Weldon Kees

Plurality is all. I walk among the restaurants, the theatres, the grocery stores; I ride the cars and hear of Mrs. Bedford’s teeth and Albuquerque, strikes unsettled, someone’s simply marvelous date, news of the German Jews, the baseball scores, storetalk and whoretalk, talk of wars. I turn the pages of a thousand books to read the names of Buddha, Malthus, Walker Evans, Stendhal, André Gide, Ouspenski; note the terms: obscurantism, factorize, fagaceous, endocarp; descend the nervous stairs to hear the broken ends of songs that float through city air. In Osnabrück and Ogden, on the Passamaquoddy Bay, in Ahmednagar, Waco (Neb.), in Santa Fé, propelled by zeros, zinc, and zephyrs, always I’m pursued by thoughts of what I am, authority, remembrance, food, the letter on the mezzanine, the unemployed, dogs’ lonely faces, pianos and decay. Plurality is all. I sympathize, but cannot grieve too long for those who wear their dialectics on their sleeves. The pattern’s one I sometimes rather like; there’s really nothing wrong with it for some. But I should add: It doesn’t wear for long, before I push the elevator bell and quickly leave.

“A equals X,” says Mister One. “A equals B,” says Mister Two. “A equals nothing under the sun But A,” says Mister Three. A few Applaud; some wipe their eyes; Some linger in the shade to see One and Two in neat disguise Decapitating Mister Three. “This age is not entirely bad.” It’s bad enough, God knows, but you Should know Elizabethans had Sweeneys and Mrs. Porters too. The past goes down and disappears, The present stumbles home to bed, The future stretches out in years That no one knows, and you’ll be dead.

Change, move, dead clock, that this fresh day May break with dazzling light to these sick eyes. Burn, glare, old sun, so long unseen, That time may find its sound again, and cleanse Whatever it is that a wound remembers After the healing ends. Originally appeared in the October 1947 issue of Poetry magazine.

Curtains drawn back, the door ajar. All winter long, it seemed, a darkening Began. But now the moonlight and the odors of the street Conspire and combine toward one community. These are the rooms of Robinson. Bleached, wan, and colorless this light, as though All the blurred daybreaks of the spring Found an asylum here, perhaps for Robinson alone, Who sleeps. Were there more music sifted through the floors And moonlight of a different kind, He might awake to hear the news at ten, Which will be shocking, moderately. This sleep is from exhaustion, but his old desire To die like this has known a lessening. Now there is only this coldness that he has to wear. But not in sleep.—Observant scholar, traveller, Or uncouth bearded figure squatting in a cave, A keen-eyed sniper on the barricades, A heretic in catacombs, a famed roué, A beggar on the streets, the confidant of Popes— All these are Robinson in sleep, who mumbles as he turns, “There is something in this madhouse that I symbolize— This city—nightmare—black—” He wakes in sweat To the terrible moonlight and what might be Silence. It drones like wires far beyond the roofs, And the long curtains blow into the room.

The dog stops barking after Robinson has gone. His act is over. The world is a gray world, Not without violence, and he kicks under the grand piano, The nightmare chase well under way. The mirror from Mexico, stuck to the wall, Reflects nothing at all. The glass is black. Robinson alone provides the image Robinsonian. Which is all of the room—walls, curtains, Shelves, bed, the tinted photograph of Robinson’s first wife, Rugs, vases, panatellas in a humidor. They would fill the room if Robinson came in. The pages in the books are blank, The books that Robinson has read. That is his favorite chair, Or where the chair would be if Robinson were here. All day the phone rings. It could be Robinson Calling. It never rings when he is here. Outside, white buildings yellow in the sun. Outside, the birds circle continuously Where trees are actual and take no holiday.

Somewhere in Chelsea, early summer; And, walking in the twilight toward the docks, I thought I made out Robinson ahead of me. From an uncurtained second-story room, a radio Was playing There’s a Small Hotel; a kite Twisted above dark rooftops and slow drifting birds. We were alone there, he and I, Inhabiting the empty street. Under a sign for Natural Bloom Cigars, While lights clicked softly in the dusk from red to green, He stopped and gazed into a window Where a plaster Venus, modeling a truss, Looked out at Eastbound traffic. (But Robinson, I knew, was out of town: he summers at a place in Maine, Sometimes on Fire Island, sometimes the Cape, Leaves town in June and comes back after Labor Day.) And yet, I almost called out, “Robinson!” There was no chance. Just as I passed, Turning my head to search his face, His own head turned with mine And fixed me with dilated, terrifying eyes That stopped my blood. His voice Came at me like an echo in the dark. “I thought I saw the whirlpool opening. Kicked all night at a bolted door. You must have followed me from Astor Place. An empty paper floats down at the last. And then a day as huge as yesterday in pairs Unrolled its horror on my face Until it blocked—”

To Herbert Cahoon 1. Black, under the candlesticks, moving in harness To a slow music, we hang the sepulchre And hear the herald angels sing, “He is not here.” It is mid-November. The first snows Have fallen silently over the town. I eat Black pudding at the altar while a dove Descends from the flaming tower. Later, Dr. Rashdall, behind whose scholarship A generation’s knowledge burns, will unmask Newman. But now it is mid-November. I eat black pudding and the dove descends. 2. In a hollow tree by the bridge, an owl awaits. The moon is full and white. The stars are out. Tall elms surround the statue of a nymph Where old Etonians, festive in Norfolk jackets, Commemorate D. G. Rossetti with a plaque. I relish the scene, remembering old Watts-Dunton Boasting, “Dogs have never bitten me!” that day We talked about Rossetti. Later, attacks of gout, That horrible baby that looked like Gosse, a wheelchair Wobbling on toward Trinity, webs covering my eyes. But tonight the moon is full, and white. Thus 1904 begins. 3. Of the far end of Marseilles and the islands: A dwarf climbing where the waves are luminous With phosphorescent lights, where foam bursts into flower, And the slow rise and fall of the ocean Rocks the world. Moving like a crab over the sand, He murmurs, “We can never praise the beauty of The world enough, my friend.” Later, death by starvation; Until the end, swinging on a trapeze for an hour Every day, longing to be tall.  He left Some wonderful paintings. I walk beside him now At the far end of Marseilles, toward the islands. 4. Now, now, if ever, love opening your eyes, The great blind windows lifted toward the sun, the doors Thrown open wide.  I said to my heart, Do I wake or sleep?—Soon, soon, these closings start Where mornings held the garden captive; and early dusk, Laden with mist and smoke, drift upward from the grass. The wind dies. The scraping leaves are still. I said to my heart, Ravaged by darkness, “Now, Soon, and Later have become Each other—doors all closed, the windows blocked and barred for good— All and sink down together to the bottom of the sea. Do I wake or sleep? It is late tonight as it will ever be.”

A day all blue and white, and we Came out of woods to sand And snow-capped waves. The sea Rose with us as we walked, the land Built dunes, a lighthouse, and a sky of gulls. Here where I built my life ten years ago, The day breaks gray and cold; And brown surf, muddying the shore, Deposits fish-heads, sewage, rusted tin. Children and men break bottles on the stones. Beyond the lighthouse, black against the sky, Two gulls are circling where the woods begin.

Looking into my daughter’s eyes I read Beneath the innocence of morning flesh Concealed, hintings of death she does not heed. Coldest of winds have blown this hair, and mesh Of seaweed snarled these miniatures of hands; The night’s slow poison, tolerant and bland, Has moved her blood. Parched years that I have seen That may be hers appear: foul, lingering Death in certain war, the slim legs green. Or, fed on hate, she relishes the sting Of others’ agony; perhaps the cruel Bride of a syphilitic or a fool. These speculations sour in the sun. I have no daughter. I desire none.

1. Prurient tapirs gamboled on our lawns, But that was quite some time ago. Now one is accosted by asthmatic bulldogs, Sluggish in the hedges, ruminant. Moving through ivy in the park Near drying waterfalls, we open every gate; But that grave, shell-white unicorn is gone. The path is strewn with papers to the street. Numbers that once were various Regarded us, were thought significant, significant Enough to bring reporters to the scene. But now the bell strikes one, strikes one, Strikes one—monotonous and tired. Or clicks like a sad valise. 2. Note to Be Left on the Table This ghost of yours, padding about the upper halls, Given to fright-wigs Burbage might have worn, Moaning in doorways, jumping out at maids, Has not convinced me even yet. Can this be you? Your life was frightening enough, but this Poor pallid counterpart who fuddles in its role Is inexcusable. Go haunt the houses of the girls You once infected, or the men who bore Your company far oftener than I; annoy the others For a change. Is this, my house, the medieval hell You took to at the grave’s edge, years ago, After a dozen other hells had burned themselves away, Or are we purgatory here? If not, You make it one. I give you until noon. 3. Ruined travelers in sad trousseaux Roost on my doorstep, indolent and worn. Not one of them fulfills despised Rousseau’s Predictions. Perhaps they are waiting to be born. If so, the spot’s been badly chosen. This is a site for posthumous investigations, Pillows stuffed with nettles, charnal notions: Apoplectic executioners, bungled incisions. Indeed, our solitary midwife fondles the hemlock. We welcomed one poor hackneyed Christ, Sad bastard, croaking of pestilence. The basement Holds him now. He has not as yet arisen. The tickets are ready; the line forms on the right. Justice and virtue, you will find, have been amazingly preserved. 4. As water from a dwindling reservoir Uncovers mossy stones, new banks of silt, So every minute that I spend with you reveals New flaws, new features, new intangibles. We have been sitting here for hours— “I spent that summer in Madrid, The winter on the coast of France— The Millotsons were there, and Farnsworth. My work has perished with the rest Of Europe, gone, all gone. We will not see the end.” You said goodbye, and your perfume Lingered for hours. At first it seemed Like summer dying there, then rank and sharp. And yet I did not air the room. 5. Among Victorian beadwork and the smell of plush, The owls, stuffed and marvelously sinister, Glare from dark corners, waiting for the night. High up, the moose’s passive eyes explore Candles, unlit, within cut-glass. A door Is opened, and you enter with a look You might have saved for Pliny or the Pope. The furniture has shrunk now thirty years Have passed (with talent thinning out, and words Gone dead), and mouths of friends in photographs Display their hopeful and outmoded smiles. You counted on at least a sputter of nostalgia, However fretful. That was a mistake. Even the moose Regards you with a tired, uncomprehending stare. 6. Signboards commemorate their resting place. The graveless of another century Came and were conquered; now their bones Are dust where idiot highways run. Land in their eyes, unquiet ancestors (On fences yellow signs clang in the wind) Unstirred by suns drying the brown weeds Above them now in parched and caking land. But when they speak of you, they feel the need Of voices polished and revised by history, The martial note, words framed in capitals. It is good to be deaf in a deafening time With the sky gone colorless, while the dead Thunder breaks, a cracked dish, out of the mind. 7. The eye no longer single: where the bowl, Dead in the thickened darkness, swelled with light, Transformed the images and moved the artist’s hand, Becomes a framework for our mania. And haunts the stairway. Friends depart, Taking their last look from the roof, Saying goodnight and carrying their view Of grapes the model ate in Paris years ago. Blue in the morning, green some afternoons; The night, ambiguous, forgets the signature. The dust in attics settled and his stove Grew cold. About the model nothing much is known. It ends the wall and complements the view Of chimneys. And it hides a stain. 8. And when your beauty, washed away In impure streams with my desire, Is only topic for ill-mannered minds, Gifted and glassy with exact recall, Gossip and rancid footnotes, or remote despair, Let ruined weather perish in the streets And let the world’s black lying flag come down. Only in calendars that mark no Spring Can there be weather in the mind That moves to you again as you are now: Tired after love and silent in this house, Your back turned to me, quite alone, Standing with one hand raised to smooth your hair, At a small window, green with rain.