Upon the burning mountain stands the palm. Deeper was its grove than the heart’s night, And hung with green the spring rose under it. Hidden in miles of leaves stood the great palm, That column of a thousand years. Too sharp, too bright burned this winter’s sun. The wind’s fine fever withered and pierced. O, time that brings us harm undoes our knowledge, dries our sap and love: upon the burning mountain burns the palm within the burning grove. ‘I am that which is not able to be whole’, says the fire: ‘and therefore I devour, seeking the absolute […]
The year’s drought washed to mud in autumn rains, How flowery sweet the lost spring bursts the wood! No stay to mourn the barren summer’s dead. No darkened silence where the fallen stood. This is the hour when all the living sing Lightening their honeyed silks along the air, Mad with the clean sun and the shining world, Knowing this bright, brief moment all their share Of lengthening day and slow warm summer fruiting. Feeling already how the heart-beat fails Where coldly lifts above the southern skyline The first blue wing-tip of the winter gales. Nan McDonald (1921 – […]
I had expected the dumb scorn of the world. Seeing that I had chosen to decline the wine cups and the proffered hands of the world, and even disgraced myself in the eyes of love coming cynically with dollars and gum. I am not such a fool but I should have been prepared To meet the averted long silence of friends.
Embryonic snarls herald in lover’s ear; panther and viper like a traveller coming leafing the ice channels of winter roads. with the warm and wired pattern of their bloods. As it were, the eye locates its zoo and the new captives catch old echoes, reprint the stamp of “very good” at school. and cages now crestfallen eagles are, the bars of wings huddled to the side, and the limp glint of lidless eye. curses the fingers of passersby whose torments of cheap peanuts shower the bird’s heart like bullets. The amorous alligator, glutted with lust, sinks its breast in the […]
The leaves are gone from the tree, Eddying. We too, wind-cold, with the leaves Revolving. We that were green in the sun Have the yellow of death in our veins. The tree is gaunt in the star-shells, Silver and black, grotesque. And the voice of the wind is a myth In the shouts of the hate. We know of our end— The fear is over for us. But we think and we think– O God! Will there be Spring again?
The planes seem to crash into my room. I feel their wings lurch In torment of darkness And silver; they leave their shadow Flat for an instant, then run Across the floor, like mice. One long, little shadow of death. Sweep, dip, roar in the sudden Zipped bass of them Above my roof, and I crouch down. I am nothing but the seed of fear, Crouching under the plane’s white Ribbed bellies. They are dark and silver in sunlight. Yet in my room they become Little shadows, scimetar slim as Fugitive fear, little shadows left For an instant at my […]
This is the hour When the black dog is eating moonstones and on the dark river gipsies are singing of moons made of blood. This is the hour when moths speak of insistence to a flame of white silence when clocks press the unwanted minutes into caps of metal. This is the hour when Proserpina forgets to cup the moon in her hands and love is a flower of paper under glass and dust.