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groans;

  The earth trembles in terror—

  And lies silent.

  (Published in the 1944 National Anthology of High School Poetry with honorable mention.

  The Snow Of Peace

  The snow of peace is drifting gently

  From the starless night of war,

  Each transparent flake an unuttered prayer.

  In the World,

  That great city of the human race,

  Children of nations laugh and play

  Together,

  Once more.

  In the background,

  Squat factories belch smoke contentedly

  On a diet

  Of rocket and atomic bombs.

  Soon,

  The purest snowdrift

  Will be covered once again

  With soot.

  Beyond The Moon

  Men call it loneliness,

  Yet how can tongues

  Devise a name

  For the barren wasteland

  Where I found myself?

  By day,

  The glare of others’ happiness

  Blinded

  My searching eyes;

  By night,

  Pale fire of stars

  Lured me

  To magic worlds

  Where Beauty reigns.

  Then—

  Dawn found but hot sands,

  And Desire’s parched throat

  Gasped for the cooling waters

  Beyond the moon …

  Desolately through the years,

  I stumbled onward,

  And Hope,

  Ever my guide,

  Began to call me “Fool”.

  Those lonely nights,

  Each rustle

  Of the black lace trees

  Was but a sob to me.

  At length,

  I fell,

  Senseless,

  To the burning floor

  Of my despair.

  When I awoke,

  The cooling fingers

  Of Spring Rain

  Stroked my fevered head.

  The fingers

  Led me up the rainbow’s arch,

  And as I neared its end,

  Heaven’s own guardian

  Stood waiting

  In the pastel mists—

  One kiss,

  And I had tasted

  The waters—

  Beyond the moon.

  God Made My Heart

  God made my heart

  From a thousand petals of the summer’s rose

  That fell at dawn;

  He mixed with it the liquid, colored notes

  Of linnets

  Singing to the spotted clouds;

  He covered it

  With wings of frailest luna moths;

  Then painted it with violet dew

  From stately fringèd gentians;

  For God knew

  Only the beautiful

  Could come

  As gifts to you.

  Sketch

  A gnarled figure,

  Bent,

  Desolate;

  Feeble rays of hope

  Choked

  By the formless fingers

  Of the Fog;

  Echoes of a phantom’s footsteps;

  Silence.

  Sonnet On Graduation

  You have become a traveler now, dear heart;

  A single piece of parchment made it so;

  In amber clouds of dawn it has its start,

  The road ahead, and you are free to go.

  Your eyes are golden east, but look again

  Where ragged purple clouds now dim the west,

  In that vague distance is your journey’s end;

  Beneath the purple hills will you find rest.

  The road that separates the two is long,

  And on its way will come work’s weariness,

  But if, within your soul, you have a song,

  There will be, for the heartbreak, happiness.

  Dear heart, just sing this song your youth began,

  And you will reach the purple hills, a man.

  Pianist

  The fingers of a soul

  Move swiftly,

  And a dormant river

  Of pulsing melody

  Flows forth,—

  And is still.

  My Love Grows Deep

  My love grows deep,

  Deep in my soul;

  It is watered by tears,

  And grows,

  A shade from the withering heat

  Of desire.

  Sweet and cool,

  And silence-tinted,

  Its roots reach out,

  And fasten me to you.

  Death Of A Rose

  O glowing rose on yonder graceful vine,

  Thy tiny crimson bud of fire so fair,

  The dewdrops on thy silken petals shine

  As brilliantly as sparkling jewels rare.

  And all the other flowers envy thee,

  For thou alone of them art blessed of God;

  Thou bloomest in eternal memory

  Of those reposing on a couch of sod.

  Thy velvet leaves fall slowly to the grass,

  And there are trodden ’neath the feet of men;

  The carelessness of these blind souls who pass

  Returns to dust thy beauty once again

  And there on earth marks where the angels bled.

  I weep; the rose of life must soon be dead.

  A Song

  Knives,

  Blue and gleaming;

  Shapeless blotches

  On four straight walls;

  The odor of stars,

  And small black dogs

  Running

  In circles.

  Black plumes

  Of ancient trees,

  Trying in vain to sweep

  The dusty cobwebs

  From the sky.

  Clocks and hearts—

  Beating,

  Beating.

  A pattern,

  Octagons and hexagons

  On a square rug,

  In a square room

  With square windows;

  The feel of veined hands

  And a dead leaf;

  The beating wings

  Of human moths

  Trying to reach a light.

  You Are Angels’ Choirs

  There lurks somewhere,

  Within the pastel colored mists of morning,

  One golden note,

  One liquid note,

  That I would bring to you.

  But I,

  The humble singer,

  Find myself unworthy

  To even hum the sweet refrain

  Of you;

  For I know only trills of birds,

  And tunes the wind plays

  On the harp of trees;

  While you are angels’ choirs,

  And haunting notes of violins

  Like sunbeams

  Through the stained glass window

  Of a church.

  Blood

  The moon was the color of blood that night,

  And the mist hung thick as smoke;

  I had fallen asleep with a heart in my breast

  That was still when I awoke.

  For the blood that had coursed through my veins was gone,

  It sailed with the Navy’s fleet;

  It was warm and alive in another chest,

  Why should my heart still beat?

  The sun was the color of blood that morn,

  Parched earth shone dull in its rays,

  And the emerald grass hung with ropes of pearls

  Seemed to wither before my gaze.

  I belonged to life, yet death claimed me, too,

  With a stronger bond than I knew,

  Yet the warning had stirred in my silent soul

  Before the battle was through.

  The sea was the color of blood that day,

  His ship was the col
or of death;

  The fog hung low like a velvet veil;

  Death laughed at his every breath.

  With my face in his heart, and my name on his lips,

  And my blood singing through his veins,

  He raised his eyes to the droning skies—

  Then he saw the enemy planes.

  His chest was the color of blood at dusk,

  And my life was in every drop,

  And that stain still spreads with a hungry flow

  That only a peace can stop.

  A Butterfly and a Man’s Mind

  A butterfly and a man’s mind—

  Not so different;

  A whim veers both

  From the steady course

  They chartered;

  The mind of man

  Flutters along

  On the path

  Prescribed

  By the wind

  Of opinion.

  But, perhaps,

  In this they differ:

  A butterfly

  Is beautiful.

  To Nicky

  You believed in me.

  And from the simple faith

  You had for others,

  A song was born,

  And in this song you live.

  When, for the last time,

  I laid my hand

  Upon your shaggy head,

  It was not to say “good-bye”,

  But only,

  “Good night, Nicky”,

  As I had said so many times.

  For there was One who said:

  “He who believes in Me

  Shall never taste death.”

  And so—

  Good night, my dearest friend.

  1945–06–02

  The Fool

  I am the fool:

  I see pale fire of stars,

  And they are mine.

  I think of others,

  But feed my own hunger

  On the moldy bread of poverty.

  Then there is the bat,

  The dark bat,

  Flying against the darker fingers

  Of the trees;

  And a cold mist—

  What good is it to scream?

  To rail against the loom

  Of Destiny?

  Who is there beside me

  But the sea?

  Who can hear me but the sun?

  I am the fool:

  I see beauty in a flower petal,

  Ice pink,

  Chiseled by a silver knife,

  Tempered in the white hot fire

  Of distant stars.

  I dance—

  I laugh—

  Liquid silver laughter—

  Laughter made of icicles

  With the sun shining on them.

  Then there is the bat,

  The dark bat,

  Flying against the darker fingers

  Of the trees;

  And a cold mist—

  Every sunrise I am born again—

  There is new life;

  Yet when the clouds

  Are but gray ashes,

  I see

  That there is very little life

  In ashes.

  I am the fool:

  In my pregnant dream

  I write wild words

  To make another feel

  What I have felt—

  The sweet and bitter joy

  Of chartreuse water

  And chiffon of clouds—

  But the bat keeps flying,

  The great, dark, silent bat—

  The fingers stir—

  They are restless—

  The mist sways, too—

  ……

  There will be other centuries,

  Other ages—

  Mountains will be ground to ant hills,

  And rivers shall consume it all;

  Men will go to Heaven and to Hell;

  But I shall still be here—

  I am the fool:

  I am timeless.

  ……

  It will not be long—

  Eternity is not a long time

  When you have seen it as I have—

  It will not be long

  Until the great dark bat stops flying,

  And the darker fingers of the trees

  Lift my dry bones,—

  And hold them.

  Then, only, have I the right

  To love.

  For when I am dead

  No one can rend my flesh.

  Now—

  I am the fool:

  Yet when I die,

  I shall be the wisest person

  In the universe.

  My Love Has Wings

  I love my love with a love

  Stronger