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INTRUSION
The lilies sagwith rain-drops:
Their petals hold fire that does not break out.
(As though it slept between vapor-silk
It could not burn).
And a young breeze stumbles upon the lilies
And strokes them with his spinning hands....
The lilies and the young breeze are not unlike
Your silence and the rush of soft words breaking it.
27.
CHANGE
I came upona maiden
Blowing rose petals in the air
And catching them, as they fell,
Upon quick fingertips
Her laugh fell lighter than the petals
And dropped little gestures upon my forehead.
I gave her sadness and she blew it up
As she had blown the rose petals:
And it almost seemed joy as her fingers caught it.
But I was only a wanderer plaited with dust,
Who gave her new petals to play with.
28.
PORTRAITS
I
You were inthe room, yet your body
Was stone cut in drooping lines
And hued with decorous puzzling pinks and browns.
Even your hair seemed an elfin wig
Carelessly thrown upon your stone head.
And your eyes were hollows cradling broken shadows.
When you spoke your body did not change:
It was as though a flock of sleepy birds
Had issued from your stone mouth.
II
Vague words tapered off to pale weariness,
And sunlight was night smiling in his sleep.
Your hands moved as though they sought a dying emotion:
Your lips, drawn back, seemed evading sound.
When twilight fell upon us,
Like night striving to forget his dream,
We had long since passed out of the room.
29.
MEETING
A mood whoseheart was a flagon of ashes,
Met another mood whose lips were stained
With the odors of sleeping wine-songs.
The second mood kissed the breast of the first
And filled the ashen flagon with his pale purple breath.
Then the two moods died, and he who bore them,
Being an old man, sat down to make others.
30.
COTTON-PICKER
Like the armsof a child lifting shining white lilies from a little brown pond,
Sunlight drew songs from this lithe, grimacing negress
Whose skin was smoother than the cloudless sky above her.
The flecks of cotton they picked brought a changing white stupor
To the negroes about her, but she swung down her row,
With broad smiles cutting her pent-up satin face.
And though the afternoon slowly pressed down her back,
She never ceased humming to her joyous Christ.
31.
FRIENDSHIP
Grey, drooping-shouldered bushesscrape the edges
Of bending swirls of yellow-white flowers.
So do my thoughts meet the wind-scattered color of you.
A green-shadowed trance of water
Is splintered to little, white tasseled awakenings
By the beat of long, black oars.
So do my thoughts enter yours.
Split, brown-blue clouds press into each other
Over hills dressed in mute, clinging haze.
So do my thoughts slowly form
Over the draped mystery of you.
32.
FACTORY GIRL
Why areyour eyes like dry brown flower-pods,
Still, gripped by the memory of lost petals?
I feel that if I touched them
They would crumble to falling brown dust
And you would stand with blindness revealed.
Yet, you would not shrink, for your life
Has been long since memorized,
And eyes would only melt out against its high walls.
Besides, in the making of boxes
Sprinkled with crude forget-me-nots,
One is curiously blessed if ones eyes are dead.
33.
DEATH
I
A fan ofsmoke in the long, green-white revery of the sky,
Slowly curls apart.
So shall we rise and widen out in the silence of air.
II
An old man runs down a little yellow road
To an out-flung, white thicket uncovered by morning.
So shall I swing to the white sharpness of death.
34.
INTERLUDE
Sun-light recedes onthe mountains, in long gold shafts,
Like the falling pillars of a temple.
Then singing silence almost too nimble for ears:
The mountain-tenors fling their broad voices
Into the blue hall of the sky,
And through a rigid column of these voices
Night dumbly walks.
Night, crushing sound between his fingers
Until it forms a lightly frozen couch
On which he dreams.
35.
CHORUS GIRL
Her voicewas like rose-fragrance waltzing in the wind.
She seemed a shadow stained with shadow colors
Swinging through waves of sunlight.
Perhaps her heart was an old minstrel
Sleepily pawing at his little mandolin.
36.
OLD AGE
In meis a little painted square
Bordered by old shops, with gaudy awnings.
And before the shops sit smoking, open-bloused old men,
Drinking sunlight.
The old men are my thoughts:
And I come to them each evening, in a creaking cart,
And quietly unload supplies.
We fill slim pipes and chat,
And inhale scents from pale flowers in the center of the square....
Strong men, tinkling women, and dripping, squealing children
Stroll past us, or into the shops.
They greet the shopkeepers, and touch their hats or foreheads to me....
Some evening I shall not return to my people.
37.
TO ONE DEAD
Iwalked upon a hill
And the wind, made solemnly drunk with your presence,
Reeled against me.
I stooped to question a flower,
And you floated between my fingers and the petals,
Tying them together.
I severed a leaf from its tree
And a water-drop in the green flagon
Cupped a hunted bit of your smile.
All things about me were steeped in your remembrance
And shivering as they tried to tell me of it.
38.
TO A DISCARDEDSTEEL RAIL
Straight strength pitched into the surliness of the ditch:
A soul you have—strength has always delicate, secret reasons.
Your soul is a dull question.
I do not care for your strength, but your stiff smile at Time:
A smile which men call rust.
39.
TO AN ENEMY
Idespise my friends more than you.
I would have known myself but they stood before the mirrors
And painted on them images of the virtues I craved.
You came with sharpest chisel, scraping away the false paint.
Then I knew and detested myself, but not you,
For glimpses of you in the glasses you uncovered
Showed me the virtues whose images you destroyed.
40.
SOLDIERS
The smile ofone face is like a fierce mermaid
Floating dead in a little pale-brown pond.
The lips of one are twisted
To a hieroglyphic of silence.
The face of another is like a shining frog.
Another face is met by a question
That digs into it like sudden claws.
Beside it is a face like a mirror
In which a stiffened child dangles....
Dead soldiers, in a sprawling crescent,
Whose faces form a gravely mocking sentence.
41.
FORGETFULNESS
Happier than green-kirtledapple-trees
Waving their soft-rimmed fans of light
And taking the morning mist, in quick breaths,
You sit in the woven meditation and surprise
Of a morning uncovering its wind-wreathed head.
And yet within the light stillness of your soul
Dream-heavy guards sleep uneasily
Over the body of your last slain sorrow.
42.
THE INTERNE
O theagony of having too much power!
In my passive palm are hundreds of lives.
Strange alchemy, they drain my blood.
My heart becomes iron; my brain copper; my eyes silver; my lips brass.
Merely by twitching a supple finger, I twirl lives from me,
Strong-winged or fluttering and broken.
They are my children: I am their mother and father.
I watch them live and die.
43.
REAR PORCHES OFAN APARTMENT BUILDING
A sky that has never known sun, moon, or stars,
A sky that is like a dead, kind face
Would have the color of your eyes,
O servant-girl singing of pear-trees in the sun
And scraping the yellow fruit you once picked
When your lavender-white eyes were alive.
On the porch above you sit two women
With faces the color of dry brown earth;
They knit grey rosettes and nibble cakes.
And on the porch above them are three children
Gravely kissing each other’s foreheads,
And an ample nurse with a huge red fan....
The death of the afternoon to them
Is but the lengthening of blue-black shadows on brick walls.
44.
TO ONE DEAD
Shakingnights, noons tame and dust-quiet, and wind-broken days
Were hands modelling your face.
Yet people glanced at you and pass on.
And now they speak of you,
Quickly weighing tiny, stray chips of you:
They who did not know you.
45.
THE MASTER-POISONER
Maxwell Bodenheimand Ben Hecht
People
Sobe The Poisoner
Fana His Wife
Maldor His Assistant
The Poisoner’s living-room. Purple velvet draperies embroidered with
huge lavendar and orange lilies hang over the rear wall, completely
covering it. One great scarlet cushion, four feet high and five feet wide,
stands at the center of the wall against the draperies. The right and left
walls have two small, narrow windows near the top, through which a dimly
glowing light pours, forming a triangle as it strikes the floor. A narrow tall
entrance blocked by orange-colored portieres stands in the center of the
right and left walls. The floor is black and uncovered. A huge black candle
three inches wide and five feet high emerges from a black urn in the center
of the floor, bisecting the triangle formed by the two streams of pale light.
White and scarlet cushions are scattered about the floor. On two of these
cushions sit Sobe, the Poisoner, and Maldor, his Assistant. They sit to the
left and right of the candle, eyeing each other with a softly-smiling
melancholy. Sobe is tall, black-bearded, condor-faced, and clad in an
orange robe, and black sandals. Maldor is short and smooth-shaven, with
the face of a sleepy girl. He wears a white robe and sandals.
Maldor (puzzled and wistful, speaks softly to the Poisoner)
A secretion from the intestines of the cane-rat found in the Hwang-Ho river,
sprinkled with the pollen of jasmine-flowers, produces a most wonderful
poison, O Master. When dropped into the eyes of a virgin, this poison will
cause her face to contract in a twitching crescendo.
Sobe (speaks listlessly)
46.
The eyes ofa virgin are too blank for a poisoner’s relish.
Maldor (speaks with eager, hopeful emphasis)
The virgin, O Master, provides only the unimportant tinge to the process.
The relish lies in the pompous complexity of the poison.
Sobe
Complexity is but a shattered mirror.
Maldor (still hopefully)
From the irridescent dimples of the Medusae fish I have extracted a saffron
liquid, O master, which mixed with the larvae of dragon-flies, completes a
most satisfactory poison. Administered in microscopic doses, it creates
ribbons of flame in the blood and its enchanting victim expires, glowing
with strange, phosphorescent colors.
Sobe
I am sick of suavely terrifying poisons.
Maldor (speaks wistfully)
What strange delicacy makes you almost brutal tonight, O Master?
Sobe (speaks as to himself)
Wearisome poisons. A droll flutter ... and then always that dainty monotony
—death.
Maldor (speaks swiftly)
But surely our work still holds you, O Master. You have not become
reconciled to the empty ferocity of death!
Sobe (speaks gently)
Ah, Maldor, our poisons lend their little flourishes merely to life. I would
like to poison death.
Maldor (speaks aggrievedly)
But master, those cringing writhings, those indelicate squirmings and
jocund acrobatics which our most fastidious poisons produce—what more
tender satisfaction!
Sobe (listlessly)
They are but interludes leaving me languidly envious of death, my master.
Maldor (speaks with indignation)
47.
You have nomaster! Your last poison of moth-blood produced an effect so
exquisitely monstrous that even death was appalled. Ah, the bones of an old
woman, dissolving within her, left her body, a loose grimace.
Sobe
I am sick of all these sterile grimaces.
Maldor (speaks slowly)
Some new and lethal poem has sighed itself into your heart.
Sobe (softly)
There are no poisons remaining. We have signalled death with many
diverting gestures. We have fitted too many clownish shrouds.
Maldor
You are wistfully nervous. Some dream has burned your heart to an ashen
bag.
Sobe
I will tell you, Maldor, what I have done.
Maldor
Surely, you have found no last contortion for life.
Sobe
I have found the ultimate contortion.
Maldor
Some nibbling horror....
Sobe
No, Beauty.
Maldor (after a pause)
Beware, master, beauty is life’s revenge upon death.
Sobe
You know very little. Beauty is the devourer of death.
Maldor (speaks slowly)
What poison is this?
Sobe (speaks gently)
A drop taken into the blood, no more. The skin becomes a milk-tinted pond
in which wine-ghosts timidly bathe. The eyes, like purple breasted birds,
beat against the day. The mouth blooms into splendours. Ah, Maldor, the
48.
drop releases beautyfrom her thousand prisons. The victim stands washed
in a flood of light before which imagination dies.
Maldor (speaks maliciously)
What unique philanthropy is this? Has Sobe the Poisoner dreamed of
immortality?
Sobe (gently)
Sobe the Poisoner has made a drop of poison which will create beauty and
death. In the soul of its victim these two monsters meet and strive against
each other. Immortal beauty and death remain clutched in a stifling caress.
The poison, as it works upon its victim, renders her more radiant and
beautiful each moment, and each moment it paralyses her heart.
Maldor
And then what happens?
Sobe
Bereft of life, but with a beauty which must resist death, the tortured one
remains my own. Thus with my poison I become death’s master. Thus that
which should die, does not die. Thus death advancing creates a flame which
it cannot stifle.
Maldor
Beware.
Sobe (speaks with quickened emphasis)
Death is my slave. I summon him. I open a jewelled gate which he cannot
pass.
Maldor (speaks softly)
I do not like this poison.
Sobe (who smiles)
You are an amateur of death, Maldor.
Maldor (softly)
I do not like this poison.
Sobe
I will tell you another virtue of this poison, which perhaps will entice your
fears.
Maldor
49.
What is thisvirtue?
Sobe
Other poisons I have made provided us only with that little frenzied prelude
to death. Our victims have amused us somewhat, with unconscious
heavings—little, docile marionettes in the torments of poisons. But now,
Maldor, our subject, inspired by the ever-increasing loveliness of her body,
by the ever-growing flame of her beauty, resists in a torment beyond those
instinctive spasms and dimly-felt agonies. Her overwhelming desire to
prolong her beauty makes the struggle against death wondrously hideous.
Maldor
But since you say she cannot die, where will those struggles lead her?
Sobe
I do not know. I know only that a woman whose beauty feeds upon the
shadows of death, must amuse us with a miracle.
Maldor (softly)
The virtue of this poison does not appeal to me. The miracle you promise is
cluttered with subtle doubts. Death, betrayed, may blindly wander. Let us
rather return to our pathetically certain poisons and revel in the final froth-
sprinkled caperings of life. Ah, the powdered hair of the white caterpillar,
steeped in moon-light, will cause the eyes to swell out of their sockets, and
the tongue to burst.
Sobe (gently)
Where is Fana?
Maldor
Fana!
Sobe
Summon Fana to me.
Maldor
Master, do not summon Fana.
Sobe
I shall make Fana beautiful.
(Fana draws aside the portieres at the left. Fana is tall, with a
majestic ugliness. She is dressed in a dark brown robe. Her face is
swathed in a pale brown veil, knotted at the nape of the neck, and
50.
falling almost toher feet. She stands motionless. The two men turn and
stare at her.)
Sobe (softly)
I shall bring the poison.
(He rises and departs through the right entrance. Maldor rises and
continues to look steadily at Fana.)
Fana (gently)
I heard the word beauty.
Maldor
What else did you hear?
Fana
I heard only the word beauty.
Maldor
The master is evil tonight.
Fana
More evil than always?
Maldor
Even more.
Fana
What does he do?
Maldor
He frightens me with a mockery of death.
Fana
What did he say of beauty?
Maldor
Fana, go before he returns.
(Maldor quickly walks to the right entrance, draws aside the
portieres, and peers cautiously out. He returns quickly to Fana.)
Maldor (speaking quickly)
He has a poison to make you beautiful.
Fana
Ah!
51.
Maldor
Go!
Fana
Is he wearyof my ugliness?
Maldor
No. He has no thought for you. He seeks to enslave his master, Death.
Fana
But I did hear him speak of beauty.
Maldor (desperately)
He means to make you the flowered tomb of beauty. I can tell you no more.
Go!
Fana
Why do you tell me this? I have seen you smile upon things less subtle than
tombs.
Maldor
I love you.
Fana
It is easy to love that which is veiled. But perhaps you love me because my
face is so gentle a poison.
Maldor
I know not ugliness. It is a mood which has forsaken me. I plead with you
to go.
(Maldor hears Sobe’s footfalls and seats himself impassively upon
his cushion.)
Fana (softly)
I shall remain.
(Sobe enters. He bows to Fana.)
Sobe
Ah, Fana, I shall make your stay pleasant.
Fana—
Yes, Master.
(She seats herself behind the candle between Sobe and Maldor.)
52.
Sobe (gently)—
You arevery ugly, Fana. You wear a veil because you are ugly.
Fana—
I heard you speak of beauty.
Sobe—
Your body is like a broken cloud. Your face is like a pottery that crumbles in
the light. You are not beautiful.
Fana (softly)—
Why do you tell me this so carefully?
Sobe—
To make you dream.
Fana—
Dreams are mirrors in which I do not care to look.
Sobe—
I have a poison that will open your hearts to dreams.
Fana—
The dream which poison brings is too long.
Sobe—
This poison brings two dreams. One of beauty and one of death. Would you
listen to them?
Fana—
Listening to dreams one avoids the dreariness of sleep.
Sobe (gently)—
You are very ugly, Fana. I have a poison which will make you beautiful.
Fana—
To lie beautiful in death is a lyric privilege, but so faint an echo.
Sobe—
You reason too simply. I cannot promise you life. Perhaps your pleasure
will be only that of one who greets a phantom lover. A moment of
loveliness and the thought of eternal beauty embalmed in a dark dream,
may be all that shall be given to you before death.
Fana
53.
And what elseis possible?
Sobe
It is possible that you will become so beautiful that you cannot die. It is
possible that Death, feeding your beauty, will exhaust itself in a last gentle
caress. Then you will still live, and Death, a eunuch, will drag himself after
you.
Fana
But why do you speak so eagerly? Surely your only interest does not lie in
my exchanging one veil for another.
Maldor (breaking his silence softly)
No, Fana, my master dreams of edged subtleties.
Sobe
Make them simple with your telling, Maldor.
Maldor
My master is weary of ordinary effects. He has watched too many frenzied
struggles. No longer do they intrigue him. He yearns for something
elaborate. He has dreamed of more fragile tortures. The poison he will give
you brings no pain, but the beauty it creates within you will sharpen to
madness your desire to live, and my master will sit and look into your eyes.
Sobe
Have you finished, Maldor?
Maldor
Yes.
Sobe (gently)
I desire another assistant, Fana. As you see, one who will serve me more
faithfully, and whose loves are not so obvious. I will tell you why I am so
eager. I wish simply to master death.
Fana
Have you the poison?
Sobe
Here.
(He takes from his robe a small flagon and hands it to her.)
Sobe
54.
I have hiddenthe drop in wine.
(Fana rises and lifts her veil from her mouth. She drinks, smiling at
Maldor, who sits and stares impassively ahead of him. Sobe rises and
moves to the back of the room, watching her.)
Fana
I have drunk.
Sobe (softly)
Unveil yourself.
(Fana unveils herself.)
Sobe
Ah!
(He draws aside a panel portiere in the rear draperies, and a long
narrow mirror is revealed.)
Sobe
Look.
Fana
Ah!
Sobe (gazing at her intently)
You are beautiful.
Fana (whispering)
I grow more beautiful.
Sobe (he speaks as if growing dazed)
Your eyes....
Fana
My eyes are like madly swinging torches.
Sobe
Your mouth....
Fana
My mouth is like the little red door to a palace.
Sobe
Your hair....
Fana (eyeing the mirror still)