A Pushcart at the Curb Part 4

_La Maliciosa_

XXVI

Infinities away already are your very slender body and the tremendous dark of your eyes where once beyond the laughingness of childhood, came a breath of jessamine prophetic of summer, a sudden flutter of yellow b.u.t.terflies above dark pools.

Shall I take down my books and weave from that glance a romance and build tinsel thrones for you out of old poets' fancies?

Shall I fashion a temple about you where to burn out my life like frankincense till you tower dark behind the sultry veil huge as Isis?

Or shall I go back to childhood remembering b.u.t.terflies in sunny fields to cower with you when the chilling shadow fleets across the friendly sun?

_Bordeaux_

XXVII

And neither did Beatrice and Dante ...

But Beatrice they say was a convention.

_November, 1916--February, 1917._

NIGHTS AT Ba.s.sANO

I DIRGE OF THE EMPRESS TAITU OF ABYSSINIA

_And when the news of the Death of the Empress of that Far Country did come to them, they fashioned of her an Image in doleful wise and poured out Rum and Marsala Sack and divers Liquors such as were procurable in that place into Cannikins to do her Honor and did wake and keen and make moan most piteously to hear. And that Night were there many Marvels and Prodigies observed; the Welkin was near consumed with fire and Spirits and Banashees grumbled and wailed above the roof and many that were in that place hid themselves in Dens and Burrows in the ground. Of the swanlike and grievously melodious Ditties the Minstrels fashioned in that fearsome Night these only are preserved for the Admiration of the Age._

[I]

Our lady lies on a brave high bed, On pillows of gold with gold baboons On red silk deftly embroidered-- O anger and eggs and candlelight-- Her gold-specked eyes have little sight.

Our lady cries on a brave high bed; The golden light of the candles licks The crown of gold on her frizzly head-- O candles and angry eggs so white-- Her gold-specked eyes are sharp with fright.

Our lady sighs till the high bed creaks; The golden candles gutter and sway In the swirling dark the dark priest speaks-- O his eyes are white as eggs with fright --Our lady will die twixt night and night.

Our lady lies on a brave high bed; The golden crown has slipped from her head On the pillows crimson embroidered-- O baboons writhing in candlelight-- Her gold-specked soul has taken flight.

[II]

ZABAGLIONE

Champagne-colored Deepening to tawniness As the throats of nightingales Strangled for Nero's supper.

Champagne-colored Like the coverlet of Dudloysha At the Hotel Continental.

Thick to the lips and velvety Scented of rum and vanilla Oversweet, oversoft, overstrong, Full of froth of fascination, Drink to be drunk of Isoldes Sunk in champagne-colored couches While Tristans with fair flowing hair And round cheeks rosy as cherubs Stand and stretch their arms, And let their great slow tears Roll and fall, And splash in the huge gold cups.

And behind the scenes with his sleeves rolled up, Grandiloquently Kurwenal beats the eggs Into spuming symphonic splendor Champagne-colored.

Red-nosed gnomes roll and tumble Tussle and jumble in the firelight Roll on their backs spinning rotundly, Out of earthern jars Gloriously gurgitating, Wriggling their huge round bellies.

And the air of the cave is heavy With steaming Marsala and rum And hot bruised vanilla.

Champagne-colored, one lies in a velvetiness Of yellow moths stirring faintly tickling wings One is heavy and full of languor And sleep is a champagne-colored coverlet, the champagne-colored stockings of Venus ...

And later One goes And pukes beautifully beneath the moon, Champagne-colored.

II ODE TO ENNUI

The autumn leaves that this morning danced with the wind, curtseying in slow minuettes, giddily whirling in baccha.n.a.ls, balancing, hesitant, tiptoe, while the wind whispered of distant hills, and clouds like white sails, sailing in limpid green ice-colored skies, have crossed the picket fence and the three strands of barbed wire; they have leapt the green picket fence despite the sentry's bayonet.

Under the direction of a corporal three soldiers in khaki are sweeping them up, sweeping up the autumn leaves, crimson maple leaves, splotched with saffron, ochre and cream, brown leaves of horse-chestnuts ...

and the leaves dance and curtsey round the brooms, full of mirth, wistful of the journey the wind promised them.

This morning the leaves fluttered gaudily, reckless, giddy from the wind's dances, over the green picket fence and the three strands of barbed wire.

Now they are swept up and put in a garbage can with cigarette b.u.t.ts and chewed-out quids of tobacco, burnt matches, old socks, torn daily papers, and dust from the soldiers' blankets.

And the wind blows tauntingly over the mouth of the garbage can, whispering, Far away, mockingly, Far away ...

And I too am swept up and put in a garbage can with smoked cigarette ash and chewed-out quids of tobacco; I am fallen into the dominion of the great dusty queen ...

Ennui, iron G.o.ddess, cobweb-clothed G.o.ddess of all useless things, of attics cluttered with old chairs for centuries unsatupon, of strong limbs wriggling on office stools, of ancient cab-horses and cabs that sleep all day in silent sunny squares, of camps bound with barbed wire, and green picket fences-- bind my eyes with your close dust choke my ears with your grey cobwebs that I may not see the clouds that sail away across the sky, far away, tauntingly, that I may not hear the wind that mocks and whispers and is gone in pursuit of the horizon.

III TIVOLI TO D. P.

The ropes of the litter creak and groan As the bearers turn down the steep path; Pebbles scuttle under slipping feet.

But the Roman poet lies back confident On his magenta cushions and mattresses, Thinks of Greek bronzes At the sight of the straining backs of his slaves.

The slaves' b.r.e.a.s.t.s shine with sweat, And they draw deep breaths of the cooler air As they lurch through tunnel after tunnel of leaves.

At last, where the spray swirls like smoke, And the river roars in a cauldron of green, The poet feels his fat arms quiver And his eyes and ears drowned and exalted In the reverberance of the fall.

The ropes of the litter creak and groan, The embroidered curtains, moist with spray, Flutter in the poet's face; Pebbles scuttle under slipping feet As the slaves strain up the path again, And the Roman poet lies back confident Among silk cushions of gold and magenta, His hands clasped across his mountainous belly, Thinking of the sibyll and fate, And gorgeous and garlanded death, Mouthing hexameters.

But I, my belly full and burning as the sun With the good white wine of the Alban hills Stumble down the path Into the cool green and the roar, And wonder, and am abashed.

IV VENICE

The doge goes down in state to the sea To inspect with beady traders' eyes New cargoes from Crete, Mytilene, Cyprus and Joppa, galleys piled With bales off which in all the days Of sailing the sea-wind has not blown The dust of Arabian caravans.

In velvet the doge goes down to the sea.

And sniffs the dusty bales of spice Pepper from Cathay, nard and musk, Strange marbles from ruined cities, packed In unfamiliar-scented straw.

Black slaves sweat and grin in the sun.