Poemunity — your poem community

ROXANA from the court retiring late, Sigh'd her soft sorrows at St. JAMES's gate: Such heavy thoughts lay brooding in her breast, Not her own chairmen w th more weight opprest; They groan the cruel load they're doom'd to bear ; She in these gentler sounds express'd her care. " Was it for this, that I these Roses wear, " For this new-set my Jewels for my hair ? " Ah ! Princess ! with what zeal have I pursu'd ! " Almost forgot the duty of a Prude. " Thinking I never cou'd attend too soon, " I've miss'd my prayers, to get me dress'd by noon. " For Thee, ah ! what for Thee did I resign ? " My Pleasures, Passions, all that e'er was mine. " I sacrific'd both Modesty and Ease, " Left Operas, and went to filthy Plays ; " Double entendres shock'd my tender ear, " Yet even this for Thee I chose to bear. " In glowing youth, when nature bids be gay, " And ev'ry joy of life before me lay, " By honour prompted, and by pride restrain'd, " The pleasures of the young my soul disdain'd : " Sermons I sought, and with a mien severe " Censur'd my neighbours, and said daily pray'r. " Alas ! how chang'd! — with the same sermon mien " That once I pray'd, the What-d'ye call't I've seen. " Ah ! cruel Princess, for thy sake I've lost " That reputation which so dear had cost : " I, who avoided ev'ry publick place, " When bloom, and beauty bid me show my face ; " Now near Thee constant ev'ry night abide " With never-failing duty by thy side, " Myself and daughters standing on a row, " To all the foreigners a goodly show ! " Oft had your drawing-room been sadly thin, " And merchants wives close by the chair had been seen ; " Had not I amply fill'd the empty space, " And sav'd your Highness from the dire disgrace. " Yet COQUETILLA's artifice prevails, " When all my merit and my duty fails : " That COQUETILLA, whose deluding airs " Corrupts our virgins, and our youth ensnares ; " So sunk her character, so lost her fame, " Scarce visited before your Highness came ; " Yet for the Bed-chamber 'tis Her you chuse, " When Zeal and Fame and Virtue you refuse. " Ah ! worthy choice ! not one of all your train " Whom censure blasts not, and dishonours stain. " Let the nice hind now suckle dirty pigs, " And the proud pea-hen snatch the cuckoo's eggs ! " Let IRIS leave her paint, and own her age, " And grave SUFFOLKIA wed a giddy page ! " A greater miracle is daily view'd, " A virtuous Princess with a court so lewd. " I know thee, Court ! with all thy treach'rous wiles, " Thy false caresses and undoing smiles ! " Ah ! Princess, learn'd in all the courtly arts " To cheat our hopes, and yet to gain our hearts. " Large lovely bribes are the great statesman's aim ; " And the neglected patriot follows fame. " The Prince is ogled ; some the King pursue ; " But your ROXANA only follows YOU. " Despis'd ROXANA, cease, and try to find " Some other, since the Princess proves unkind : " Perhaps it is not hard to find at court " If not a greater, a more firm support.

FLAVIA. THE wretched FLAVIA on her couch reclin'd, Thus breath'd the anguish of a wounded mind ; A glass revers'd in her right hand she bore, For now she shun'd the face she sought before. ' How am I chang'd ! alas ! how am I grown ' A frightful spectre, to myself unknown ! ' Where's my Complexion ? where the radiant Bloom, ' That promis'd happiness for Years to come ? ' Then with what pleasure I this face survey'd ! ' To look once more, my visits oft delay'd ! ' Charm'd with the view, a fresher red would rise, ' And a new life shot sparkling from my eyes ! ' Ah ! faithless glass, my wonted bloom restore; ' Alas ! I rave, that bloom is now no more ! ' The greatest good the GODS on men bestow, ' Ev'n youth itself, to me is useless now. ' There was a time, (oh ! that I could forget !) ' When opera-tickets pour'd before my feet ; ' And at the ring, where brightest beauties shine, ' The earliest cherries of the spring were mine. ' Witness, O Lilly ; and thou, Motteux , tell ' How much Japan these eyes have made ye sell. ' With what contempt ye you saw me oft despise ' The humble offer of the raffled prize ; ' For at the raffle still the prize I bore, ' With scorn rejected, or with triumph wore ! ' Now beauty's fled, and presents are no more ! ' For me the Patriot has the house forsook, ' And left debates to catch a passing look : ' For me the Soldier has soft verses writ ; ' For me the Beau has aim'd to be a Wit. ' For me the Wit to nonsense was betray'd ; ' The Gamester has for me his dun delay'd, ' And overseen the card, I would have play'd . ' The bold and haughty by success made vain, ' Aw'd by my eyes has trembled to complain: ' The bashful 'squire touch'd by a wish unknown, ' Has dar'd to speak with spirit not his own ; ' Fir'd by one wish, all did alike adore ; ' Now beauty's fled, and lovers are no more! ' As round the room I turn my weeping eyes, ' New unaffected scenes of sorrow rise ! ' Far from my sight that killing picture bear, ' The face disfigure, and the canvas tear ! ' That picture which with pride I us'd to show, ' The lost resemblance but upbraids me now. ' And thou, my toilette! where I oft have sat , ' While hours unheeded pass'd in deep debate, ' How curls should fall, or where a patch to place : ' If blue or scarlet best became my face; ' Now on some happier nymph thy aid bestow ; ' On fairer heads, ye useless jewels glow ! ' No borrow'd lustre can my charms restore ; ' Beauty is fled, and dress is now no more ! ' Ye meaner beauties, I permit ye shine ; ' Go, triumph in the hearts that once were mine ; ' But midst your triumphs with confusion know, ' 'Tis to my ruin all your arms ye owe. ' Would pitying Heav'n restore my wonted mien, ' Ye still might move unthought-of and unseen. ' But oh ! how vain, how wretched is the boast ' Of beauty faded, and of empire lost ! ' What now is left but weeping, to deplore ' My beauty fled, and empire now no more ! ' Ye, cruel Chymists, what with-held your aid ! ' Could no pomatums save a trembling maid ? ' How false and trifling is that art you boast ; ' No art can give me back my beauty lost. ' In tears, surrounded by my friends I lay, ' Mask'd o'er and trembled at the sight of day; ' MIRMILLO came my fortune to deplore, ' (A golden headed cane, well carv'd he bore) ' Cordials, he cried, my spirits must restore : ' Beauty is fled, and spirit is no more ! ' GALEN, the grave ; officious SQUIRT was there, ' With fruitless grief and unavailing care : ' MACHAON too, the great MACHAON, known ' By his red cloak and his superior frown ; ' And why, he cry'd, this grief and this despair ? ' You shall again be well, again be fair ; ' Believe my oath ; (with that an oath he swore) ' False was his oath ; my beauty is no more ! ' Cease, hapless maid, no more thy tale pursue, ' Forsake mankind, and bid the world adieu ! ' Monarchs and beauties rule with equal sway ; ' All strive to serve, and glory to obey : ' Alike unpitied when depos'd they grow ; ' Men mock the idol of their former vow. ' Adieu ! ye parks ! — in some obscure recess, ' Where gentle streams will weep at my distress, ' Where no false friend will in my grief take part, ' And mourn my ruin with a joyful heart ; ' There let me live in some deserted place, ' There hide in shades this lost inglorious face. ' Ye, operas, circles, I no more must view ! ' My toilette, patches, all the world adieu!

CARDELIA. THE bassette-table spread, the tallier come, Why stays SMILINDA in the dressing-room ? Rise, pensive nymph ! the tallier stays for you. SMILINDA. Ah ! Madam, since my SHARPER is untrue, I joyless make my once ador'd alpieu. I saw him stand behind OMBRELIA's Chair, And whisper with that soft deluding air, And those feign'd sighs that cheat the list'ng fair — CARDELIA. Is this the cause of your romantic strains ? A mightier grief my heavy heart sustains. As you by love, so I by fortune cross'd, In one bad deal three Septleva's I lost. SMILINDA. Is that a grief which you compare with mine ? With ease the smiles of fortune I resign. Wou'd all my gold in one bad deal were gone, Were lovely SHARPFR mine, and mine alone. CARDELIA. A lover lost, is but a common care, And prudent nymphs against the change prepare. The queen of Clubs thrice lost ! Oh ! who cou'd guess This fatal stroke this unforeseen distress ! SMILINDA. See ! BETTY LOVEIT very à propos ! She all the pains of love and play does know, Deeply experienc'd many years ago. Dear BETTY shall th' important point decide, BETTY, who oft the pains of each has try'd : Impartial, she shall say who suffers most, By cards, ill-usage, or by lovers lost. LOVEIT. Tell, tell your griefs ; attentive will I stay, Tho' time is precious, and I want some tea. CARDELIA. Behold this equipage by MATHERS wrought With fifty guineas (a great pen'orth !) bought ! See on the tooth-pick MARS and CUPID strive, And both the struggling figures seem to liue. Upon the bottom see the Queen's bright face ; A myrtle foliage round the thimble case ; JOVE, JOVE himself does on the scissars shine, The metal and the workmanship divine. SMILINDA. This snuff-box once the pledge of SHARPER's love, When rival beauties for the present strove, (At CORTICELLI's he the raffle won, There first his passion was in public shown ; HAZARDIA blush'd, and turn'd her head aside, A rival's envy all in vain to hide) This snuff-box — on the hinge see diamonds shine ; This snuff-box will I stake, the prize is mine. CARDELIA. Alas ! far lesser losses than I bear, Have made a soldier sigh, a lover swear : But oh ! what makes the disappointment hard, 'Twas my own Lord who drew the fatal card ! — In complaisance I took the Queen he gave, Tho' my own secret wish was for the Knave : The Knave won son ecart that I had chose, And the next pull my septleva I lose. SMILINDA. But ah ! what aggravates the killing smart, The cruel thought that stabs me to the heart, This curs'd OMBRELIA, this undoing fair, By whose vile arts this heavy grief I bear, She, at whose name I shed these spiteful tears, She owes to me, the very charms she wears : An aukward thing when first she came to town, Her shape unfinish'd and her face unknown ; She was my friend, I taught her first to spread Upon her sallow cheeks enlivening red, I introduc'd her to the park and plays, And by my Interest COSINS made her stays ; Ungrateful wretch ! with mimick airs grown pert, She dares to steal my favourite lover's heart. CARDELIA. Wretch that I was ! how often have I swore, When WINNALL tallied, I would punt no more ! I know the bite, yet to my ruin run, And see the folly which I cannot shun. SMILINDA. How many maids have SHARPER's vows deceiv'd ! How many curs'd the moment they believ'd ! Yet, his known falshood could no warning prove : Ah ! what are warnings to a maid in love ! CARDELIA. But of what marble must that breast be form'd, Can gaze on Bassette, and remain unwarm'd ? When kings, queens, knaves are set in decent rank, Expos'd in glorious heaps the tempting bank ! Guineas, half-guineas, all the shining train, The Winner's pleasure and the Loser's pain ; In bright confusion open rouleaus lie, They strike the soul, and glitter in the eye ; Fir'd by the sight, all reason I disdain, My passions rise, and will not bear the rein : Look upon Bassette, you who Reason boast, And see if Reason may not there be lost ! SMILINDA. What more than marble must that breast compose, That listens coldly to my SHARPER's vows ! Then when he trembles, when his blushes rise, When awful Love seems melting in his eyes ! With eager beats his Mechlin cravat moves : He loves, I whisper to myself, He loves ! Such unfeign'd passion in his look appears, I lose all mem'ry of my former fears ; My panting heart confesses all his charms ; I yield at once, and sink into his arms. Think of that moment, you who Prudence boast ! For such a moment, Prudence well were lost. CARDELIA. At the Groom-porter's, batter'd bullies play ; Some Dukes at Marybon bowl time away : But who the bowl or rattling dice compares To Bassette's heavenly joys and pleasing cares ? SMILINDA. Soft SIMPLICETTA doats upon a beau ; PRUDINA likes a man, and laughs at show : Their several graces in my SHARPER meet ; Strong as the footman, as the master sweet. LOVEIT. Cease your contention, which has been too long, I grow impatient, and the tea too strong : Attend, and yield to what I now decide ; The equipage shall grace SMILINDA's side ; The snuff-box to CARDELIA I decree ; So leave complaining, and begin your tea.

SILLIANDER and PATCH. THOU so many favours hast receiv'd, Wondrous to tell, and hard to be believ'd, Oh ! H—— D, to my lays attention lend, Hear how two lovers boastingly contend ; Like thee successful, such their bloomy youth, Renown'd alike for gallantry and truth. St. JAMES's bell had toll'd some wretches in, (As tatter'd riding-hoods alone could sin) The happier sinners now their charms put out , And to their manteaus their complexions suit : The opera queens had finish'd half their faces, And city-dames allready taken places ; Fops of all kinds to see the Lion, run ; The beauties stay till the first act's begun, And beaux step home to put fresh linen on. No well-dress'd youth in coffee-house remain'd, But pensive PATCH, who on the window lean'd ; And SILLIANDER, that alert and gay, First pick'd his teeth, and then began to say. SILLIANDER. Why all these sighs ? ah ! why so pensive grown ? Some cause there is that thus you sit alone. Does hapless passion all this sorrow move ? Or dost thou envy where the ladies love ? PATCH. If, whom they love, my envy must pursue, 'Tis sure, at least, I never envy You. SILLIANDER. No, I'm unhappy, You are in the right, 'Tis You they favour, and 'tis Me they slight. Yet I could tell, but that I hate to boast, A club of ladies where 'tis Me they toast. PATCH. Toasting does seldom any favour prove ; Like us, they never toast the thing they love. A certain Duke one night my health begun ; With chearful pledges round the room it run, Till the young SILVIA press'd to drink it too, Started, and vow'd she knew not what to do : What, drink a fellow's health ! she dy'd with shame : Yet blush'd whenever she pronounc'd my name. SILLIANDER. Ill fates pursue me, may I never find The dice propitious, or the ladies kind, If fair Miss FLIPPY's fan I did not tear, And one from me she condescends to wear. PATCH. Women are always ready to receive ; 'Tis then a favour when the sex will give. A lady (but she is too great to name) Beauteous in person, spotless is her fame, With gentle strugglings let me force this ring ; Another day may give another thing. SILLIANDER. I cou'd say something — see this billet-doux — And as for presents — look upon my shoe — These buckles were not forc'd, nor half a theft, But a young Countess fondly made the gift. PATCH. My Countess is more nice, more artful too, Affects to fly that I may fierce pursue : This snuff-box which I begg'd, she still deny'd, And when I strove to snatch it, seem'd to hide ; She laugh'd and fled, and as I sought to seize, With affectation cramm'd it down her stays : Yet hop'd she did not place it there unseen, I press'd her breasts, and pull'd it from between. SILLIANDER. Last night, as I stood ogling of her Grace, Drinking delicious poison from her face, The soft enchantress did that face decline, Nor ever rais'd her eyes to meet with mine ; With sudden art some secret did pretend, Lean'd cross two chairs to whisper to a friend, While the stiff whalebone with the motion rose, And thousand beauties to my sight expose. PATCH. Early this morn — (but I was ask'd to come) I drank bohea in CÆLIA's dressing-room : Warm from her bed, to me alone within, Her night-gown fasten'd with a single pin ; Her night-cloaths tumbled with resistless grace, And her bright hair play'd careless round her face ; Reaching the kettle, made her gown unpin, She wore no waistcoat, and her shift was thin. SILLIANDER. See TITIANA driving to the park, Hark ! let us follow, 'tis not yet too dark ; In her all beauties of the spring are seen, Her cheeks are rosy, and her mantle green. PATCH. See, TINTORETTA to the opera goes ! Haste, or the crowd will not permit our bows ; In her the glory of the heav'ns we view, Her eyes are star-like, and her mantle blue. SILLIANDER. What colour does in CÆLIA's stockings shine ? Reveal that secret, and the prize is thine. PATCH. What are her garters ! tell me if you can ; I'll freely own thee for the happier man. Thus PATCH continued his heroic strain, While SILLIANDER but contends in vain. After a conquest so important gain'd, Unrival'd PATCH in ev'ry ruelle reign'd.

DANCINDA . " NO, fair DANCINDA, no ; you strive in vain " To calm my care and mitigate my pain ; " If all my sighs, my cares , can fail to move, " Ah ! sooth me not with fruitless vows of love." Thus STREPHON spoke. DANCINDA thus reply'd : What must I do to gratify your pride ? Too well you know (ungrateful as thou art) How much you triumph in this tender heart ; What proof of love remains for me to grant ? Yet still you teize me with some new complaint. Oh ! would to heav'n ! — but the fond wish is vain — Too many favours had not made it plain ! But such a passion breaks thro' all disguise, Love reddens on my cheek and wishes in my eyes. Is't not enough (inhuman and unkind !) I own the secret conflict of my mind ? You cannot know what secret pain I prove, When I with burning blushes own I love. You see my artless joy at your approach, I sigh, I faint, I tremble at your touch ; And in your absence all the world I shun ; I hate mankind, and curse the cheering sun. Still as I fly, ten thousand swains pursue ; Ten thousand swains I sacrifice to you. I shew you all my heart without disguise : But these are tender proofs that you despise — I see too well what wishes you pursue ; You wou'd not only conquer, but undo : You, cruel victor, weary of your flame, Would seek a cure in my eternal shame ; And not content my honour to subdue, Now strive to triumph o'er my virtue too. Oh ! LOVE, a God indeed to womankind, Whose arrows burn me and whose fetters bind, Avenge thy altars, vindicate thy fame, And blast these traytors that profane thy name, Who by pretending to thy sacred fire, Raise cursed trophies to impure desire. Have you forgot with what ensnaring art You first seduc'd this fond uncautious heart ? Then as I fled, did you not kneeling cry, Turn, cruel beauty ; whither wou'd you fly ? Why all these Doubts ? why this distrustful fear ? No impious wishes shall offend your ear : Nor ever shall my boldest hopes pretend Above the title of a tender friend ; Blest, if my lovely Goddess will permit My humble vow, thus sighing at her feet. The tyrant Love that in my Bosom reigns, The God himself submits to wear your chains ; You shall direct his course, his ardour tame, And check the fury of his wildest flame. Unpractis'd youth is easily deceiv'd ; Sooth'd by such sounds, I listen'd and believ'd : Now quite forgot that soft submissive fear : You dare to ask what I must blush to hear. Cou'd I forget the honour of my race, And meet your wishes, fearless of disgrace ; Cou'd passion o'er my tender youth prevail, And all my mother's pious maxims fail ; Yet to preserve your heart (which still must be, False as it is, for ever dear to me) This fatal proof of love I wou'd not give, Which you contemn the moment you receive. The wretched she, who yields to guilty joys A man may pity, but he must despise. Your ardour ceas'd, I then shou'd see you shun The wretched victim by your arts undone. Yet if I cou'd that cold indifference bear, What more wou'd strike me with the last despair, With this reflection wou'd my soul be torn, To know I merited your cruel scorn. Has Love no pleasures free from guilt or fear ? Pleasures less fierce, more lasting, more sincere ? Thus let us gently kiss and fondly gaze, Love is a child, and like a child it plays. O STREPHON, if you wou'd continue just, If Love be something more than brutal lust, Forbear to ask what I must still deny, This bitter pleasure, this destructive joy, So closely follow'd by the dismal train Of cutting shame, and guilt's heart-piercing pain. She paus'd ; and fix'd her eyes upon her fan ; He took a pinch of snuff, and thus began ; Madam, if Love — but he cou'd say no more, For Mademoiselle came rapping at the door. The dangerous moments no adieus afford ; Begone, she cries, I'm sure I hear my Lord. The lover starts from his unfinish'd loves, To snatch his hat, and seek his scatter'd gloves : The sighing dame to meet her dear prepares, While STREPHON cursing, slips down the back-stairs.

At the Courthouse Square On the Fourth of July, Beneath Old Glory’s Pyrotechnic sky, The town fathers met, Minus Bible and rye. Against the statue Of Confederate dead The Mayor spat His snuff and said, “We need a slogan!” And he palmed his head. The Sheriff’s idioms Dynamited assent. The Judge croaked a phrase Latinistically bent. And the Mayor pondered With official intent. On a neon billboard, As high as a steeple, The travelers puzzle The amazing sequel: The Blackest Land And The Whitest People.

You should have heard the soldiers’ feet wounding the swirls that the accordion waltz left on the pavement like a mower’s swath once the parade had passed you should have kissed the soldiers’ feet pulled out of their boots and licked the ankles and climbed as far as the khaki seven and a half millimeters thick would allow you should have shaken their belly like a carpet it was grand illusion day when they escape their deep knowledge and pretend to look for handsome successors but it would be better to look for the heart and put an alarm clock in its place that could play reveille like a puppet but wouldn’t serve coffee in bed you should have rummaged under their false teeth to hunt for hidden diamonds with lively fingers hunt for them everywhere not find them even in the creases of their nakedness. Joy of being a child of the sovereign people of lending a hand to institutions and seeing one’s name inscribed on the slate of urinals in letters of coal tar for a single flag that one has become flapping its boredom at the angles of two streets that the wind stirs unless it’s first the wind of trumpets all love to the winds

Then there was the time I looked directly into the face of the life I thought I was missing, of love. I used to think to be not alone meant never having to walk through the high wheat or struggle in the water. Not having to decide not to fling from some height. Once, the two of us rode one bicycle. I wore a straw hat and perched on the handlebars and beside us the sea oats swayed like skirts and I heard a trilling in the crabgrass. The sidewalks were bleached as Grecian stone as we rode past the fish shop smelling of morning— salt, bread, limes, men. Riding in front, it was such that I could not be heard always, at least not the first time for you pedaled into the wind and my hair was a ribbon in your eyes. I said I thought bougainvillea was a stoic plant and then had to say twice,no,stoic! and then no,the bougainvillea! and then you said easily it was nothing like that at all. But our future was clear enough when I asked if you saw the clean aprons of those men (how much longer you think until they clean the fish? did you see how white those aprons were? did you see?)

I   Red Slippers Red slippers in a shop-window, and outside in the street, flaws of grey, windy sleet! Behind the polished glass, the slippers hang in long threads of red, festooning from the ceiling like stalactites of blood, flooding the eyes of passers-by with dripping colour, jamming their crimson reflections against the windows of cabs and tram-cars, screaming their claret and salmon into the teeth of the sleet, plopping their little round maroon lights upon the tops of umbrellas. The row of white, sparkling shop fronts is gashed and bleeding, it bleeds red slippers. They spout under the electric light, fluid and fluctuating, a hot rain—and freeze again to red slippers, myriadly multiplied in the mirror side of the window. They balance upon arched insteps like springing bridges of crimson lacquer; they swing up over curved heels like whirling tanagers sucked in a wind-pocket; they flatten out, heelless, like July ponds, flared and burnished by red rockets. Snap, snap, they are cracker-sparks of scarlet in the white, monotonous block of shops. They plunge the clangour of billions of vermilion trumpets into the crowd outside, and echo in faint rose over the pavement. People hurry by, for these are only shoes, and in a window, farther down, is a big lotus bud of cardboard whose petals open every few minutes and reveal a wax doll, with staring bead eyes and flaxen hair, lolling awkwardly in its flower chair. One has often seen shoes, but whoever saw a cardboard lotus bud before? The flaws of grey, windy sleet beat on the shop-window where there are only red slippers. II   Thompson’s Lunch Room—Grand Central Station Study in Whites Wax-white— Floor, ceiling, walls. Ivory shadows Over the pavement Polished to cream surfaces By constant sweeping. The big room is coloured like the petals Of a great magnolia, And has a patina Of flower bloom Which makes it shine dimly Under the electric lamps. Chairs are ranged in rows Like sepia seeds Waiting fulfilment. The chalk-white spot of a cook’s cap Moves unglossily against the vaguely bright wall— Dull chalk-white striking the retina like a blow Through the wavering uncertainty of steam. Vitreous-white of glasses with green reflections, Ice-green carboys, shifting—greener, bluer—with the jar of moving water. Jagged green-white bowls of pressed glass Rearing snow-peaks of chipped sugar Above the lighthouse-shaped castors Of grey pepper and grey-white salt. Grey-white placards: “Oyster Stew, Cornbeef Hash, Frankfurters”: Marble slabs veined with words in meandering lines. Dropping on the white counter like horn notes Through a web of violins, The flat yellow lights of oranges, The cube-red splashes of apples, In high plated épergnes. The electric clock jerks every half-minute: “Coming!—Past!” “Three beef-steaks and a chicken-pie,” Bawled through a slide while the clock jerks heavily. A man carries a china mug of coffee to a distant chair. Two rice puddings and a salmon salad Are pushed over the counter; The unfulfilled chairs open to receive them. A spoon falls upon the floor with the impact of metal striking stone, And the sound throws across the room Sharp, invisible zigzags Of silver. III   An Opera House Within the gold square of the proscenium arch, A curtain of orange velvet hangs in stiff folds, Its tassels jarring slightly when someone crosses the stage behind. Gold carving edges the balconies, Rims the boxes, Runs up and down fluted pillars. Little knife-stabs of gold Shine out whenever a box door is opened. Gold clusters Flash in soft explosions On the blue darkness, Suck back to a point, And disappear. Hoops of gold Circle necks, wrists, fingers, Pierce ears, Poise on heads And fly up above them in coloured sparkles. Gold! Gold! The opera house is a treasure-box of gold. Gold in a broad smear across the orchestra pit: Gold of horns, trumpets, tubas; Gold—spun-gold, twittering-gold, snapping-gold Of harps. The conductor raises his baton, The brass blares out Crass, crude, Parvenu, fat, powerful, Golden. Rich as the fat, clapping hands in the boxes. Cymbals, gigantic, coin-shaped, Crash. The orange curtain parts And the prima-donna steps forward. One note, A drop: transparent, iridescent, A gold bubble, It floats . . . floats . . . And bursts against the lips of a bank president In the grand tier. IV   Afternoon Rain in State Street Cross-hatchings of rain against grey walls, Slant lines of black rain In front of the up and down, wet stone sides of buildings. Below, Greasy, shiny, black, horizontal, The street. And over it, umbrellas, Black polished dots Struck to white An instant, Stream in two flat lines Slipping past each other with the smoothness of oil. Like a four-sided wedge The Custom House Tower Pokes at the low, flat sky, Pushing it farther and farther up, Lifting it away from the house-tops, Lifting it in one piece as though it were a sheet of tin, With the lever of its apex. The cross-hatchings of rain cut the Tower obliquely, Scratching lines of black wire across it, Mutilating its perpendicular grey surface With the sharp precision of tools. The city is rigid with straight lines and angles, A chequered table of blacks and greys. Oblong blocks of flatness Crawl by with low-geared engines, And pass to short upright squares Shrinking with distance. A steamer in the basin blows its whistle, And the sound shoots across the rain hatchings, A narrow, level bar of steel. Hard cubes of lemon Superimpose themselves upon the fronts of buildings As the windows light up. But the lemon cubes are edged with angles Upon which they cannot impinge. Up, straight, down, straight—square. Crumpled grey-white papers Blow along the side-walks, Contorted, horrible, Without curves. A horse steps in a puddle, A white, glaring water spurts up In stiff, outflaring lines, Like the rattling stems of reeds. The city is heraldic with angles, A sombre escutcheon of argent and sable And countercoloured bends of rain Hung over a four-square civilization. When a street lamp comes out, I gaze at it for full thirty seconds To rest my brain with the suffusing, round brilliance of its globe. V   An Aquarium Streaks of green and yellow iridescence, Silver shiftings, Rings veering out of rings, Silver—gold— Grey-green opaqueness sliding down, With sharp white bubbles Shooting and dancing, Flinging quickly outward. Nosing the bubbles, Swallowing them, Fish. Blue shadows against silver-saffron water, The light rippling over them In steel-bright tremors. Outspread translucent fins Flute, fold, and relapse; The threaded light prints through them on the pebbles In scarcely tarnished twinklings. Curving of spotted spines, Slow up-shifts, Lazy convolutions: Then a sudden swift straightening And darting below: Oblique grey shadows Athwart a pale casement. Roped and curled, Green man-eating eels Slumber in undulate rhythms, With crests laid horizontal on their backs. Barred fish, Striped fish, Uneven disks of fish, Slip, slide, whirl, turn, And never touch. Metallic blue fish, With fins wide and yellow and swaying Like Oriental fans, Hold the sun in their bellies And glow with light: Blue brilliance cut by black bars. An oblong pane of straw-coloured shimmer, Across it, in a tangent, A smear of rose, black, silver. Short twists and upstartings, Rose-black, in a setting of bubbles: Sunshine playing between red and black flowers On a blue and gold lawn. Shadows and polished surfaces, Facets of mauve and purple, A constant modulation of values. Shaft-shaped, With green bead eyes; Thick-nosed, Heliotrope-coloured; Swift spots of chrysolite and coral; In the midst of green, pearl, amethyst irradiations. Outside, A willow-tree flickers With little white jerks, And long blue waves Rise steadily beyond the outer islands.

For Tamir Rice yellow plastic black sea eye-shaped shard on a darkened map no shores now to arrive — or depart no wind but this waiting which moves you as if  the seconds could be entered & never left toy boat — oarless each wave a green lamp outlasted toy boat toy leaf  dropped from a toy tree waiting waiting as if the sp- arrows thinning above you are not already pierced by their own names