Wish for a Young Wife
My lizard, my lively writher,
May your limbs never wither,
May the eyes in your face
Survive the green ice
Of envy’s mean gaze;
May you live out your life
Without hate, without grief,
And your hair ever blaze,
In the sun, in the sun,
When I am undone,
When I am no one.
I have known the inexorable sadness of pencils,
Neat in their boxes, dolor of pad and paper weight,
All the misery of manilla folders and mucilage,
Desolation in immaculate public places,
Lonely reception room, lavatory, switchboard,
The unalterable pathos of basin and pitcher,
Ritual of multigraph, paper-clip, comma,
Endless duplication of lives and objects.
And I have seen dust from the walls of institutions,
Finer than flour, alive, more dangerous than silica,
Sift, almost invisible, through long afternoons of tedium,
Dropping a fine film on nails and delicate eyebrows,
Glazing the pale hair, the duplicate grey standard faces.
Halloween, that time of ghoulish frights and tricks or treats. I don’t even like Halloween, but it seems to be the holiday that I celebrate. Or at least acknowledge. I send cards/CDs/candy and do a bit of baking. Or least I have but after this year will give much of it up. It has no meaning now.
Let the bats teach us to see in that dark future.
–DH LawrenceAt evening, sitting on this terrace,When the sun from the west, beyond Pisa, beyond the mountains of CarraraDeparts, and the world is taken by surprise …When the tired flower of Florence is in gloom beneath the glowingBrown hills surrounding …When under the arches of the Ponte VecchioA green light enters against stream, flush from the west,Against the current of obscure Arno …Look up, and you see things flyingBetween the day and the night;Swallows with spools of dark thread sewing the shadows together.A circle swoop, and a quick parabola under the bridge archesWhere light pushes through;A sudden turning upon itself of a thing in the air.A dip to the water.And you think:“The swallows are flying so late!”Swallows?Dark air-life loopingYet missing the pure loop …A twitch, a twitter, an elastic shudder in flightAnd serrated wings against the sky,Like a glove, a black glove thrown up at the light,And falling back.Never swallows!Bats!The swallows are gone.At a wavering instant the swallows gave way to batsBy the Ponte Vecchio …Changing guard.Bats, and an uneasy creeping in one’s scalpAs the bats swoop overhead!Flying madly.Pipistrello!Black piper on an infinitesimal pipe.Little lumps that fly in air and have voices indefinite, wildly vindictive;Wings like bits of umbrella.Bats!Creatures that hang themselves up like an old rag, to sleep;And disgustingly upside down.Hanging upside down like rows of disgusting old ragsAnd grinning in their sleep.Bats!In China the bat is symbol for happiness.Not for me!
By day the bat is cousin to the mouse.
He likes the attic of an aging house.
His fingers make a hat about his head.
His pulse beat is so slow we think him dead.
He loops in crazy figures half the night
Among the trees that face the corner light.
But when he brushes up against a screen,
We are afraid of what our eyes have seen:
For something is amiss or out of place
When mice with wings can wear a human face.
My secrets cry aloud.
I have no need for tongue.
My heart keeps open house,
My doors are widely swung.
An epic of the eyes
My love, with no disguise.
My truths are all foreknown,
This anguish self-revealed.
I’m naked to the bone,
With nakedness my shield.
Myself is what I wear:
I keep the spirit spare.
The anger will endure,
The deed will speak the truth
In language strict and pure.
I stop the lying mouth:
Rage warps my clearest cry
To witless agony.