Songs and Satires Part 11

I'll take from my herbarium certain species To make my points: Now here there is the woman Of life promiscuous, or nearly so.

She fixes her design upon a man, Who's married and the riotous game begins.

They go along a year or two perhaps.

Then psychic chemistry performs its part: They are in love, or he's in love with her.

What shall be done with love? Now watch the woman: That which she gave without love at the first She now withdraws in spite of love unless He breaks his life up, cuts all former ties And weds her. Do you wonder sometimes men Kill women with a knife or strangle them?

Well, here's another: She has been to Ogontz, You meet her at a dinner-dance, we'll say.

She has green eyes and hair as light as jonquils; She wears black velvet and a salmon sash.

And when you dance with her she has a way Of giving you her flesh beneath thin silk, Which almost lisps as she caresses you With legs that scarcely touch you; and she says Things with a double meaning, and she smiles To carry out her meaning. Well, you think The girl is yours, and after weeks of chasing She lands you up at the appointed place With mamma, who looks at you with big eyes, That have a nervous way of opening And closing slowly like a big wax doll's, From which great clouds of wrath and wonder come; Which meeting is a way of saying to you: The girl is yours if you will marry her, And let her have your money.

Julia, be still; I can't go on while you are laughing so.

I know that men are easy, but to see Women as women see them is a gift That comes to men who reach my age in life....

Well, here's another, here's the type of woman Whose power of motherhood conceals the art By which she thrives, through which she reaches also An apotheosis in society.

Her dream is children conscious or unconscious.

And her strength is the race's, and she draws The urgings of posterity and leans Upon the hopes and ideals of the day.

To her a man must sacrifice his life.

But women, Julia, of whatever type, Are still but waiting ovules seeking man, And man's life to develop, even to live.

And like the praying mantis who's devoured In the embrace, man is devoured by women In some way, by some sort. Love is a flame In man's life where he warms him but to suck The invisible heat and perish. Life is cramped, Bound down with many ropes, shut in by gates-- Love is not free which should be wholly free For Life's sake.

On Michigan Avenue At lunch time, or at five o'clock, you'll see In rain or shine a certain tailor walk In modish coat and trousers, with a cane.

That fellow is the pitifulest man I know.

He has no woman, cannot find a woman, Because all women, seeing him, divine What surges through him, and within their hearts Laugh slyly and deny him for the fun Of seeing how denial keeps him walking All up and down the boulevard. He's found No hand of human friendship like yours, Julia.

I use him for my point. If we could make Some fine erotometer one could sit And watch its trembling springs and nervous hands Record the waves of longing in the city, And the urge of life that writhes beneath the blows Of custom and of fear. Love is not free, Which should be wholly free for Life's sake.

Julia.

So much for all these things, and now for you To whom they lead.

You'll find among the marshes The sundew and the pitcher plant; in shallows, Where the green sc.u.m floats languidly you'll find The water lily with white petals and A sickly perfume. But the sundew catches The midges flitting by with rainbow wings, Impales them on its tiny spines, in time Devours them. And the pitcher plant holds out Its cup of green for larger bugs, which fall Into the water, treasured there like tears Of women, and so drowned are soon absorbed Into the verdant vesture of its leaves.

The pitcher plant and sundew, water lily Well typify the nature of most women Who must have blood or soul of man to live-- Except you, Julia. For my friend at Hinsdale Who raises flowers laid out a primrose bed.

He read somewhere that primroses will change Under your eyes sometimes to something else, Become another flower and not a primrose, Another species even. So he watched And saw it, saw this miracle! The seed Has somewhere in its vital self the power Of this mutation. What is the origin Of spiritual species? For you're a primrose, Julia, Who has mutated: You are not a mother; Nor are you yet the woman seeking marriage; Nor yet the woman thriving by her s.e.x; Nor yet the woman spoken of by Solomon Who waits and watches and whose steps lead down To death and h.e.l.l. Nor yet Delilah who Rejoices in the secret of man's strength And in subduing it.

You are a flower Designed to comfort such poor men as I, And show the world how love can be a thing That asks no more than what it freely gives, And gives all--all some women call the prize For life or honor, riches, power or place.

You are a blossom in the primrose bed So raised to subtler color, sweeter scent.

You have mutated, Julia, that is it, This flower of you is what I call _The Lover_!

THE SORROW OF DEAD FACES

I have seen many faces changed by the Sculptor Death-- But never a face like Harold's who pa.s.sed in a throe of pain.

There were maidens and youths in the bud, and men in the l.u.s.t of life; And women whom child-birth racked till the crying soul slipped through; Patriarchs withered with age and nuns ascetical white; And one who wasted her virgin wealth in a riot of joy.

Brothers and sisters at last in a quiet and purple pall, Fellow voyagers bound to a port on an ash-blue sea, Locked in an utterless grief, in a mystery fearful to dream.

All of these I have seen--but the face of Harold the bold Looked with a penitent pallor and stared with a sad surprise.

For now at last he was still who never knew rest in life.

And the ardent heat of his blood was cold as the sweat of a stone.

Life came in an evil hour and stabbed with a poisoned word The heart of a girl who faintly smiled through her tears.

And her little life was tossed as the eddies that whirl in the hollows From the great world-currents that wreck the battle ships at sea.

And the face of dead Lillian seemed like a rain-ruined flower.

Or what is writ on the brow of the babe as the mother wails for the day When it leaped in the light of the sun and babbled its pure delight?

But the face of William the Great was fashioned by life and thought; And death made it ma.s.sive as bronze, and deepened the lines thereof: Some for the will and some for patience, and some for hope-- Hope for the weal of the world wherein he mightily strove-- Yet what did it all bespeak--what but submission and awe, And a trace of pain as one with a sword in his side?

I have seen many faces changed by the Sculptor Death But the sorrow thereof is dumb like the cloth that lies on the brow.

So what should be said of the faun surprised in the woodland dances, Of Harold the light of heart who fought with fear to the last?

THE CRY

There's a voice in my heart that cries and cries for tears.

It is not a voice, but a pain of many fears.

It is not a pain, but the rune of far-off spheres.

It may be a daemon of pent and high emprise, That looks on my soul till my soul hides and cries, Loath to rebuke my soul and bid it arise.

It may be myself as I was in another life, Fashioned to lead where strife gives way to strife, Pinioned here in failure by knife thrown after knife.

The child turns o'er in the womb; and perhaps the soul Nurtures a dream too strong for the soul's control, When the dream hath eyes, and senses its destined goal.

Deep in darkness the bulb under mould and clod Feels the sun in the sky and pushes above the sod; Perhaps this cry in my heart is nothing but G.o.d!

THE HELPING HAND

Mother, my head is b.l.o.o.d.y, my breast is red with scars.

Well, foolish son, I told you so, why went you to the wars?

Mother, my soul is crucified, my thirst is past belief.

How are you crucified, my son, betwixt a thief and thief?

Mother, I feel the terror and the loveliness of life.

Tell me of the children, son, and tell me of the wife.

Mother, your face is but a face among a million more.

You're standing on the deck, my son, and looking at the sh.o.r.e.

I lean against the wall, mother, and struggle hard for breath.

You must have heard the step, my son, of the patrolman Death.

Mother, my soul is weary, where is the way to G.o.d?