Part 11

Then I opened my eyes and saw him plain, With his sleeves rolled up, and the dark blue stain Of tattooed skin, where a flock of quail Flew up to his shoulder and met the tail Of a dragon curled, all pink and green, Which sprawled on his back, when it was seen.

He held out his hand and gave to me The most marvellous top which could ever be. It had ivory eyes, and jet-black rings, And a red stone carved into little wings, All joined by a twisted golden line, And set in the brown wood, even and fine.

Forgive me, Lady, I have not brought My treasure to you as I ought, But he said to keep it for his sake And comfort myself with it, and take Joy in its spinning, and so I do. It couldn't mean quite the same to you.

Every day I met him there, Where the fisher-nets dry in the sunny air. He told me stories of courts and kings, Of storms at sea, of lots of things. The top he said was a sort of sign That something in the big world was mine.

Blue and white on a sun-shot ocean. Against the horizon a glint in motion. Full in the grasp of a shoving wind, Trailing her bubbles of foam behind, Singing and shouting to port she races, A flying harp, with her sheets and braces.

O Queen of Heaven, give me heed, I am in very utmost need. He loved me, he was all I had, And when he came it made the sad Thoughts disappear. This very day Send his ship home to me I pray.

I'll be a priest, if you want it so, I'll work till I have enough to go And study Latin to say the prayers On the rosary our old priest wears. I wished to be a sailor too, But I will give myself to you.

I'll never even spin my top, But put it away in a box. I'll stop Whistling the sailor-songs he taught. I'll save my pennies till I have bought A silver heart in the market square, I've seen some beautiful, white ones there.

I'll give up all I want to do And do whatever you tell me to. Heavenly Lady, take away All the games I like to play, Take my life to fill the score, Only bring him back once more!

The poplars shiver and turn their leaves, And the wind through the belfry moans and grieves. The gray dust whirls in the market square, And the silver hearts are covered with care By thick tarpaulins. Once again The bay is black under heavy rain.

The Queen of Heaven has shut her door. A little boy weeps and prays no more.

After Hearing a Waltz by Bartók

But why did I kill him? Why? Why? In the small, gilded room, near the stair? My ears rack and throb with his cry, And his eyes goggle under his hair, As my fingers sink into the fair White skin of his throat. It was I!

I killed him! My God! Don't you hear? I shook him until his red tongue Hung flapping out through the black, queer, Swollen lines of his lips. And I clung With my nails drawing blood, while I flung The loose, heavy body in fear.

Fear lest he should still not be dead. I was drunk with the lust of his life. The blood-drops oozed slow from his head And dabbled a chair. And our strife Lasted one reeling second, his knife Lay and winked in the lights overhead.

And the waltz from the ballroom I heard, When I called him a low, sneaking cur. And the wail of the violins stirred My brute anger with visions of her. As I throttled his windpipe, the purr Of his breath with the waltz became blurred.

I have ridden ten miles through the dark, With that music, an infernal din, Pounding rhythmic inside me. Just Hark! One! Two! Three! And my fingers sink in To his flesh when the violins, thin And straining with passion, grow stark.

One! Two! Three! Oh, the horror of sound! While she danced I was crushing his throat. He had tasted the joy of her, wound Round her body, and I heard him gloat On the favour. That instant I smote. One! Two! Three! How the dancers swirl round!

He is here in the room, in my arm, His limp body hangs on the spin Of the waltz we are dancing, a swarm Of blood-drops is hemming us in! Round and round! One! Two! Three! And his sin Is red like his tongue lolling warm.

One! Two! Three! And the drums are his knell. He is heavy, his feet beat the floor As I drag him about in the swell Of the waltz. With a menacing roar, The trumpets crash in through the door. One! Two! Three! clangs his funeral bell.

One! Two! Three! In the chaos of space Rolls the earth to the hideous glee Of death! And so cramped is this place, I stifle and pant. One! Two! Three! Round and round! God! 'Tis he throttles me! He has covered my mouth with his face!

And his blood has dripped into my heart! And my heart beats and labours. One! Two! Three! His dead limbs have coiled every part Of my body in tentacles. Through My ears the waltz jangles. Like glue His dead body holds me athwart.

One! Two! Three! Give me air! Oh! My God! One! Two! Three! I am drowning in slime! One! Two! Three! And his corpse, like a clod, Beats me into a jelly! The chime, One! Two! Three! And his dead legs keep time. Air! Give me air! Air! My God!

Clear, with Light, Variable Winds

The fountain bent and straightened itself In the night wind, Blowing like a flower. It gleamed and glittered, A tall white lily, Under the eye of the golden moon. From a stone seat, Beneath a blossoming lime, The man watched it. And the spray pattered On the dim grass at his feet.

The fountain tossed its water, Up and up, like silver marbles. Is that an arm he sees? And for one moment Does he catch the moving curve Of a thigh? The fountain gurgled and splashed, And the man's face was wet.

Is it singing that he hears? A song of playing at ball? The moonlight shines on the straight column of water, And through it he sees a woman, Tossing the water-balls. Her breasts point outwards, And the nipples are like buds of peonies. Her flanks ripple as she plays, And the water is not more undulating Than the lines of her body.

"Come," she sings, "Poet! Am I not more worth than your day ladies, Covered with awkward stuffs, Unreal, unbeautiful? What do you fear in taking me? Is not the night for poets? I am your dream, Recurrent as water, Gemmed with the moon!"