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diff --git a/old/60252-0.txt b/old/60252-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index f4ea572..0000000 --- a/old/60252-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,1988 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Advice, by Mawell Bodenheim - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you'll -have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using -this ebook. - - - -Title: Advice - A Book of Poems - -Author: Mawell Bodenheim - -Release Date: September 7, 2019 [EBook #60252] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ADVICE *** - - - - -Produced by Tim Lindell, David E. Brown, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - - - - -ADVICE - - - - -_NEW POETRY_ - -_FALL, 1920_ - - OCTOBER - _By Robert Bridges_ - - THE FORERUNNER - _By Kahlil Gibran_ - - WORDSWORTH: AN ANTHOLOGY - _By R. Cobden-Sanderson_ - - ADVICE - _By Maxwell Bodenheim_ - - - - - ADVICE - - A BOOK OF POEMS - - By MAXWELL BODENHEIM - - [Illustration] - - NEW YORK - ALFRED·A·KNOPF - 1920 - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY - ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC. - - - PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA - - - - - TO - MINNA - WHOSE SMILE IS MY THRONE - - - - -Some of the poems which compose this book have appeared in the _Yale -Review_, the _Smart Set_, the _New Republic_, _Reedy’s Mirror_, the -_Dial_, the _Touchstone_, the _Little Review_, _Poetry: A Magazine of -Verse_, the _Century_, and the _New York Tribune_. They are good, in -spite of their numerous appearances. - - - - -CONTENTS - - - ADVICE TO A STREET-PAVEMENT 13 - - ADVICE TO A BUTTER-CUP 14 - - ADVICE TO A RIVER STEAMBOAT 15 - - FOUNDRY WORKERS 16 - - ADVICE TO A HORNÈD TOAD 18 - - ADVICE TO A FOREST 19 - - RATTLESNAKE MOUNTAIN FABLE I 21 - - ADVICE TO A BLUEBIRD 23 - - TO A FRIEND 24 - - ADVICE TO A WOMAN 25 - - RATTLESNAKE MOUNTAIN FABLE II 26 - - ADVICE TO A BUTTERFLY 28 - - ADVICE TO A POOL 29 - - WHEN FOOLS DISPUTE 30 - - ADVICE TO A GRASS-BLADE 31 - - EAST-SIDE: NEW YORK 32 - - TO A MAN 33 - - THE CHILD MEDITATES 34 - - PIERROT OBJECTS 36 - - COLUMBINE REFLECTS 37 - - RATTLE SNAKE MOUNTAIN DIALOGUE 38 - - DIALOGUE BETWEEN A PAST AND PRESENT POET 41 - - SMILES 43 - - THE COURTESAN CHATS 45 - - THE MOUNTEBANK CRITICIZES 47 - - TO LI T’AI PO 49 - - INSANITY 51 - - TRACK-WORKERS 53 - - FIGURE 55 - - NEGROES 56 - - BROADWAY 58 - - FIFTH AVENUE 60 - - YOUNG WOMAN 62 - - TWO WOMEN ON A STREET 64 - - ADVICE TO MAPLE TREES 66 - - BOARDING HOUSE EPISODE 67 - - VAUDEVILLE MOMENT 70 - - TO ORRICK JOHNS 72 - - YOUNG POET 73 - - STEEL MILLS: SOUTH CHICAGO 74 - - SOUTH STATE STREET: CHICAGO 81 - - - - -ADVICE - - - - -ADVICE TO A STREET-PAVEMENT - - - Lacerated grey has bitten - Into your shapeless humility. - Little episodes of roving - Strew their hieroglyphics on your muteness. - Life has given you heavy stains - Like an ointment growing stale. - Endless feet tap over you - With a maniac insistence. - - O unresisting street-pavement, - Keep your passive insolence - At the dwarfs who scorn you with their feet. - Only one who lies upon his back - Can disregard the stars. - - - - -ADVICE TO A BUTTER-CUP - - - Undistinguished butter-cup - Lost among myriads of others, - To the red ant eyeing you - You are giant stillness. - He pauses on the boulder of a clod, - Baffled by your nearness to the sky. - But to the black loam at your feet - You are the atom of a pent-up dream. - - Undistinguished butter-cup, - Take your little breath of contemplation, - Undisturbed by haughty tricks of space. - - - - -ADVICE TO A RIVER STEAM-BOAT - - - The brass band plays upon your decks, - Like a sturdy harlot aping mirth, - And people in starched shields - Stuff their passions with sweet words, - Life is swishing in the air, - Like a tipsy, unseen bridegroom. - - O humbly grunting river boat, - Take the churning water and the sun - Like one who plays with his own chains - And flings their turmoil to the sky. - Only a voice can leap above high walls. - - - - -FOUNDRY WORKERS - - - Brown faces twisted back - Into an ecstasy of tight resistance; - Eyes that are huge sweat drops - Unheeded by the struggle underneath them-- - Throughout the night you stagger under walls - Where life is squeezed to squealing bitterness. - Beneath your heaving flash of limbs - Your thoughts are smashed to a dejected trance - And you are swept, like empty mites, - Into a glistening frenzy of motion.... - Yet, on a Sunday afternoon - I have seen you straightening your backs with slow smiles; - Walking through the streets - And patiently groping for lost outlines. - Your lips were placid bruises - Almost fearing to relax, - And often out upon some green - Your legs swung themselves into long lost shapes. - - Perhaps upon your death-beds - You will lift your hands, with a wraith of grace, - Showing life a last, weak curve - Of the rhythm he could not kill. - - - - -ADVICE TO A HORNÈD TOAD - - - Hornèd Toad of cloven brown, - Rock souls have dwindled to your eyes - And thrown a splintered end upon your blood. - Night and day have vanished - To you, who squat and watch - Years loosen one sand grain until - Its fall becomes your moment. - Tall things plunge over you, - Slashing their dreams with motion - That holds the death of all they seek, - But you, to whom fierce winds are ripples, - Do not move lest you lose the taste of stillness. - - Hornèd Toad of cloven brown, - Never hop from your grey rock crevice - Mute with interwoven beginnings and ends. - The fluid lies of motion - Leave no remembrance behind. - - - - -ADVICE TO A FOREST - - - O trees, to whom the darkness is a child - Scampering in and out of your long, green beards; - O trees, to whom sunlight is a tattered pilgrim - Counting his dreams within your hermitage - And slipping down the road, in twilight robes; - O trees, whose leaves make an incense of sound - Reeling with the beat of your caught feet, - Do not mingle your tips in startled hatred, - When little men come to fell you. - These men will saw you into strips - Of pointed brooding, blind with paint, - But underneath you men will chase - The grey staccato of their lives - Down a glaring maze of walls - Much harder than your own. - And when, at last, the deep brown gaze - Of stolidly amorous time steals over you, - The little men who bit into your hearts - Will stray off in a patter of rabbits’ feet. - Look down upon these children then - With the aloof and weary tolerance - That all still things possess, - O trees, to whom the darkness was a child - Scampering in and out of your long, green beards. - - - - -RATTLESNAKE MOUNTAIN FABLE I - - - Rounded to a wide eyed clownishness - Crowned by the shifting bravado - Of his long, brown ears, - The rabbit peeked at the sky. - To him, the sky seemed an angelic - Pasture stripped to phantom tranquility, - Where one could nibble thoughtfully. - He longed to leave his mild furtiveness - And speak to a boldness puzzled by his flesh. - With one long circle of despairing grace - He flashed into the air, - Leaping toward his heaven. - But down he crashed against a snake - Who ate him with a meditative interest. - From that day on the snake was filled - With little, meek whispers of concern. - The crushed and peaceful rabbit’s dream - Cast a groping hush upon his blood. - He curled inertly on a rock, - In cryptic, wilted savageness. - In the end, his dry, grey body - Was scattered out upon the rock, - Like a story that could not be told. - - - - -ADVICE TO A BLUE-BIRD - - - Who can make a delicate adventure - Of walking on the ground? - Who can make grass-blades - Arcades for pertly careless straying? - You alone, who skim against these leaves, - Turning all desire into light whips - Moulded by your deep blue wing-tips, - You who shrill your unconcern - Into the sternly antique sky. - You to whom all things - Hold an equal kiss of touch. - - Mincing, wanton blue-bird, - Grimace at the hoofs of passing men. - You alone can lose yourself - Within a sky, and rob it of its blue! - - - - -TO A FRIEND - - - Your head is steel cut into drooping lines - That make a mask satirically meek: - Your face is like a tired devil weak - From drinking many vague and unsought wines. - The sullen skepticism of your eyes - For ever trying to transcend itself, - Is often entered by a wistful elf - Who sits naïvely unperturbed and wise. - - And this same remnant, with its youthful wiles - Held curiously apart from blasphemies, - Twirls starlight shivers out upon your sneers - And changes them to little, startled smiles. - And all your insolence drops to its knees - Before the half-won grandeur of past years. - - - - -ADVICE TO A WOMAN - - - The sloping lines of your shoulders - Speak of Chinese pagodas. - They clash with your western face - Where child and courtesan - Clasp each other in a feigned embrace. - Life, to you, is a liquid mirror. - You stand with delicate, perpetual amazement, - Vainly seeking your reflection. - - - - -RATTLESNAKE MOUNTAIN FABLE II - - - August sauntered down the mountain-side, - Dropping mottled, turbid wraiths of decay. - The air was like an old priest - Disrobing without embarrassment - Before the dark and candid gaze of night. - But these things brought no pause - To the saucily determined squirrel. - His eyes were hungrily upturned - To where the stars hung--icily clustered nuts - Dotting trees of solitude. - He saw the stars just over the horizon, - And they seemed to grow - On trees that he could reach. - So he scampered on, from branch to branch, - Wondering why the fairy nut-trees - Ran away from him. - But, looking down, he spied - A softly wild cheeked mountain pool, - And there a handful of fairy nuts - Bit into the indigo cupping them. - With a squeal of weary happiness - The squirrel plunged into the mountain pool, - And as he drowned within its soundless heart - The fairy nuts were jigging over him, - Like the unheard stirring of a poem. - - - - -ADVICE TO A BUTTERFLY - - - Aimless petal of the wind, - Spinning gently weird circles, - To the flowers underneath - You are a drunken king of motion; - To the plunging winds above - You are momentary indecision. - - Aimless petal of the wind, - Waver carelessly against this June. - The universe, like you, is but - The drowsy arm of stillness - Spinning gently weird circles in his sleep. - - - - -ADVICE TO A POOL - - - Be a liquid threshold for the dawn - And let night touch you with his back. - The earth-bowl prisoning you, and cold night winds - - Are only pause and rhythm - Within an endless fantasy, - But you, like they, can be - A dream from the loins of a dream, - And build a golden stairway of escape. - - O coolly unperturbed pool, - Slap your ripples in laughter at men, - Who splash you with their lordly hands. - Time is but a phantom dagger - That motion lifts to slay itself. - - - - -WHEN FOOLS DISPUTE - - - A trickle of dawn insinuated itself - Through the crevices of black satiation. - The elderly trees coughed, lightly, hurriedly, - In remonstrance against the invasion. - Lean with a virginal poison, - The grass-blades shook, immune to light and time. - A bird lost in a tree - Shrilly flirted with its energy.... - One fool, in the garden, spoke to another. - - - - -ADVICE TO A GRASS-BLADE - - - Thin and dark green symbol - Of an earth forever raising - Myriads of chained wings, - Breezes have a form, to you, - And sounds break into vivid shape. - The proud finality of tiny sight - Cannot lure your pliant blindness. - - Thin and dark green blade, - Be not awed by trees and men - Whose sound is all that gives them life. - You reach the sky because your face - Is not turned toward it. - - - - -EAST-SIDE: NEW YORK - - - An old Jew munches an apple, - With conquering immersion - All the thwarted longings of his life - Urge on his determined teeth. - His face is hard and pear-shaped; - His eyes are muddy capitulations; - But his mouth is incongruous. - Softly, slightly distended, - Like that of a whistling girl, - It is ingenuously haunting - And makes the rest of him a soiled, grey background. - Hopes that lie within their grave - Of submissive sternness, - Have spilled their troubled ghosts upon this mouth, - And a tortured belief - Has dwindled into tenderness upon it.... - He trudges off behind his push-cart - And the Ghetto walks away with him. - - - - -TO A MAN - - - Master of earnest equilibrium, - You are a Christ made delicate - By centuries of baffled meditation. - You curve an old myth to a peaceful sword, - Like some sleep-walker challenging - The dream that gave him shape. - With gentle, antique insistence - You place your child’s hand on the universe - And trace a smile of love within its depths. - And yet, the whirling scarecrow men have made - Of something that eludes their sight, - May have the startling simplicity of your smile. - - Once every thousand years - Stillness fades into a shape - That men may crucify. - - - - -THE CHILD MEDITATES - - - The oak-tree in front of my house - Smells different every morning. - Sometimes it smells fresh and wise - Like my mother’s hair. - Sometimes it stands ashamed - Because it doesn’t own the smell - It borrowed from our flower-garden. - Sometimes it has a windy smell, - As though it had come back from a long walk. - The oak-tree in front of my house - Has different smells, like grown up people. - - My doll hides behind her pink cheeks, - So that you can’t see when she moves, - But it doesn’t matter because - She always moves when no one is looking, - And that is why people think she is still. - People laugh when I say that my doll is alive, - But if she were dead, my fingers - Wouldn’t know that they were touching her. - She lives inside a little house. - And laughs because I cannot find the door. - - The colours in my room - Meet each other and hesitate. - Is that what people call shape? - Nobody seems to think so, - But I believe that lines are dead shapes - Unless they fall against each other - And look surprised, like the colours in my room! - - - - -PIERROT OBJECTS - - - They have made me an airy apology - For the crude insistence of their flesh! - They have made me twist my tongue - Into fickle nonchalance! - With a languid impudence - I have tarried underneath the moon, - While the haggard reticence - Of their lives forgot itself within me! - Well, I am rebelling - At the men who make me - Their grimacing marionnette! - Let them find another dancing-teacher - For their dull, unruffled fears. - I am off to tear my black and white - Into shreds, within a valley - Where nakedness and colours do not need - An artificial night to make them brave! - - - - -COLUMBINE REFLECTS - - - They have moulded my face with a tear and a sneer. - They have sandalled me with caprice, - And the heart they have given me - Is a bag of red tissue-paper. - Their loves are ragged and fat - And seek the consolation - Of a tinkling effigy! - But even an effigy may wink - An eye at its slinking masters! - I can laugh at their frantic, tattered arms - Spinning me into impish posturings, - And jeer at the faces behind me! - After my play I go to sleep, - But they must sit, heavily looking at each other. - - - - -RATTLE-SNAKE MOUNTAIN DIALOGUE - - - RATTLE-SNAKE MOUNTAIN - Every night the sky grips my shoulder, in pain. - The cows upon my slope - Attack their blades of grass with less decision. - The boulders reaching in to form my ribs, - Are touched by evening dizziness, to dust, - And lose their fierce pretence of hardness. - Three crows in a row - Search for clearer tongues, with steady discords. - - MAN - The nervous dissolution - Which men call beauty stands - Sternly watching itself. - - RATTLE-SNAKE MOUNTAIN - Evening, staggering under dead men’s tongues, - Makes light of my loneliness. - He comes like a madman dissolved - Into unbearable quietness. - But, drinking my vigorous muteness, - He melts into that stream of seeking motion - Which men call morning. - - MAN - You teach him to make his recompense - A solitary unfolding - Walking perilously - Between the scowls of life and death. - - RATTLE-SNAKE MOUNTAIN - When he goes he is something more than himself. - He holds a lean alertness - That, green as any leaf, - Takes the flutterings of life, unperturbed. - - MAN - Beauty is a proud stare - Challenging all things to remove - Their inattentive clamours: - And some things bow abruptly, - Timidly stroking their untouched skins. - - RATTLE-SNAKE MOUNTAIN - And thus evening bows into morning. - - - - -DIALOGUE BETWEEN A PAST AND PRESENT POET - - - PAST POET - I wrote of roses on a woman’s breast, - Glowing as though her blood - Had welled out to a spellbound fierceness; - And the glad, light mixture of her hair. - I wrote of God and angels. - They stole the simple blush of my desire - To make their isolated triumph human. - Knights and kings flooded my song, - Catching with their glittering clash - The unheard boldness in my life. - Gods and nymphs slipped through my voice, - And with the lofty scurrying of their feet - Spurned the smirched angers of my days. - - PRESENT POET - You raised an unhurried, church-like escape. - You lingered in shimmering idleness; - Or lengthened a prayer into a lance; - Or strengthened a thought till it heaved off all of life - And dropped its sightless heaven into your smile. - Life, to us, is a colourless tangle. - Like madly gorgeous weavers - Our eyes reiterate themselves on life. - - PAST POET - My towering simplicity - Loosening an evening of belief - Over the things it dared not view, - Gladly shunned reality - Just as your mad weaver does. - - PRESENT POET - Reality is a formless lure, - And only when we know this - Do we dare to be unreal. - - - - -SMILES - - - Smiles are the words beyond the words - That thoughts abandon helplessly. - Upon this nervous shop-girl’s face, - Where clusters of tiny limpness meet, - A frightened spark leaps high and drops - Into the hot pause of a banished love. - A lustrelessly plump - Girl beside her does not know - That her face for moments glows - Into a helpless solitude. - Upon an old man’s face - Are gleams of meek embarrassment-- - The faded presence of some old debt? - This woman’s face is scorched - By a torch that falls from weary hands - And makes her laugh an unheard lie. - The face of this tamed sprite - Shimmers with an understanding - Of the opaque loss she cannot bear, - And I see that smiles are sometimes - Words beyond the words - That thoughts abandon hopefully. - - - - -THE COURTESAN CHATS - - - Last night I met a passive man - With almost no curve to his face, - And skin relentlessly white. - He made me tell his fortune - With a pack of cards. - “Jack of hearts--your love will be - A scullion overturning trays of food - And standing dubiously in their midst.” - “Queen of diamonds--you will have a wife - Like a thistle dipped in frost, - Helpless in your sheathed hands.” - “Deuce of clubs--a downcast jester - Will pester you with slanting malice - When you seek to play the king.” - “Ace of hearts--your life will stand - Straight in a desperate majesty, - Its lurid robes ever slipping - And one wound endlessly dripping.” - The passive man blew out a candle - On the table and bade me leave, - Not desiring me to see his face. - - - - -THE MOUNTEBANK CRITICIZES - - - I lose all sense of profiles, - Strolling through your greys and blacks and browns! - No man bestows his orange robe - Soberly upon your uncoloured pavements, - Rebuking life for being death. - No woman taunts her sorrows - With a coloured haughtiness. - When you take to colours, you are ashamed, - Like pages nibbling at a pilfered tart. - You go back quickly to your coldness. - And since you have no colours on your clothes, - You walk in straight and measured lilts - As befits the seriously blind. - Your women do not stroll as though - Each step were a timid intrigue - Woven into the climax to which they fare. - Pistols, rhapsodies and heavy odours - Drugged the lustre of my time. - Yet, we had a virtue. - We lavished colours on our backs - And ravished our sorrow with brightness - That often gave a lightness to our feet! - - - - -TO LI T’AI PO - - - They are writing poems to you: - White devils who have not - Smeared the distant yellow of your life - Upon their skins. - Faces where snob and harlequin - Ogle each other in two, cold colours, - White and red; - Faces where middle age - Sits, tearing a last gardenia; - Faces continually cracked - By the brittle larceny of age; - Faces where emotions - Stand disarmed within a calm mirage: - These faces bend over paper - And steal from you a little silver and red - So that their lives may seem to bleed - Under the prick of a flashing need. - The old and tired smile - Of one who spies too much within himself - To spare the effort of a halting frown, - Brushed its sceptre over your face. - You gave kind eyes to your hope, - Desiring it to grope unfearing - Underneath the toppling mountain-tops. - The wine you drank was a lake - In which you splashed and found a vigour; - The wine you drank was void of taste. - Your yellow skin resembled - A balanced docility - Smiling at all things--even at itself-- - Li T’ai Po. - - - - -INSANITY - - - Like a vivid hyperbole, - The sun plunged into April’s freshness, - And struck its sparkling madness - Against the barnlike dejection - Of this dark red insane asylum. - A softly clutching noise - Stumbled from the open windows. - Now and then obliquely reeling shrieks - Rose, as though from men - To whom death had assumed - An inexpressibly kindly face. - A man stood at one window, - His gaunt face trembling underneath - A feverish jauntiness. - A long white feather slanted back - Upon his almost shapeless hat, - Like an innocent evasion. - Hotly incessant, his voice - Methodically flogged the April air: - A voice that held the clashing bones - Of happiness and fear; - A voice in which emotion - Sharply ridiculed itself; - A monstrously vigorous voice - Mockingly tearing at life - With an unanswerable question. - - Hollowed out by his howl, - I turned and saw an asylum guard. - His petulantly flabby face - Rolled into deathlike chips of eyes. - He bore the aimless confidence - Of one contentedly playing with other men’s wings. - He walked away; the man above still shrieked. - I could not separate them. - - - - -TRACK-WORKERS - - - The rails you carry cut into your hands, - Like the sharp lips of an unsought lover. - As you stumble over the ties - Sunlight is clinging, yellow spit - Raining down upon your faces. - You are the living cuspidors of day. - Dirt, its teasing ghost, dust, - And passionless kicks of steel, fill you. - Flowers sprouting near the tracks, - Brush their lightly odoured hands - In vain against your stale jackets of sweat. - Within you, minds and hearts - Are snoring to the curt rhythm of your breath. - You do not see this blustering blackbird - Promenading on a barbed-wire fence. - He eyes you with spritelike hauteur, - Unable to understand - Why your motions endlessly copy each other, - One of you, a meek and burly Pole, - Peers a moment at the strutting blackbird - With a fleeting shade of dull resentment.... - There is always one among you - Who recoils from glimpsing corpses. - - - - -FIGURE - - - Through the turbulent servility - Of a churlish city street - He strides opaquely; nothing in his walk - Resembles an advancing gleam. - His legs are muffled iron - Stubbornly following even thoughts, - His gaily pugnacious head - Seems worried because no dread - Remains for it to slay. - His eyes hold an austerity - That recalls itself while leaping, - And often melts into amusement. - The bent poise of his body - Tells of walls that threw him back, - Only to crumble underneath - The stunned friendliness of his face. - Through the angularly churlish street - He walks, and stoops beneath the captured weight - Of eyes that do not see him. - - - - -NEGROES - - - The loose eyes of an old man - Shone aloof upon his boyish face; - And a sluggish innocence - Hugged his dull brown skin. - He sang a hymn caught from his elders - And his voice resembled - A quavering, feverish laugh - Softened in a swaying cradle. - His life had found a refuge in his voice, - And the rest of him was sickly flesh - Ignorant of life and death. - Like a crushed, excited clown - His mother shuffled out upon the porch. - Slowly her dark brown face resolved - Into the hushed and sulky look - Of one who stands within a dim-walled trap. - Lazily uncertain, - She raised the boy into her arms. - Then her voice swung in the air - Like a quavering, feverish laugh - Softened in a swaying cradle. - - - - -BROADWAY - - - With sardonic futility - The multi-coloured crowd, - Hurried by fervent sensuality, - Flees from something carried on its back. - Endlessly subdued, a sound - Pours up from the crowd, - Like some one ever gasping for breath - To utter releasing words. - Through the artificial valley - Made by gaudy evasions, - The stifled crowd files up and down, - Stabbing thought with rapid noises. - Women strutting dulcetly, - Embroider their unappeased hungers, - And men stumble toward a flitting opiate. - Sometimes a moment breaks apart - And one can hear the knuckles - Of children rapping on towering doors: - Rapping on the highway - Where civilization parades - Its frozen amiabilities! - - - - -FIFTH AVENUE - -(NEW YORK) - - - Seasons bring nothing to this gulch - Save a harshly intimate anecdote - Scrawled, here and there, on paint and stone. - The houses shoulder each other - In a forced and passionless communion. - Their harassed angles rise - Like a violent picture-puzzle - Hiding a story that only ruins could reveal; - Their straight lines, robbed of power, - Meet in dwarfed rebellion. - Sometimes they stand like vastly flattened faces - Suffering ants to crawl - In and out of their gaping mouths. - Sometimes, in menial attitudes - They stand like Gothic platitudes - Slipshodly carved in dark brown stone. - Tarnished solemnities of death - Cast their transfigured hue on this avenue. - The cool and indiscriminate glare - Of sunlight seems to desecrate a tomb, - And the racing people seem - A stream of accidental shadows. - Hard noises strike one’s face and make - It numb with momentary reality, - But the noiseless undertone returns - And they change to unreal jests - Made by death. - - - - -YOUNG WOMAN - - - So we have a face - Cupped by tender insolences, - Half repenting insolences - Teasing their own angers. - Then, a tense exuberance - Brushes them away - And burns a humbly erect - Queen upon her face. - This happens in the space - Between a frown and indecision. - Her face becomes forlornly wild, - And a beggarly impatience - Hovers into furtive shame. - All the supplely intricate flame - Vanishes, and leaves no mark. - Her eyes are violently dark - With a hopeless waiting; - Her lips are isolated tatters-- - All that is left of shattered recreating. - Then, as quickly as she fled, - The humble queen returns. - Staring and unappeased - She eyes her crumpled hands. - - - - -TWO WOMEN ON A STREET - - - This street is callous apathy - In a scale of greys and browns. - Its black roof-line suggests - Flat bodies unable to rise. - Even its screams are listlessness - Having an evil dream. - Its air is swarthy rawness - Troubled with ash cans and cellars. - - An old woman ambles on - With a black bag that seems part of her back, - And a candidly hawk-like face. - She croons a smothered lullaby - That sifts a flitting roundness - Into her sharply parted face. - Then she surrenders her hand - To the welter of a garbage can. - A hugely wilted woman slinks by - With a cracked stare on her face. - Her eyes are beaten discs - Of the lamplight’s ghastly keenness. - She glides away as though the night - Were a lover flogging her; - Glides into the callous apathy - Of this street, like one who cringes - Happily into her lover’s hallway. - - - - -ADVICE TO MAPLE-TREES - - - O little maple-trees, - Slender and unkempt, looking with shaggy askance - Upon the moon-spiked solitude; - O little maple-trees, - Growing a little toward the sky - That touches you to all eyes save your own, - You rattle insistently for wings, - But wings could never tear - The stain of earth from your feet: - The earth that gnaws at you until - Your wing-cries strike the autumn night. - You see, with me, this crescent moon - Juggled on the tawny fingertip - Of a running cloud. - The touch of your desire, or its fall, - Would but be symbols of an equal death. - - - - -BOARDING-HOUSE EPISODE - - - Apples race into appetites: - The unswerving mechanism of the table - Hurries through the last dish of supper. - Then an undulating interlude - From people who have spent one pleasure, - Distractedly juggling its aftermath - And peering at new desires. - One woman gazes at another - While twitching murder shimmers in her eyes - And skims across her face. - Violets in a madman’s scene, - Suspended in the air, - Are the eyes of her neighbour. - And in between them sits the nervous man - With face like pouting gargoyle, - Whose brown eyes shout the things he cannot say: - Explosive evasions; - Fears too tired to shriek; - Renunciations groaning from their dungeons. - He eyes each woman, like a man - Solemnly trying to walk on mysterious ice. - Crisp inanities ripple back and forth - Among these three, like ghostly parrots - Visiting each other’s cages. - She with crazy, violet eyes, - Plays with her fork, as though its clink - Rhymed with secret, chained thoughts; - She with murder in her eyes, - And curtly voluminous body, - Evenly plays her child-rôle. - Cringing on the rim of middle age, - With broken shields piled at her feet, - She has made this man a haunted palace - And she stands before the door - She dare not open, with a dagger - For the woman standing at her side. - - They sit, afterwards, upon the veranda, - Meekly greeting the velvet swagger of evening: - Woman with twisted, violet eyes, - Woman with hidden murder on her lips, - And man like a pouting gargoyle. - Then, like tired children, - Their words grow cool and lazy. - They draw closer to each other - And, with a trembling curiosity, - Look at each other’s hands. - - - - -VAUDEVILLE MOMENT - - - They have carved a battle - Across your hard face: - Transfigured conflict, - Lines like suspended lances. - Your voice must be the uneven - Clink of the last carver’s chisel. - Your soul must be a pious subterfuge - Squinting its admiring eyes - At the lifeless battle lining your face.... - Middle aged vaudeville conductor, - With a hunted leanness on your body, - Sometimes the swing of your baton - Sways with a brooding patience - That violates your ended face. - - Two acrobats appear, - With their automaton bows. - Their unlit motion does not strike - The air into a hugging flame. - They are blue and orange corpses - Whirled in a sacrilegious festival. - They vividly resemble - The chiseled battle that grips - This lean conductor’s face: - Motion without life, - And life that holds no motion! - - - - -TO ORRICK JOHNS - - - The tread-mill roar that ever tramps between - The smirched geometries of this stern place, - Sweeps vainly on your drowsily reckless face - Lost in a swirl of raped loves barely seen. - Sometimes your keenly pagan lips are raised - By thoughts too tense to shape themselves in speech: - Still, wounded thoughts that silently beseech - Your life to make them impotent and dazed. - - O tangled and half-strangled child, you shrink - For ever from yourself, and wear a pose - Of nimble and impenetrable pride. - Yet sometimes, wavering on the sudden brink - Of jaded bitterness, you drop your clothes - And weave a prayer into your naked stride. - - - - -YOUNG POET - - - The grinning clamour on your face - Dies abruptly, for moments: - Boldness and timidity - Are swept, transfigured, against each other. - But the glistening turmoil - Once more spurns itself with jests - That light its troubled hands. - - When too much pain has lowered - The eyelids of your mood, - A peaceful humour wraps your face. - You are like an old man - Watching children fly from his fingertips. - In your kirtle of borrowed skies - You find a sorrow luring your horizons - Into hesitating brightness.... - When night remembers, you have straightened - Into stealthy, angry calmness - Fingering it first, unsent arrow. - - - - -STEEL-MILLS: SOUTH CHICAGO - - - I - - This red hush toppling over the sky, - Wanders one step toward the stars - And dies in a questioning shiver. - The steel-mill chimneys fling their gaunt seeking - A little distance into the red - That softly combs their smoky hair. - The steel-mill chimneys only live at night - When crimson light makes love to them - And star-light trickles through the red, - Like glimpses of some far-off fairy tale. - Throughout the day the steel-mill chimneys stand - Rigidly within the wind-whirled glare: - Only night can bring them supple straightness. - - - II - - From the little, brown gate that does not see them - Because its eyes are blind with wooing soot, - An endless stream of men scatters out - Into the cool bewilderment of morning. - Upon their lips a limply child-like surrender - Curves out to the light, as though they felt - The presence of an unassuming strangeness. - The morning hides from their eyes: - They walk on, in great strides, - Like blind men swinging over a well-known scene. - Their faces twitch with echoes of iron fists: - Their faces hold a swarthy stupor - Loosened by little fingers of morning light - Until it droops into reluctant life. - And then their eyes, made flat by night, - Swell into a Madonna-like surprise - At children trooping back in huge disguise. - The oranges in lunch-room windows change - To sleek suns dipped in sleepy light, - And rounded tarts in china plates - Are like red heart-beats, resting but not dead. - A trolley-car speeds by - And seems a strident lyric of motion. - Wagons rumble down the street - Like drums enticing weariness to step.... - The hearts of these steel-striding men - Ascend and blend within their eyes, - And yet, these men are unaware of this. - They only feel a fluid relief - Voicing, in a clustered roar, - The cries of struggling thoughts unshaped by words. - But there are some who break forth from the rest. - This old Hungarian strides along - And binds naïvely-winged prayer-sandals - Upon the heavy feet of shuffling loves. - Gently, he plays with his beard - As though his fingers touched a woman’s hair. - And this young Slav whose surly blasphemy - Curls his face into a simple hate, - Has taken iron into his laugh - And uses it to hew his stony mind. - While this Italian whose deep olive skin - Shines like sunlight groping through dense leaves, - Forgets his battered happiness - And bows with mock grace to his shouting day. - Beside him is a fellow-countryman - Walking aimless, dazed with joy of motion. - Upon his face a glistening vacancy - Lights the mildly querying thoughts - That seek each other but never meet. - Behind him steps a stalwart Pole - Whose rhythmic, stately insolence - Turns the sidewalk into a grey carpet, - Grey as the shades that race across his face - And show the savage squalor of his soul. - Night has broken her heart upon him, - Only scarring his bitter smile. - A street of little, jack-o’-lantern houses - Veering into leering saloons, - Where the night, a crazy child, - Dips herself in sallow rouge - And chases oaths and heavy mirth - And even human beings: - Where the smoky sadness of the steel-mills - Wanders hesitantly into death - And drops a ghostly blur upon this girl. - Her numbly waxen, cherub face - Emerges gently from the doorway’s blackness - As though the dark had given birth to it. - And then the falling light reveals - That something of a village hangs about her: - Something slumbering and ample. - The doorway is too small to hold - Her shoulders that are like a hill’s broad curves - Dwindled in the distance.... - She is one of many earth-curved girls - Who listened to the insistent tinkle - Of wind-winged music from a far-off land: - Listened and knew not - That their own hearts faintly played. - So she ran to this far phantom, - Only finding it within herself - When the city’s sly fists rained upon it. - Then once more she fled - With a dead heart whose restless pallor - Crept to squalid wantonness, for refuge. - And now she stands within this doorway, - Uttering muffled innuendoes - To the drained men of her race. - Yet, something of a village hangs about her: - Something slumbering and ample - Stealing from the earth curves of her shoulders. - - - III - - The steel-mill workers straggle down this street, - Clanging shut the doorways of their souls, - And the sound rips their lips open. - The steel-mill workers do not know of this: - They only seek something that will sweeten - The dirt that has eaten into their flesh - And change it to raw music. - They straggle down this street, - Their faces slack and oiled with amorousness. - Like cats they play with their desires, - Biting them with little laughs - Until the sallow houses draw them in. - And then the night pursues their revelry: - Echoes from the shut doors of their souls. - - - IV - - Three bent women and a child - Stoop before the steel-mill gate - As though the morning’s ghastly murmur - Washed against them in a wave - Stiffening them into resisting curves. - One is old and floridly misshapen. - Years have melted out within her frame, - Flooding her with lukewarm loves. - The wrinkles on her flabby face - Are like a faded scrawl of pain - Scattered by the flesh on which it rests. - Her frayed shawl hanging unaware of her - Is a symbol of her heart. - The woman standing at her side - Is tall and like a slanting scarecrow - Coldly jerking in the morning’s glare. - Only when she lifts a bony hand - Tapping life against her face, - Does the image disappear. - Dead dreams dangle in her heart, - Limply hanging from their rainbow sashes, - And whenever one sash trembles, - Then, she lifts a gnarled hand to her face - And tastes a moment of departing life. - Near her stands a slimly rigid woman - With an iron fear upon her bones. - A worn strait-jacket of lines - Cuts the dying youth upon her face. - The slender child beside her, - Buried within staidly murky clothes, - Glances frightenedly up at her mother: - Glances as one who dances to a gate - And fumbles for a latch that hides itself. - Then from the rusty-reveried steel-mill gate - An endless stream of men scatter out - Into the cool bewilderment of morning. - Upon their lips a limply child-like surrender - Curves out to the light, as though they felt - The presence of an unassuming strangeness. - - - - -SOUTH STATE STREET: CHICAGO - - - I - - Rows of blankly box-like buildings - Raise their sodden architecture - Into the poised lyric of the sky. - At their feet, pawn-shops and burlesque theatres - Yawn beneath their livid confetti. - In the pawn-shop windows, violins, - Cut-glass bowls and satchels mildly blink - Upon the mottled turbulence outside, - And sit with that detached assurance - Gripping things inanimate. - Near them, slyly shaded cabarets - Stand in bland and ornate sleep, - And the glassy luridness - Of penny-arcades flays the eyes. - The black crowd clatters like an idiot’s wrath. - - - II - - Wander with me down this street - Where the spectral night is caught - Like moon-paint on a colourless lane.... - On this corner stands a woman - Sleekly, sulkily complacent - Like a tigress nibbling bits of sugar. - At her side, a brawny, white-faced man - Whose fingers waltz upon his checkered suit, - Searches for one face amidst the crowd. - (His smile is like a rambling sword.) - His elbows almost touch a snowy girl - Whose body blooms with cool withdrawal. - From her little nook of peaceful scorn - She casts unseeing eyes upon the crowd. - Near her stands a weary newsboy - With a sullenly elfin face. - The night has leaned too intimately - On the frightened scampering of his soul. - But to this old, staidly patient woman - With her softly wintry eyes, - Night bends down in gentle revelation - Undisturbed by joy or hatred. - At her side two factory girls - In slyly jaunty hats and swaggering coats, - Weave a twinkling summer with their words: - A summer where the night parades - Rakishly, and like a gold Beau Brummel. - With a gnome-like impudence - They thrust their little, pink tongues out - At men who sidle past. - To them, the frantic dinginess of day - Has melted to caressing restlessness - Tingling with the pride of breasts and hips. - At their side two dainty, languid girls - Playing with their suavely tangled dresses, - Touch the black crowd with unsearching eyes. - But the old man on the corner, - Bending over his cane like some tired warrior - Resting on a sword, peers at the crowd - With the smouldering disdain - Of a King whipped out of his domain. - For a moment he smiles uncertainly. - Then wears a look of frail sternness. - - Musty, Rabelaisian odours stray - From this naïvely gilded family-entrance - And make the body of a vagrant - Quiver as though unseen roses grazed him. - His face is blackly stubbled emptiness - Swerving to the rotted prayers of eyes. - Yet, sometimes his thin arm leaps out - And hangs a moment in the air, - As though he raised a violin of hate - And lacked the strength to play it. - A woman lurches from the family-entrance. - With tense solicitude she hugs - Her can of beer against her stunted bosom - And mumbles to herself. - The trampled blasphemy upon her face - Holds up, in death, its watery, barren eyes. - Indifferently, she brushes past the vagrant: - Life has peeled away her sense of touch. - - - III - - With groping majesty, the endless crowd - Pounds its searching chant of feet - Down this tawdrily resplendent street. - People stray into a burlesque theatre - Framed with scarlet, blankly rotund girls. - Here a burly cattle-raiser walks - With the grace of wind-swept prairie grass. - Behind him steps a slender clerk - Tendering his sprightly stridency - To the stolid, doll-like girl beside him. - At his side a heavy youth - Dully stands beneath his swaggering mask; - And a smiling man in black and white - Walks, like some Pierrot grown middle-aged. - - Mutely twinkling fragments of a romance: - Tiny lights stand over this cabaret. - Men and women jovially emboldened - Stroll beneath the curtained entrance, - And their laughs, like softly brazen cow-bells, - Change the scene to a strange Pastoral. - Hectic shepherdesses drunk with night, - Women mingle their coquettish colours.... - Suddenly, a man leaps out - From the doorway’s blazing pallor, - Smashing into the drab sidewalk. - His drunken lips and eyelids break apart - Like a clown in sudden suicide. - Then the mottled nakedness - Of the scene comes, like a blow. - - Stoically crushed in hovering grey - Night lies coldly on this street. - Momentary sounds crash into night - Like ghostly curses stifled in their birth.... - And over all the blankly box-like buildings - Raise their sodden architecture - Into the poised lyric of the sky. - - - - -TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: - - - Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. - - Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been retained. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Advice, by Mawell Bodenheim - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ADVICE *** - -***** This file should be named 60252-0.txt or 60252-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/2/5/60252/ - -Produced by Tim Lindell, David E. 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