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psalm_onethirtyonePoetry. Inspired by Virginia Woolf, a fact which is probably glaringly obvious.
What is Man?
And, after all,
she said,
what is Man but a butterfly?
A thousand faithless
colours
playing wildly across the landscape?
Without the moondust on
their wings
and their painted eyes,
they are really only
shabby shapes,
crushed by fingers and broken by careless hands.
What careless hands we have!
Always breaking butterflies!
Man,
she said,
is like a tiger.
With heavy soft feet and sharp faces,
devouring the butterflies,
they come.
What is Man but a tiger
feeding on jungles
and bright
colours?
What is Man but a tiger?
Striped and long,
slinking in the bamboo,
sleeping in the leaves?
Was there ever,
she asked,
a green like the leaves we sleep in?
What greens we have!
Always congealing into jewellery!
Man,
she said,
O, there are many thousands
of men,
but they are all the same.
What are they but
goldfish
in a green lily-pond?
Enticed by ugly-coloured flakes of food,
crumbled by the fingers
of a fascinated child,
they swim,
unfurling their tails in the water.
What are men but goldfish?
Coddled and watched
by the wide eyes
of a child whose face is filled with illusions,
they swim,
lazy and slow and easy to look at,
many
colours
that are all orange.
Why do we call goldfish gold?
They are all the same kind of orange!
What poisons we have that are orange!
What tricks our colours play!
Man,
she said,
is nothing but a sparrow.
What a sparrow Man is!
Darting as though
there were something to be in a hurry about!
Life is slow
and
what is Man but a sparrow?
Impatient as the wind,
quick as the wind,
determined as the wind
to go where it must?
O, but Man will never be the
wind!
What is Man but a sparrow?
A brown-coloured
breath of air
dancing in the sky?
Searching for the sun
forever,
that is all.
That is all.
O, there was never room enough in the world
to hold all the things Man
searches for!
The world is too small for my things to be found!
The world is too small for me!
Man,
she cried,
Man is only a lizard!
Not so slithering as a snake,
nor so small as a salamander,
nor so dangerous as a crocodile!
Man has only small feet and insane eyes!
Only
insane eyes and
rough skin.
Hiding in the sand,
he lies,
trying to kiss the shy sun.
Why,
she wept,
what is Man but a little lizard,
dry against my hands?
O, my hands are dry!
O, my eyes are dry!
What is so dry as the sand and the modest sun?
What is as much a lie?
How the white sand tricks us like our colours!
How the white sand holds on to our feet!
Man,
she said,
as she sat beneath a tree,
Man is a hyacinthe,
bundled and fragrant,
bright and beautiful,
quick to burst forth and quick to die.
Man is summer!
Man is snow!
Man is the pale swan flying from the cold
and
the crying, snivelling kitten lying in the gutter!
Man is the toad coming out of the desert floor in the rain
and
the grey-eared donkey who knows his way home!
O,
she said,
as she rested her hand on the trunk of the tree,
what is the sense of it?
Man is everything!
Man is nothing!
Man is the broken-hearted lover left in the rain,
waiting for nothing!
Man is the sound of the piano when it is out of tune!
Man is the kiss of the rain
and
the cracked stone split across the path!
Man is the cold water creeping from the lake
and
the green leaves where the tiger sleeps!
Man is everything!
Man is nothing!
Yet--
As the rain began,
she said,
Man.
Man is a butterfly.
Man is only a butterfly.
What is Man but a butterfly?
What is Man but a butterfly,
sailing away,
slipping away,
vanishing
on a little puff of wind
into the painted sky?
Fin
~~~
More poetry, inspired by Waen playing the lodge piano and also by Frankenstein. Less glaringly obvious, perhaps.
Miranda
We crept, quiet,
over the mountains
through the towers of rock
through the hot, dry pines
under the grey sky, heavy
with clouds
and then,
not yet warm from the night's soft darkness,
we came upon the
house
Our house! With
bats living quietly in the ivy that burst
through the fragile
glass windows;
the bats,
soft leather handkerchiefs
sleeping upside down
in our
dusty chandeliers
And there were mice, little grey pillows,
hiding in the cupboards that
smelt of age
and of
cold, cold, frozen-teared winters
O, there were those! The cupboards
swore it
Too, we saw the nests
built in the ivy,
built in the tattered blue gauze of the bed canopies;
the nests,
filled with broken eggshells.
Our house!
We lit the lamps and by lighting,
played the Piper's flutes
for the moths,
the brown moths,
which struggled out of the linen closet and
swirled around the
hot, stained
glass...
Our house!
So quiet it was, with footprints on the floor
Our footprints, yes,
but the footprints of foxes
and squirrels
Fragments of shell on the crumbling windowsills,
and
tiny bones on the tables by the
ashy fireplaces
Our house was empty, with leaves blowing through it
Yes,
the leaves were blowing through it...
And, although we were home,
and we had
crept, quietly,
over the mountains,
through the towers of rock,
between the sands of our fair, pretty oceans,
blessed and praised by Miranda,
still we saw that the
house,
our house,
it was cold, cold;
We saw that our house
was cold.
The frozen-teared winters, sealing the doors shut!
The rain, pressing the heads of the
daisies down!
How cold our house was!
The chairs and tables were thin sticks,
pushed about by the
flapping of wings,
and the blue gauze of the curtains
was shredded and scattered
How long it had been!
We kissed the ivy, and
between the shadows, we
found
Miranda's locket, turned black by soot-fingered spirits
We always believed the house would stay the
s a m e
foolish...
The picture in Miranda's
locket
was only a little pinch of decay
And we had taken so long!
So long, as
we crept, quietly,
through the hot, dry pine
under the grey sky, heavy
with clouds
around the lakes, dancing with waves,
never our fair, pretty oceans!
Unblessed and unpraised by Miranda!
And where,
where,
was Miranda?
The house was cold without Miranda...
And there, in the shadows,
we saw her
Between the shadows,
we saw her
We crept, quietly,
over the mountains
through the hot, dry pine
through the towers of rock
under the grey sky, heavy
with clouds
like puffs of flour, rising from the table
as Miranda rolled dough
The sun was sinking behind the end of the world,
red like the hot metal at
the forge
glowing, like the emerald
Miranda wore in her hair
Long ago she came,
Miranda,
long ago she came,
and flung the windows of our house
wide open
and chased the beautiful cobwebs
into the
navy nights...
Miranda
wore jewelled skirts
made of butterflies...
Miranda
had jewelled eyes
made of peacock feathers...
Miranda
sang of summer
in the snow, as
she never liked winter
she never liked cold
Miranda
sang of summer
and warm, bright oceans
and hated...
would never have let the house grow cold
We found her blue candles
in the cabinets and cupboards
smelling of dust
and
crumbling stone
They fell apart in our hands, and we knew that
Miranda was gone
Then, there in the shadows,
we saw her
Between the shadows,
we saw her
And her emerald eyes
glowed dully
Her ruby-red hair
shone darkly
Her ivory hands
twitched slightly
Was there ever a child like Miranda, who came to us out of the south?
With
clever eyes and fragile hands
and feet
that flew
with her jewelled skirt streaming behind her
and her red hair rippling behind her?
At sunset, she fell,
and wouldn't wake up;
at dawn, she rose
and wouldn't lie down;
but if ever a light in the night came near her,
she lifted her head
If ever a cloud passed over the sun,
she closed her eyes,
Miranda.
She kept our house warm...
There in the shadows,
we saw her
Between the shadows,
we saw her
Playing the piano with her ivory hands, our Miranda
sweet Miranda
She kept out house warm...
She kept the blue gauze clean
and
the candles fresh
We crept, quiet
over the mountains
-there we dreamed of Miranda, dancing-
through the towers of rock
-where we saw her play-
through the hot, dry pines
-she smiled and her emerald eyes glittered-
under the grey sky, heavy
with clouds
-and there we saw, silent as snow, a little feather floating away-
And Miranda
was gone
As we made our bed in the tattered gauze,
twined about with ivy
we heard her play...
How well she played!
Our little jewelled treasure from out of the south
dancing and hopping all through
our house, like
a little...
Between the shadows,
we saw her...
laughing at the mice,
dusting away the footprints, our Miranda
stealing her dulled locket
from the splinters which
were the table,
once upon a time...
How cold our house is!
How quiet now!
Without Miranda
With only wind in the fireplaces
the bats awakening in the ivy
and spreading their leather
handkerchief-wings
With only night slinking in the corners
sweeping the mice
the little grey pillows
into their warm holes
With only cold,
cold,
COLD with its breath like ice
COLD with its kisses that burn
COLD with its tears that turn to hailstones
COLD with its fingertips splintering glass
COLD throwing the nests to the floor
COLD forcing the moths into the flame
COLD snapping at the heels of the foxes and squirrels,
warning them
away...
COLD
keeping out Miranda.
We wrapped tight in the blankets and
dreamt
of music
silky music slipping out of the piano
washing away the dust
sealing the cracks and
threading the gauze back together
making the dough taste sweet...
Shielded by the ivy,
we slept
sought by the moons
found by the starlight
Our house!
We will rebuild her, put back the glass
sweep out the dust
drive, drive, drive the
COLD
back into the north
back to the ice, where it belongs!
After all,
we crept, quiet,
over the mountains
-thinking of home-
through the towers of rock
-dreaming of home-
through the hot, dry pines
-whispering of home-
under the grey sky, heavy
with clouds...
we came to our house
We searched for our house, and
we found it! Now
we will make it our home
We will bury the bones and cast the shells back into the woods
and then--
if Miranda should ever come back,
she could be
w e l c o m e . . .
Our little jewelled treasure
should she ever return
Our little jewelled treasure from out of the south.
Once more,
we might see her,
dancing and hopping through our house
Our warm house, like
a little,
jewel-eyed
b i r d . . .
Fin
What is Man?
And, after all,
she said,
what is Man but a butterfly?
A thousand faithless
colours
playing wildly across the landscape?
Without the moondust on
their wings
and their painted eyes,
they are really only
shabby shapes,
crushed by fingers and broken by careless hands.
What careless hands we have!
Always breaking butterflies!
Man,
she said,
is like a tiger.
With heavy soft feet and sharp faces,
devouring the butterflies,
they come.
What is Man but a tiger
feeding on jungles
and bright
colours?
What is Man but a tiger?
Striped and long,
slinking in the bamboo,
sleeping in the leaves?
Was there ever,
she asked,
a green like the leaves we sleep in?
What greens we have!
Always congealing into jewellery!
Man,
she said,
O, there are many thousands
of men,
but they are all the same.
What are they but
goldfish
in a green lily-pond?
Enticed by ugly-coloured flakes of food,
crumbled by the fingers
of a fascinated child,
they swim,
unfurling their tails in the water.
What are men but goldfish?
Coddled and watched
by the wide eyes
of a child whose face is filled with illusions,
they swim,
lazy and slow and easy to look at,
many
colours
that are all orange.
Why do we call goldfish gold?
They are all the same kind of orange!
What poisons we have that are orange!
What tricks our colours play!
Man,
she said,
is nothing but a sparrow.
What a sparrow Man is!
Darting as though
there were something to be in a hurry about!
Life is slow
and
what is Man but a sparrow?
Impatient as the wind,
quick as the wind,
determined as the wind
to go where it must?
O, but Man will never be the
wind!
What is Man but a sparrow?
A brown-coloured
breath of air
dancing in the sky?
Searching for the sun
forever,
that is all.
That is all.
O, there was never room enough in the world
to hold all the things Man
searches for!
The world is too small for my things to be found!
The world is too small for me!
Man,
she cried,
Man is only a lizard!
Not so slithering as a snake,
nor so small as a salamander,
nor so dangerous as a crocodile!
Man has only small feet and insane eyes!
Only
insane eyes and
rough skin.
Hiding in the sand,
he lies,
trying to kiss the shy sun.
Why,
she wept,
what is Man but a little lizard,
dry against my hands?
O, my hands are dry!
O, my eyes are dry!
What is so dry as the sand and the modest sun?
What is as much a lie?
How the white sand tricks us like our colours!
How the white sand holds on to our feet!
Man,
she said,
as she sat beneath a tree,
Man is a hyacinthe,
bundled and fragrant,
bright and beautiful,
quick to burst forth and quick to die.
Man is summer!
Man is snow!
Man is the pale swan flying from the cold
and
the crying, snivelling kitten lying in the gutter!
Man is the toad coming out of the desert floor in the rain
and
the grey-eared donkey who knows his way home!
O,
she said,
as she rested her hand on the trunk of the tree,
what is the sense of it?
Man is everything!
Man is nothing!
Man is the broken-hearted lover left in the rain,
waiting for nothing!
Man is the sound of the piano when it is out of tune!
Man is the kiss of the rain
and
the cracked stone split across the path!
Man is the cold water creeping from the lake
and
the green leaves where the tiger sleeps!
Man is everything!
Man is nothing!
Yet--
As the rain began,
she said,
Man.
Man is a butterfly.
Man is only a butterfly.
What is Man but a butterfly?
What is Man but a butterfly,
sailing away,
slipping away,
vanishing
on a little puff of wind
into the painted sky?
Fin
~~~
More poetry, inspired by Waen playing the lodge piano and also by Frankenstein. Less glaringly obvious, perhaps.
Miranda
We crept, quiet,
over the mountains
through the towers of rock
through the hot, dry pines
under the grey sky, heavy
with clouds
and then,
not yet warm from the night's soft darkness,
we came upon the
house
Our house! With
bats living quietly in the ivy that burst
through the fragile
glass windows;
the bats,
soft leather handkerchiefs
sleeping upside down
in our
dusty chandeliers
And there were mice, little grey pillows,
hiding in the cupboards that
smelt of age
and of
cold, cold, frozen-teared winters
O, there were those! The cupboards
swore it
Too, we saw the nests
built in the ivy,
built in the tattered blue gauze of the bed canopies;
the nests,
filled with broken eggshells.
Our house!
We lit the lamps and by lighting,
played the Piper's flutes
for the moths,
the brown moths,
which struggled out of the linen closet and
swirled around the
hot, stained
glass...
Our house!
So quiet it was, with footprints on the floor
Our footprints, yes,
but the footprints of foxes
and squirrels
Fragments of shell on the crumbling windowsills,
and
tiny bones on the tables by the
ashy fireplaces
Our house was empty, with leaves blowing through it
Yes,
the leaves were blowing through it...
And, although we were home,
and we had
crept, quietly,
over the mountains,
through the towers of rock,
between the sands of our fair, pretty oceans,
blessed and praised by Miranda,
still we saw that the
house,
our house,
it was cold, cold;
We saw that our house
was cold.
The frozen-teared winters, sealing the doors shut!
The rain, pressing the heads of the
daisies down!
How cold our house was!
The chairs and tables were thin sticks,
pushed about by the
flapping of wings,
and the blue gauze of the curtains
was shredded and scattered
How long it had been!
We kissed the ivy, and
between the shadows, we
found
Miranda's locket, turned black by soot-fingered spirits
We always believed the house would stay the
s a m e
foolish...
The picture in Miranda's
locket
was only a little pinch of decay
And we had taken so long!
So long, as
we crept, quietly,
through the hot, dry pine
under the grey sky, heavy
with clouds
around the lakes, dancing with waves,
never our fair, pretty oceans!
Unblessed and unpraised by Miranda!
And where,
where,
was Miranda?
The house was cold without Miranda...
And there, in the shadows,
we saw her
Between the shadows,
we saw her
We crept, quietly,
over the mountains
through the hot, dry pine
through the towers of rock
under the grey sky, heavy
with clouds
like puffs of flour, rising from the table
as Miranda rolled dough
The sun was sinking behind the end of the world,
red like the hot metal at
the forge
glowing, like the emerald
Miranda wore in her hair
Long ago she came,
Miranda,
long ago she came,
and flung the windows of our house
wide open
and chased the beautiful cobwebs
into the
navy nights...
Miranda
wore jewelled skirts
made of butterflies...
Miranda
had jewelled eyes
made of peacock feathers...
Miranda
sang of summer
in the snow, as
she never liked winter
she never liked cold
Miranda
sang of summer
and warm, bright oceans
and hated...
would never have let the house grow cold
We found her blue candles
in the cabinets and cupboards
smelling of dust
and
crumbling stone
They fell apart in our hands, and we knew that
Miranda was gone
Then, there in the shadows,
we saw her
Between the shadows,
we saw her
And her emerald eyes
glowed dully
Her ruby-red hair
shone darkly
Her ivory hands
twitched slightly
Was there ever a child like Miranda, who came to us out of the south?
With
clever eyes and fragile hands
and feet
that flew
with her jewelled skirt streaming behind her
and her red hair rippling behind her?
At sunset, she fell,
and wouldn't wake up;
at dawn, she rose
and wouldn't lie down;
but if ever a light in the night came near her,
she lifted her head
If ever a cloud passed over the sun,
she closed her eyes,
Miranda.
She kept our house warm...
There in the shadows,
we saw her
Between the shadows,
we saw her
Playing the piano with her ivory hands, our Miranda
sweet Miranda
She kept out house warm...
She kept the blue gauze clean
and
the candles fresh
We crept, quiet
over the mountains
-there we dreamed of Miranda, dancing-
through the towers of rock
-where we saw her play-
through the hot, dry pines
-she smiled and her emerald eyes glittered-
under the grey sky, heavy
with clouds
-and there we saw, silent as snow, a little feather floating away-
And Miranda
was gone
As we made our bed in the tattered gauze,
twined about with ivy
we heard her play...
How well she played!
Our little jewelled treasure from out of the south
dancing and hopping all through
our house, like
a little...
Between the shadows,
we saw her...
laughing at the mice,
dusting away the footprints, our Miranda
stealing her dulled locket
from the splinters which
were the table,
once upon a time...
How cold our house is!
How quiet now!
Without Miranda
With only wind in the fireplaces
the bats awakening in the ivy
and spreading their leather
handkerchief-wings
With only night slinking in the corners
sweeping the mice
the little grey pillows
into their warm holes
With only cold,
cold,
COLD with its breath like ice
COLD with its kisses that burn
COLD with its tears that turn to hailstones
COLD with its fingertips splintering glass
COLD throwing the nests to the floor
COLD forcing the moths into the flame
COLD snapping at the heels of the foxes and squirrels,
warning them
away...
COLD
keeping out Miranda.
We wrapped tight in the blankets and
dreamt
of music
silky music slipping out of the piano
washing away the dust
sealing the cracks and
threading the gauze back together
making the dough taste sweet...
Shielded by the ivy,
we slept
sought by the moons
found by the starlight
Our house!
We will rebuild her, put back the glass
sweep out the dust
drive, drive, drive the
COLD
back into the north
back to the ice, where it belongs!
After all,
we crept, quiet,
over the mountains
-thinking of home-
through the towers of rock
-dreaming of home-
through the hot, dry pines
-whispering of home-
under the grey sky, heavy
with clouds...
we came to our house
We searched for our house, and
we found it! Now
we will make it our home
We will bury the bones and cast the shells back into the woods
and then--
if Miranda should ever come back,
she could be
w e l c o m e . . .
Our little jewelled treasure
should she ever return
Our little jewelled treasure from out of the south.
Once more,
we might see her,
dancing and hopping through our house
Our warm house, like
a little,
jewel-eyed
b i r d . . .
Fin
