Chapter IX

Sing a song of sixpence ...
A suitcase full of rye ...
But that is meant for millionaires ...
The rest of us go dry!

BEAUTY AND THE BEACH

Once upon a time before Caesar had conquered Britain, and therefore in the very early days indeed, there dwelt in southern England a princess named Talc. Her life was pampered and happy, just like the lives of all the princesses who lived a long time ago. Each day she sat by the edge of a pool of still green water, and allowed her handmaidens to comb her tresses (it was in the days, you see, when ladies wore tresses where most modern folk wear hair).

“I am very beautiful,” she remarked casually, glancing at herself in the pool, “but ...”

“Yes, indeed, Madam,” chorused the handmaidens, who did not realize that she was about to say more.

“Silence, wretches,” snapped the princess, squirting water at them with a lily white hand, and thereby mussing up her image in the pool. Then she continued in a low tragic tone: “I have a blemish, I tell you. My nose shines. Poets have written of brilliant eyes and gleaming teeth, but not one has mentioned a glittering nose. Therefore I know that the perfect nose does not shine. My beauty is ruined. Ah woe is me, ah woe is me!” An she bowed her head forward, sobbing so violently that she pulled the pigtails out of her handmaidens’ grasp.

“No more,” she roared at them, as they started to reclaim the lost tresses. And then she sobbed as though her heart would break, “Oh my blemish, oh my nose, oh my nose, oh my blemish. Throw away your combs. I am going to tell the sea of my woe. I am going to walk along the cliffs. You may follow at a distance.”

She sprang to her feet, and hurried to the cliffs. She looked at the sea roaring on the rocks below.

“Oh sea,” she moaned in her grief, “what would you do if you had a nose and it was shiny?”

As she was thus bewailing she stumbled and fell upon the smooth, soft, chalky cliffs. When she lifted herself up she found that her hands were covered with a white dust.

“Arabella!” she called to her handmaiden, “bring me a bowl of water.”

Talc looked into the glassy surface of the water. Lo and behold her nose no longer shone, but was white with a thick opaque whiteness!

“My beauty!” she exulted, “my beauty has returned! Arabella, you may get the comb and continue in the making of my royal pigtails. Neither my nose nor my chin shines. I am truly beautiful.” And she rejoiced until the tears flowed down her face, making furrows in their whiteness.

And thereafter each morning the princess and her handmaidens could be seen prostrate upon the cliff, solemnly rubbing their noses in its smooth dust.

SENSATIONS OF SWINBURNING

I fly through the air ...
Ah where, tell me where
Shall I land, when I drop?
Shall I splash? Shall I flop?
When I plunge in the sea ...
Will the waves cover me?
Pause I here on the brink ...
Will I float? Will I sink
Through the green, glassy waves ...
Through the myriad of deep...?
When I die, shall I sleep ...
In the murm’ring sea caves?
Pray, is life fair enough...?
Shall I plunge from the bluff
Take the ultimate jump?
And land there ...
... with a thump?

DAY DREAMS

“We had a table cloth, as white as the paint on the wall beside my kitchen stove, when it was new, five years ago. Ice tinkled in the glasses, but I saw every glass cloud up to hide the ice, because it costs an awful lot these days: They brought the turkey in,--it must have weighed twelve pounds. Its brown breast was so fat it seemed about to burst. It sizzled. Um. Then came the cranberry, all red and clear and quivery from its mold. A pianola played all the time, and we danced on the swell white tiles up to the cashier’s desk.

“I had on a picture hat, black velvet, trimmed with fur and cloth of gold, just like a movie star--that’s how I felt. Say, ain’t it queer, the things you dream about?”

A half a loaf of bread lay awry on a crumby and rumpled and mended table cloth where the breakfast dishes were stacked in crooked piles. The room was dark ... an oil stove in the corner made the hot air heavier. On the tubs, wrapped in towels, a tiny baby lay. The mother was speaking: and trying to wipe the wisps of hair out of her heavy eyes. She said: “Say, ain’t it queer the things you dream about?”

RAIN IN THE CITY AT NIGHT

The streets are black.
They shine.
And every light,
From lamp-post and from store,
Makes a golden path
Across the street.

Drops of rain
Spatter,
And trickle down
The glowing window panes.

Red and yellow,
With silver frosting.
That’s all that I can see
In the windows.

CHRISTMAS

Christmas doesn’t come on the twenty-fifth of December. It begins with the first cold, snappy day, when ladies, fur-coated, and with unaccustomed red noses patter down Broadway. Tall fragrant pine trees, their branches roped in, are piled on the curbs. There are little stacks of very, very green stands, leaning against a box of rosy cheeked apples. Delivery boys bustle about, much more energetically than ever before. In the windows cauliflowers and half frozen beets cuddle in a bed of red crepe paper in an attempt to keep warm and cheerful. Next door the fish-man has garnished his wares with holly and eked a “Merry Christmas” on the frosty window pane. On the corner the Salvation Army girl stamps to keep warm and tinkles her little bell.

And it’s not even December twenty-fourth!

A ROMANTIC ADVENTURE INTO RELIGION

Once upon a time there
Was a little
Girl.
And she never read the
Bible, and when her fond parents
Decided that she ought to be
Religiously educated, she
Rebelled, and on Sundays developed
Colds--and so forth.
But--
When anyone mentioned
Saul or
Rachel or
Anything, she felt
Uncomfortable
And blushed
And giggled
And tried to
Change the subject, which
She couldn’t always do.

And everyone accused her of not
“Having religion”
Until she fully
Believed it.

Bye and bye
When she grew older she
Began to wonder

What this =religion=
That everybody thought so much about--
That preachers preached about--
That revivalists ranted about--
Is.

And when she asked
People
Some carefully stroked their beards
And thoughtfully cleaned their spectacles
And said:--“It is
The divine life in the human soul” whatever
That is.
And some
Sat up straight
And promptly answered
“The natural gratitude to God for creating us which makes us want
to obey his commands, in return,” which
Was clearer, but sounded too much like a
Bargain.

And she asked some who had been
Brought up on
Catechisms and
Things.
And they
Looked shocked at the
Question.

Perhaps because they
Didn’t know.

And there were many
More answers
But
The girl thought
That, as there
Were so many and
So many people had
Bothered about it,
It must be pretty
Important and
Useful.

And so she looked
Up in card indices and
Read many
Deep books
And had many
Deep discussions
And things.

Finally she decided
That
Religion is a very
Personal thing,
And so
There couldn’t be a
Single definition for
Everyone.

But as for herself, she
Considered it
One’s idea of perfection,
The attempt to live up to this idea as an ideal,

And

One’s attitude toward the world in trying to do this.

And as for the ways of “getting religion”
She could not believe
That this should be
Thrust upon a poor defenseless
Babe, or that a mean advantage should be
Taken of his
Youth
By his parents, in biasing his
Later saner judgment by
Prejudicing him in favor of certain
Opinions that They
Happened to have.

She did not mean
That one should not read the
Bible, or obey general morals or
Know who Rachel was or
Be as uneducated, as
She. She meant that one should be
Left to oneself,
When it comes to thinking out
What his Motive in life,
And
Conception of perfection, and
Explanation of the big whys of
Life, and
Things
Like that
Are.

For one must get an
Understanding of such
Things
(If one is to have a =real= understanding of them)
Either through
Much theory,
Or better,
By the experience which only
Living gives--
If you get what I mean.

But,
Thought the girl,
What is the use of
Worrying
About things like that
Anyhow?

And then she
Realized how
People always turn toward
Religion
When they are in
Trouble; as the
Religious revival in
Europe now
Shows.
And she realized the
Comfort that they
Get
From it.
And after all
It is only natural that when
Material things
And means toward the real end
Go wrong,
And one feels blue,
That one should try to
Look ahead
And beyond
At the =real= goal,
And get
Cheered up,
By the confirmation that there =is= a goal.
And that is one use of
Religion.

And besides
People
Are apt to be too
Materialistic, nowadays.
And the very presence of ideals,
Or recognition of their presence,
Will lead one
Beyond
Such narrowness
And
Such binding materialism, and so
Will lead to
Higher ideals--
Hence
Higher strivings--
Hence
A better world--
Which is
An asset in itself,
If you get what I
Mean.

And this is the
Real
Use of religion.

And with this off her mind she felt better.

SUNDAY

A-top the palisades that touch the sky
Where friendly elms flirt with each passing cloud,
There let me lie--with Heaven for my shroud,
With Nature live, and close to Nature die.

I, too, would flirt with clouds that pass me by,
Holding my head aloft, my spirit proud,
Only by Nature’s wrath shall I be cowed,
Only by hand of Providence I die.

For Art we live, since Art is Nature’s toy,
Fashioned each man in mold almost the same ...
Religion, Nation, Race ... are things of name.
Cast these aside--God’s playthings are for joy.

Amongst the waves that vainly slap the shore,
Please God, help me to carry on some more.

NEW YEAR’S DAY

An evening dress in a window ...
Sheer,
Crimson;
An ostrich fan beside it ...
Soft
Willowy.

Outside the hard cold glass,
A woman.
Pale cheeked,
Red nosed,
Clutches a furless muff
And pulls her frayed coat collar
About her scrawny neck.

Gentleman in a high hat,
Tan gloves,
Yellow cane,
Fur coat.
Buys spring flowers
From a dirty-faced Greek.

Confetti in long yellow streamers,
Lying on the grey curbstone.
Shivering children
Rolling it up.

SILENCE

You think the house is silent when you’re out?

The ticking clock
Obtrudes its measured beat,
Slower than before.
The windows knock.
’Way down the hall I hear a creaking door.

A tenseness in the air ...
Someone behind me.
Frantically I try to think ...
Of other things ...
Of anything ...
“This is mere nonsense ...
Nonsense,
Nonsense ...
The room =is= empty!”
Hush ...
What was that noise out in the hall?
That brushing sound...?
That creaking...?

Oh, how can you think
The house is silent when I’m here alone?

BLUFFING

So that was Russian Art--A blotch of red
And yellow flames, and towers childishly
Drawn in thick lines, and curved as though the walls
Were falling in. Scores and scores of these
Were crowded in a narrow frame, thick piled
That left us stunned, amazed--we could not guess
From the queer Russian signs and mumbled words
What we were meant to think the show was for.

But going out, we coughed importantly
And then we said “Here’s a new tone in Art.”

While inwardly we wondered what =that= meant.

THE DELICATESSEN SHOP

You must have noticed, on a Sunday night,
The line of husbands, forming on the right, ...
A bent old fogey, and a spatted fop
Are rubbing shoulders in the crowded shop
Where lurid signs proclaim a pale green tea
Or shriek in praise of chicken fricassee.

Furtively they take their places in line
And meditate the where-withall to dine ...
Then whisper it quite deprecatingly,
And steal away as humble as can be!

LISTENING IN.

(Recess in a College Corridor)

Footsteps paced down the hall--slow, meditative footsteps, with long intervals between them. Then there was a swish of skirts, and little pattering taps on the hard marble. Then both footsteps stopped, and I heard a high treble tittering, and a deep long-drawn out, but kindly roar. There was a clatter as though books had fallen on the floor--another titter, and rather a bored basso sigh. A bell rang. The pattering and swishing recommenced and faded out of earshot. The steady, determined strides drew nearer and nearer--and by that time the second bell had rung--and the door was slowly opened.

MT. RIGA ROAD

If I could draw--
The country lies
A beacon to my pointed pen,
Enticing me to sketch again,
Or paint the colored twilight skies.

If I could play--
I’d harmonize
The babbling brooks in mossy glen
Or sing the whispered words of men
Or wordless songs in misty eyes.

I wish that God had given to me
Expression that real artists show ...
The power to understand and see,
Uplifted by the will to know.

Instead, I write my paltry stint,
Which usually isn’t fit to print.

RAIN

Here’s the pool, close to the lake
Where the humming rainbow flies
Seek their prey with myriad eyes,
Where the maple, touched with red,
Bends across the dusty pool,
Bathing in its welcome cool,
Sunspots break the veil of leaves
Like diluted drops of gold,
Cloud the pool with dust-like mold.

Now the sunspots fade away.
Buzzing flies hum louder still,
Tense the air hangs damp and chill,
And the maple’s glittering leaves
Turn their silver-frosted backs
To the wind. A pine-tree cracks.
On its breast the first rain falls.
Drops like pebbles sharply pelt,
Widen to a ring, and melt.

GROWING PAINS

When I was a rosy, wide-eyed child
And the world was new to me
I tried to explore it with searching eyes
That knew no secrecy.
And I came one day, in my wanderings,
On a curtain of green and gold
With the deepest colors reflected in
Each mysterious fold.
And I tried to break through it, and tried to go ’round
To pluck at the colors that shone,
But as I reached toward it, it vanished away.
And I cried in the forest, alone.

Seven years passed, e’er I saw it again,
All proud in my new-found teens ...
But I passed by the gate with a haughty glance,
And I scoffed at its beckoning greens.

Seven years more, and I find it again,
In my own private fairy wood.
Its shimmering colors, and sun-flecked hues
Call me, as naught else could.

The gates are translucent. There, tinted with rose,
Is the sapphire blue of a cloudless day ...
And I know there are reaped the harvests of love,
And I know there the children of happiness play.

But I know that for me the gate is shut ...
And I feel that I trespass on hallowed ground,
So I fix my eyes on the stones below,
And I follow the lone path, homeward bound.

ADOLESCENCE

Childlike still, we gaze at fleeting fairy thoughts,
Childlike still, we cast pale shadows in the air--
Civilized imaginations--weakling sparks
That we’ve folded fast in words--and buried there.

Look: A school of doves on silver-frosted wings
Hold the sunshine for a moment as they fly,
Toss a vagrant shaft of sunbeams in the air
As they float across a shining turquoise sky.

For a moment there’s the glitter of their wings ...
Just a moment ... then the sunbeam melts away
And the happy brightness of the turquoise sky
Has faded, like their silver wings, to grey.

TO--

Glorious love, if the passion were thine,
To thee I would open my heart and myself;
Yours is the spirit to whom I’d resign,
Yours are the arms I would rest in, in sleep.

Yours is the face I would look to for help,
Yours are the hopes that would buoy me, until
After our labors had won, or had failed,
Yours are the thoughts that would guide me on still.

FRAGMENT

Glorious Virgin, thine the light ...
The spark-fire of maternal love ...
Of thine own self, hast thou made
A Living God, thy Monument.

TO MARIE

Such a dainty little miss
Is Marie,
Whom I love to pet and kiss ...
Sweet Marie!
Auburn hair in sunny wave,
Freckled face, now sad, now grave ...
Would you teach me to behave ...
Dear Marie?

You’ve culled learning from deep books
Fair Marie,
A Phi Beta ... and such looks!
Oh Marie!
That you set my heart a-flutter,
Not the wise words that you utter ...
It’s your charm that makes me stutter ...
My Marie!

But though lyrics I indite you,
Fair Marie,
Ardent love letters I write you,
Still Marie,
You prefer to let me pine, dear,
Lonely hours have been mine, dear.
Oh your art is superfine, dear,
Dear Marie!

But I never give up hope,
Of Marie,
Liberally I hand soft soap
To Marie ...
For I know when I grow older,
And my beaux affairs grow bolder ...
By her tactics, I’ll be colder
Than Marie!

FREUDIANISMS

Then the fish all turn into girls, and the shimmery tale of the goldfish-in-chief changes into dance slippers. Soon her voice begins to call to you. It grows louder and louder. At last you realized that she is saying--

“Eight o’clock--time to get up!”

You heave a sleepy sigh and look at the clock. It says “eight o’clock” but it is probably fast. You turn over and try to remember that dream about goldfish. Or was it girls? Girls or goldfish? Goldfish or girls? They both begin with “g”. Queer, “g.” Stands for “goloshes” and “grapes” and “gloves” and--

“Ten minutes past eight.”

“All right,” you drone dutifully. (But you know it isn’t all right).

You turn on your back and stare at the ceiling. There is no use in getting up yet. You would spend so much time just dressing and undressing. Think of the hours people spend in clothing themselves. If all those minutes were laid end to end they would probably reach from their elbows to--

And then the door bell rings, and someone says something about mail.

Mail!

That’s different.

In a minute you are up and rushing into the hall-way.

“Mail!”

THE OLD MAN SPEAKS

I dare not come to you with virile phrase
To tell you to give heed to what I say:
To live your life in age-instructed way,
To light your dawn with sunset’s fading rays.

I dare not wish to live again my days.
I, too, was careless when birds sang in May,
I loved to wander on the primrose way,
Untaught, I crashed through life’s conflicting maze.

Reverance, sanctity, and holy awe,
Your body’s kingdom, and your soul the king.
These are the messages of God I bring,
To keep your holiness without a flaw.

God gave to you the priceless gift of youth,
And I, unheeded, offer you mere truth.

BALLADE FOR MORALISTS

Sing me a lilting, laughing song,
Some spritely, springtime roundelay,
That’s not too burdensome or long ...
That hasn’t got too much to say.
O sing of goblin, elf or fay,
And deck your verse with imagery
Just this remember: Make it gay ...
O poet, do not preach to me!

Weave me weird tales of old Hong Kong,
Of China, or of far Cathay,
With pig-tailed heroes, called Hoo Chong
Who struggle in a tyrant’s sway.
Be sure the setting of your lay
(If it should end unpleasantly)
Be very, very far away ...
O poet, do not preach to me!

If to some antique, classic wrong
Poetic tribute you would pay ...
Resound some martyr’s funeral gong ...
Awake the tears of yesterday ...
I am not one to bid you nay,
But this I beg you earnestly
Don’t tack a moral to your lay ...
O poet, do not preach to me!

L’envoi

I only hope some poet may
Read this, and act accordingly,
Not tear into bits, and say:
“O poet, do not preach to me!”

HEAVEN, AT LAST

I staggered up the last step of the golden stairs and stood puffing and gasping. St. Peter came over to me and flapped his wings in my face. I noticed that the wings were all lettered--A.B.C.D.--I didn’t look further.

“Your admittance ticket,” he growled, and gloatingly fingered his keys. The largest was square and shiny--a Phi Beta Kappa Key.

I pulled a crumpled sheet of 8-¹⁄₂×11 paper from my pocket. St. Peter took it, slowly looked at it upside down, then sideways, then right side up.

“Un-huh,” said St. Peter at last, with celestial vagueness, “Un-huh,” he repeated wisely.

“May I ...” I whispered.

St. Peter turned around slowly, showing me a great expanse of wing.

“Close your eyes,” he said, “and pull out a feather, and while you are about it, take one for each of your little friends.”

“I can’t see which one to choose, if I close my eyes,” I objected most knowingly.

“It doesn’t make any difference which one you choose,” said St. Peter, “I only give them out as souvenirs. A feather doesn’t really help you to fly. It just gives you confidence. The rest is up to you.”

THE FUTURE

Far in the depths of the dark green sea
A forest of scrawny weeds
Imprisons a giant and holds him fast,
Twine themselves round his knotted hand
And chain him down to their sunless land
Where the waves rush raging past.

His face is hard with deep’ning lines,
And his eyes are glazed with slime,
Yet, deep in his heart there grows a hope
That he will be freed by time.

He is the God of Things to Be,
Chained to the floor of the thoughtless sea.

Transcriber’s note

Minor punctuation errors have been changed without notice. Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized where appropriate.

Page 9: “rogueishly uses them” “roguishly uses them”