Bnnk . -I. erg 5/ fopyrighTN" /">a^ CCfDOUGHT OEFOSm Series of First Volumes ^ Number Three Orioles ^ Blackbirds ORIOLES &> BLACKBIRDS HI SIMONS CHICAGO ->VILL RANSOM - MCMXXII -^^--i^x.^t^-^-'^-^rCl* ifJt^ For reproduction herein of poems previously pub- lished in their pages ^grateful acknowledgement is due the editors of Poetry : A Magazine of Verse, The Liberator, The Wave, The Pagan, Unity, The Plowshare, Good Morning, The Modern Review, All 's Well, and Caprice. \\^-. t^ Copyright ig22 by Will Ransom JAN -2 ?3 )ClA6l)0b47 ^\ h,-9 \ Epistle Dedicatory Dear Bernadine — None- you disliked is among these. Hi CONTENTS Three Crimson Tulips Shermerville Road 9 Three Lines 10 Remembering One Night II Cubes and Colored Curves Portrait of an Old Roue 15 Open Window 16 Decoration: Ships Going Out '7 Autumn^ Lake Bemidji 18 October Sunset 19 Green 20 Sleep 22 Waters 23 Berries 24 Scintillations 25 Moonset 26 My Mind 27 OJ Helen 28 Eternally 29 Going to Sleep 30 Tree 3^ The Versifier 32 Holiday Air 33 Lovers in the Bark 34 Male Remark to the Spring Wind 35^ The Black Uniform Chant of the Shoveler 39 Singers 42 Nightfall in Prison 46 A Tree by the Road 47 A Rose 48 The Star 50 Dust in the Road 51 Taps 52 There are Moments of Release 53 There will be Days of Love Released 54 Near Freedom 56 En Route The Pebble and the Wave 59 When the Moon Pales 60 Mother and Daughter 61 Legend 62 The Moustache 64 To a Timid Maiden 65 The Fable of the Hog 66 Conscription 67 The Fireman 68 En Route 70 Three Crimson Tulips Shermerville Road Leaves live by night more delicately than they can live when light of day effaces subtleties. Elm-leaves on an immobile tree — beside a road that no unhatted fool but me would plod, alone, past moonset — flitter and swarm, like bees, and drone. Yet- rather the warm, unworded flow of air you breathe I 'd hear beside me, than murmuring hives of leaves upon a tree. Three Lines Moon, is it just because so woman-pale and woman-slim you hover Over the orchard while the robust sun sways lakeward into cover, That merely glance of you impels to thoughts of Bernadine, my lover? lO Remembering One Night I would divest you of soft things, Unswathe you of the grey and faint-pink swathings In which you 're wound, Wherewith you *re bound. I would twine curled brown leaves into your hair And girdle you with moss. I would sing to your naked dancing on a moon-blue hill of sand. II Cubes &f Colored Curves Portrait of an Old Roue The seeds of his sin Thrust tiny red roots Among the cell-crevices of his face. Now their minute purple tendrils Trace, on his cheeks and nose, Vine-patterns as intricately beautiful As his fastidious iniquities. 15 open Window That the night may pass with beauty, Leave the white bed forsaken; Come in your slender nudity And watch with me the slow stars carve Their fret of silver arcs on indigo: Oh! tranquilize your passion, That the night may pass with beauty. i6 Decoration: Ships Going Out Slow shuttles weave — weave into the night — weave on warp of sky-blue, cloud- white — weave heavy yarn of purple ship-smoke: strands of sky-blue, cloud-white wisps skeins of mulberry ship-smoke weave heliotrope horizon. Sea-fingers spin — spin blue water into green — gold-brown out of green: slow-spinning sea-fingers draw threads from sky, threads from shore-shadows — spin grape-color and silver out of sky and shore-shadows. Slender sea-fingers spin green and burn orange, silver and purple together. Slow shuttles weave mulberry ship-smoke into a heliotrope horizon — weave into night. 17 Autumn^ Lake Bemidji No more, in the cedar-swamp, The red chevrons on the blackbird's wing Are wind-swayed up and down In unison with the highbush-cranberry clusters, Scarlet with frost-bite. With many an affrighted signal-call The mottle-bosomed yellow-hammer Has fled the dusty jackpine copse. Now a slate-colored heron Flaps out of the sallow sedges And steers southward Over the grey waves and the broken brown reeds, Trailing its legs like the rudder of a canoe. i8 October Sunset Clouds like swans with orchid-colored plumes glide upon jade water: magenta-bellied gulls — gold wings, flamingo-tipped - hover in cold purple heights. 19 Green Field-green, Indigo blended with a little canary yellow; Blue-green Like the lush leaves of the marigold; Broad level meadow of sprouting wheat Intense green \Vith a shimmering sheen. Like a velvet portierre In a walnut-raftered room. Tree-green, Cobalt-blue wedded to maize yellow Then sprinkled with honey-powder; Sunny-green Like morning light on a great water; Sex-green, Yellow pollen bursting from the soft womb of the pod — Breast- buds of a passionate virgin Eae:er for the press of a mature athletic man. 20 Bud-green, Drops of light blue blurred into a matt of water-color yellow; April green Of first buds flowering on the boughs of poplar trees; Faint yellow-green, The single fringe of trees along the curving shore Making delicate traceries Against the mists of the river Like an embroidered sylvan scene In old, old lace. 21 Sleep Thoughts flare and flicker in my mind Like a host of little candles in a great dark chamber . . . Now some unseen one enters And snufFs out the flames, One by one . . . 22 Waters Out of the yellow-tamarack morass The olive-colored water of the river Flows into the round basin of the lake Tawny muscles of a sunburnt arm Pressing against the resilience Of a white breast. 23 Berries Midsummer in the North-country Parched bushes in the stumpy fields where cool forests were And, under the shady leaves of a low shrub, Blueberries, Like clusters of little blue moons Under the foliage of night. 24 Scintillations The moon drips a purple oil Upon the undulating surface of the lake. Out from the tremulous, olive-drab shadow of the pier, Darts a green-backed water beetle; It cuts a zig-zag lightning track across the lambent phosphorescence. Then vanishes into the rolling black waste . . So desire comes into her eyes, and is gone. ^ Moonset All the long evening The hot yellow moon Kept slipping toward the house-tops Slipping, slipping, slipping — Until, when a faraway churchbell Struck just once, It fell into a tall black chimney. Then a wind came out of the west And blew all the heat away. 26 My Mind An indigent old woman Fingers trinkets and remnants Over a bargain-counter And then moves on Without purchasing. 27 0/ Helen Come, amorous thoughts! Now that the straight, sharp-angled imperatives of work are laid aside. Fill my mind with visions of her, Like little golden goddesses Gleaming all adown a long black corridor! Occupy every niche of my soul With her fine-metalled image. That I may adulate, unreservedly. 28 Eternally Timorously wavering, An ephemeral splendour like a butterfly's wing in sunlight, The little yellow flame creeps down the taper Into the deep cup of the candlestick . . . It is blue like a breath of noon-cloud . . . It is a red cinder in the black of a forest camp. Die, small light! Vanish utterly: I shall remain in this night-dungeoned corner. Loving her. 29 Going to Sleep Lovely thoughts came, silent, through the night And led me on from scene to happy scene Until at last they drew their glowing tapering arms From the numbing clasp of my mind, And abandoned me To the passionless placidity of Sleep, Dull spouse, and swollen-eyed, of Weariness. 30 Tree There is a lemon-colored elmtree near the road. Autumn has yellowed its periphery of leaves But the inner foliage remains untouched by frost, Pea-green. 31 The Versifier I take words — Thin, delicately moulded strips of speech — And join them end to end Cunningly, so that the pattern is unbroken. And so make a frame For an exquisite thought. 32 Holiday Air He stands on the cold curb, whistling. Pizzicato puffs of blue breath Issue on the slow winter wind — Dots and dashes of melody On an invisible piano-roll. ZZ Lovers in the Dark A spark blown from a cigarette Fades into ash Like a flake of snow That melts before alighting . , They kiss. 34 Male Remark to the Spring Wind Silk legs — because of their accustomedness, thirty above zero or below — do not disturb. But, oh! why orange bloomers, why the obscene press of skirts on thighs, why garters — intriguing rags: are they merely to torment the effort to be continent? 35 The Black Uniform Chant of the Shovekr I am the shoveler. I'm the young fellow who stands all day On the feeding-platform in the brick plant Pushing great shovelsful of clay Into the champing maw of the crushing-machine, With rhythmic vigorous slide and pull of muscles Shoving chunks of hard dirt into the machine. / was the sleek young gentleman of the cities y Inhabitant of drives and boulevards^ Frequenter of tearooms where rich women went to smoke their Russian cigarets uncensored^ Of suave hotels ^ of cafes where the laughers and the dancers played: I was the well-dressed young professional man^ Flipping a slim slick walking-cane^ Twisting waxed ends of a little brown mustache^ Hatted and gloved and gaiter ed to the letter of style and taste. 39 See me now — As the shoveler! Stooping to the rough task, clad in boots and overalls, Dirty overalls, bagging over the gumboot tops, sagging loosely over my hips. Arms bare to the shoulders, overshirt cast aside. Bare-headed, bound with a blue handkerchief like a fillet To hold my straggling hair and stay the trickling sweat. See me now — Working callouses on my palms and the edges of my fingers, Joyous in the strain and pull of muscles, In the swing and toss of the shovel. / was the prison greenhorn; I was the man who quailed as they marched me to worky And cringed as a weakling In the first days of my toil. 40 Watch me now— I am the shovel er! I am the fellow who does more work than any of my comrades, Scorning the barrow-pushers who lag in their weakness. 1 am the fellow who feeds the roaring machine With back bended for hours at a stretch. Scooping up the clay, bare-handed — With legs broadly braced and flexing, Shovel shooting out straight from the shoulders — Then flinging it into the hopper with a vigorous controlled jerk. I am the deep-breathing laborer. Digesting big meals of coarse food, Tanning, strengthening, growing, toughening every body-fibre. I am the man who shouts in exultation of the toil. I am the fellow who loudly sings above the din and the dust To the accompaniment of the clanging thousand-pound crushing- wheels ! I am the shoveler! I am the lover of work! 41 Singers Soldiers sing and prisoners sing And I think the sweetest songs I Ve ever heard are those sung in camps and prisons and the places of the oppressed And I say the common music of their songs is more stirring, more inspiring, than any I Ve heard in churches. Quarantine on the barracks . . . One red coal of sunset burning in an ash-grey sky that envelopes wooded hills — heaps of black cinders: Dark outside; dusk within — Only the scarlet glow from a huge open stove. And on the bunks lying, close together, arms around each other, Soldiers, boyish soldiers, looking into the ruddy blast of the fire, and singing — Singing H^hen It's Apple Blossom Time in Normandy y Annie Laurie^ and The Trail of the Lonesome Pine. 42 And at last, late in the night, one lad Singing for the others, / Love You Truly ^ Truly y Dear — Tears sparkling on the faces in the emberglow . . . Lonely soldiers, singing, in the night. Three-day blizzard careening down the Missouri Valley — Lashing snow and malicious cold into the prison quarries: Even the guards retreat . . . Into the tin-roofed shack of rough plank they go, prisoners and sentries together. And there, crowding on the dirty benches around the little stove, they sit all day, singing- Singing There's a Long, Long Trail A-Windingy Over There, and other songs of their comrades in the trenches. Prisoners singing in the shack all the howling day . . . 43 Outside you could have heard their manly voices rising in full chords when the blizzard lulled . . . Winter night in the prison . . . Down to the locked-cell basement Shuffles Eleven-seven-forty-eight: A colored boy — an eight-year man — Shuffles down after his twelve hours on the gang. Is locked in his cell, and lies there singing — Singing darky blues — 0, take me backy sweet wo-o-man; 0, try me one mo' time. Ah know Ah done yo dirty ^ But 'twant no hangin crime. Singing blues in a mournful soprano moan Quavering down the half-lit basement corridor. There's a "wobbly" in the hole: He "bucked" today — refused to work: Fourteen days in solitaire . . . 44 Two stories above the basement where he lies His comrades gather in an open cell and stand singing— Singing wobbly songs, songs of the reds, The Marseillaise, The Internationale — Singing into the ventilator that carries the song to the hole: Then raise the scarlet standard high! Beneath its folds we ^11 live and die. Though cowards flinch and traitors sneer , We 'II keep the Red Flag flying here! — Prisoners singing hymns of liberty That resound through air-shafts into every wing of the prison. Songs of freedom Songs of love Songs of prisoners and soldiers . . . And I say that young men who are pent up and oppressed with yearning Are the best of all singers. 45 Nightfall in Prison When the velvet folds of the twilight-curtain descend On the gold-and-pink embellishments of day, And in town the westward-looking cottages — Yellow, green and blue and white — Stand in the dimming rays of sunset; When in the wild the purple pools of shadow Over-rise their rugged shores And flow and flood with dewy dusk The field, the grove, the hill — Think then Of a single tinted feather from the pinion of day's flight Fluttering over a distant hill, Clutched at, in its fall, from a grated window; And of cells within Where shadows of bars lie like dead days in the tombs of time Till darkness falls, in silent heavy-heaping clods, Burying all. 46 A Tree by the Road The hawthorne tree On the roadside near the prison Is like a pensive lady of gentle birth; And in the evening When we march in from work Its dark leaves, lighter green at the ends- Like the tips of slender, soft fingers — Reach down As if offering caresses. Languidly, Knowing they cannot touch her lover. 47 A Rosd Pink petals of rose: Bloom. You will share this prison-cell with me, You in your tincup of water in the corner, I in my narrow cot. You were sent hither unwillingly — And so was I — — for dear love's sake — and I, for liberty's. Perfumed petals of rose: Bloom. Suffuse your fragrance through the corridor. Your sweetness Will be a sign of beauty in this bitter place- And so will I, And so will I. 48 Pale petals of rose: Fade; But you shall never die: In my heart I will bear the loveliness of you always. Perhaps some Will cherish the fragrance that is in the depth of me. In beauty You will be immortal, And so will I, O! so may I! Ah, petals of rose: You are gone! Gone from the prison-cell. Passed from the earth, as I shall pass. Your time was brief: How brief is mine! 49 The Star When the "screws" had made their last round And the lights in the cells were out, I arose and peered out of the window. And just over the edge of the prison-wall I saw a tiny, twinkling, yellow star, Furtively winking at me — Like the eye of the Infinite — Mischievously happy Because it had slipped me a bit of joy Over the wall, from "the outside." 50 Dust in the Road The dust Is a yellow-grey veil Over the limbs of the wind. And the little breeze dons it That her fleet litheness And the whirling torsions of her sprite's form May be apparent As she gaily runs down the road To greet us. 51 Taps Out of the night Up from the serene valley of the Missouri Over the free forested Kansas hills Come notes of a bugle — Mincing, silver-slippered steps of music. 52 There are Moments of Release There are moments of release from this imprisonment: Sometimes, while marching to the quarries where we work, I have a feeling of freedom from the sentries and the gang. As if alone plunging into the orange vortex of the winter dawn. There are moments of tranquillity in slavery: Sometimes, while working on the rock-ledge, I become serene and sure under the glow of sunset. Imagining me couched On the green valley-floor outside the walls Where shadows from the crest of the quarry dance Like blue fountains. S3 There Will Be Days of Love Released O, there will be days of love released And red kisses passed in the light of the morning And walks on the yellow dunes, white limbs gleaming in the sunlight . . . Who will greet me at The Dawn — Who will there be to take my hand when the gates swing out — Who will be my companion in the brave journey down the free paths of the world? For us there will be the tough joy of the great strife And the conscience that millions make the forward stride in unison with us And meaningful handclasps with many comrades in thronged thoroughfares. Closest of comrades, who will you be — and do you yearn for me as I do for you — And will you be young and beautiful — and will you be gay and strong — And will you be eager for the toil of struggle — the interludes of love by dunes and on wooded hills? 54 Then I call to you, I bid you have courage, And I bid you prepare for the journey of love and contest And I urge you, make ready, as I now prepare, for the signal of endless adventures. For there will be no end — There will be no tranquil ceasing of the strife — ■ There will be no seclusion ever from the many, the many of our generation who press about us, press forward with us. But there will be days of love released And comings close to each other in the glorious thick of things Aye, and intense satisfactions in the nights that are noisy and dark with struggle. 55 Near Freedom Night fades: Cloud-murk dissolves, The dim stars reappear, Now the sky is pallid grey — And now a tint of red flows in Like blood returning to the lips of one a-swoon, The miracle of morn impends — Day, that was dead, re-lives. I have walked the night through sturdily. Nor have I flinched at stumbling. Nor have I faltered, nor cried out, Nor turned aside from hideous shapes. All but done is the journey through the dark And I who set gaily forth at dusk press on, With neither bitterness nor daunt, Eager to greet The Dawn. 56 Rn Route The Pebble and the Wave A Dance Theme The little agate pebble Has been on the yellow sands For long — oh, ever so long. And the blue white-feathered wave On the roof of the great green sea Has been yearning for it — and yearning. Often — oh, often — the turquoise wavelet Has leaped upon the amber sands toward the agate pebble. Flinging out its sun-flashing ribbons. Like rainbow-scaled nets, Striving to lap it up. To lave it all about with fluid caress. And sometime, when the tide surges, The turquoise wave on the emerald sea Will enfold, overwhelm, embrace the small stone And bear it ofl^ to its lair in the sea-depths, Swirling and swirling, Interwrapped, over-rolling, Down to the oozy green caverns, Forever. 59 When the Moon Pales and the Daylight Whitens the Shadow-caves Wherein Love Lies Nereid of the river*s ripples, While I sought amid the sedges For a reed-lute for my song, Why did you 'rise from the lilies ? Every wand that waved and whispered, Straight I seized upon to pluck it. Seemed invested of your graces. Seemed your swaying, slender person. When I moved away, rejecting, Formed anew, you followed after: As a dragon-fly you darted. Settled on my bosom's whiteness; Sweetly murmured with your wings, Like a perfumed lady fanning — Then you stung me into passion! . . . Lilith-like, you faded from me; Faded, too, my melody; Faded all except the wavelets' Languorous monotony. 60 Mother and 'Daughter White— Or perhaps blue; not too lake-deep nor yet too thin like summer-noon horizons — Mauve in which the blue-white smoke of autumn twilight streams in errant waftures. Pale pink Shell-like, transparent, As a fragrant fragile old rose-jar that my mother received from her mother and the mothers before her. These two, blending, Mantle around me like a rare scarf of spider- gauze aged in the purple recesses of some Japanese temple And dyed by water-color magenta. 6i Legend She whom the genii guard and groom to become the priestess of their enchantments Is the sacred child of the sultan. Wherefore she sits alone In the great chamber in the minaret tower of the palace. And the walls are yellow like the sun- showered sands of the desert And the ceiling is blue like the sky. There is a heap of rugs upon which — Embanked with silken cushions of the color of many peacock plumes — Is the wise maiden, The diminutive temple of her divine spirit hung with veils. Blue-green like skeins of moonlight. 62 She sits in solitary quietude And her brown eyes are half shut As she listens to inaudible whispers from invisible presences. But once — it was when the honey-sap of the myrtle suffused sweet incense through the night — She opened her eyes and smiled upon me, And then she arose And led me down from the tower, out through the court, Into the Garden of the Soul's Delight. 63 The Moustache Here I have been standing on the street-curb for a half-hour, Listening to your monotonous small-talk. And you have been a little flattered by my seeming interest — Unsuspecting that not one of your words has reached my mind But that I have been thrilled By watching the sunlight Glint through your baby-blue eyes, And your fox-red moustache. 64 To a Timid Maiden Very beautiful creature With eyes as modest as the wild faun's are reputed to be — You will learn, when you are older, That possession of virginity Is like having in an electrically lighted house One of those old-fashioned, kerosene parlor-lamps With a voluminous pink-glass globe: After you have guarded it for years Against romping children and other household perils. Suddenly, some day, you will ask: "Well, what good is the old thing, anyway? Why have I kept it so long?" 65 The Fable of the Hog That Desired to be Slaughtered I wandered into the shade of an effluvious pigstye In the rear of an odoriferous packing plant And leaned there, Watching a conscientious Italian husband and a young negro Drive a large herd of hogs into the slaughtering-house. Then, after a time, I strolled on to the far end of the pigstye And saw there a hog that had got left behind the others. The hog was grunting and squealing most distressfully And was trying frantically to get through the gate And scamper along with the others, To be slaughtered. Upon witnessing which, I turned away To consider man And the well-known **social instinct." 66 Conscription She took his soul when it was young To be her own. She held him close For she was old and passion-wise. But when he grew he found another love; And she was young and dazzling-fair, And love for her was an intrepid thing: Not fully realized lust, But passion tempered with a tenderness and faith. But she who was old and passion-wise held him close; With many a brutal lure and constant cruel compulsion, She made him victim to the madness of her lust; With bleeding fingers, tearing teeth, She clutched him jealously — Until, at last, worn of her own insanity, She sank to death; Then he, with discolored flesh and running wounds. Went to his pure, bright love Who, though she loved him, suffered. 67 The Fireman: Charcoal Sketch Look at the fireman cleaning the grates, With rapid pulls and pushes of the long iron rod breaking up the clinkers in the boiler-furnace: The great line of his body formed thus — Starting at the left foot, planted forward, Sweeping upward through the leg. Crescent-curving along the shadowed furrow of his spine. Extended forward in his left arm, pushing the tool; This last line echoed in the right elbow, the impending thrust shown in the upward and half-forward poise of the arm; The forward trend of the figure accentuated by the half-hidden head, in which the line of the back terminates and is joined to the line of the arms; 68 The whole reinforced, made stable, by the staunch brace of the right leg, its line moving rhythmically into that of the spine; And all these lines shown where light meets shadow on the curved surface of the body and the wrinkles of the grimy clothes. And all in grays and blacks — The smutty laborer, his face glowing, glistening with sweat before the open fire-box, The sooty boilers bulking high above, The coal heap with its myriad glittering facets behind, And all within the shadowy shed-like boiler-room. 69 En Route From Manhattan half-way across America speeding, Away from the lofty spectacle-city of the earth, Out of the rich historic Empire State, Across Ohio, Michigan, Indiana, southern Illinois, Over the vast wrinkled map swerving and roaring in haste, By day the autumn-colored Palisades, the lakes Erie, Huron, Michigan swiftly glimpsing. At night from my berth the blinking-eyed cities rushing through And passing enigmatic lights In the wilderness of dark, Chicago approaching — the sprawling lake-blown working- town — To your arms, my lover, where you lie in sickness! 70 And what Is the long trip worth Except you receive me with passionate kisses and tears on your cheek as I lay my face to yours ? And what is the return worth after the long departure Except, coming together again, we have learned to be closer than ever? 71 The Fourth Book from Number 2.^o of two hundred and eighty copies on Kelmscott hand- made paper, printed from type on a hand press at 14 West Washing- ton Street^ Chicago. Composition, lettering, and presswork by Will Ransom^ assisted by Edmond A. Hunty who also designed and cut the linoleum blocks for the jacket decoration. Binding by Anthony Faifer. Printing finished November 21 1^22, The Series of First Volumes No. /—OPEN SHUTTERS by Oliver Jenkins. 245 copies on Whatman hand-made paper. Published March 2y ig22. No. 2 — STAR POLLEN by Power Dal ton. 259 copies on Italian hand-made paper. Pub- lished August 14 ig22. No. J— ORIOLES AND BLACKBIRDS by Hi Simons. 280 copies on Kelmscott hand- made paper. Published 'December 4 ig22. LIBRARY OF CONGRESS lilllillllllllli 018 395 193 2