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DEATH on a cross was not the blade In Mary's heart . . .
For the mother of man and the son of the maid Had walked one night apart, When his beard was not yet grown--and, afraid, She had seen his young words dart.
Between a mother and a son, The guillotine . . .
It falls, it falls, and one by one, Unseeing and unseen, They face the great sharp s.h.i.+ning ton That time has eaten green.
Between the shoulder and the head The guillotine must play And cleave with clash unmerited The generating day . . .
Till the separated parts, not dead, Rise and walk away.
ANNE KNISH _Opus 134_
LISTEN, my friend, That you may understand me.--
In my earliest youth I dreamed in hues volcanic.
I saw each day open Like a curtain of flame.
Black slaves attended My waking moments; Three ebony slaves Washed sleep from my white body.
Three ebony slaves Around my ivory smoothness Folded heavy robes Of crimson and white.
And as I issued forth Into the blue vault of the daylight A grey ape pranced before me And a leopard crept behind.
This was the state Of my young heritage.
Scarlet as the voice of trumpets Was the pageant of my days.
Can I accept now The twilight?
And soon the dark, where all colors Die?
Before I die, I will hold one last revel!
I will have golden cups and poppy curtains!-- And yet--
No! . . . In a black hall The black table shall spread far down before me And all the feasters garbed in black.
Then, at the feast's height, I arising Shall with a gesture like the midnight Throw back my midnight robe and suddenly stand Naked, the sole white flame of the world.
EMANUEL MORGAN _Opus 63_
THE seven deathly spears of memory Setting behind a G.o.d, a golden glorious Halo of land and sea Even for you and me, Even for us . . .
The spear of Egypt, Orange, Through the sleeping lid, With all the power of the bulk of a pyramid.
The spear of Chile, Yellow, Through the thrilling cheek, With all the push of an upturned Andean peak.
The spear of Thibet, Violet, Through the eager hand, The thrust of the iron of a silent land.
The spear of the Ice-Poles, Green, Through the warm-breathing breast, The glacial east and the glacial west
The spear of Norway, Blue, Through the curved arm-pit, The cheerless sun majestic in a jagged slit.
The spear of India, Indigo, Through the holy side, A heaven-touching temple-roof down a mountain-slide.
The spear of Europe, Red, In the mouth's breath, The million-splintering scream of death . . .
Even to us, The seven-spearing sun, The sword of separation before our love is done; Even for us, A simian shape Throwing seven souls on the sea-wet cape; Even for us Who smile mouth to mouth, The full tornado from the seven-forked south; Even to us Who clasp with our knees, The scattering upheaval of the seven cold seas!
And this is as near as lovers ever come, Their words are dumb; This is as near as they have ever kissed, Their lips are ocean-mist.
Yet what avail the seven Spears of memory Against the obstinate archery Of light, the spears of heaven?
ANNE KNISH _Opus 40_
I HAVE not written, reader, That you may read. . . .
They sit in rows in the bare school-room Reading.
Throwing rocks at windows is better, And oh the tortoise-sh.e.l.l cat with the can tied on!
I would rather be a can-tier Than a writer for readers.
I have written, reader, For abstruse reasons.
Gold in the mine . . .
Black water seeping into tunnels . . .
A plank breaks, and the roof falls . . .
Three men suffocated.
The wife of one now works in a laundry; The wife of another has married a fat man; I forget about the third.
EMANUEL MORGAN _Opus 31_
THE night is growing deep with snow O put your hand in mine, While the mirthful secrets that we know Bloom in the fire-s.h.i.+ne-- Flakes falling with an undertow Of delicate design.
Hushed are the courts where ladies went Unquestioning to quaff Goblets of liquid firmament-- Thank G.o.d that we can laugh!
Hushed are the plains where Asia poured The blood of peac.o.c.k kings-- But we can echo, thank the Lord, What the China teapot sings:
Nothing bereaves The eternal tune Of little crisp leaves Green in the moon.
The night is deeper still with snow . . .
O let us never stir From the mirthful secrets that we know Of old diameter!
Eve laughed at Adam long ago, And Adam laughed at her.
ANNE KNISH _Opus 150_
SOUNDS, pure sounds-- Nothing-- Vibrancies of the air-- And yet--
This summer night There are crickets shrilling Beyond the deep ba.s.soon of frogs.
They cease for a moment As the rattling clangor Of the trolley b.u.mps by.
I hear footsteps Hollow on the pavement Now deserted And blank of sound.
