Sigil (1931-1938?)
VIII
There is no sign-post to say
the future is there,
the past lies the other way,
there is no lock, no key;
there is no bell on the door,
there is no door-mat before
the wide-open door:
there is no "he and me,"
there is no "you and she,"
there is no "it must be";
there is one mystery, "take, eat,"
I have found the clue,
there is no old nor new:
wine, bread, grape and sweet
honey; Galilee, Delphi, to-day.
IX
You'll go on, talking away,
you'll say all you've got to say,
if not now,
another day:
I'll listen, I'll hear,
if not this,
next year.
X
Let me be
a splinter in your side
or a bride,
eventually,
I will go
from the red,
red,
red fire-lily,
back
to the snow.
XI
If you take the moon in your hands
and turn it round
(heavy, slightly tarnished platter)
you're there;
if you pull dry sea-weed from the sand
and turn it round
and wonder at the underside's bright amber,
your eyes
look out as they did here,
(you don't remember)
when my soul turned round,
perceiving the other-side of everything,
mullein-leaf, dog-wood leaf, moth-wing
and dandelion-seed under the ground.
XII
Are these ashes in my hand
or a wand
to conjure a butterfly
out of a nest,
a dragon-fly
out of a leaf,
a moon-flower
from a flower husk,
or fire-flies
from a thicket?
XIII
I could say,
red,
red,
red rose-petal
is my inheritance to-day,
but I would keep the rock-pool
still
and cool;
I could cry,
it's my right,
I've earned this,
I've waited eternity,
but I would rather see
other things rising,
frond,
sea-weed,
tentacles
(that might otherwise not uncurl)
move free.
XIV
Now let the cycle sweep us here and there,
we will not struggle,
somewhere,
under a forest-ledge,
a wild white-pear
will blossom;
somewhere,
under an edge of rock,
a sea will open;
slice of the tide-shelf
will show in coral, yourself,
in conch-shell,
myself;
somewhere,
over a field-hedge,
a wild bird
will lift up wild, wild throat,
and that song heard,
will stifle out this note
and this song note.
XV
So if you love me,
love me everywhere,
blind to all argument
or phantasy,
claim the one signet;
truly in the sky,
God marked me to be his,
scrawled, "I, I, I
alone can comprehend
this subtlety":
a song is very simple
or is bound
with inter-woven complicated sound;
one undertakes
the song's integrity,
another all the filament
wound round
chord and discord,
the quarter-note and whole
run of iambic
or of coryamb:
"no one can grasp,"
(God wrote)
"nor understand,
the two, insolvent,
only he and you";
shall we two witness
that his writ is wise
or shall we rise,
wing-tip to purple wing,
create new earth,
new skies?
XVI
But it won't be that way,
I'm sane,
normal again;
I'm sane,
normal as when
we last sat in this room
with other people who spoke
pleasant speakable things;
though
you lifted your brow
as a sun-parched branch to the rain,
and I lifted my soul
as from the northern gloom,
an ice-flower to the sun,
they didn't know
how
my heart woke
to a range and measure
of song
I hadn't known;
as yours spoke through your eyes,
I recalled
a trivial little joke we had,
lest the others see
how the walls stretched out
to desert and sand,
the Symplegedes
and the sea.
XVII
Time breaks the barrier,
we are on a reef,
wave lengthens on to sand,
sand keeps wave-beat
furrowed in its heart,
so keep print of my hand;
you are the sea-surge,
lift me from the land,
let me be swept out in you,
let me slake the last,
last ultimate thirst,
I am you;
you are cursed;
men have cursed God,
let me be no more man,
God has cursed man,
let me go out and sink
into the ultimate sleep;
take me,
let your hand
gather my throat,
flower from that land
we both have loved,
have lost;
O wand of ebony, keep away the night,
O ivory wand,
bring back the ultimate light
on Delphic headland;
take me,
O ultimate breath,
O master-lyrist,
beat my wild heart to death.
XVIII
Are we unfathomable night
with the new moon
to give it depth
and carry vision further,
or are we rather stupid,
marred with feeling?
will we gain all things
being over-fearful,
or will we lose the clue,
miss out the sense
of all the scrawled script,
being over-careful?
is each one's reticence
the other's food,
or is this mood
sheer poison to the other?
how do I know
what pledge you gave your God,
how do you know
who is my Lord
and Lover?
XIX
"I love you,"
spoken in rhapsodic metre,
leaves me cold:
I have a horror
of finality,
I would rather
hazard a guess,
wonder whether
either of us
could for a moment
endure the other,
after the first fine flavour
of irony
had worn off.
No comments:
Post a Comment