Selected Poems (Aiken)/An Old Man Weeping
AN OLD MAN WEEPING
How can she say this misery? A hand
Of gold, with fingers of brass, plucking
At random, murderously and harshly, among
The stretched strings of the soul? A hand cruel
Yet loved? Deep in the soul it plunges
Twanging and snapping; murderous graceful hand
On which she fawns and weeps.
Of gold, with fingers of brass, plucking
At random, murderously and harshly, among
The stretched strings of the soul? A hand cruel
Yet loved? Deep in the soul it plunges
Twanging and snapping; murderous graceful hand
On which she fawns and weeps.
And yet not this
Nor nothing like this. It is a burning tree
Grotesque of shape, yet many-leaved, wherethrough
The wind makes melody.
Nor nothing like this. It is a burning tree
Grotesque of shape, yet many-leaved, wherethrough
The wind makes melody.
Nor yet this,
It is a music powerful and visible
Shaped like an octopus, each arm a beak,
Each beak a murder.
It is a music powerful and visible
Shaped like an octopus, each arm a beak,
Each beak a murder.
Nor yet this, but love
Taloned, with red on talons, and redder mouth,
Singing and striking.
Taloned, with red on talons, and redder mouth,
Singing and striking.
You, through whom love comes,
Hideous, gaunt, large-boned, arid of face,
Ravaged by sorrow—say why it is that love
Flies to you as the bat flies to its cavern!
Hated woman of wormwood, body steeped
In Lethe, tasting of death!
Hideous, gaunt, large-boned, arid of face,
Ravaged by sorrow—say why it is that love
Flies to you as the bat flies to its cavern!
Hated woman of wormwood, body steeped
In Lethe, tasting of death!
The carven priest
Gilded and small, with one gilt hand uplifted
And gilded forehead smooth, and coronet
Gilded, and the black eyelashes lowered
To hide the eyes, and passive suffering mouth,
Woodenly murmurs: Tao, the way, the way,
The region Way!
Gilded and small, with one gilt hand uplifted
And gilded forehead smooth, and coronet
Gilded, and the black eyelashes lowered
To hide the eyes, and passive suffering mouth,
Woodenly murmurs: Tao, the way, the way,
The region Way!
And the red crusted bowl
Shaped by the fleeing potter, eyes intent
On dragons, cries—Give form to formless, shape
The flying chaos!
Shaped by the fleeing potter, eyes intent
On dragons, cries—Give form to formless, shape
The flying chaos!
And last the imprisoned blood,
Pouring darkly from cell to cell of the heart,
Upseethes: Go near her, break her walls down, pour
Blood into blood, embed your brain in hers,
Root your gross thought in her no-less-gross thought!
Music with music mingles, be you music
Mingled, let the dissonance, clashed and dissolved,
Pierce with reality the too-smooth song!
Pouring darkly from cell to cell of the heart,
Upseethes: Go near her, break her walls down, pour
Blood into blood, embed your brain in hers,
Root your gross thought in her no-less-gross thought!
Music with music mingles, be you music
Mingled, let the dissonance, clashed and dissolved,
Pierce with reality the too-smooth song!
(. . . Thus looked she at me on a summer evening
With cornflower eyes, sad brow, and aging mouth,
And smiled askance, miserable, dumb, ashamed,
And moved the pathetic bones toward me sadly,
And locked me in her heart, as one might lock
An old man, weeping, in a rusted cage.)
With cornflower eyes, sad brow, and aging mouth,
And smiled askance, miserable, dumb, ashamed,
And moved the pathetic bones toward me sadly,
And locked me in her heart, as one might lock
An old man, weeping, in a rusted cage.)