I will dedicate this moment before my mirror Vine-leaves tap my window, The snail-track shines on the stones, It is morning. I awake from a bed of silence, In a whistling void I stand before my mirror, There are horses neighing on far-off hills Tossing their long white manes, And mountains flash in the rose-white dusk, Their shoulders black with rains... It is morning. I stand by the mirror ... It is morning, Senlin says, I ascend from darkness And depart on the winds of space for I know not where, My watch is wound, a key is in my pocket, And the sky is darkened as I descend the stair. There are shadows across the windows, clouds in heaven, Vine-leaves tap at the window, Conrad Aiken ADVICE TO A HORNÈD TOAD Hornèd Toad of cloven brown, Rock souls have dwindled to your eyes To you, who squat and watch Years loosen one sand grain until Slashing their dreams with motion But you, to whom fierce winds are ripples, Do not move lest you lose the taste of stillness. Horned Toad of cloven brown, Never hop from your grey rock crevice Mute with interwoven beginnings and ends. Leave no remembrance behind. Maxwell Bodenheim ADVICE TO A BLUE-BIRD Who can make a delicate adventure Of walking on the ground? Who can make grass-blades Arcades for pertly careless straying? You alone, who skim against these leaves, Turning all desire into light whips Moulded by your deep blue wing-tips, You who shrill your unconcern Into the sternly antique sky. You to whom all things Hold an equal kiss of touch. Mincing, wanton blue-bird, Grimace at the hoofs of passing men. Within a sky, and rob it of its blue! Maxwell Bodenheim DEATH I shall walk down the road. I shall turn and feel upon my feet The kisses of Death, like scented rain. For Death is a black slave with little silver birds How he has tip-toed after me down the road, His heart made a dark whirlpool with longing for me. Then he will graze me with his hands And I shall be one of the sleeping, silver birds Between the cold waves of his hair, as he tip-toes off. Maxwell Bodenheim |