Selected Poems

Front matter

c|BOOKS BY CONRAD AIKEN

ppoem|{asc} KING COFFIN AMONG THE LOST PEOPLE GREAT CIRCLE PRELUDES FOR MEMNON THE COMING FORTH BY DAY OF OSIRIS JONES JOHN DETH AND OTHER POEMS SELECTED POEMS COSTUMES BY EROS BLUE VOYAGE|align=left

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

Discordants

<>III

Dead Cleopatra lies in a crystal casket, Wrapped and spiced by the cunningest of hands. Around her neck they have put a golden necklace, Her tatbebs, it is said, are worn with sands.

Dead Cleopatra was once revered in Egypt, Warm-eyed she was, this princess of the South. Now she is very old and dry and faded, With black bitumen they have sealed up her mouth.

O sweet clean earth, from whom the green blade cometh! When we are dead, my best beloved and I, Close well above us, that we may rest forever, Sending up grass and blossoms to the sky.

<>IV

In the noisy street, Where the sifted sunlight yellows the pallid faces, Sudden I close my eyes, and on my eyelids Feel from the far-off sea a cool faint spray,—

A breath on my cheek, From the tumbling breakers and foam, the hard sand shattered, Gulls in the high wind whistling, flashing waters, Smoke from the flashing waters blown on rocks;

—And I know once more, O dearly beloved!—that all these seas are between us, Tumult and madness, desolate save for the sea-gulls, You on the farther shore, and I in this street.

Evensong

tpp|EVENSONG| {cblock it} This song is of no importance, I will only improvise; Yet, maybe, here and there, Suddenly from these sounds a chord will start And piercingly touch my heart.

<>I

In the pale mauve twilight, streaked with orange, Exquisitely sweet,— She leaned upon her balcony and looked across the street; And across the huddled roofs of the misty city, Across the hills of tenements, so gray, She looked into the west with a young and infinite pity, With a young and wistful pity, as if to say That dark was coming, and irresistible night, Which man would attempt to meet With here and there a little flickering light The orange faded, the housetops all were black, And a strange and beautiful quiet Came unexpected, came exquisitely sweet, On market-place and street; And where were lately crowds and sounds and riot Was a gentle blowing of wind, a murmur of leaves, A single step, or voice, and under the eaves The scrambling of sparrows; and then the hush swept back.

<>II

She leaned upon her balcony, in the darkness, Folding her hands beneath her chin; And watched the lamps begin Here and there to pierce like eyes the darkness,— From windows, luminous rooms, And from the damp dark street Between the moving branches, and the leaves with rain still sweet. |end=follow

It was strange: the leaves thus seen, With the lamplight's cold bright glare thrown up among them,— The restless maple leaves, Twinkling their myriad shadows beneath the caves,— Were lovelier, almost, than with sunlight on them, So bright they were with young translucent green; Were lovelier, almost, than with moonlight on them And looking so wistfully across the city, With such a young, and wise, and infinite pity For the girl who had no lover To walk with her along a street like this, With slow steps in the rain, both aching for a kiss,— It seemed as if all evenings were the same, As if all evenings came With just such tragic peacefulness as this; With just such hint of loneliness or pain, The quiet after rain.

<>III

Would her lover, then, grow old sooner than she, And find a night like this too damp to walk? Would he prefer to stay indoors and talk, Or read the evening paper, while she sewed, or darned a sock, And listened to the ticking of the clock: Would he prefer it to lamplight on a tree? Would he be old and tired, And, having all the comforts he desired, Take no interest in the twilight coming down So beautifully and quietly on the town? Would her lover, then, grow old sooner than she?

<>IV

A neighbor started singing, singing a child to sleep. It was strange: a song thus heard,— In the misty evening, after an afternoon of rain,— Seemed more beautiful than happiness, more beautiful than pain, Seemed to escape the music and the word, Only, somehow, to keep A warmth that was lovelier than the song of any bird.

Was it because it came up through this tree, Through the lucent leaves that twinkled on this tree, With the bright lamp there beneath them in the street? It was exquisitely sweet: So unaffected, so unconscious that it was heard. Or was it because she looked across the city, Across the hills of tenements, so black, And thought of all the mothers with a young and infinite pity? … The child had fallen asleep, the hush swept back, The leaves hung lifeless on the tree.

<>V

It was too bad the sky was dark. A cat came slinking close along the wall. For the moon was full just now, and in the park, If the sky were clear at all, The lovers upon the moonlit grass would sprawl, And whisper in the shadows, and laugh, and there She would be going, maybe, with a white rose in her hair … But would youth at last grow weary of these things, Of the ribbons and the laces, And the latest way of putting up one's hair? Would she no longer care, In that undiscovered future of recurring springs, If, growing old and plain, she no longer turned the faces And saw the people stare? Would she hear music and not yearn To take her lover's arm for one more turn? … The leaves hung breathless on the dripping maple tree, The man across the street was going out. It was the evening made her think such things, no doubt. But would her lover grow old sooner than she? … Only the evening made her think such things, no doubt

<>VI

And yet, and yet,— Seeing the tired city, and the trees so still and wet,— It seemed as if all evenings were the same; As if all evenings came, Despite her smile at thinking of a kiss,

With just such tragic peacefulness as this; With just such hint of loneliness or pain; The perfect quiet that comes after rain.

The Jig of Forslin

tpp|THE JIG OF FORSLIN| {it}<>PART I

<>I

In the clear evening, as the lamps were lighted, Forslin, sitting alone in his strange world, Meditated; yet through his musings heard The dying footfalls of the tired day |end=follow

Monotonously ebb and ebb away Into the smouldering west; And heard the dark world slowly come to rest. Now, as the real world dwindled and grew dim, His dreams came back to him … Now, as one who stands In the aquarium's gloom, by ghostly sands, Watching the glide of fish beneath pale bubbles,— The bubbles quietly streaming Cool and white and green … poured in silver … He did not know if this were wake or dreaming; But thought to lean, reach out his hands, and swim.

Some things there were, that, being remembered clearly, Pierced with a troubling gleam His lucid dream: As,—that he had stepped in from a blare of sunlight Over the watery threshold to this gloom; Sharp red roofs; blue sky; rich autumn trees Shaking their gold out on the breeze; And then, after eternities had vanished, That he was oldish, and that his name was Forslin, And that he sat in a small bare gaslit room …

In the mute evening, as the music sounded, Each voice of it, weaving gold or silver, Seemed to open a separate door for him … Suave horns eluded him down corridors; Persuasive violins Sang of nocturnal sins; And ever and again came the hoarse clash Of cymbals; as a voice that swore of murder. Which way to choose, in all this labyrinth? Did all lead in to the self same chamber? No matter: he would go … In the evening, as the music sounded; Streaming swift and thin, or huddled slow …

Coffee-cups and artificial palm-trees; Cigarette-tips glowing in the shadows; And the mellow gleams in polished marble floors.

The ceaseless footsteps clashed on the cold marble, The sinister footman turned the revolving doors. And there was he, sitting alone in silence, Hearing his heart tick out the hours; The futile watcher, chronicle of dead days; While the dancers whirled and danced, And the murderers chose their knives, And the lovers leaned, to kiss, through laurel flowers.

The palm-trees trembled faintly on the music— Stirred by an undertone. Or rose this music only in his brain? The eyes of women, the fans, the jewelled fingers, The soon-checked smiles, the swift words lost in laughter, Coffee and cigarettes … He sat alone.

The sea of twilight swept his heart again. And now as one who stands In the aquarium's green, by cloudy sands, Watching the glide of fish beneath soft bubbles,— The bubbles briefly streaming, Cold and white … poured in silver … He did not know if this were wake or dreaming: But thought to lean, reach out his hands, and swim.

<>II

Let us drown, then, if to drown is but to change: Drown in the days of those whose days are strange; Close our eyes, and drown; Wearily, without effort, at our leisure, In some strange sea-pool, lit with sun and treasure, Sink slowly down From the bright waves above our phantom hands To vales of twilight sands …

Grown weary of ourselves, these tedious hours, Our voices, our eternal pulses drumming, Our doubts, our hesitations, our regrets, And the shrinking self that sits within and cowers: Let us descend in some strange sea-pool;

Creep through the caves to hear the great tide coming; Forget our souls that murmur of unpaid debts.

I heard a story, once, of one who murdered, For what, I cannot remember; but he murdered. With a knife's greedy edge, or with white hands— What does it matter? The swift deed was done … That was a sombre sea-pool to explore— Strange things are on that floor.

And once, the music I was listening to Suddenly opened, like a luminous book, To one bright page that told of a strange thing: A man stepped out in the purple of an arc-light, A man I knew—I knew him well— And because the harlot he loved had jilted him, He held his breathonce, and died.

Was I that man? How should I know? Yet, when I die, that man will die with me. Deep music now, with lap and flow, Green music streaked with gleams and bubbles of light, Bears me softly away. Come down with me! … We will live strange lives before this night.

<>III

The corners of the ceiling are blown like mist, Are gathered in lazy swirls and blown away. My eyes are fixed upon a single picture: This, only, seems to stay. An old man lurching slowly out of darkness, A bag upon his shoulders growing monstrous … Now he is gone, before I see his face. I am spread upon a fog, and know no place.

The yellow footlights blazing before my feet; The same familiar curving wall of fire Soft music trembles sweet … Below me and above me turn the faces, Rows on rows of luminous living faces,

And the furtive watchful eyes; I stand before them, somehow grown eternal; They smile upon me from their eternal places; And now, at the chosen moment, the music dies.

You see me: I am plain: and growing baldish. The clothes I wear are old, but carefully kept. You do not know—indeed, how should you know?— That for years I have hardly eaten, hardly slept,— To learn this thing. That does not matter, to you. You yawn, and wait to see what I can do.

When I was young, juggling was all I did: I was the best of them; But growing older, I wanted something better. To do the impossible! That was the question. And so I left the stage, and after months, I thought of this—lying in bed one night— It seemed ridiculous, too, it was so simple. To balance one ball on another ball— Tossing the upper one, to catch it, falling, In easy balance again—that was the thing! I started in next day.

Well, sir, you wouldn't believe how hard it was. Mind you, I wasn't a greenhorn, but an expert— Made balls, or cards, or hoops, or wooden bottles, Do anything but talk. But this, by heaven, This was a man's job! And it took me years.

Practice, practice, practice! That's all it was. Three times a year I took the stage again To earn the money to keep alive with: Used the old tricks, of course, though getting rusty. Then I'd get off once more, and find a room With a high ceiling, for plenty of space, And go to work again. It was three years Before I got that balancing down cold— The balancing, not the tossing: just to balance The one ball on the other, and keep it there … Then came the tossing. That was harder.

Sometimes, by God, I thought I was going crazy! My brain was full of crashing marble balls. I'd reach out every direction and try to catch them— I couldn't, of course,—they'd all crash to the floor, And keep on banging till my heart fell dead. It seemed as if my mind was a dark room, With a ceiling much too low; and every time I flung a ball up, a million hit that ceiling. They hit the gas-jet. They broke the foolish lamp-shades. I was always getting ousted for breaking things, Denting the ceiling, cracking the plaster and walls.

The lady who lived above me complained of the noise: So did the man who lived below me. For five years more I seemed to be always moving— Always cramming my collars into a bag, And searching the columns of furnished rooms.

In ten years, though, I had the thing down perfect. Ten years! I was over forty, and growing grey. I hadn't married because I hadn't dared to— No money for it. It was taking chances. Though as for that, I suppose I might have married, A girl I met down south, doing a sketch— I liked her—she was willing, more than willing; But I had this thing so on my mind, you see, I couldn't be bothered, somehow, and let it go.

I took my trick to the agents—and they went crazy. They said they'd never seen a trick to touch it: O, nothing to it! It was easy getting it on. One man only—by George, I laughed at him!— Said the thing looked too easy, and wouldn't take. But they gave me a little advance for a suit of clothes— I needed it—and, finally, set the night.

All this, you see, is what is standing before you— Only, that you don't know it, and I can't tell you. You see me: I am plain: and growing baldish. For me, you are rows of faces, lazy eyes. What does it matter, to you, who entertains you? …

Now, at the chosen moment, the music dies …

I balance the one ball on the other— It seems so simple—and toss it up, and catch it In easy balance … (My God!)

I'll do it again—for Christ's sake watch me this time! I balance the one ball on the other … Dip it, and toss it up, and softly catch it In easy balance again … I toss it and catch it … I walk around and keep it balancmg there: … I toss it and catch it … And all the hands are silent!

What is it I am trying to balance—brains? Or a foolish human life? There's the curtain falling—and I am over. I will breathe gas tonight in a locked room, And forget those faces … Get out of my way! I'm going home.

<>IV

That window, in which you saw the light winked out Behind the yellow shades—was that his room? Tomorrow, we'll search the papers … Tonight blows cold … Where shall we turn, among bright cobblestones? This white carnation I wear is growing old …

I have spent years at something; and I am tired. Let us lounge in a bright café, and listen to music— Music, threading the smoke of cigarettes … Vermouth, then coffee … How much shall we tip the waiter? Here the fatigued mind wanders and forgets.

I walked by the river, once, and heard the waves Slapping the sunlit stones … But was that I? Or was it I who saw a pigeon falling Down a sheer tower wall against the sky? Or was it I who heard one night the rain Weaving in silver an intricate pattern of pain?

These things are idle—they do not matter. If I was born at midnight or high noon,— Then, or now, or tomorrow, and to whom— Is this so relevant? Or is it chatter? My friends, believe me—it is more worth while To lean for the moment into dream, and smile.

<>V

Yes; this is manifest: a suicide; The gas still hissing. Open the windows wide …

He closed the door and locked it; and he heard, In a sudden backward yearning of his mind, His own slow steps knock wearily up the stairs. Should he light the gas, then turn it out again? Survey once more the bed, the floor, the chairs? …

He saw himself limp down the windy street, Bending his face against the relentless cold. The sharp wind made him cry. Seen through his tears, bright lamps were rayed and daggered. Grey ghostly clouds streamed over a starry sky.

He had not dined tonight, nor would he dine— What, among graveyard friends, was bread or wine? He closed the stage-door, stumbled in the street. They said, you turned deep blue: your tongue lolled out … The cobblestones went dizzy beneath his feet.

And now, in a backward yearning of his mind, He heard his own harsh steps rasp up the stairs, Thrust the remorseless key in, lit the gas, Regarded, motionless, the floor, the chairs …

A small room: small and dull: yet large enough. Space for the living: and more than space for the dead. The ceiling cracked—no matter. It was old. There was the window, with the shade drawn down … There were his hat and coat, laid on the bed.

And now, with thumb and finger he turned twice The foolish valve that brought a double darkness—; And would he wait, in comfort, in a chair? Or, running the yellow shade up, through the window Watch cold stars play tragedy out there?

A cab went by, and rumbled into distance; The hollow ringing hooves echoed and echoed, In perfect rhythm, always, growing faint. So went his pulse-beats down remote dark alleys, With a far rhythmic echo, like complaint.

He listened for them … they beat, they beat … and beat; A little curl of dust, a golden vapor, Idly floating upward from every one. Upon what streaming road, what cloudy river, Did those wild horses run?

Someone, once, tried to juggle with stars, Tried to balance a sun upon a moon, But found, at last, the sun was much too big … Or was it that the moon was much too small? There would be flaming death if it should fall. It fell. And a billion devils danced a jig.

No: it was someone learning to swallow fire— Strangling to death. Someone trying, in a great gust of flame, To draw one deep cool breath … No use, of course. If fire once got within, It would consume him all. But this was peace, this darkness!—like old music, Music heard in a dream; or hid in a wall; Like a slow music, moving under a sea, A waveless music, seethed and frothed with starlight, Desireless; cold; and dead …

His hands were tightly clasped beneath his head.

<>VI

Death, among violins and paper roses, Leering upon a waltz, in evening dress, Taking his lady's arm with bow and smile— This is unreal. Let us pull off our gloves: Open the doors, and take the air a while.

Death would be sweet, if one might poison music— Feel a rich rhythm, with its freight of languor, Feeding under the heart with every beat: Faint with a waltz in the blood, Laugh and topple and fall, Feel the cold marble flush beneath soft feet …

Frivolous death! He plays at cards, drinks coffee, Sips a cordial, or asks his partner the time. He straightens his cuffs, flicks off an ash, is silent, Lowers his eyes, and muses on a crime.

Well, no matter. We deal in juxtapositions. We cry and love, we laugh and hate. I think of a shrewd blade hidden inside my brain; And crumple a roseleaf while I meditate.

And while, in the warm dark seats, we watch the spotlight Dazzle upon the singer's hair and eyes, The pink tongue, and the diamonds on her fingers,— Out in the hall an epileptic lies On the white stone. The usher lifts his head: The young man laughs at the crowd and falls back dead.

<>VII

Things mused upon are, in the mind, like music, They flow, they have a rhythm, they close and open, And sweetly return upon themselves in rhyme. Against the darkness they are woven, They are lost for a little, and laugh again, They fall or climb.

Here, it rains. The small clear bubbles Pelt and scatter along the shimmering flagstones, Leap and sing. Streaks of silver slant from the eaves, The sparrow puffs his feathers beneath broad leaves And preens a darkened wing.

Yet round a windy corner of the mind, A block away, or at the selfsame place,— We meet you face to face. You cough with the dust, we hear you say once more, Therein the shadow of a deserted door, You are cold, you have no money, and you are hungry. You open your purse to show us that it is empty. You are crying; and that is strange, for you are a whore.

… Bubbles of soft rain scurrying over a pavement,— Slanting from dark eaves— Where did I see a sparrow beneath broad leaves? …

Well, take us home with you; and when we have loved you, (Stroked your drowsy hair, your subtle flesh, And held your golden throat in the palms of hands) When we have loved you, and rise Once more into mortal evening out of your eyes, We will both give you money; and you may go To order peacocks' tongues, or a little snow.

… There is a seethe of foam far over our hands On the pale surface … We glide above our shadows along the sands …

If you are really so tired, take my arm. Is this your door? … Give me the key. Why don't you sell these hangings if you are poor? You deserve to be.

… Something about your skin is like soft rain— Cool and clear … it reminds me of many things. Your eyes, they are like blue wells of pain—

I remember a sparrow preening his rainy wings … He sat under broad leaves, puffing his feathers and winking … What are you thinking?

Now that you're here—there's no use in your going … Wait till the morning. When we have loved we'll sleep. Sleep is better than wine; and hunger will keep.

… Rain, rain, rain. All night the rain. The roofs are wet, the eaves drip. The pelted leaves bend down and rise again. The bubbles chirp and skip.

This is spring. The snowdrops start to grow, The rain will wash them clean. This is spring, the warm drops wound the snow, The black earth aches with green …

And now that it is morning, we will go. What do we care for you—you, only a whore? Starve if you like! You'll have to end it sometime. There will be plenty more. Sell your hangings, pawn your dress, your ear-rings. What do we care? You knew we wouldn't pay. That's right, cry! It'll make you feel much better,— Meanwhile, we go our way …

The lamps are turned out on the music racks, The concert ends, the people rise, The applause behind us roars like rain on a roof, The great doors close. We shrink beneath blue skies. Was this a music? Or did I hear a story? Yet I remember well that hair, those eyes …

And much besides, that, nimble even as music, Sings, flashes, is gone … For a million years the gods have been telling me secrets. I do not remember one.

<>PART II

<>I

Let us succumb to a soft blue wave of music: Endure its pressure, let it explore our souls, Inquisitive, cold, and strange. We will pay no heed to a plaintive bell that tolls Far over our heads, in sunlight … forever restless … But yield our depths to the silent flow of change.

Here all is dark, all leans upon the stream. Here we may flow from opiate sound to sound, Embodied in music. Here we may live our dream. Here is no striving, no choosing. We do not know Whither we drift, but shut our eyes and go.

I have surrendered my heart to chords of sound, Sweet successions of falling sound; A star is snared in sinister boughs of twilight Against a pale green sky. I have surrendered my soul to a pleading music; I drink a poison of melody and I die.

Here are hands I reached from the dust to touch, Eyes I loved in the darkness and left behind. Here, unforgotten mouths I never kissed. I tried with hands to brush aside a mist … Come, let us flow with the music, and seek, and find.

Once I loved; and once I died; and once I murdered my lover, my lover who had betrayed me. Once I stepped from the threshold, and saw my body Huddled in purple snow. Once I escaped my flesh and rose on starlight. The theme returns … We bow our hearts and go.

One night, I swam with pilgrims by the moon, Swam by moonlight in a wide blue river; A field of flax in flower. I drowned among the stalks, the tossing stars. I breathed green foam. I was covered with seethe of leaves …

But who was he I left behind me, waiting There on the platform, reading an evening paper? He looked up once, to see if it would rain … Great leaves are turned between us. Moons are scattered. The theme recurs … And we drift on again.

<>II

If we should rise from whirl to silver whirl, Through yellowing light to a faintly chiming surface, And shatter the film … what discords should we hear? … Monstrous shadows blot and disintegrate; The stars above our earth are cold and clear;

And we walk, as we have walked a thousand times, Past trees and curbs and gutters, Mark how the arc-lamp dims and starts and sputters, Muse bewitching scandals, ponder crimes, Laugh with a friend, concealing what we think, Or sit, to chat and drink.

Someone has been to have his fortune told— With Tarot cards. The pentacles and wands Tell him he hates the women, and is cold. He laughs, we laugh,—we wonder if he lies, Watching a wizened question in his eyes.

And if he lies, and if last night he slept With some flushed harlot, or his latest lover, We muse upon him, and marvel what it is That yields his banal soul these ecstasies:

Is it his voice that sets a woman trembling, The hesitant speech, the sidelong trick of eyes, The heavy brow, the dead white skin? Or is he all the while dissembling,— Like us, though starved, incapable of sin?

We chronicle his speech, and afterwards Confer upon him … We ravel out his brain.

We have remembered certain curious words He uttered once when drinking: these explain … Priests of dissection are we: we dissect him. It is ourselves have pain, but pleasant pain.

And so, good-night. The white clouds gulf the stars, Dust blows down the street, Through divers moonlit canyons glide our feet.

<>III

Before us ghostly paths flow into the darkness, Slant upon windy darkness, weave and gleam. Or are they climbs of music, half-remembered? Or do we gaze at some unsteady dream?

This is the night for murder: Get us knives: We have long sought for this. What queen, tonight, is murdered with a kiss? What kings tonight shall forfeit their rash lives? Rosamund, with a red skull in her hands; Helen in starlight, watching beacons flare; Or Cleopatra, combing her blue-black hair.

She lies before me, smiling. She has betrayed me … Her flesh was sweeter to me than orange-blossoms, Her hair more marvellous to me than night. Her voice was a breaking of golden ripples, I stood in her eyes as in a sea of light.: I loved her for all these things … But she has betrayed me.

Tell them to play loud music in the hall— Blow horns, beat drums, and strike on brass … No one shall hear us now. We are hidden in tumult.

I would remind you of our wedding-night, Of the sweet music we listened to through love … But you demur, just as I hoped: you say 'Why talk of that?'—pretending modesty; And sigh, and drop your eyes … Yes, you remember My mouth upon your eyelids, and it disgusts you. For now you have found a mouth you desire much more.

This purple silk that suits your throat so well— (How I have loved that throat! It dazzles me.) And these jade scarabs trembling from your ears: Do you remember when I gave them to you? And how you clung to me? And do you remember dropping from your hair White hyacinth flowers? …