The Green Parrakeet
“Three doors up from the end of the street
Hung a golden cage with a green parrakeet.”
His feet shambled in the dust of the road, and the little barberry bushes hung out red tongues and leered at him.
He shuffled on, down the road, bent as though it might be a load he was carrying, while tiers and tiers of poplars, birches, hemlocks, pines, peered to see who it might be who stumbled and flung the dust about,
And the grey grape-vines, in and out between the bushes, ran beside him and looked in his face.
But his pace never changed a whit for all their staring. He shuffled on at his long way-faring.
——“Morning and night, to the green parrakeet
——She sang, and Oh, her singing was sweet!”
The road dipped down to a marsh, and the meadow-larks sang as he passed them, but his ears rang with another singing so that he heard nothing.
“By the North Wind's whistle, he is blind!” said a mouse-wood to an elder-bush.
“Hush,” cried the grape-vines, “you do not catch his dust. It is the dust of something a long way off.”
——“Her kisses were a flower red;
——I saw them on the bird's green head.
——Her breasts were white as almond bean
——And the parrakeet nestled in between.”
“Oh, gently, gently,” sighed the sentimental vines, but the long lines of trees behind them objected that he took a great while to go by.
“We are better employed,” they declared, “contemplating the sky.”
——Then I knocked at the door and entered in
——Like the orange flame of a hidden sin.
——I stood before her and there were three—
——The parrakeet and I and she.
——I tossed her arms apart and pressed
——Myself upon her, breast to breast,
——And the parrakeet was my bidden guest.
——I forced her lips till they caught on mine,
——And poured myself down her throat like wine.
——I mingled with her, part for part,
——But the parrakeet lay next her heart.
——Oh, sweeter than her lips were sweet
——Was my utter hate for that parrakeet.
——She fell from me like the withered shell
——Of a cranberry, and it was well;
——I stood on the other side of Hell.
——Slowly, slowly, she raised her head,
——But the parrakeet fell down like lead
——Upon the matting, still and dead.
——Softly, softly, she gazed at me,
——And I saw a thing which I dared not see.
——“My love!” she said, and the tones were sweet
——As ever she used to the parrakeet.
——But I had made my flaming breast
——A weapon to kill a bird on its nest—
——A single flame for the bird and me,
——And I was as smothered as he could be.
——I stared at her from the farther side
——Of Hell, no space is great beside
——This space. I could not see her face
——Across such vastitude of space,
——And over it drowsed a darkened thing:
——A monster parrakeet's green wing.
——The air was starred with parrakeets.
——I turned and rushed into the streets.
——For days and days I wandered there,
——For Oh! My love was very fair!
——Each night I watched her lean and stand,
——With empty heart and empty hand,
——While every passer-by she scanned.
——But I beheld what was not meet
——For all to see—a parrakeet
——Of gauzy substance which could cast
——No slightest shadow where it passed,
——Fluttering with indecent glee
——Between my hungering love and me.
——Ten months went by, and then one day
——It struck my face and flew away.
——Some odd obedience in my feet
——Compelled me after, street by street,
——And then along a country lane.
——I had no power to turn again.
——Next morning took me farther still,
——My feet usurped the place of will.
——And now I walk a weary road,
——Bent double underneath the load
——Of memory and second sight.
——That bird is always on my right
——And just ahead, I follow where
——His body flickers through the air.
——Sometimes it is as plain as print,
——Sometimes no better than a hint
——Of colour where no leaves are green
——But I can see what I have seen.
——How many years is that ago?
——I notice night and morning flow
——Each into each, the seasons run
——Against the turning of the sun,
——But more or fewer—'tis all one.
——She may be dead, and I may be
——A ghost myself, eternally
——Dreaming the short, ironic bliss
——Of one long, unrepeated kiss.
The man scuffed across a bridge and up a steep hill. “Quietly, quietly,” whispered the barberry-bushes, and hid their scarlet tongues under the leaves. “Weep, Tree-Brothers,” said the grape-vines. But the long lines of trees only rustled and played hide and seek with the peeping moon. They were too tall to pay much heed to anything so small as an old man limping up a hill.
Hung a golden cage with a green parrakeet.”
His feet shambled in the dust of the road, and the little barberry bushes hung out red tongues and leered at him.
He shuffled on, down the road, bent as though it might be a load he was carrying, while tiers and tiers of poplars, birches, hemlocks, pines, peered to see who it might be who stumbled and flung the dust about,
And the grey grape-vines, in and out between the bushes, ran beside him and looked in his face.
But his pace never changed a whit for all their staring. He shuffled on at his long way-faring.
——“Morning and night, to the green parrakeet
——She sang, and Oh, her singing was sweet!”
The road dipped down to a marsh, and the meadow-larks sang as he passed them, but his ears rang with another singing so that he heard nothing.
“By the North Wind's whistle, he is blind!” said a mouse-wood to an elder-bush.
“Hush,” cried the grape-vines, “you do not catch his dust. It is the dust of something a long way off.”
——“Her kisses were a flower red;
——I saw them on the bird's green head.
——Her breasts were white as almond bean
——And the parrakeet nestled in between.”
“Oh, gently, gently,” sighed the sentimental vines, but the long lines of trees behind them objected that he took a great while to go by.
“We are better employed,” they declared, “contemplating the sky.”
——Then I knocked at the door and entered in
——Like the orange flame of a hidden sin.
——I stood before her and there were three—
——The parrakeet and I and she.
——I tossed her arms apart and pressed
——Myself upon her, breast to breast,
——And the parrakeet was my bidden guest.
——I forced her lips till they caught on mine,
——And poured myself down her throat like wine.
——I mingled with her, part for part,
——But the parrakeet lay next her heart.
——Oh, sweeter than her lips were sweet
——Was my utter hate for that parrakeet.
——She fell from me like the withered shell
——Of a cranberry, and it was well;
——I stood on the other side of Hell.
——Slowly, slowly, she raised her head,
——But the parrakeet fell down like lead
——Upon the matting, still and dead.
——Softly, softly, she gazed at me,
——And I saw a thing which I dared not see.
——“My love!” she said, and the tones were sweet
——As ever she used to the parrakeet.
——But I had made my flaming breast
——A weapon to kill a bird on its nest—
——A single flame for the bird and me,
——And I was as smothered as he could be.
——I stared at her from the farther side
——Of Hell, no space is great beside
——This space. I could not see her face
——Across such vastitude of space,
——And over it drowsed a darkened thing:
——A monster parrakeet's green wing.
——The air was starred with parrakeets.
——I turned and rushed into the streets.
——For days and days I wandered there,
——For Oh! My love was very fair!
——Each night I watched her lean and stand,
——With empty heart and empty hand,
——While every passer-by she scanned.
——But I beheld what was not meet
——For all to see—a parrakeet
——Of gauzy substance which could cast
——No slightest shadow where it passed,
——Fluttering with indecent glee
——Between my hungering love and me.
——Ten months went by, and then one day
——It struck my face and flew away.
——Some odd obedience in my feet
——Compelled me after, street by street,
——And then along a country lane.
——I had no power to turn again.
——Next morning took me farther still,
——My feet usurped the place of will.
——And now I walk a weary road,
——Bent double underneath the load
——Of memory and second sight.
——That bird is always on my right
——And just ahead, I follow where
——His body flickers through the air.
——Sometimes it is as plain as print,
——Sometimes no better than a hint
——Of colour where no leaves are green
——But I can see what I have seen.
——How many years is that ago?
——I notice night and morning flow
——Each into each, the seasons run
——Against the turning of the sun,
——But more or fewer—'tis all one.
——She may be dead, and I may be
——A ghost myself, eternally
——Dreaming the short, ironic bliss
——Of one long, unrepeated kiss.
The man scuffed across a bridge and up a steep hill. “Quietly, quietly,” whispered the barberry-bushes, and hid their scarlet tongues under the leaves. “Weep, Tree-Brothers,” said the grape-vines. But the long lines of trees only rustled and played hide and seek with the peeping moon. They were too tall to pay much heed to anything so small as an old man limping up a hill.
Translation:
Language:
Reviews
No reviews yet.