Poemunity — your poem community

I. –THE FIRST FUNERAL (The first corpse I saw was on the German wires, and couldn’t be buried) The whole field was so smelly; We smelt the poor dog first: His horrid swollen belly Looked just like going burst. His fur was most untidy; He hadn’t any eyes. It happened on Good Friday And there was lots of flies. And then I felt the coldest I’d ever felt, and sick, But Rose, ’cause she’s the oldest, Dared poke him with her stick. He felt quite soft and horrid: The flies buzzed round his head And settled on his forehead: Rose whispered: ‘That dog’s dead. ‘You bury all dead people, When they’re quite really dead, Round churches with a steeple: Let’s bury this,’ Rose said. ‘And let’s put mint all round it To hide the nasty smell.’ I went to look and found it— Lots, growing near the well. We poked him through the clover Into a hole, and then We threw brown earth right over And said: ‘Poor dog, Amen!’

The Nut Garden holds things felt and thought and feeling for thought is always a palace— Sinai with flames of fire about it, burning though never by fire devoured. On all four sides surrounded so— entrance is barred to pretenders forever. For one who learns to be wise, however, its doors are open toward the East: he reaches out and takes a nut, then cracks its shell, and eats...

—It seems a day (I speak of one from many singled out) One of those heavenly days that cannot die; When, in the eagerness of boyish hope, I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung, A nutting-crook in hand; and turned my steps Tow'rd some far-distant wood, a Figure quaint, Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds Which for that service had been husbanded, By exhortation of my frugal Dame— Motley accoutrement, of power to smile At thorns, and brakes, and brambles,—and, in truth, More ragged than need was! O'er pathless rocks, Through beds of matted fern, and tangled thickets, Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook Unvisited, where not a broken bough Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign Of devastation; but the hazels rose Tall and erect, with tempting clusters hung, A virgin scene!—A little while I stood, Breathing with such suppression of the heart As joy delights in; and, with wise restraint Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed The banquet;—or beneath the trees I sate Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played; A temper known to those, who, after long And weary expectation, have been blest With sudden happiness beyond all hope. Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves The violets of five seasons re-appear And fade, unseen by any human eye; Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on For ever; and I saw the sparkling foam, And—with my cheek on one of those green stones That, fleeced with moss, under the shady trees, Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep— I heard the murmur, and the murmuring sound, In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air. Then up I rose, And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash And merciless ravage: and the shady nook Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower, Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up Their quiet being: and, unless I now Confound my present feelings with the past; Ere from the mutilated bower I turned Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, I felt a sense of pain when I beheld The silent trees, and saw the intruding sky.— Then, dearest Maiden, move along these shades In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand Touch—for there is a spirit in the woods.

The wanton troopers riding by Have shot my fawn, and it will die. Ungentle men! they cannot thrive To kill thee. Thou ne’er didst alive Them any harm, alas, nor could Thy death yet do them any good. I’m sure I never wish’d them ill, Nor do I for all this, nor will; But if my simple pray’rs may yet Prevail with Heaven to forget Thy murder, I will join my tears Rather than fail. But oh, my fears! It cannot die so. Heaven’s King Keeps register of everything, And nothing may we use in vain. Ev’n beasts must be with justice slain, Else men are made their deodands; Though they should wash their guilty hands In this warm life-blood, which doth part From thine, and wound me to the heart, Yet could they not be clean, their stain Is dyed in such a purple grain. There is not such another in The world to offer for their sin. Unconstant Sylvio, when yet I had not found him counterfeit One morning (I remember well) Tied in this silver chain and bell, Gave it to me; nay, and I know What he said then; I’m sure I do. Said he, “Look how your huntsman here Hath taught a fawn to hunt his dear.” But Sylvio soon had me beguil’d, This waxed tame, while he grew wild; And quite regardless of my smart, Left me his fawn, but took his heart. Thenceforth I set myself to play My solitary time away, With this, and very well content Could so mine idle life have spent; For it was full of sport, and light Of foot and heart, and did invite Me to its game; it seem’d to bless Itself in me. How could I less Than love it? Oh, I cannot be Unkind t’ a beast that loveth me. Had it liv’d long, I do not know Whether it too might have done so As Sylvio did; his gifts might be Perhaps as false or more than he. But I am sure, for aught that I Could in so short a time espy, Thy love was far more better then The love of false and cruel men. With sweetest milk and sugar first I it at mine own fingers nurst; And as it grew, so every day It wax’d more white and sweet than they. It had so sweet a breath! And oft I blush’d to see its foot more soft And white, shall I say than my hand? Nay, any lady’s of the land. It is a wond’rous thing how fleet ’Twas on those little silver feet; With what a pretty skipping grace It oft would challenge me the race; And when ’t had left me far away, ’Twould stay, and run again, and stay, For it was nimbler much than hinds, And trod, as on the four winds. I have a garden of my own, But so with roses overgrown And lilies, that you would it guess To be a little wilderness; And all the spring time of the year It only loved to be there. Among the beds of lilies I Have sought it oft, where it should lie; Yet could not, till itself would rise, Find it, although before mine eyes; For, in the flaxen lilies’ shade, It like a bank of lilies laid. Upon the roses it would feed Until its lips ev’n seemed to bleed, And then to me ’twould boldly trip And print those roses on my lip. But all its chief delight was still On roses thus itself to fill, And its pure virgin limbs to fold In whitest sheets of lilies cold. Had it liv’d long it would have been Lilies without, roses within. O help, O help! I see it faint, And die as calmly as a saint. See how it weeps! The tears do come, Sad, slowly dropping like a gum. So weeps the wounded balsam, so The holy frankincense doth flow; The brotherless Heliades Melt in such amber tears as these. I in a golden vial will Keep these two crystal tears, and fill It till it do o’erflow with mine, Then place it in Diana’s shrine. Now my sweet fawn is vanish’d to Whither the swans and turtles go, In fair Elysium to endure With milk-white lambs and ermines pure. O do not run too fast, for I Will but bespeak thy grave, and die. First my unhappy statue shall Be cut in marble, and withal Let it be weeping too; but there Th’ engraver sure his art may spare, For I so truly thee bemoan That I shall weep though I be stone; Until my tears, still dropping, wear My breast, themselves engraving there. There at my feet shalt thou be laid, Of purest alabaster made; For I would have thine image be White as I can, though not as thee.

If all the world and love were young, And truth in every Shepherd’s tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move, To live with thee, and be thy love. Time drives the flocks from field to fold, When Rivers rage and Rocks grow cold, And Philomel becometh dumb, The rest complains of cares to come. The flowers do fade, and wanton fields, To wayward winter reckoning yields, A honey tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall. Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of Roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten: In folly ripe, in reason rotten. Thy belt of straw and Ivy buds, The Coral clasps and amber studs, All these in me no means can move To come to thee and be thy love. But could youth last, and love still breed, Had joys no date, nor age no need, Then these delights my mind might move To live with thee, and be thy love.

The first time I went to the tree was to knock on wood. No one answered. The second time I knocked, the tree, wild in the wind, leaned toward me. No bad luck arrived. I went back and knocked again to tell the tree my good fortune was not forgotten. • Chiseling a nest hole in dead wood, a woodpecker drills a downed log. The rapid blows of its beak hammer me awake each night for a week. • Beneath the bark nymphs live like hidden charms people leave in drawers or cupboards for protection. I believe in tree spirits who embed their souls in this wood. • They are not immortal • but their lives, says Hesiod, are ten times that of the phoenix, who outlives nine ravens, who outlive three glorious stags, who outlive four crows, who outlive nine generations of aged men. • Beyond the shelter- belts of farmsteads, found deep in poplar woods and birch thickets, a flicker assaults a tree as nymphs retreat into the tunneled ruts of the trunk. The bird chips away without distraction. Its showy red patch, a splash of blood, catches my eye. • Tender wing buds of an immature insect are like the rising nipples of a young girl. The temptation to slide a finger over the small mounds... • Fly away! • The nymphs are free, changed forever as they brush the pond's scalloped edge. What part of me they take away will settle some day. Deep in dying wood. I will be there when you knock.

What was it for the longest time but lore, lure; A heard-tell growing gold in the mind. Word said (and word’d spread) it was well on back Through the underwood by Bowen’s Canal.

Oh, what a lantern, what a lamp of light Is thy pure word to me To clear my paths and guide my goings right! I swore and swear again, I of the statues will observer be, Thou justly dost ordain. The heavy weights of grief oppress me sore: Lord, raise me by the word, As thou to me didst promise heretofore. And this unforced praise I for an off’ring bring, accept, O Lord, And show to me thy ways. What if my life lie naked in my hand, To every chance exposed! Should I forget what thou dost me command? No, no, I will not stray From thy edicts though round about enclosed With snares the wicked lay. Thy testimonies as mine heritage, I have retained still: And unto them my heart’s delight engage, My heart which still doth bend, And only bend to do what thou dost will, And do it to the end.

the poets have always preceded, as Mallarmé preceded Cézanne, neck and neck    that was no privilege, sweet and forgotten seated in chairs, the afternoon marches along with the shadows which are not bougainvillaea but northern    I have always loved shadows as long as they were northern and moved gently west    like the crack-up of books, their spines tingling with notes and stuffing most people remember the gardens with cement flowers and the house going straight up like solidified swimming-pools or lilies when you get to the top which they once called widow’s walk, you wait in nothing but your garden hat, beautifully otherwise naked for the wind-swept sea and the dying sweetness or womb,declaring the completion of philosophy

How she let her long hair down over her shoulders, making a love cave around her face. Return and return again. How when the lamplight was lowered she pressed against him, twining her fingers in his. Return and return again. How their legs swam together like dolphins and their toes played like little tunnies. Return and return again. How she sat beside him cross-legged, telling him stories of her childhood. Return and return again. How she closed her eyes when his were open, how they breathed together, breathing each other. Return and return again. How they fell into slumber, their bodies curled together like two spoons. Return and return again. How they went together to Otherwhere, the fairest land they had ever seen. Return and return again. O best of all nights, return and return again.