34 Spring poems

To what purpose, April, do you return again? Beauty is not enough. You can no longer quiet me with the redness Of little leaves opening stickily. I know what I know. The sun is hot on my neck as I observe The spikes of the crocus. The smell of the earth is good. It is apparent that there is no death. But what does that signify? Not only under ground are the brains of men Eaten by maggots. Life in itself Is nothing, An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, April Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

april breath of  boyish red the tongue crushes strawberry dreams hack away wound and wound the fountain and on the mouth perspiration white from someone's neck a little tooth has bit the finger of  the bride the tabby yellow and sere howls the red boy from the gable flies an animal hearkens in his white throat his juice runs down pigeon thighs a pale sweet spike still sticks in woman white lard an april breath of  boyish red

Again with spring she wore light colours and with gentle steps again with spring again in summer she was smiling. Among fresh blossoms breast naked to the veins beyond the dry night beyond the white old men debating quietly whether it would be better to give up the keys or to pull the rope and hang from the noose to leave empty bodies there where souls couldn’t endure there where the mind couldn’t catch up and knees buckled. With the new blossoms the old men failed and gave up on everything grandchildren and great-grandchildren the broad fields the green mountains love and life compassion and shelter rivers and sea; and they departed like statues leaving behind a silence that no sword could cut that no gallop could break nor the voices of the young; and the great loneliness came the great privation along with this spring and settled and spread like the frost of dawn caught hold of the high branches slid down the trunks of trees and wrapped around our soul. But she smiled wearing light colours like a blossoming almond tree in yellow flames and walked along lightly opening windows in the delighted sky without us the luckless ones. And I saw her breast naked the waist and the knee, as the inviolate martyr inviolate and pure issues from the torment to go to heaven, beyond the inexplicable whispering of people in the boundless circus beyond the black grimace the sweaty neck of the exasperated executioner striking vainly. The loneliness now a lake the privation now a lake untouched and untraceable. 16 March ’39

spring came / the same way winter left & summer will come & summer will leave;        slowly / when no one's expecting it when people are tired of waiting like waiting for welfare checks / a long wait/             a slow wait the windows are open but butterflies don't fly in to display a sense of love / only housefly enter to sit on food       &eat crumbs & dreams escape / & become stolen      & lost      & used & wasted        & thrown away & dreamed anew the junkies sit on the stoop & nod themselves into dreams / maybe into the ones which escaped & stinkball is played & on warm nights        the ghetto musicians play our ghetto song on garbage can tops         & bang on empty coke bottles & sound real ch é vere :tomorrow the junkies will sit on the stoop & nod themselves into dreams / stickball will be played / the streets will become chalked with 1st and 2nd & 3rd bases hop scotch will become a game & tops will spin on sidewalks / & everyone will anticipate summer.

Bath The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of tulips and narcissus in the air. The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and bores through the water in the bath-tub in lathes and planes of greenish-white. It cleaves the water into flaws like a jewel, and cracks it to bright light. Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of the water and dance, dance, and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a stir of my finger sets them whirring, reeling. I move a foot, and the planes of light in the water jar. I lie back and laugh, and let the green-white water, the sun-flawed beryl water, flow over me. The day is almost too bright to bear, the green water covers me from the too bright day. I will lie here awhile and play with the water and the sun spots. The sky is blue and high. A crow flaps by the window, and there is a whiff of tulips and narcissus in the air. Breakfast Table In the fresh-washed sunlight, the breakfast table is decked and white. It offers itself in flat surrender, tendering tastes, and smells, and colours, and metals, and grains, and the white cloth falls over its side, draped and wide. Wheels of white glitter in the silver coffee-pot, hot and spinning like catherine-wheels, they whirl, and twirl—and my eyes begin to smart, the little white, dazzling wheels prick them like darts. Placid and peaceful, the rolls of bread spread themselves in the sun to bask. A stack of butter-pats, pyramidal, shout orange through the white, scream, flutter, call: “Yellow! Yellow! Yellow!” Coffee steam rises in a stream, clouds the silver tea-service with mist, and twists up into the sunlight, revolved, involuted, suspiring higher and higher, fluting in a thin spiral up the high blue sky. A crow flies by and croaks at the coffee steam. The day is new and fair with good smells in the air. Walk Over the street the white clouds meet, and sheer away without touching. On the sidewalks, boys are playing marbles. Glass marbles, with amber and blue hearts, roll together and part with a sweet clashing noise. The boys strike them with black and red striped agates. The glass marbles spit crimson when they are hit, and slip into the gutters under rushing brown water. I smell tulips and narcissus in the air, but there are no flowers anywhere, only white dust whipping up the street, and a girl with a gay Spring hat and blowing skirts. The dust and the wind flirt at her ankles and her neat, high-heeled patent leather shoes. Tap, tap, the little heels pat the pavement, and the wind rustles among the flowers on her hat. A water-cart crawls slowly on the other side of the way. It is green and gay with new paint, and rumbles contentedly, sprinkling clear water over the white dust. Clear zigzagging water, which smells of tulips and narcissus. The thickening branches make a pink grisaille against the blue sky. Whoop! The clouds go dashing at each other and sheer away just in time. Whoop! And a man’s hat careers down the street in front of the white dust, leaps into the branches of a tree, veers away and trundles ahead of the wind, jarring the sunlight into spokes of rose-colour and green. A motor-car cuts a swathe through the bright air, sharp-beaked, irresistible, shouting to the wind to make way. A glare of dust and sunshine tosses together behind it, and settles down. The sky is quiet and high, and the morning is fair with fresh-washed air. Midday and Afternoon Swirl of crowded streets. Shock and recoil of traffic. The stock-still brick façade of an old church, against which the waves of people lurch and withdraw. Flare of sunshine down side-streets. Eddies of light in the windows of chemists’ shops, with their blue, gold, purple jars, darting colours far into the crowd. Loud bangs and tremors, murmurings out of high windows, whirring of machine belts, blurring of horses and motors. A quick spin and shudder of brakes on an electric car, and the jar of a church-bell knocking against the metal blue of the sky. I am a piece of the town, a bit of blown dust, thrust along with the crowd. Proud to feel the pavement under me, reeling with feet. Feet tripping, skipping, lagging, dragging, plodding doggedly, or springing up and advancing on firm elastic insteps. A boy is selling papers, I smell them clean and new from the press. They are fresh like the air, and pungent as tulips and narcissus. The blue sky pales to lemon, and great tongues of gold blind the shop-windows, putting out their contents in a flood of flame. Night and Sleep The day takes her ease in slippered yellow. Electric signs gleam out along the shop fronts, following each other. They grow, and grow, and blow into patterns of fire-flowers as the sky fades. Trades scream in spots of light at the unruffled night. Twinkle, jab, snap, that means a new play; and over the way: plop, drop, quiver, is the sidelong sliver of a watchmaker’s sign with its length on another street. A gigantic mug of beer effervesces to the atmosphere over a tall building, but the sky is high and has her own stars, why should she heed ours? I leave the city with speed. Wheels whirl to take me back to my trees and my quietness. The breeze which blows with me is fresh-washed and clean, it has come but recently from the high sky. There are no flowers in bloom yet, but the earth of my garden smells of tulips and narcissus. My room is tranquil and friendly. Out of the window I can see the distant city, a band of twinkling gems, little flower-heads with no stems. I cannot see the beer-glass, nor the letters of the restaurants and shops I passed, now the signs blur and all together make the city, glowing on a night of fine weather, like a garden stirring and blowing for the Spring. The night is fresh-washed and fair and there is a whiff of flowers in the air. Wrap me close, sheets of lavender. Pour your blue and purple dreams into my ears. The breeze whispers at the shutters and mutters queer tales of old days, and cobbled streets, and youths leaping their horses down marble stairways. Pale blue lavender, you are the colour of the sky when it is fresh-washed and fair . . . I smell the stars . . . they are like tulips and narcissus . . . I smell them in the air.

The sky wants the water to turn grey, but if I notice how waves play with the clumps of yellow flags, or the way turtles share logs, or even try to understand a friend’s decision to walk onto a glacier and end her life—I will be ready for any poems that have been waiting. The horizon opens as I walk, escorted by swans and Canada geese. I need to stop backpedaling into the present. In my old life people would straighten the truth, but the river flows in curves. The names of my father and my mother rest next to each other in Greenwood Cemetery. The distance between me and the mountains measures an uneven thought: I feel like an orphan. An early moon is just a piece of change in the softening sky. Light is such an actress. Time to seek Hopper’s wish to simply paint sunlight on the wooden wall of a house. I am growing older.Maru in Japanese means the ship will make it back home.

Thank you whoever tuned the radio to rain, thank you who spilled the strong-willed wine for not being me so I’m not to blame. I’m glad I’m not that broken tree although it looks sublime. And glad I’m not taking a test and running out of time. What’s a tetrahedron anyway? What’s the sublime, 3,483 divided by 9, the tenth amendment, the ferryman’s name on the River Styx? We’re all missing more and more tricks, losing our grips, guilty of crimes we didn’t commit. The horse rears and races then moves no more, the sports coupe grinds to a stop, beginning a new life as rot, beaten to shit, Whitman grass stain, consciousness swamp gas, the bones and brain, protoplasm and liver, ground down like stones in a river. Or does the heart’s cinder wash up as delta froth out of which hops frog spawn, dog song, the next rhyming grind, next kid literati? Maybe the world’s just a bubble, all philosophy ants in a muddle, an engine inside an elk’s skull on a pole. Maybe an angel’s long overdue and we’re all in trouble. Meanwhile thanks whoever for the dial turned to green downpour, thanks for feathery conniptions at the seashore and moth-minded, match-flash breath. Thank you for whatever’s left.

the green of Jesus is breaking the ground and the sweet smell of delicious Jesus is opening the house and the dance of Jesus music has hold of the air and the world is turning in the body of Jesus and the future is possible

As my eyes search the prairie I feel the summer in the spring.

“stooped to truth and moralized his song” Spring pricks a little. I get out the maps. Time to demoralize my song, high time. Vernal a little. Primavera. First Green, first truth and last. High time, high time. A high old time we had of it last summer? I overstate. But getting out the maps… Look! Up the valley of the Brenne, Louise de la Vallière… Syntax collapses. High time for that, high time. To Château-Renault, the tannery town whose marquis Rooke and James Butler whipped in Vigo Bay Or so the song says, an amoral song Like Ronsard’s where we go today Perhaps, perhaps tomorrow. Tomorrow and tomorrow and… Get well! Philip’s black-sailed familiar, avaunt Or some word as ridiculous, the whole Diction kit begins to fall apart. High time it did, high time. High time and a long time yet, my love! Get out that blessed map. Ageing, you take your glasses off to read it. Stooping to truth, we potter to Montoire. High time, my love. High time and a long time yet.