Short Poems

The Hand of God lies somewhere mangled, the Hand of God lies somewhere cut. — And I myself have tried to shield my head: I stay within — all doors and doorways shut .
Like pieces of a snake, curved, though sundered, so leaps of God's Hand every particle; and every fling reveals the final Wonders, unveiling furthermore my screening wall .
Now I shield myself no more; I call for him who seeks his final prey. The Hand of God lies somewhere bruised and mangled and I — like parts of a snake in the gory dust .

The lands and seas, the cities and places, faces and smiles and words — they all left me for some distant dale .
I only behold through the veil of a clear mist two childish saddened eyes. Two blackish strayed lambkins lost in a world of snow .

Joan vows, (to hearten tim' rous Youth)
She ne'er saw Ghost or thing uncivil,
Worse than herself — — tho' once, in truth,
JOAN does believe she saw the Devil .

I am the wild vine! I rise at the wall of your court and am climbing, red and wild, up to the sill of your window .
To lie at the floor of your room, to listen to the swish of your dress, to pale in the light of your eyes, grow sad from your words!
To hang in ambush from your lamps, autumny and green as a spider, to fade musingly as your lamp, to die out in ashes in the flame of your stove!
To lie pale and dead in the snow on your windows, snowy white in the snow and snowed under, and weeping to you from the snow .

I have not yet conquered myself fully, not yet. Not all the wild plants have I uprooted .
Not all my wishes come true yet — and not every word that leaves my throat is clean yet .
Still before my eyes red lights glow and glitter — and still I am attracted by my pain .

Go bring me a mug of your very best ale,
Bad ale can drag a man down.

The lord of the castle a bold knight was he,
He started to London the Queen for to see.

His cloak it was velvet for a grand lord was he,
He rode a white charger, his squires they were three.

Esau, shaggy, blessed with the fragrance of the field, I owe you an ancient debt; it lies sunken in my depth, burried in my interred treasures...
Esau, hushed, behind your back quietly I sucked the flavors of your fate, the potent beverage of you, Esau, redolent of fields .
Esau, hairy, with blind father's blessing on jungle-head mild and fair — do not dun me now...Do not dun me now...Drop by drop it has sunk in my hoary sadness. Drop by drop it has oozed out with all my countless souls on the ashes of the route, on the ashes of existence...

O that I might finish my slender little fiddle that I carve and hew a whole morning. Out of matchboxes with feverish fingers, I carve and hew it the whole morning .
Fierce tempest, wait awhile on the other side, I still have to shape the lower part. And you, Death, stay at the threshold in vigilance, I have yet to polish the top-piece .
Now to insert tiny pegs in the smooth frail neck and draw fine hair throughout its length. The murderous band is revelling in the neighboring courtyard and my door is already caught by their glance .

Perish, perish, my outcry — you will anyway not be heard in heaven... Night has swung the crescent, like a knife against the throat of the earth...
Soon stillness will begin to suffocate with the excited bark of dogs... But night will not cease to slay, yet no one will come to aid...
So, before whom, before whom shall I kneel down now praying for mercy for me and for you — when frightened stars hide themselves in the steely wrinkles of the river?

O blue, blazing region, with vividness of dream thrust upon the world — around the grey spool of your roads I wound my days .
And who will dissolve that woe, and what can ease my sentiment for the savage hissing of your snows that cooled my eastern blood?
At the clear call of your banner's I dared with my body and heart, but you crucified my obstinacy with the tender fingers of a cleaver ...
So I did not wish that Sunrise should crown your sky-rim, when my unprotected dwelling-place flecked with fire-brands your nights .