Zeus lies in Demeter’s bosom
is attended of loves
under Aphrodite, before sunrise
and he said: “Lotta Catholicism here — (sounded
catholithismo)
and very little reliGion”
and he said: “I believe the kings are disappearing”
(Kings will, I think, disappear)
in 1906 and in 1917
or about 1917
and Dolores said: Eat bread, kid,” eat bread, me lad
Sargent had painted her
before he descended
(i.e. if he descended)
but in those days he did thumb sketches,
impressions of the Velázquez in the Prado Museum
and books cost a peseta,
brass candlesticks in proportion,
hot wind came from the marshes
and death-chill from the mountains.
“but such hatred,
I had never conceived such”
and the London reds wouldn’t show up his friends
(i.e. friends of Franco
working in London) and in Alcázar
forty years gone, they said: go back to the station to eat
you can sleep here for a peseta”
goat bells tinkled all night
and the hostess grinned: That is mourning, haw!
my husband is dead
(it is mourning, my husband is dead)
when she gave me paper to write on
with a black border half an inch or more deep,
say 5/8ths, of the inn
“We call all foreigners frenchies”
and the egg broke
thus making history. Basil says
they beat drums for three days
till all the drumheads were busted
(simple village fiesta)
and as for his life in the Canaries . . .
Possum observed that the local portagoose folk dance
was danced by the same dancers in divers localities
in political welcome . . .
the technique of demonstration
“You will find”
that every man on that board
has a brother-in-law
“You the one, I the few”
said John Adams
speaking of fears in the abstract
to his volatile friend Mr Jefferson.
(To break the pentameter, that was the first heave)
they never speak to each other,
if it is baker and concierge visibly
it is man and woman audibly.
“I’ll carve your cuts out”
“and I yours”
In less than a geological epoch
said Henry Mencken
“Some cook, some do not cook
some things cannot be altered”
Little wheel . . . . man to my house
What counts is the cultural level,
this table ex packing box
“doan yu tell no one I made it”
from a mask fine as any in Frankfurt
“It’ll get you offn th’ groun”
Light as the branch of Mercy
And at first disappointed with shoddy
the bare ram-shackle quais, but then saw the
high buggy wheels
and was reconciled,
George Santayana arriving in the port of Boston
and kept to the end of his life that faint thethear
of the Spaniard
as a grace quasi imperceptible
as did Muss the v for u of Romagna
and said the grief was a full act
repeated for each new condoleress
working up to a climax.
he wouldn’t write for the papers
got him by campin’ in his hotel
and assailin’ him at lunch breakfast an’ dinner
three articles
and my ole man went on hoein’ corn
come across a vacant lot
where you’d occasionally see a wild rabbit
or mebbe only a loose one
AY!
a leaf in the current
at my grates no Althea
libretto
Yet
Ere the season died a-cold
Borne upon a west wind’s shoulder
I rose through the aureate sky
Lawes and Jenkyns guard thy rest
Dolmetsch ever be thy guest,
Has he tempered the viol’s wood
To enforce both the grave and the acute?
Has he curved us the bowl of the lute?
Lawes and Jenkyns guard thy rest
Dolmetsch ever be thy guest
Hast ’ou fashioned so airy a mood
To draw up leaf from the root?
Hast ’ou found a cloud so light
As seemed neither mist nor shade?
Then resolve me, tell me aright
If Waller sang or Dowland played.
Your eyen two wol sleye me sodenly
I may the beauté of hem nat susteyne
And for 180 years almost nothing.
And listening to the gentle murmur
there came a new subtlety of eyes into my tent,
whether of spirit or hypostasis,
but what the blindfold hides
or at carnival
nor any pair showed anger
Saw but the eyes and stance between the eyes,
colour, diastasis,
careless or unaware it had not the
whole tent’s room
nor was place for the full recognition
interpass, penetrate
casting but shade beyond the other lights
sky’s clear
night’s sea
green of the mountain pool
shone from the unmasked eyes in half-mask’s space.
What thou lovest well remains,
the rest is dross
What thou lov’st well shall not be reft from thee
What thou lov’st well is thy true heritage
Whose world, or mine or theirs
or is it of none?
First came the seen, then thus the palpable
Elysium, though it were in the halls of hell,
What thou lov’st well is thy true heritage
What thou lov’st well shall not be reft from thee
The ant’s a centaur in his dragon world.
Pull down thy vanity, it is not man
Made courage, or made order, or made grace,
Pull down thy vanity, I say pull down.
Learn of the green world what can by thy place
In scaled invention or true artistry,
Pull down thy vanity,
pull down!
The green casque has outdone your elegance.
“Master thyself, then others shall thee beare”
Pull down thy vanity
Thou are a beaten dog beneath the hail,
A swollen magpie in a fitful sun,
Half black half white
Nor knowst’ou wing from tail
Pull down thy vanity
How mean thy hates
Fostered in falsity,
Pull down thy vanity,
Rathe to destroy, niggard in charity,
Pull down thy vanity,
I say pull down.
But to have done instead of not doing
this is not vanity
To have, with decency, knocked
To have gathered from the air a live tradition
or from a fine old eye the unconquered flame
This is not vanity.
Here error is all in the not done,
all in the diffidence that faltered . . .
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