Part 18

At first you will know not what they mean, And you may never know, And we may never tell you:— These sudden flashes in your soul, Like lambent lightning on snowy clouds At midnight when the moon is full. They come in solitude, or perhaps You sit with your friend, and all at once A silence falls on speech, and his eyes Without a flicker glow at you:— You two have seen the secret together, He sees it in you, and you in him. And there you sit thrilling lest the Mystery Stand before you and strike you dead With a splendor like the sun’s. Be brave, all souls who have such visions As your body’s alive as mine is dead, You’re catching a little whiff of the ether Reserved for God Himself.

Scholfield Hurley

God! ask me not to record your wonders, I admit the stars and the suns And the countless worlds. But I have measured their distances And weighed them and discovered their substances. I have devised wings for the air, And keels for water, And horses of iron for the earth. I have lengthened the vision you gave me a million times, And the hearing you gave me a million times, I have leaped over space with speech, And taken fire for light out of the air. I have built great cities and bored through the hills, And bridged majestic waters. I have written the Iliad and Hamlet; And I have explored your mysteries, And searched for you without ceasing, And found you again after losing you In hours of weariness— And I ask you: How would you like to create a sun And the next day have the worms Slipping in and out between your fingers?

Willie Metcalf

I was Willie Metcalf. They used to call me “Doctor Meyers,” Because, they said, I looked like him. And he was my father, according to Jack McGuire. I lived in the livery stable, Sleeping on the floor Side by side with Roger Baughman’s bulldog, Or sometimes in a stall. I could crawl between the legs of the wildest horses Without getting kicked—we knew each other. On spring days I tramped through the country To get the feeling, which I sometimes lost, That I was not a separate thing from the earth. I used to lose myself, as if in sleep, By lying with eyes half-open in the woods. Sometimes I talked with animals—even toads and snakes— Anything that had an eye to look into. Once I saw a stone in the sunshine Trying to turn into jelly. In April days in this cemetery The dead people gathered all about me, And grew still, like a congregation in silent prayer. I never knew whether I was a part of the earth With flowers growing in me, or whether I walked— Now I know.

Willie Pennington

They called me the weakling, the simpleton, For my brothers were strong and beautiful, While I, the last child of parents who had aged, Inherited only their residue of power. But they, my brothers, were eaten up In the fury of the flesh, which I had not, Made pulp in the activity of the senses, which I had not, Hardened by the growth of the lusts, which I had not, Though making names and riches for themselves. Then I, the weak one, the simpleton, Resting in a little corner of life, Saw a vision, and through me many saw the vision, Not knowing it was through me. Thus a tree sprang From me, a mustard seed.

The Village Atheist

Ye young debaters over the doctrine Of the soul’s immortality I who lie here was the village atheist, Talkative, contentious, versed in the arguments Of the infidels. But through a long sickness Coughing myself to death I read the Upanishads and the poetry of Jesus. And they lighted a torch of hope and intuition And desire which the Shadow Leading me swiftly through the caverns of darkness, Could not extinguish. Listen to me, ye who live in the senses And think through the senses only: Immortality is not a gift, Immortality is an achievement; And only those who strive mightily Shall possess it.

John Ballard

In the lust of my strength I cursed God, but he paid no attention to me: I might as well have cursed the stars. In my last sickness I was in agony, but I was resolute And I cursed God for my suffering; Still He paid no attention to me; He left me alone, as He had always done. I might as well have cursed the Presbyterian steeple. Then, as I grew weaker, a terror came over me: Perhaps I had alienated God by cursing him. One day Lydia Humphrey brought me a bouquet And it occurred to me to try to make friends with God, So I tried to make friends with Him; But I might as well have tried to make friends with the bouquet. Now I was very close to the secret, For I really could make friends with the bouquet By holding close to me the love in me for the bouquet And so I was creeping upon the secret, but—

Julian Scott

Toward the last The truth of others was untruth to me; The justice of others injustice to me; Their reasons for death, reasons with me for life; Their reasons for life, reasons with me for death; I would have killed those they saved, And save those they killed. And I saw how a god, if brought to earth, Must act out what he saw and thought, And could not live in this world of men And act among them side by side Without continual clashes. The dust’s for crawling, heaven’s for flying— Wherefore, O soul, whose wings are grown, Soar upward to the sun!

Alfonso Churchill

They laughed at me as “Prof. Moon,” As a boy in Spoon River, born with the thirst Of knowing about the stars. They jeered when I spoke of the lunar mountains, And the thrilling heat and cold, And the ebon valleys by silver peaks, And Spica quadrillions of miles away, And the littleness of man. But now that my grave is honored, friends, Let it not be because I taught The lore of the stars in Knox College, But rather for this: that through the stars I preached the greatness of man, Who is none the less a part of the scheme of things For the distance of Spica or the Spiral Nebulae; Nor any the less a part of the question Of what the drama means.

Zilpha Marsh

At four o’clock in late October I sat alone in the country school-house Back from the road, mid stricken fields, And an eddy of wind blew leaves on the pane, And crooned in the flue of the cannon-stove, With its open door blurring the shadows With the spectral glow of a dying fire. In an idle mood I was running the planchette— All at once my wrist grew limp, And my hand moved rapidly over the board, ’Till the name of “Charles Guiteau” was spelled, Who threatened to materialize before me. I rose and fled from the room bare-headed Into the dusk, afraid of my gift. And after that the spirits swarmed— Chaucer, Caesar, Poe and Marlowe, Cleopatra and Mrs. Surratt— Wherever I went, with messages,— Mere trifling twaddle, Spoon River agreed. You talk nonsense to children, don’t you? And suppose I see what you never saw And never heard of and have no word for, I must talk nonsense when you ask me What it is I see!

James Garber

Do you remember, passer-by, the path I wore across the lot where now stands the opera house Hasting with swift feet to work through many years? Take its meaning to heart: You too may walk, after the hills at Miller’s Ford Seem no longer far away; Long after you see them near at hand, Beyond four miles of meadow; And after woman’s love is silent Saying no more: “I will save you.” And after the faces of friends and kindred Become as faded photographs, pitifully silent, Sad for the look which means: “We cannot help you.” And after you no longer reproach mankind With being in league against your soul’s uplifted hands— Themselves compelled at midnight and at noon To watch with steadfast eye their destinies; After you have these understandings, think of me And of my path, who walked therein and knew That neither man nor woman, neither toil, Nor duty, gold nor power Can ease the longing of the soul, The loneliness of the soul!

Lydia Humphrey

Back and forth, back and forth, to and from the church, With my Bible under my arm ’Till I was gray and old; Unwedded, alone in the world, Finding brothers and sisters in the congregation, And children in the church. I know they laughed and thought me queer. I knew of the eagle souls that flew high in the sunlight, Above the spire of the church, and laughed at the church, Disdaining me, not seeing me. But if the high air was sweet to them, sweet was the church to me. It was the vision, vision, vision of the poets Democratized!

Le Roy Goldman

“What will you do when you come to die, If all your life long you have rejected Jesus, And know as you lie there, He is not your friend?” Over and over I said, I, the revivalist. Ah, yes! but there are friends and friends. And blessed are you, say I, who know all now, You who have lost ere you pass, A father or mother, or old grandfather or mother Some beautiful soul that lived life strongly And knew you all through, and loved you ever, Who would not fail to speak for you, And give God an intimate view of your soul As only one of your flesh could do it. That is the hand your hand will reach for, To lead you along the corridor To the court where you are a stranger!

Gustav Richter

After a long day of work in my hot—houses Sleep was sweet, but if you sleep on your left side Your dreams may be abruptly ended. I was among my flowers where some one Seemed to be raising them on trial, As if after-while to be transplanted To a larger garden of freer air. And I was disembodied vision Amid a light, as it were the sun Had floated in and touched the roof of glass Like a toy balloon and softly bursted, And etherealized in golden air. And all was silence, except the splendor Was immanent with thought as clear As a speaking voice, and I, as thought, Could hear a Presence think as he walked Between the boxes pinching off leaves, Looking for bugs and noting values, With an eye that saw it all: “Homer, oh yes! Pericles, good. Caesar Borgia, what shall be done with it? Dante, too much manure, perhaps. Napoleon, leave him awhile as yet. Shelley, more soil. Shakespeare, needs spraying—” Clouds, eh!—

Arlo Will

Did you ever see an alligator Come up to the air from the mud, Staring blindly under the full glare of noon? Have you seen the stabled horses at night Tremble and start back at the sight of a lantern? Have you ever walked in darkness When an unknown door was open before you And you stood, it seemed, in the light of a thousand candles Of delicate wax? Have you walked with the wind in your ears And the sunlight about you And found it suddenly shine with an inner splendor? Out of the mud many times Before many doors of light Through many fields of splendor, Where around your steps a soundless glory scatters Like new-fallen snow, Will you go through earth, O strong of soul, And through unnumbered heavens To the final flame!

Captain Orlando Killion