroideries from looms of Bagdad, +The green of ancient bronze, cinereous tinge +Of iron gods,-- +These, and the saffron of old cerements, +Violet wine, +Zebra-striped onyx, +Are to me like the narrow walls of home +To the land-locked sailor. + + I must have fire-brands! +I must have leaves! +I must have sea-deeps! + + + +EMANUEL MORGAN +_Opus 16_ + +DEATH on a cross was not the blade + In Mary's heart . . . +For the mother of man and the son of the maid + Had walked one night apart, +When his beard was not yet grown--and, afraid, + She had seen his young words dart. + +Between a mother and a son, + The guillotine . . . +It falls, it falls, and one by one, + Unseeing and unseen, +They face the great sharp shining ton + That time has eaten green. + +Between the shoulder and the head + The guillotine must play +And cleave with clash unmerited + The generating day . . . +Till the separated parts, not dead, + Rise and walk away. + + + +ANNE KNISH +_Opus 134_ + +LISTEN, my friend, +That you may understand me.-- + + In my earliest youth +I dreamed in hues volcanic. +I saw each day open +Like a curtain of flame. +Black slaves attended +My waking moments; +Three ebony slaves +Washed sleep from my white body. +Three ebony slaves +Around my ivory smoothness +Folded heavy robes +Of crimson and white. +And as I issued forth +Into the blue vault of the daylight +A grey ape pranced before me +And a leopard crept behind. + + This was the state +Of my young heritage. +Scarlet as the voice of trumpets +Was the pageant of my days. +Can I accept now +The twilight? +And soon the dark, where all colors +Die? + + Before I die, I will hold one last revel! +I will have golden cups and poppy curtains!-- +And yet-- + + No! . . . In a black hall +The black table shall spread far down before me +And all the feasters garbed in black. +Then, at the feast's height, I arising +Shall with a gesture like the midnight +Throw back my midnight robe and suddenly stand +Naked, the sole white flame of the world. + + + +EMANUEL MORGAN +_Opus 63_ + +THE seven deathly spears of memory +Setting behind a god, a golden glorious +Halo of land and sea +Even for you and me, + Even for us . . . + + The spear of Egypt, +Orange, +Through the sleeping lid, +With all the power of the bulk of a pyramid. + + The spear of Chile, +Yellow, +Through the thrilling cheek, +With all the push of an upturned Andean peak. + + The spear of Thibet, +Violet, +Through the eager hand, +The thrust of the iron of a silent land. + + The spear of the Ice-Poles, +Green, +Through the warm-breathing breast, +The glacial east and the glacial west + + The spear of Norway, +Blue, +Through the curved arm-pit, +The cheerless sun majestic in a jagged slit. + + The spear of India, +Indigo, +Through the holy side, +A heaven-touching temple-roof down a mountain-slide. + + The spear of Europe, +Red, +In the mouth's breath, +The million-splintering scream of death . . . + + Even to us, +The seven-spearing sun, +The sword of separation before our love is done; + Even for us, +A simian shape +Throwing seven souls on the sea-wet cape; + Even for us +Who smile mouth to mouth, +The full tornado from the seven-forked south; + Even to us +Who clasp with our knees, +The scattering upheaval of the seven cold seas! + + And this is as near as lovers ever come, +Their words are dumb; +This is as near as they have ever kissed, +Their lips are ocean-mist. + + Yet what avail the seven +Spears of memory +Against the obstinate archery +Of light, the spears of heaven? + + + +ANNE KNISH +_Opus 40_ + +I HAVE not written, reader, +That you may read. . . . +They sit in rows in the bare school-room +Reading. +Throwing rocks at windows is better, +And oh the tortoise-shell cat with the can tied on! +I would rather be a can-tier +Than a writer for readers. + + I have written, reader, +For abstruse reasons. +Gold in the mine . . . +Black water seeping into tunnels . . . +A plank breaks, and the roof falls . . . +Three men suffocated. +The wife of one now works in a laundry; +The wife of another has married a fat man; +I forget about the third. + + + +EMANUEL MORGAN +_Opus 31_ + +THE night is growing deep with snow + O put your hand in mine, +While the mirthful secrets that we know + Bloom in the fire-shine-- +Flakes falling with an undertow + Of delicate design. + +Hushed are the courts where ladies went + Unquestioning to quaff +Goblets of liquid firmament-- + Thank God that we can laugh! + +Hushed are the plains where Asia poured + The blood of peacock kings-- +But we can echo, thank the Lord, + What the China teapot sings: + + Nothing bereaves + The eternal tune + Of little crisp leaves + Green in the moon. + +The night is deeper still with snow . . . + O let us never stir +From the mirthful secrets that we know + Of old diameter! +Eve laughed at Adam long ago, + And Adam laughed at her. + + + +ANNE KNISH +_Opus 150_ + +SOUNDS, pure sounds-- +Nothing-- +Vibrancies of the air-- +And yet-- + + This summer night +There are crickets shrilling +Beyond the deep bassoon of frogs. +They cease for a moment +As the rattling clangor +Of the trolley +Bumps by. +I hear footsteps +Hollow on the pavement +Now deserted +And blank of sound. +They die. +The crickets now are sleeping; +Even the leaves +Grow still. + + And slowly +Out of the blankness, out of the silence +Emerges on soundless wings! +The long sweet-sloping +Rise and fall of far viol notes,-- +The mad Nirvana, +The faint and spectral +Dream-music +Of my heart's desire. + + + +EMANUEL MORGAN +_Opus 29_ + +KNIVES for feet, and wheels for a chin, +And the long smooth iron bore for a neck, +And bullets for hands. . . . And the root runs in, +The root of blood no stone can check, +From the breasts of the grinding crash of sin, +From engines hugging in a wreck. + +A thousand round-red mouths of pain +Blaring black, +A twisting comrade on his back +In a round-red stain, +Clotted stalks of red sumac, +Discs of the sun on a bayonet-stack . . . + +Blood, flame, a cataract +Thrown upward from a desert place: +Flame and blood, the one blind fact, +Contained, or spouting from the face, +Or coiling out of bellies, packed +In a stinking spent embrace . . . + +Country, a babble of black spume . . . +Faith, an eyeball in the sand . . . +Mother, a nail through a broken hand-- +A kissing fume-- +And out of her breast the bloody bubbling milk-red breath +Of death. + + + +ANNE KNISH +_Opus 96_ + +YOU are the Delphic Oracle +Of the Under-World. + + As we sit talking, +All of us together, +You flash forth sudden utterance +Of buried things +That writhe in obscure life +Within our minds' last darkness. +That which we think and say not +You say and think not. +In us these thoughts +Like worms stir vilely. +But from you they depart as sudden butterflies +Crimson and green against the pure sky. + + Many are the revelers; +Few are the thyrsus-bearers; +And sole is Dionysus. + + This I inscribe to you, +Singer, +In memory of the crags of Delphi +And the Thessalian vales beyond. + + + +EMANUEL MORGAN +_Opus 40_ + +TWO cocktails round a smile, + A grapefruit after grace, +Flowers in an aisle + . . . Were your face. + +A strap in a street-car, + A sea-fan on the sand, +A beer on a bar + . . . Were your hand + +The pillar of a porch, + The tapering of an egg, +The pine of a torch + . . . Were your leg.-- + +Sun on the Hellespont, + White swimmers in the bowl +Of the baptismal font + Are your soul. + + + +ANNE KNISH +_Opus 88_ + +SO we came back again +After some years-- +Just revisiting +The scenes of our sin. +Nothing is there but the garden; +And we had expected +That we would be there. + + I heard a wind blowing +Down the sky. +It came with heavy auguries +And passed. +There was a soothsayer once in Rome +Who on a white altar +Inspected the purple entrails of victims. + + + +EMANUEL MORGAN +_Opus 47_ + +GIVER of bribes in the brightness of morning, + Cities have wavered and rocked and gone down . . . +But the lamps of the altars hang round you, adorning + The niche of your neck and the drift of your gown. + +O bribe-giver, marked with purple metal-- + Cut in your naked contentment there shows +On the curve of your breast one carven petal + From heaven's impenetrable rose! + +You open the window to myriad windows, + The high triangular door of the world . . . +Till the walls and the roofs and the curious keystone, + The carven rose with its petals uncurled, + +Are swayed in the swathe of the uppermost ether, + Where stars are the columns upholding a dome, +And the edifice rolls on a corner of ocean, + Lifts on a wave, poises on foam . . . + +We stand on the rose, we are images golden, + We move interchanging, attaining one crest: +One chin and one mouth and one nose and one forehead, + One mouth and one chin and one neck and one breast . . . + +I pull you apart from me, struggle to bind you, + I free you, I rend you in seven great rays . . . +And we cling to them all . . . but we lose them, and slowly-- + We slip with the rainbow down the blue bays. + + + +ANNE KNISH +_Opus 122_ + +UPSTAIRS there lies a sodden thing +Sleeping. +Soon it will come down +And drink coffee. +I shall have to smile at it across the table. +How can I? +For I know that at this moment +It sleeps without a sign of life; it is as good as dead. +I will not consort with reformed corpses, +I the life-lover, I the abundant. +I have known living only; +I will not acknowledge kinship with death. +White graves or black, linen or porphyry, +Are all one to me. +And yet, on the Lybian plains +Where dust is blown, +A king once +Built of baked clay and bulls of bronze +A tomb that makes me waver. + + + +EMANUEL MORGAN +_Opus 46_ + +I ONLY know that you are given me + For my delight. +No other angle finishes my soul + But you, you white. + +I know that I am given you, + Black whirl to white, +To lift the seven colors up . . . + Focus of light! + + + +ANNE KNISH +_Opus 1_ + +REITERATION! . . . + +The seconds bob by, +So many, so many, +Each ugly in its own way +As raw meats are all ugly. +Why do we feed on the dead? +Or would at least it were with cries and lust +Of slaying our human food +Beneath a cannibal sun! +But these old corpses of alien creatures! . . . +I loathe them! +And too many heads go by the window, +All alien-- +Filers of saws, doubtless, +Or lechers +Or Sabbath-keepers. +Morality comes from God. +He was busy. +He forgot to make beauty. +Why does he not call back into their hen-house +This ugly straggling flock of seconds +That trail by +With pin-feathers showing? + + + +EMANUEL MORGAN +_Opus 55_ + +WHY ask it of me?--the impossible!-- + Shall I pick up the lightning in my hand? +Have I not given homages too well + For words to understand?-- + +Words take you from me, bring you back again, + Dance in our presence, cover your proud face +With the incredible counterpane, + Break our embrace . . . + +No, not to you + Your wish, +But to some kangaroo + Or cuttle-fish + +Or octopus or eagle or tarantula + Or elephant or dove +Or some peninsula + Let me speak love-- + +Or call some battle or some temple-bell + Or many-curving pine +Or some cool truth-containing well + Or thin cathedral--mine! + + + +ANNE KNISH +_Opus 200_ + +IF I should enter to his chamber +And suddenly touch him, +Would he fade to a thin mist, +Or glow into a fire-ball, +Or burst like a punctured light-globe? +It is impossible that he would merely yawn and rub +And say--"What is it?" + + + +EMANUEL MORGAN +_Opus 17_ + +MAN-THUNDER, woman-lightning, + Rumble, gleam; +Refusal, + Scream. + +Needles and pins of pain + All pointed the same way; +Parellel lines of pain + When the lips are gray + And know not what they say: +Rain, +Rain. + +But after the whirl of fright + And great shouts and flashes, + The pounding clashes + And deep slashes, + After the scattered ashes + +Of the night, +Heaven's height + Abashes + With a gleam through unknown lashes +Of delicious points of light. + + + +ANNE KNISH +_Opus 191_ + +THE black bark of a dog +Made patterns against the night. +And little leaves flute-noted across the moon. + + I seemed to feel your soft looks +Steal across that quiet evening room +Where once our souls spoke, long ago. + + For that was of a vastness; +And this night is of a vastness . . . + + There was a dog-bark then-- +It was the sound +Of my rebellious and incredulous heart +Its patterns twined about the stars +And drew them down +And devoured them. + + + +EMANUEL MORGAN +_Opus 45_ + +AN angel, bringing incense, prays + Forever in that tree . . . +I go blind still when the locust sways + Those honey-domes for me. + +All the fragrances of dew, O angel, are there, +The myrrhic rapture of young hair, + The lips of lust; + And all the stenches of dust, +Even the palm and the fingers of a hand burnt bare + With a curling sweet-smelling crust, +And the bitter staleness of old hair, + Powder on a withering bust . . . + +The moon came through the window to our bed. + And the shadows of the locust-tree + On your white sweet body made of me, + Of my lips, a drunken bee. . . . +O tree-like Spring, O blossoming days, +I, who some day shall be dead, + Shall have ever a lover to sway with me. +For when my face decays + And the earth moulds in my nostrils, shall there not be + The breath therein of a locust-tree, + The seed, the shoot of a locust-tree, + The honey-domes of a locust-tree, + Till lovers go blind and sway with me?-- + +O tree-like Spring, O blossomy days, +To sway as long as the locust sways! + + + +EMANUEL MORGAN +_Opus 14_ + +BESIDE the brink of dream + I had put out my willow-roots and leaves +As by a stream + Too narrow for the invading greaves +Of Rome in her trireme . . . + Then you came--like a scream +Of beeves. + + + +ANNE KNISH +_Opus 80_ + +OH my little house of glass! +How carefully +I have planted shrubbery +To plume before your transparency. +Light is too amorous of you, +Transfusing through and through +Your panes with an effulgence never new. +Sometimes +I am terribly tempted +To throw the stones myself. + + + +EMANUEL MORGAN +_Opus 1_ + +THEY enter with long trailing of shadowy cloth, + And each with one hand praying in the air, +And the softness of their garments is the grayness of a moth-- + The lost and broken night-moth of despair. + +And they keep a wounded distance + With following bare feet, +A distance Isadoran-- + And the dark moons beat +Their drums. + +More desolate than they are Isadora stands, + The blaze of the sun on her grief; +The stars of a willow are in both her hands, + And her heart is the shape of a leaf. + +And they come to her for comfort + And her black-thrown hair +Is a harp of consolation +Singing anthems in the air. + +With the dark she wrestles, daring alone, + Though their young arms would aid; +Her body wreathes and brightens, never thrown, + Unvanquished, unafraid . . . + +Till light comes leaping + On little children's feet, +Comes leaping Isadoran-- + And the white stars beat +Their drums. + + + +ANNE KNISH +_Opus 195_ + +HER soul was freckled +Like the bald head +Of a jaundiced Jewish banker. +Her fair and featurous face +Writhed like +An albino boa-constrictor. +She thought she resembled the Mona Lisa. +This demonstrates the futility of thinking. + + + +EMANUEL MORGAN +_Opus 6_ + +IF I were only dafter + I might be making hymns +To the liquor of your laughter + And the lacquer of your limbs. + +But you turn across the table + A telescope of eyes. +And it lights a Russian sable + Running circles in the skies. . . . + +Till I go running after, + Obeying all your whims-- +For the liquor of your laughter + And the lacquer of your limbs. + + + +EMANUEL MORGAN +_Opus 9_ + +WHEN frogs' legs on a plate are brought to me + As though I were divinity in France, +I feel as God would feel were He to see + Imperial Russians dance. + +These people's thoughts and gestures and concerns + Move like a Russian ballet made of eggs; +A bright-smirched canvas heaven heaves and burns + Above their arms and legs. + +Society hops this way and that, well-taught; + But while I watch, in cloudy state, +I feel as God would feel if he were brought + Frogs' legs on a plate. + + + +ANNE KNISH +_Opus 187_ + +I DO not know very much, +But I know this-- +That the storms of contempt that sweep over us, +Ready to blast any edifice before then +Rise from the fathomless maelstrom +Of contempt for ourselves. +If there be a god, +May he preserve me +From striking with these lightnings +Those whom I love. + + Saying which, +Zarathustra strolled on +Down Fifth Avenue. + + The last three lines +Are symptomatic. + + + +EMANUEL MORGAN +_Opus 104_ + +HOW terrible to entertain a lunatic! +To keep his earnestness from coming close! + +A Madagascar land-crab once +Lifted blue claws at me +And rattled long black eyes +That would have got me +Had I not been gay. + + + +ANNE KNISH +_Opus 182_ + +"HE'S the remnant of a suit that has been drowned; +That's what decided me," said Clarice. +"And so I married him, +I really wanted a merman; +And this slimy quality in him +Won me. +No one forbade the banns. +Ergo--will you love me?" + + + +EMANUEL MORGAN +_Opus 101_ + +HE not only plays +One note +But holds another note +Away from it-- +As a lover +Lifts +A waft of hair +From loved eyes. + +The piano shivers, +When he touches it, +And the leg shines. + + + +ANNE KNISH +_Opus 181_ + +SKEPTICAL cat, +Calm your eyes, and come to me. +For long ago, in some palmed forest, +I too felt claws curling +Within my fingers . . . +Moons wax and wane; +My eyes, too, once narrowed and widened +Why do you shrink back? +Come to me: let me pat you-- +Come, vast-eyed one . . . +Or I will spring upon you +And with steel-hook fingers +Tear you limb from limb. . . . + +There were twins in my cradle. . . . + + + +EMANUEL MORGAN +_Opus 78_ + +I AM beset by liking so many people. +What can I do but hide my face away?-- +Lest, looking up in love, I see no eyes or lids +In the gleaming whirl of day, +Lest, reaching for the fingers of love, +I know not which are they, +Lest the dear-lipped multitude, +Kissing me, choke me dead!-- + +O green eyes in the breakers, +White heave unquieted, +What can I do but dive again, again--again-- +To hide my head! + + + +ANNE KNISH +_Opus 135_ + +IN a tomb of Argolis, +Under an arch of great stones, +Where my eyes were sightless, groping, +I touched this figment of clay. + + Forgotten vase of immemorial Greece, +Colorless form! +I have entered to the blind dark +Of the tomb where you have slept forever +And with the dreams of my importunate hands +I touch you in the profound darkness. + + You are cold and estranged; +Yet the ends of my fingers cling to your porous surface. +You are thin and very tall; +My palm can cover your mouth. +Your lip curves but a little; +Around your throat +My two hands meet, +And then part as I follow the swelling +Rhythm that downward widens, +And I pass around and under, +And the returning line +Ebbs home. + +Beneath your feet I touch cold marble; +My hand returns +To sleep upon your breast +Dreaming it warm. + + + +EMANUEL MORGAN +_Opus 79_ + +ONLY the wise can see me in the mist, + For only lovers know that I am here +After his piping, shall the organist + Be portly and appear? + +Pew after pew, + Wave after wave . . . +Shall the digger dig and then undo + His own dear grave? + +Hear me in the playing + Of a big brass band . . . +See me, straying + With children hand in hand . . . + +Smell me, a dead fish . . . + Taste me, a rotten tree. . . . +Someday touch me, all you wish, + In the wide sea. + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Spectra, by Arthur Ficke and Witter Bynner + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SPECTRA *** + +***** This file should be named 26918.txt or 26918.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/6/9/1/26918/ + +Produced by Ruth Hart + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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