Sword Blades and Poppy Seed Part 7

Down the side of your face.

What a pretty, red line!

Tell the taverns that scar Was an honour. Don't whine That a stranger has marked you.

The tree's there, You Swine!

Did you think to get in At the back, while your friends Made a little diversion In front? So it ends, With your sword clattering down On the ground. 'Tis amends

I make for your courteous Reception of me, A foreigner, landed From over the sea.

Your welcome was fervent I think you'll agree.

My shoes are not buckled With gold, nor my hair Oiled and scented, my jacket's Not satin, I wear Corded breeches, wide hats, And I make people stare!

So I do, but my heart Is the heart of a man, And my thoughts cannot twirl In the limited span 'Twixt my head and my heels, As some other men's can.

I have business more strange Than the shape of my boots, And my interests range From the sky, to the roots Of this dung-hill you live in, You half-rotted shoots

Of a mouldering tree!

Here's at you, once more.

You Apes! You Jack-fools!

You can show me the door, And jeer at my ways, But you're pinked to the core.

And before I have done, I will p.r.i.c.k my name in With the front of my steel, And your lily-white skin Shall be printed with me.

For I've come here to win!

Absence

My cup is empty to-night, Cold and dry are its sides, Chilled by the wind from the open window.

Empty and void, it sparkles white in the moonlight.

The room is filled with the strange scent Of wistaria blossoms.

They sway in the moon's radiance And tap against the wall.

But the cup of my heart is still, And cold, and empty.

When you come, it brims Red and trembling with blood, Heart's blood for your drinking; To fill your mouth with love And the bitter-sweet taste of a soul.

A Gift

See! I give myself to you, Beloved!

My words are little jars For you to take and put upon a shelf.

Their shapes are quaint and beautiful, And they have many pleasant colours and l.u.s.tres To recommend them.

Also the scent from them fills the room With sweetness of flowers and crushed gra.s.ses.

When I shall have given you the last one, You will have the whole of me, But I shall be dead.

The Bungler

You glow in my heart Like the flames of uncounted candles.

But when I go to warm my hands, My clumsiness overturns the light, And then I stumble Against the tables and chairs.

Fool's Money Bags

Outside the long window, With his head on the stone sill, The dog is lying, Gazing at his Beloved.

His eyes are wet and urgent, And his body is taut and shaking.

It is cold on the terrace; A pale wind licks along the stone slabs, But the dog gazes through the gla.s.s And is content.

The Beloved is writing a letter.

Occasionally she speaks to the dog, But she is thinking of her writing.

Does she, too, give her devotion to one Not worthy?

Miscast I

I have whetted my brain until it is like a Damascus blade, So keen that it nicks off the floating fringes of pa.s.sers-by, So sharp that the air would turn its edge Were it to be twisted in flight.

Licking pa.s.sions have bitten their arabesques into it, And the mark of them lies, in and out, Worm-like, With the beauty of corroded copper patterning white steel.

My brain is curved like a scimitar, And sighs at its cutting Like a sickle mowing gra.s.s.

But of what use is all this to me!

I, who am set to crack stones In a country lane!

Miscast II