A Woman of Thirty Part 11

2. PHILOSOPHER TO ARTIST

You are a raisin, but I am a nut!

What meat there is to you Can be seen at a glance-- (Seeds, when they exist, are bitter) My calm, round glossiness, (For I am sound and free From wormy restlessness of spirit) Defies your casual inspection.

It takes sharp teeth And some determination To taste my kernel!

A Womanly Woman

You sit, a snug, warm kitten Blinking through the window At a storm-haunted world--

Sleet wind caterwauls Through icy trees, Which clack their hands at you Tauntingly.

Why should you leave Radiator and rubber-plant?

Do people stand at attention to mourn a hero When they behold A frozen kitten In a gutter?

Lolita Now Is Old

Lolita now is old, She sits in the park, watching the young men pa.s.s And huddles her shawl against the cold.

One night last summer when the moon was red, Lolita, hearing an old song sung And amorous laughter down the street Left her bed-- Lolita thought she was young.

With ancient finery on her back, A lace mantilla hiding her grey head, She crept into the warm and alien night.

Her trembling knees remembered the languid pace Of beauty on adventure bent--her fan Waved challenges with unforgotten grace.

Cunningly she played her part For to her peering age Love was a well-remembered art.

Footsteps followed her--footsteps drew near!

She dropped a rose--hush, he is here!

There came hard arms and a panting kiss--

He felt the fraud of those withered lips, He cursed and spat--"Was it for this, You came, old woman, to the park?"

Lolita gathered skirts and fled Through the dim dark.

Lolita huddles her shawl against the cold, She sits and mumbles by the fire. In truth Lolita knows she is old.

The s.h.i.+ning Bird

A bird is three things: Feathers, flight and song, And feathers are the least of these.

At last I hold her in my hands The s.h.i.+ning bird whose flight along The perilous rim of trees Has made my days adventurous, my spirit strong.

And now her wings Are still--her vivid song But ceaseless twitterings.

Her words are feathers, falling Lightly, relentlessly, and without rest, Revealing to my face Her pinched and starveling breast Like poultry, dead and unashamed And naked in the market place.

A shattered flash of wings, A broken song, Echo and s.h.i.+ne along the rim of trees.

The King Sends Three Cats to Guinevere

Queen Guinevere, Three sleek and silent cats Bring you gifts from me.

The first is a grey one, (I wanted a white one, I could not find one snowy white enough, Queen Guinevere,) He brings you purple grapes.

The second is a grey one, (I wanted a sleek one, Where could I find one sleek enough, Queen Guinevere?) He brings you a red apple.

The third one, too, is grey.

(I wanted a black one, Not Hate itself could find one black enough, Queen Guinevere,) He brings you poison toadstools.

I send you three grey cats with gifts-- (For uniformity of metaphor, Since Bacchus, Satan, and the Hangman Are not contemporaneous in my mythology) I send you three grey cats with gifts, Queen Guinevere, To warn you, sleekly, silently To pay the forfeit.

Ode in the New Mode

Your face Was a temple From which your soul Came to me beneath arched brows: And my soul knelt at your feet.

Then Inadvertently I saw your leg Curved and turned like a bird-song Dying into ecstatic silence at the garter...

Wretched Women!

When you are wholly lovely Man cannot forget either of his two afflictions, Soul, or body!

Night

I opened the door And night stared at me like a fool, Heavy dull night, clouded and safe-- I turned again toward the uncertainties Of life within doors.

Once night was a lion, No, years ago, night was a python Weaving designs against s.p.a.ce With undulations of his being-- Night was a siren once.

O sodden, middle-aged night!