Sword Blades and Poppy Seed Part 15

My ears rack and throb with his cry, And his eyes goggle under his hair, As my fingers sink into the fair White skin of his throat. It was I!

I killed him! My G.o.d! Don't you hear?

I shook him until his red tongue Hung flapping out through the black, queer, Swollen lines of his lips. And I clung With my nails drawing blood, while I flung The loose, heavy body in fear.

Fear lest he should still not be dead.

I was drunk with the l.u.s.t of his life.

The blood-drops oozed slow from his head And dabbled a chair. And our strife Lasted one reeling second, his knife Lay and winked in the lights overhead.

And the waltz from the ballroom I heard, When I called him a low, sneaking cur.

And the wail of the violins stirred My brute anger with visions of her.

As I throttled his windpipe, the purr Of his breath with the waltz became blurred.

I have ridden ten miles through the dark, With that music, an infernal din, Pounding rhythmic inside me. Just Hark!

One! Two! Three! And my fingers sink in To his flesh when the violins, thin And straining with pa.s.sion, grow stark.

One! Two! Three! Oh, the horror of sound!

While she danced I was crushing his throat.

He had tasted the joy of her, wound Round her body, and I heard him gloat On the favour. That instant I smote.

One! Two! Three! How the dancers swirl round!

He is here in the room, in my arm, His limp body hangs on the spin Of the waltz we are dancing, a swarm Of blood-drops is hemming us in!

Round and round! One! Two! Three! And his sin Is red like his tongue lolling warm.

One! Two! Three! And the drums are his knell.

He is heavy, his feet beat the floor As I drag him about in the swell Of the waltz. With a menacing roar, The trumpets crash in through the door.

One! Two! Three! clangs his funeral bell.

One! Two! Three! In the chaos of s.p.a.ce Rolls the earth to the hideous glee Of death! And so cramped is this place, I stifle and pant. One! Two! Three!

Round and round! G.o.d! 'Tis he throttles me!

He has covered my mouth with his face!

And his blood has dripped into my heart!

And my heart beats and labours. One! Two!

Three! His dead limbs have coiled every part Of my body in tentacles. Through My ears the waltz jangles. Like glue His dead body holds me athwart.

One! Two! Three! Give me air! Oh! My G.o.d!

One! Two! Three! I am drowning in slime!

One! Two! Three! And his corpse, like a clod, Beats me into a jelly! The chime, One! Two! Three! And his dead legs keep time.

Air! Give me air! Air! My G.o.d!

Clear, with Light, Variable Winds

The fountain bent and straightened itself In the night wind, Blowing like a flower.

It gleamed and glittered, A tall white lily, Under the eye of the golden moon.

From a stone seat, Beneath a blossoming lime, The man watched it.

And the spray pattered On the dim gra.s.s at his feet.

The fountain tossed its water, Up and up, like silver marbles.

Is that an arm he sees?

And for one moment Does he catch the moving curve Of a thigh?

The fountain gurgled and splashed, And the man's face was wet.

Is it singing that he hears?

A song of playing at ball?

The moonlight shines on the straight column of water, And through it he sees a woman, Tossing the water-b.a.l.l.s.

Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s point outwards, And the nipples are like buds of peonies.

Her flanks ripple as she plays, And the water is not more undulating Than the lines of her body.

"Come," she sings, "Poet!

Am I not more worth than your day ladies, Covered with awkward stuffs, Unreal, unbeautiful?

What do you fear in taking me?

Is not the night for poets?

I am your dream, Recurrent as water, Gemmed with the moon!"

She steps to the edge of the pool And the water runs, rustling, down her sides.

She stretches out her arms, And the fountain streams behind her Like an opened veil.

In the morning the gardeners came to their work.

"There is something in the fountain," said one.

They shuddered as they laid their dead master On the gra.s.s.

"I will close his eyes," said the head gardener, "It is uncanny to see a dead man staring at the sun."

The Basket

I

The inkstand is full of ink, and the paper lies white and unspotted, in the round of light thrown by a candle. Puffs of darkness sweep into the corners, and keep rolling through the room behind his chair. The air is silver and pearl, for the night is liquid with moonlight.

See how the roof glitters, like ice!

Over there, a slice of yellow cuts into the silver-blue, and beside it stand two geraniums, purple because the light is silver-blue, to-night.

See! She is coming, the young woman with the bright hair.

She swings a basket as she walks, which she places on the sill, between the geranium stalks. He laughs, and crumples his paper as he leans forward to look. "The Basket Filled with Moonlight", what a t.i.tle for a book!

The bellying clouds swing over the housetops.