66 Night poems

Ancient of Days, old friend, no one believes you’ll come back. No one believes in his own life anymore. The moon, like a dead heart, cold and unstartable, hangs by a thread At the earth’s edge, Unfaithful at last, splotching the ferns and the pink shrubs. In the other world, children undo the knots in their tally strings. They sing songs, and their fingers blear. And here, where the swan hums in his socket, where bloodroot And belladonna insist on our comforting, Where the fox in the canyon wall empties our hands, ecstatic for more, Like a bead of clear oil the Healer revolves through the night wind, Part eye, part tear, unwilling to recognize us.

The lad came to the door at night, When lovers crown their vows, And whistled soft and out of sight In shadow of the boughs. ‘I shall not vex you with my face Henceforth, my love, for aye; So take me in your arms a space Before the east is grey. ‘When I from hence away am past I shall not find a bride, And you shall be the first and last I ever lay beside.’ She heard and went and knew not why; Her heart to his she laid; Light was the air beneath the sky But dark under the shade. ‘Oh do you breathe, lad, that your breast Seems not to rise and fall, And here upon my bosom prest There beats no heart at all?’ ‘Oh loud, my girl, it once would knock, You should have felt it then; But since for you I stopped the clock It never goes again.’ ‘Oh lad, what is it, lad, that drips Wet from your neck on mine? What is it falling on my lips, My lad, that tastes of brine?’ ‘Oh like enough ’tis blood, my dear, For when the knife has slit The throat across from ear to ear ’Twill bleed because of it.’

Come, the wind may never again Blow as now it blows for us; And the stars may never again shine as now they shine; Long before October returns, Seas of blood will have parted us; And you must crush the love in your heart, and I the love in mine!

Silent Silent Night Quench the holy light Of thy torches bright For possessd of Day Thousand spirits stray That sweet joys betray Why should joys be sweet Used with deceit Nor with sorrows meet But an honest joy Does itself destroy For a harlot coy

Cold may lie the day, And bare of grace; At night I slip away To the Singing Place. A border of mist and doubt Before the gate, And the Dancing Stars grow still As hushed I wait. Then faint and far away I catch the beat In broken rhythm and rhyme Of joyous feet,— Lifting waves of sound That will rise and swell (If the prying eyes of thought Break not the spell), Rise and swell and retreat And fall and flee, As over the edge of sleep They beckon me. And I wait as the seaweed waits For the lifting tide; To ask would be to awake,— To be denied. I cloud my eyes in the mist That veils the hem,— And then with a rush I am past,-— I am Theirs, and of Them! And the pulsing chant swells up To touch the sky, And the song is joy, is life, And the song am I! The thunderous music peals Around, o'erhead- The dead would awake to hear If there were dead; But the life of the throbbing Sun Is in the song, And we weave the world anew, And the Singing Throng Fill every corner of space—- Over the edge of sleep I bring but a trace Of the chants that pulse and sweep In the Singing Place.

We cannot push ourselves away from this quiet, even in our sprees of inattention, the departing passengers stubbing out their smokes, arrivees in tears, lots of cellophane, the rumpus over parking. Wind scrapes leaves across the road, first flashes of snow, it is dark then it’s really dark. Forgive me for not writing for so long, I’ve been right beside you, one of the vaguer divinities blocking your way with its need to confess all its botched attempts at love, what started the whole mess. I love this place, its absurd use of balustrade, the chairs that dig into the spine, motorcyclists propping their drunk girlfriends in the sun, men playing timed chess with themselves, the guarantees and warnings that entice us to the brink of what they warn about. But we can do no more than pass through these rooms and their sudden chills where once a plea was entered almost unintentionally that seemed at last to reveal ourselves to ourselves, immaculate, bereft, deserving to be found.

At midnight, in the month of June, I stand beneath the mystic moon. An opiate vapor, dewy, dim, Exhales from out her golden rim, And softly dripping, drop by drop, Upon the quiet mountain top, Steals drowsily and musically Into the universal valley. The rosemary nods upon the grave; The lily lolls upon the wave; Wrapping the fog about its breast, The ruin moulders into rest; Looking like Lethe, see! the lake A conscious slumber seems to take, And would not, for the world, awake. All Beauty sleeps!—and lo! where lies Irene, with her Destinies! Oh, lady bright! can it be right— This window open to the night? The wanton airs, from the tree-top, Laughingly through the lattice drop— The bodiless airs, a wizard rout, Flit through thy chamber in and out, And wave the curtain canopy So fitfully—so fearfully— Above the closed and fringéd lid ’Neath which thy slumb’ring soul lies hid, That, o’er the floor and down the wall, Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall! Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear? Why and what art thou dreaming here? Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas, A wonder to these garden trees! Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress! Strange, above all, thy length of tress, And this all solemn silentness! The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep, Which is enduring, so be deep! Heaven have her in its sacred keep! This chamber changed for one more holy, This bed for one more melancholy, I pray to God that she may lie Forever with unopened eye, While the pale sheeted ghosts go by! My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep, As it is lasting, so be deep! Soft may the worms about her creep! Far in the forest, dim and old, For her may some tall vault unfold— Some vault that oft hath flung its black And wingéd pannels fluttering back, Triumphant, o’er the crested palls Of her grand family funerals— Some sepulchre, remote, alone, Against whose portals she hath thrown, In childhood, many an idle stone— Some tomb from out whose sounding door She ne’er shall force an echo more, Thrilling to think, poor child of sin! It was the dead who groaned within.

A joyrider rips up Lockland. It takes barely five minutes for a precinct helicopter to dip and swivel over lawns and two opposing lines of cars parked innocently snug to the sidewalk. They haven't found him yet. Every couple of minutes or so, my blind soaks in outrageous light and the helicopter hauls its drone and feud all over my backyard. There's a fan over my bed that says similar things in summer: adages, reproach and rhetoric. I talk too much; give far too much away. In mumbling my company, I reckon on a twofold payoff: some echo; being found out, consequence. I lie low. Minutes swell. He must be out there somewhere, lights switched off, crouched and bundled, foot within an inch of the get-go. I pull the comforter up over my ears, count to forty-two, then start over. I'm trying, trying hard, to hold my breath.

It was at a wine party— I lay in a drowse, knowing it not. The blown flowers fell and filled my lap. When I arose, still drunken, The birds had all gone to their nests, And there remained but few of my comrades. I went along the river—alone in the moonlight.

All the night sleep came not upon my eyelids, Shed not dew, nor shook nor unclosed a feather, Yet with lips shut close and with eyes of iron Stood and beheld me. Then to me so lying awake a vision Came without sleep over the seas and touched me, Softly touched mine eyelids and lips; and I too, Full of the vision, Saw the white implacable Aphrodite, Saw the hair unbound and the feet unsandalled Shine as fire of sunset on western waters; Saw the reluctant Feet, the straining plumes of the doves that drew her, Looking always, looking with necks reverted, Back to Lesbos, back to the hills whereunder Shone Mitylene; Heard the flying feet of the Loves behind her Make a sudden thunder upon the waters, As the thunder flung from the strong unclosing Wings of a great wind. So the goddess fled from her place, with awful Sound of feet and thunder of wings around her; While behind a clamour of singing women Severed the twilight. Ah the singing, ah the delight, the passion! All the Loves wept, listening; sick with anguish, Stood the crowned nine Muses about Apollo; Fear was upon them, While the tenth sang wonderful things they knew not. Ah the tenth, the Lesbian! the nine were silent, None endured the sound of her song for weeping; Laurel by laurel, Faded all their crowns; but about her forehead, Round her woven tresses and ashen temples White as dead snow, paler than grass in summer, Ravaged with kisses, Shone a light of fire as a crown for ever. Yea, almost the implacable Aphrodite Paused, and almost wept; such a song was that song. Yea, by her name too Called her, saying, "Turn to me, O my Sappho;" Yet she turned her face from the Loves, she saw not Tears for laughter darken immortal eyelids, Heard not about her Fearful fitful wings of the doves departing, Saw not how the bosom of Aphrodite Shook with weeping, saw not her shaken raiment, Saw not her hands wrung; Saw the Lesbians kissing across their smitten Lutes with lips more sweet than the sound of lute-strings, Mouth to mouth and hand upon hand, her chosen, Fairer than all men; Only saw the beautiful lips and fingers, Full of songs and kisses and little whispers, Full of music; only beheld among them Soar, as a bird soars Newly fledged, her visible song, a marvel, Made of perfect sound and exceeding passion, Sweetly shapen, terrible, full of thunders, Clothed with the wind's wings. Then rejoiced she, laughing with love, and scattered Roses, awful roses of holy blossom; Then the Loves thronged sadly with hidden faces Round Aphrodite, Then the Muses, stricken at heart, were silent; Yea, the gods waxed pale; such a song was that song. All reluctant, all with a fresh repulsion, Fled from before her. All withdrew long since, and the land was barren, Full of fruitless women and music only. Now perchance, when winds are assuaged at sunset, Lulled at the dewfall, By the grey sea-side, unassuaged, unheard of, Unbeloved, unseen in the ebb of twilight, Ghosts of outcast women return lamenting, Purged not in Lethe, Clothed about with flame and with tears, and singing Songs that move the heart of the shaken heaven, Songs that break the heart of the earth with pity, Hearing, to hear them.