Precipitations Part 1

Precipitations.

by Evelyn Scott.

MANHATTAN

THE UNPEOPLED CITY

MIDNIGHT WORs.h.i.+P: BROOKLYN BRIDGE

In the rain Rows of street lamps are saints in bright garments That flow long with the bend of knees.

They lift pale heads nimbussed with golden spikes.

Up the lanes of liquid onyx Toward the high fire-laden altars Move the saints of Manhattan In endless pilgrimage to death, Amidst the asphodel and anemones of dawn.

ASCENSION: AUTUMN DUSK IN CENTRAL PARK

Featureless people glide with dim motion through a quivering blue silver; Boats merge with the bronze-gold welters about their keels.

The trees float upward in gray and green flames.

Clouds, swans, boats, trees, all gliding up a hillside After some gray old women who lift their gaunt forms From falling shrouds of leaves.

Thin fingered twigs clutch darkly at nothing.

Crackling skeletons s.h.i.+ne.

Along the s.m.u.tted horizon of Fifth Avenue The hooded houses watch heavily With oily gold eyes.

STARTLED FORESTS: HUDSON RIVER

The thin hill pushes against the mist.

Its fading defiance sounds in the umber and red of autumn leaves.

Like a dead arm around a warm throat Is the sagging embrace of the river Laid grayly about the sh.o.r.e.

The train pa.s.ses.

We emerge from a tunnel into a sky of thin blue morning glories Where yellow lily bells tinkle down.

The paths run swiftly away under the lamp glow Like green and blue lizards Mottled with light.

WINTER STREETS

The stars, escaping, Evaporate in acrid mists.

The houses, rearing themselves higher, a.s.semble among the clouds.

Night blows through me.

I am clear with its bitterness.

I tinkle along brick canyons Like a crystal leaf.

FEBRUARY SPRINGTIME

The trees hold out pale gilded branches Stiff and high in the wind.

On the lawns Patches of gray-lilac snow Melt in the hollows of the terraces.

The park is an ocean of fawn-colored plush, Ridged and faded.

Sharp and delicate, My shadow moves after me on the rumpled gra.s.s-- Gra.s.s like a pillow worn by a dear head.

Joy!

THE a.s.sUMPTION OF COLUMBINE

The lights trickle grayly down from the h.o.a.ry palisades And drip into the river.

Leaden reflections flow into the water.

Framed in your window, Your little face glows deceptively In a rigid ecstasy, As the wide-winged morning Folds back the mist.

FROM BROOKLYN

Along the sh.o.r.e A black net of branches Tangles the pulpy yellow lamps.

The sh.e.l.l-colored sky is l.u.s.trous with the fading sun.

Across the river Manhattan floats-- Dim gardens of fire-- And rus.h.i.+ng invisible toward me through the fog, A hurricane of faces.

SNOW DANCE

Black brooms of trees sweep the sky clean; Sweep the house fronts, And leave them bleak in sleep.

High up the empty moon Spills her vacuity.

I dance.

My long black shadow

Weaves an invisible pattern of pain.

The snow Is embroidered with my happiness.

POTTER'S FIELD

Golden petals, honey sweet, Crushed beneath fear-hastened feet...

Silver paper lanterns glow and shudder in flat patterns On a gray eternal face Stained with pain.

LIGHTS AT NIGHT

In the city, Storms of light Surge against the clouds, Pus.h.i.+ng up the darkness.

In the country, Is the faint pressure of oil lamps, That sputter, Smothered with earth-- Extinguished in silence.

MIDNIGHT

The golden snow of the stars Drifts in mounds of light, Melts against the hot sides of the city, Cool cheek against burning breast, Cold golden snow, Falling all night.

CROWDS

SUMMER NIGHT

The bloated moon Has sickly leaves glistening against her Like flies on a fat white face.

The thick-witted drunkard on the park bench Touches a girl's breast That throbs with its own ruthless and stupid delight.

The new-born child crawls in his mother's filth.