A Pushcart at the Curb Part 1

A Pushcart at the Curb.

by John Dos Pa.s.sos.

WINTER IN CASTILE

The promiscuous wind wafts idly from the quays A smell of s.h.i.+ps and curious woods and casks And a sweetness from the gorse on the flowerstand And brushes with his cool careless cheek the cheeks Of those on the street; mine, an old gnarled man's, The powdered cheeks of the girl who with faded eyes Stands in the shadow; a sailor's scarred brown cheeks, And a little child's, who walks along whispering To her sufficient self.

O promiscuous wind.

_Bordeaux_

I

A long grey street with balconies.

Above the gingercolored grocer's shop trail pink geraniums and further up a striped mattress hangs from a window and the little wooden cage of a goldfinch.

Four blind men wabble down the street with careful steps on the rounded cobbles sc.r.a.ping with violin and flute the interment of a tune.

People gather: women with market-baskets stuffed with green vegetables, men with blankets on their shoulders and brown sunwrinkled faces.

Pipe the flutes, squeak the violins; four blind men in a row at the interment of a tune ...

But on the plate coppers clink round brown pennies a merry music at the funeral, penny swigs of wine penny gulps of gin peanuts and hot roast potatoes red disks of sausage tripe steaming in the corner shop ...

And overhead the sympathetic finch chirps and trills approval.

_Calle de Toledo, Madrid_

II

A boy with rolled up s.h.i.+rtsleeves turns the handle.

Grind, grind.

The black sphere whirls above a charcoal fire.

Grind, grind.

The boy sweats and grits his teeth and turns while a man blows up the coals.

Grind, grind.

Thicker comes the blue curling smoke, the moka-scented smoke heavy with early morning and the awakening city with click-clack click-clack on the cobblestones and the young winter suns.h.i.+ne advancing inquisitively across the black and white tiles of my bedroom floor.

Grind, grind.

The coffee is done.

The boy rubs his arms and yawns, and the sphere and the furnace are trundled away to be set up at another cafe.

A poor devil whose dirty ashen white body shows through his rags sniffs sensually with dilated nostrils the heavy coffee-fragrant smoke, and turns to sleep again in the feeble sunlight of the greystone steps.

_Calle Espoz y Mina_

III

Women are selling tuberoses in the square, and sombre-tinted wreaths stiffly twined and crinkly for this is the day of the dead.

Women are selling tuberoses in the square.

Their velvet odor fills the street somehow stills the tramp of feet; for this is the day of the dead.

Their presence is heavy about us like the velvet black scent of the flowers: incense of pompous interments, patter of monastic feet, drone of ma.s.ses drowsily said for the thronging dead.

Women are selling tuberoses in the square to cover the tombs of the envious dead and shroud them again in the lethean scent lest the dead should remember.

_Difuntos; Madrid_

IV

Above the scuffling footsteps of crowds the clang of trams the shouts of newsboys the stridence of wheels, very calm, floats the sudden trill of a pipe three silvery upward notes wistfully quavering, notes a Thessalian shepherd might have blown to call his sheep in the emerald shade of Tempe, notes that might have waked the mad women sleeping among pinecones in the hills and stung them to headlong joy of the presence of their mad Iacchos, notes like the glint of sun making jaunty the dark waves of Tempe.

In the street an old man is pa.s.sing wrapped in a dun brown mantle blowing with bearded lips on a s.h.i.+ning panpipe while he trundles before him a grindstone.

The scissors grinder.

_Calle Espoz y Mina_

V

Rain slants on an empty square.

Across the expanse of cobbles rides an old shawl-m.u.f.fled woman black on a donkey with pert ears that places carefully his tiny sharp hoofs as if the cobbles were eggs.

The paniers are full of bright green lettuces and purple cabbages, and s.h.i.+ning red bellshaped peppers, dripping, s.h.i.+ning, a band in marchtime, in the grey rain, in the grey city.

_Plaza Santa Ana_

VI BEGGARS

The fountain some dead king put up, conceived in pompous imageries, piled with mossgreened pans and centaurs topped by a prudish tight-waisted Cybele (Cybele the many-breasted mother of the grain) spurts with a solemn gurgle of waters.

Where the sun is warmest their backs against the greystone basin sit, h.o.a.rding every moment of the palefaced sun, (thy children Cybele) Pan a bearded beggar with blear eyes; his legs were withered by a papal bull, those s.h.a.ggy legs so nimble to pursue through groves of Arcadian myrtle the nymphs of the fountains and valleys; a young Faunus with soft brown face and dirty breast bared to the sun; the black hair crisps about his ears with some grace yet; a little barefoot Eros crouching to scratch his skinny thighs who stares with wide gold eyes aghast at the yellow s.h.i.+ny trams that clatter past.

All day long they doze in the scant sun and watch the wan leaves rustle to the ground from the yellowed limetrees of the avenue.

They are still thine Cybele nursed at thy breast; (like a woman's last foster-children that still would suck grey withered dugs).

They have not scorned thy dubious bounty for stridence of grinding iron and pale caged lives made blind by the dust of toil to coin the very sun to gold.

_Plaza de Cibeles_

VII