Precipitations Part 8

RAIN IN THE MOUNTAINS

Like inexorable peace, The mists march through the mountains.

One by one the grim peaks sink into the cold arms of the unspoken.

The little town with the pink and white houses Looses its hold on the ridge of hills And floats among cloud tops.

A s.h.a.ggy donkey, cropping gra.s.s in the sequestered church yard, Walks, with a leisurely air, Into a wind driven abyss.

TROPICAL WINTER

The afternoon is frozen with memories, Radiant as ice.

The sun sets amidst the agued trembling of the leaves, Sinking right down through the gold air Into the arms of the sea.

The enameled wings of the palm trees Keep s.h.i.+vering, s.h.i.+vering, Beating the gold air thin....

TALK ON THE RANCH

It is cold in the circle of mountains, A fireless hearth.

The stars drift by like autumn leaves.

Only the rustle-- Then, close together, Our talk, For and counter, One grating against the other, Rubs a little fire And we warm each other There in the midst of the hollow clammy circle.

LES MALADIES DES PAYS CHAUDS

PRIDE OF RACE

I saw his young Anglo-Saxon form In its white sailor clothes Cleave through the scampering yellow Latin crowd, As white and clean as the blade of an archangel; And, as he reeled along, gloriously drunk, Those little black and gold dung beetles Seemed to be pus.h.i.+ng and racing over his body.

DON QUIXOTE SOJOURNS IN RIO DE JANEIRO

White roses climb the wall of night.

A pale face looks from a window in the sky.

O Moon, is it because you have seen her that you are beautiful?

Is she happy among the saints?

I placed white flowers in the coffin.

Are they the blossoms that lie scattered along the horizon, Tangled in your light?

Dim stars drop into the sea.

So you give my flowers back to me, do you, Bella Dona?

I might gather the petals and carry them to Antonietta to trim her hats.

So much for life with a little negro milliner In the Rua Chile!

CONVENT MUSINGS

Eleven thousand white-faced virgins in the sky.

The eyes of Our Lady Smiling through a rift of cloud.

I see Sister Maria da Gloria's fat shadow Pa.s.s across the whitewashed wall by the window....

Eleven thousand white-faced virgins-- Stars from a broken rosary-- The Southern Cross-- Thrum, thrum, my fingers on the bench.

I sometimes think of G.o.d As an enormous emptiness Into which we must all enter at last, Our Lady forgive me.

GUITARRA

"An orange tree without fruit, So am I without loves,"

His heavy lidded eyes sang up to her.

Her glance dropped on her golden globe of breast, And on the baby.

NOVEMBER

Foreign sailors in the streets Are as sad a sight as wild geese in the winter--

There was one boy with those strange young blue eyes Who looked at me; And a long, long time after he had pa.s.sed The light of his soul got to me-- So long on the way-- Like the light of a dead star.

What makes you look so lonesome, Blue Eyes?

THE COMING OF CHRIST

THE DEATH OF COLUMBINE

DUET

Pierrot sings.

The moon, a clown like himself, Stares down upon him With vacuous tenderness.

For a moment the night is filled with rice powder And spangled gauze.

Then two shades embracing each other Find in their arms Only the darkness.

FROM A MAN DYING ON A CROSS

The pains in my palms are threads of sightless fire Drawn like fiery veins through blackened marble walls, Cras.h.i.+ng with a dull roar To the ends of the earth.

Winey peace....

My sick blood purrs.

Milky bosoms float through red hair, Gaunt faces and sick eyes Beside her face.

I debauch them with my forgiveness.

Only her, I cannot forgive.

Moonlight trembles as the silk of her garment, Perfumed silk.

The cross makes a long harsh shadow Rigid on the sand.

Her white feet stir across the shadow.

LAGNIAPPE

You in the quiet garden, You with the death sweet smile, Before you speak of love to me Go out and hate awhile.

The kind devil Has a tolerant grin.

He flings the golden gates out wide And lets poor people in.

He warms them in his bosom And guards their pain.

He shows them h.e.l.l fields that are bright And skies gentle with rain.

But up in paradise The stern Lord is wise, And Michael with his flaming sword Puts out the angels' eyes.

HAIL MARY!