Smoke from This Altar (1990) (3 page)

Then stepping quickly, lightly trace Queer hieroglyphs upon the face Of dampened sand with fairy grace Before the changing sea;

Their fingered feet in signs grotesque Step out their weaving arahesque Or pose in manner picturesque With som
b re gravity.

They
b
alance through a queer quadrille And weave strange patterns with their skill Or call in voices loud and shrill A
b
ove the ocean's roar; They light on rocks to primp and preen And flirt in manner quite serene Or float a
b
ove the ocean's green Along the lonely shore.

*

Give me, 0 Night, a blessing

Of peace, and a handful of stars
Give me, 0 Dawn, a beginning, New life, and a healing of scars;

Give me, 0 Day, a freshening

Of spirit, and warmth in the sun
Give me, 0 Earth, of thy bounty, Strength for the task I've begun.

Leave me, 0 Night, of your stillness A calm for my inward soul Leave me a breath of your darkness To cool me, and keep me whole; Leave me the wind in the willows

The roll of the surf and the sea
Leave me, Beloved, my memories Of dreams you have given to me.

*

Bare trees standing stark Against the sky, lifting Thin, imploring arms To the cold gray clouds.

*

Those hills remember me, for I alone Sought out their solitudes and silent ways; The harsh, forbidding cliffs and canyon maze

Recall each step I took, each path I've known; No trees are there, but barren butte and cone,

And empty aisles where long, lost shadows grazeOr wind-worn monuments that marked my days With all the voiceless eloquence of stone.

If only I possessed their fortitude,

Their sombre freedom from this searing pain! If only I could lose in solitude, These hollow, useless hopes that still remain! If only I could find my heart subdued, And cease its sounding on that old refrain!

*

I shall remember when my days are few The twilight on a narrow, winding road; The slender silver moon that days corrode;

The star that lent its loveliness to you. The arching of a dream across the years I shall remember with the slow-winged night The shadow of your hair against the light Of locust trees abloom with frosted tears.

I shall remember when my fires are low,

The way you looked at me; the words you used; The fragrance of your hurried breath, till lo, Through all the pain of love our spirits fused.

I shall remember when my fires cease

Your heart against my own-for that was peace.

*

A hollow hand of hills that clutches dawn Close in their impotent grasp, as fading slow, The shadows slip away before the day

And leave the sun behind; its filtered glow

Can leave no warmth on slopes so sparsely clad, But sickly lies among the brown blades there, Helpless against this cold

, impassive earth; Even the stones are numb and stu bborn here
Even the dust lies flat against the road Even the streams to immobility

Are chilled, to frozen pathways here, no joy Of water whispering to the stones, but stark And sullen silence down these empty hills. Even the wings of death avoid this place, Avoid these barren fields, for Death itself Must nestle to the warmth of life and youth, And nothing dies where nothing lives. These men Wither away and fall, but do not die;

They age, but not with years, they die but not With death, but with the chill of things out-worn. No youth is here, for these are born to age; Even the summer sun is haunted here

With chilled and doubting glow, then fades away.

And what to these can mean the Renaissance, The fire that flamed in Florence and gave birth

*

To Angelo, Leonardo, and their dreams?

These fires are frozen here, and numb with coldThe unresponding hills-gray seas, gray earth, Gray clouded skies-no warmth of blues or greens. Even the passions here are cold and dull;

That Athens was, that Plato dreamed, that Poe Had haunted nights with hunger from his heart, Or Byron sang of love-what mean these things To these? This is the land of Thor, but not

Of Aphrodite-no Pan could be conceived Upon these sleeping slopes or in these thoughts.

For there is only strength and hard hands formed To fierceness and to fury here .

. . and cold.

*

TO YOU, JEANNINE

The winds an owl Who likes to prowl

The night serene, A drifting ghost Who blows to boast Around you, Jeannine.

The star-lit fleece Of clouds at peace

With night between, Recalls a thought

Of dreams I wrought For you, Jeannine.

The curtained light Forbids the light

To intervene,

The moon has heard My whispered word To you, Jeannine.

*

I sit alone and watch the stars die out

Before the creeping dawn comes up the sky,

Like some old priest whose faith has turned to doubt When gods no longer heed his wailing cry.

The dark trees etch themselves against the dawn, Like memories of old that bring regret,

Or little formless fears the night has drawn Against the sky in sharp-lined silhouette.

The moon is fading now, the skies grow grayThe turning tide of life is at its ebb, And mists along the valley float away Like silvery dew upon a spider's web.

This world is dying now; there is no more

A dawn will come more hopeless than the night, Our rhymes are run, our hopes no longer soar,

We bow beneath a barren beauty's blight.

The ashes of our altar fires are cold,

And prophets wail the times they cannot mendFacing the future with hearts grown old We only know . . . a world can end.

*

The spring is gone, but left behind with me Untempered fever raging in my veins, Unkind remembrance of the April rains,

And something of its own glad gaiety; To be in love in spring is best, you see, When warming earth's alive with growing pains, And cherry petals fill the tangled skeins

The spider spins between the fence and tree.

But summer's come, and that infernal spring Has left this love behind-the season's wrong,

And I should think of keeping cool, and bring Tranquillity, and less impassioned song

To share my bed, and yet the whole night through I lie awake and swear-and think of you.

*

No more but this-no more but echoes down The lonely hills, and breathless hush-did Man Perhaps, in movement pass this way, and plan Some transitory edifice or town?

And did some brain-created glory crown This hill, imposing while the moments ran A stately emptiness that failed to span

The years that saw his passing, saint and clown?

Where now the bubble-dreams that stabbed the sky, The cloud-encroaching spires of steel and glass? Where now the thunder-throated guns of death Who breathed their anguish with a whinning cry?

The scars are healed, the ghostly streets are grassMan and his wonders vanished, like a breath.

*

I stood within the high-arched temple doors Within a columned hall at close of day, Where once the solemn crowds had come to pray And kneel in silence on the dusty floors; I wandered down the roofless corridors

Where Time's relentless hand had carved its way Along the wind-worn walls of stolid gray

Where nature wages endless wearing wars.

Above, beyond, the slowly setting sun Painted the towering columns one by one, And lit the halls with mute tranquillity;

Some sculptured dreams in dull, time-tarnished stone Looming long years, forgotten and aloneA shadowed symbol of futility.

*

Beneath a barren sky the crusted snow Lies cold and lifeless like a frozen sea; The lonely, prowling wind moans eerily

And loiters, sighing, like the voice of woe; A land, unborn and still where weary blow The icy winds in cold hostility,

While earth and sky in gray monotony With cheerless consonance, together flow.

What bleak and impotent old world is this?

No whistling blast, but dull, and numb, and still Unending miles where frigid plains deny

The throbbing urge of life, the warming kiss Of fire, and naught but fitful puffs of chill And piercing winds beneath a rheumy sky.

*

(Martyr of science, 1548-1600)

You were the best of them, Bruno, the best By more than the flames that fired your flesh to dust
The best by more than the truth you framed your lips

To speak. The One was All, the All was One, And the only law the ever changing form.

What did you think as the lambent light crept up Licking your limbs with tongue that seared

and charred?

Did you think then, Bruno, that the flame was Change Returning the One to All, the flesh to dust?

Your seven years were long, yet longer still The moments when the candent light crept up Enfolding your flesh with fervent

flames to char The hope there must have been, to stifle truth With caustic brand, to still th

e voice that spoke. Did you remember then, Bruno, that wi ll

Was ever free? The fathers lit the fire, And hung like ghouls along its outer edge, But were the flames less bright because

they blackened

The lips of truth? I wonder if the blaze That sheathed your form with lustful heat turned white

*

Around that mighty heart? Around that brain?

The one who muttered that "The earth still moves," He was a wiser, if not a better man;

For aging hearts are brittle on the pyre.

You spoke too often, Friend; had you forgot The insignificant ever dislike To he reminded of insignificance?

You were the best of them, Bruno, the best

By more than the flames that wrought the Change In the monads of your soul. As the flames Engulfed in fiery foam your anguished lips,

Did you dying, wonder at those foolish ones Who sought to stifle truth with violence?

*

I wandered along the dusty way seeking the dawn of another day, like a drifting chip on a lonely stream, like a breath of wind or a vagrant dream a forgotten soul on a weary quest

searching for home and love and rest.

I wandered along the dusty way

and found my idols with feet of clay,

my letters were ashes, my castles dust
the sword I wielded eaten by rust, my dreams were shattered-a heavy load is all that is left on a winding road.

*

He walked away at dusk, and it was long Before we met again; in Singapore One night on Malay Street (a corridor

Of darkness cleft with light) I heard a song
Among ten thousand I could not be wrong A voice like booming seas along the shore Singing an old, old tune once sung before The mast on tea ships bound for old Hong
kong.

He waved to me-a bottle and a girl
I saw him not again, but once I heard A seaman tell of storms along the strand,

Of great, wet rocks where foaming combers curl, And of a seaman, blonde and tall, and stirred By fires of fury-that was Hildebrand.

*

Weary at last with way-worn wandering I paused to rest in solemn solitude, Watching the sinking sun, and pondering Upon the desert's melancholy mood; The falling dark had left the day subdued,

And crowned the sullen hills with fading light; Huge boulders loomed, a black and battered brood, Like dark, unholy spectres in the night, And gathered clans of wind went moaning in their flight.

Along the burnt-out ridges wind-swept rocks Heaved granite backs against the evening sky,

A brutal, barren land whose silence mocks Man's empty efforts to identify His works with these exhausted hills, that lie Like some abandoned world left desolate, Whose stark remains are all that signify