THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES */,** MY MARJONARY MY MARJONARY BY ROBERT CARLTON BROWN BOSTON JOHN W. LUCE & COMPANY 1916 COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY L. E. BASSETT fcf DEDICATION AUX MES FRERES You daredevil dilettantes In z^rj /i&r?. Amazing amateurs ! Why have you burned Your rhyming dictionaries Behind you (The one hope you had) And gone in for angel treading? What do you cribbers of the classics Know About rag-time As it's thumped out In a nigger joint. Go back to your pale Hermaphrodite gods, Sing about Circe And Amphahedalon (The old Greek goose Who got talked about Because of his Pallid passion for Amorthorincus) (That great Greek goddess Whose sensitive nose was sprained By a passing whiff Of garlic.) You wretched rhymsters 592026 Imaginary imagists! Cut out your cant About cadences; Go back to rhyming "Dear" with "tear" As you were born to do. To write free verse You've got to Be Free verse. Robert Carlton Brown CONTENTS MY MARJONARY 9 THE AQUARIUM KEEPER 12 WASTING WORDS 17 WHAT is A NICKLE AT NIGHT 18 CHINESE DRAGON 20 CRYSTAL-GAZING 21 MY LOVE 22 WHO SHALL THROW THE FIRST SHOE? 23 CIRCUS FOLLOWER 24 FAT SKELETONS 30 UNFOLDING 31 FATHERHOOD 32 SUMMER AND GEESE 34 I CANNOT WAIT TILL SPRING 35 BLACK CAT 36 THESE THINGS I LOVE 38 YOUR IDEA 40 KITE-FLYING I. 41 KITE-FLYING II. 42 POVERTY 43 MY LITTLE BOY 44 A FALLING ASH 45 KALEIDOSCOPE 48 SIT DOWN BESIDE ME, DEAR 49 A NIGHT OF IT 50 GLOWING BLUE-WHITE BAY-BERRIES 52 ALADDIN 53 MICROSCOPIC THINGS 55 COMBINATION SALAD 56 SEED PEARLS 67 CANDIED FOUR-LEAF CLOVER 77 MY WILL 85 MY MARJONARY MY MARJONARY IF I were not a practical workaday man with an ambition to make enough money to keep me continually moving about in comfort, I would rent a small store on a bookish New York street for thirty-eight dollars a month, and peddle second-hand books to all comers. In the rear of the shop I would have a curious little English living-room, and off that a conservatory devoted to four-leaf clovers. By careful selection, cul- tivation, and Burbanking, in the course of two or three years I would have a yearly crop of, say, ten pounds of four-leaf clovers. I would care- fully crystallize and candyize the entire ten pounds by some ingenious method I have not yet invented, so that, counting the sugar, I should have about fifteen pounds of my product to sell. My price would be ten dollars a pound, and I would stipulate with my confectioner customers that they put only one four-leaf clover in each pound box, so my lucky pieces would never be- come common. My clover patch would yield one hundred and fifty dollars a year and I would not allow the business to increase too rapidly, though after forty or fifty years of work I wouldn't mind turning out twenty pounds each year, at twelve dollars a pound. [91 In a sunny little room behind the conservatory I would raise mules. Not the braying mule of commerce, but flower mules, bird mules, and fish mules. By some ingenious method which I would perhaps be compelled to originate, I would cross fan-tailed Japanese gold-fish, dwarf bronze marigolds, and liquid-throated canaries in such fashion that the resultant mule would blossom from a flower-stalk, as though it were a bird with a gold-fish tail in a little private tree of its own. There my marjonary would sit all day and sing, languidly waving her lacy fan-tail back and forth while proudly pluming her blazing feathers, scales, and petals. I would teach my marjonary to eat from my hand and wear a cocked cap like a bold Spanish commandando. Marj should live on candied four-leaf clovers at ten dollars a pound and never know want. I would sell her seeds and eggs and roe to the highest bidders, bids being received only from spoiled babies, boyish bachelors, fond mothers, dream-eyed maidens, and plain folk who have lived long and fully and learned to love every littlest thing. I would not expect to make much money from Marjy, but my books would keep me, and my four-leaf clover patch would bring me luxury. Half a dollar a day to spend just as I wished, half a dollar to keep me in cigarettes, liqueurs, and [10] Turkish rugs. I would require a Persian prayer rug, a box of Egyptian cigarettes, a number of old books, and lots of leisure in which to sit in the center of my prayer rug, read romantic Arabian tales, and feed my Marjy seed pearls and crisp combination salad. And my book-store boy would wait on the shop those times I wished only to sit idle and watch my four-leaf clovers grow. I think of this to-day because I have again sold my soul in commerce. I have dragged my ideals in the mud ; I have pushed away the tender, cling- ing arms of Art with my gold-grubbing fingers ; I have sopped my soul in my ink-pot. THE AQUARIUM KEEPER I CHEW tobacco moistly And keep the aquarium. My gold fish are goopy eyed And droopy; The lady ones wear bridal veils And float about the drawing room Languorously toying with their Gorgeous Japanese fans (That stupid folks call fins) Closing and opening them dreamily, Like soft-eyed Spanish senoritas; Flirting with me, Flashing filmy handkerchiefs of crepe And lace before my fascinated eyes. Pruning their weeping willow tails For my praise. I keep a covey of speckled fish Like quail And when they fly up in a flock Greedily gobbling bubbles at the Top of their tank I look sharply about To make sure no sportsman Has smuggled in a gun To take a pot shot at my pets. Stupid fish I'd rather eat than look at, [12] But my gay, gorgeous ones Fill the eye better than the belly. My velvet ones, Pattern models for silks By Paul Poiret. My fluttery, friendly, Moving fellows; Futurist fancies Cubist conceptions And Whistlerian butterflies With peacock tails Straight from Paradise That little Japs Would fly for colorful kites From moss green river banks Into the swirling blue sky As they do in Hiroshige prints. I laugh at my funny fish, Poke my finger playfully At the glass Where lurk my spunky, grumpy Spiteful ones. Fish are human. I've some that swarm like bees around a queen, Or cannibals about a missionary. Silly-headed, bobby ones Always agitated Fluttering about On futile-minded businesses. Athletic ones that go in for Swimming. And a lot as common and bickeringly content As chirping sparrows. I never like to pass the ponds Of my goopy nightmare fish After dining late. I take out my key a bit nervously And slip softly in, Skirting round the other corridor Where the ghoul eyed submarine fellows Blink all night, I sneak as softly as I may To bed Without disturbing the ugly looking imps Whose orbs glint phosphorescently at me ; Never looking into evil Bad luck fire opal eyes Or pausing where ghost fish glide ; Restless souls that haunted hulks Of sunken ships in former incarnations ; Their flashing eyes shooting looks at me like Serpent's fangs of flame; Crafty, greedy watchers That follow my course all the way to bed As I pass along the chilly corridor. [14] In the morning With a fresh quid in my cheek I chew tobacco moistly And pass boldly through my aquarium, Coaxing modest rock fish from their hiding places, Watching my finny chameleons Change color like sixteen year old girls. I go to say good morning To my flappy old soft-backed sea turtle Who looks like a floating strip of wall paper. I crumble crackers with friendly fingers For my parrot fish, And sometimes wish I could throw A sort that resembles Sniffling pious hypocrites in pews To my big moray Who sits smug in a length of sewer pipe all day, Looks like a boa constrictor And eats like a pig. Oh, I have a taste for fish. My most intimate ones Are open-eyed innocents, Some like buttercups, Others like petals cf Japanese quince bloom. Sometimes I wonder Who washes the ears of my pink tinted Shell lustre dears. [15] And though I've worked here Most all my life I've never found out who keeps the colors Fresh On the hand-painted oriental ones Imported from Malay. In the lot I've some chic little sets for rings. When I fall in love with a mermaid (If I can ever find one on land) I know a special black opal f risker I'm going to hang round her neck for a pendant. But I'll never get married Till I find a girl with hair of burnished gold As beautiful as the scales (Which I call petals) Of my Bermuda Brilliant. Teeth with the sheen of a shad. A look sparkling and iridescent Like my rainbow fish. But even if she never comes I'll keep jogging along content ; Pruning my flower garden of fish, Looking after their teeth, tails and morals Like a mother would, \Valking meditatively, watchfully Through the pleasant paths of my aquarium, Chewing tobacco moistly And feeling very much at home. [16] WASTING WORDS I PLAY with words. Tossing in the air an armful of them, as a child reveling in autumn leaves. Loving the crisp rustle as they cascade about my ears. Again picking them up as wet pebbles, aglisten on a cool sea beach. Making patterns of them pictures filling spaces with words as artists do with paints. I pet and fondle a sentimental word until it purrs. And clash with a rough one till it growls. I am as human with words as I am with you. Never exploiting them. Never giving them an inch of advantage over me. I know words And they seek me out. We are together ; Important, both of us And entirely useless, Unless you need the thing we give. [17] WHAT IS A NICKEL AT NIGHT LOOSE of foot, with a jingling mind I'll dive out into night. Phosphorous flashes shall run along the edges of the world, crinkling and crackling like a fire cracker fuse; laughing with me, lighting me on my way. I'll place my feet with no surety. I'll stumble and skip and fall into a ditch with the best of them. I'll be on my way. There will come silver-toned hailings through the night I will answer. And though my voice crack it will be clear to the callers. My voice cannot crack. Hobgoblins will follow me, thinking to scare me and I will turn back to play with them, for they, too, are children on their playful side. I will stop to eat dew damp toad stools with gnomes and rub their brown velvet noses. I will stride through the rail bonfires of sleeping tramps and they will curse me, and I will curse back, it being my night as well as theirs. I will flutter up to an arc light and stare it in the face, without getting singed. For I am asbes- tos. I am myself. Bold and brave. I will give it back hot glare for hot glare and it will know me and laugh with me when we meet again and are older. For the arc light is as much a moth as I when the sun puts in appearance. [18] Oh, I will stay the whole night through and never blink an eye. A cat will come and wink at me with his wise mossy green orb and I will understand and go with him. The roof tops we will walk together, never prowling, slipping along with padded foot, springily, skipping gutters, pois- ing on chimney tops, raising our backs and laugh- ing at sleepers snug below. I'll flirt with the lady in the moon and the bulge-faced man in the moon shall glower or grin. What care I ? She is my lady as much as his. I will have no rivals. And I shall stop to gaze at the orange, blue and red lights in the drug store and be glad that there can be something pretty in a drug store, a colored liquid to enjoy and not be forced to drink. And then the garish light of a saloon shall lure me away. And I shall be so glad to be lured. I shall put my foot on the shining rail of brass and buy the bartender a drink; for if the world will not bring us together and set up the drinks I'll buy them myself. Five cents is a loaf of bread by day, but what's a nickle at night? Oh, I'll chuck a dozing cabby under the chin and stop to help a bungling burglar pick an intri- cate lock. I'll throw good-morning kisses to the stars and go the round with the lamp-lighter, helping him happily in his motherly business of putting the night to bed. [19] CHINESE DRAGON IF I could draw a dragon ; A crawly, sprawly, Twisty dragon, Spitting spluttering sparks like a red Chinese fire-cracker I should be happy. If I had the fantasy, The whimsy, To make a clutching, clawing, Writhing line, Expressing all the phantasmagoria I have, I should draw a dragon A Chinese dragon Using lots of rhythmic greens. [20 1 CRYSTAL-GAZING LOVE is the crystal into which I gaze. My neck muscles never tire with looking. For there I see something always new. Fresh. Pouting, rich, red lips ; thin, salmon- colored tight ones. Fire-flies flirting with fans. Angle-worms squirming like oriental dancers. Babies with eyes and lips crinkling in laughter. Mothers cooing over cradles. Fathers sitting on bookkeeper's stools, like witches over cauldrons, adding long columns of figures and sometimes mixing into the cold commercial count baby's four shining new teeth or the price of a teddy bear. I see strong sailors wrecked on coral reefs, lured by siren songs. The sirens, too, are there, cold, fishy, a bit scaly. I will not love a siren, unless she looks into my eyes. I see in the vibrant crystal, vampires, harems, lone Methodist missionaries with consciences and tracts, black girls with eyes like hat-pin heads, round stomachs, necklaces and loin cloths. All are my lovers. Voluptuous vases turning up blushing cheeks to my caress. Good goblets of wine I will fondle and desire. My heart shall leap to claim union with an elusive color. I will win a Whistler noc- turne, marry a Japanese print and have love affairs with Boldinis all my life. [21] MY LOVE MY LOVE is a tidy cannibal girl Far off on a pink coral isle. When I am pleased with her I crack cocoanuts with my strong white teeth And drop them bit by bit into her smiling mouth. Together we gnaw the bones of White men Ship-wrecked on our coral isle. And we laugh while we eat. Our digestion is robust We never take pink pills To condition our conscience. And when I am tired of my Wholesome love I ship back here in my submarine And write poems in this dull little room, Love poems to my dainty Duckewawa, Far off on our cannibal isle of coral. [22] WHO SHALL THROW THE FIRST SHOE? WHY do we talk? Why are we forever Hitting ourselves over the head With words, To numb our intellect. If we cooed like doves Or barked like dogs How much better We would understand Each other. What is the song the alley cat sings ? "Oh, love of Life Oh, ni-ight of Love I dreamt that I dwelt in ma-arble halls." What is the song the alley cat sings? It's the same as every overworked shop girl Sobs to her pillow On moonlit nights : Merrrowwwwrrrroooowwwwwwww ! And what would the landlady say ! If the girl got up on the back fence And yowled her pent-up longing for life? And who would throw the first shoe ? [23] CIRCUS FOLLOWER LURED by strong animal and saw dust Smells; Called by elephants trumpeting, Neighing pink-eyed horses, Glossy white ; The roaring of Worn-tailed lions : To-night I join the circus : A stake driver, Handy man, hustler, With the show. Summoned by official bugle blare, Follower of the circus, Because it has need of me. Circus follower. A happy moth whizzing round An arc light irresistible. Jingling to gladdening, thrilly music, (Our band wears bold red jackets, Blazing blue pants With stripes of purest gold.) Sailors may desert the navy When the food is on the bum And the band plays Sour notes, But no circus man [24] Ever left the saw dust long. They come back to the Thrilling thing, Like murderers. Wanting another look at Coons and kids, Crazy for the clatter of Rattling musical bones Glare Lights Joy. Oh, I will stick to The circus And roll in peanut shucks A foot deep Like a boy in a pile of leaves, Loving the speed of it, Maintaining all its Traditions of Triumphant tawdriness, Believing piously the eloquent extravagances Of our own press agent, Knowing they are true. Jumping as the head man Whistles For the fan fare to begin. Putting on a false beard and Parading proudly Round the ring [25] A Roman centurion As the lights burst aloud In gladness. Feeling like a million dollars in My tinsel. Wildest of dreams Come true In that proud moment of My marching round the ring, Leading the mount of a Slim limbed equestrienne. Oh, youth Joy Glitter Greatness. Spangles ! Spangles ! Caparisoned horses. Intensity. I boast the Bigness of Barnum. Sound Clowns Freaks Let the elephants come on first. The tuskies With jungley step (Daredevil trainers are Often rolled upon.) [26] Clowns cowbells green whiskers Balloons brooms cannon Impossible things. It's all untrue. A great, gorgeous dream. Oh, for three pairs of eyes To watch all at once The doings of the Three rings As I hustle about Carrying the props Running with ropes. A breathing space. Burlesque A bear on roller skates Japanese jugglers Gymnasts Trying to take themselves apart Like intricate puzzles. The professional pride Of all true performers As they bow at the end of their act Jump into their saw dust slippers And hurry off to make room for others. Cow boys, throats astretch With wild yells. The thudding of flare-eyed Texas ponies, [27] Girls in bandanas, gauntlets and Split skirts of kakhi. Whoopeee ! Waaawweeee ! Yip ! The lassoo circling round like a Whoop snake biting its tail. Romantic riders Throwing themselves out of Saddles To pick up dropped handkerchiefs With their teeth Their noses bumping the ground As their horses race madly. Oh, the artists of the air. Twinkling-toed wire walkers Pink slippered kicks. Fluffy, bobbing skirts of Chiffon. Clowns tumbling off tables. Oh, I will work my way Up And be a clown. Someday I shall get to be A clown A circus clown With red triangles Licked out on my Chalked cheeks. And then I shall marry a [28] Twisty contortionist And we shall settle down To following the circus And raise a batch of Clever kids To tumble around in our tent And make us feel at home. [29] FAT SKELETONS I FEAR fat skeletons Thin ones thrill me not at all. The emaciated, jingling kind Kept in closets Don't scare me. The blanched white bones and Grinning skulls Of poor dead graveyard skeletons Give me no concern. But I have a sneaking horror Of the kind that stay alive And take on flesh Long after they should be Decently dead. I fear fat skeletons. Thin ones thrill me not at all. [30] UNFOLDING UNFOLDING Is living. Unfolding Is the language of growth. It is delightful to drop little Japanese water flowers Into a bowl And watch as the water Dissolves the tight tissue circlet About the moist fire-cracker Allowing the thirsting bits of tinted pith To swell with drinking And unfold Into joyous, bubbling, giggling Conceptions of happy flowers. It is almost as fascinatingly fanciful As dropping beautifully tinted bits of ideas Into one's own thinking bowl And lying back, dreamily absorbed In watching them Unfold. [31] FATHERHOOD AS a boy I should be industrious At school, Learn a lot, Go seriously into some business, Work night and day To get married And support a wife. Then I should have children ; Many of them; To buy pants and corsets for, Over a period of Twenty odd years, If none turned out An old maid or Good-for-nothing. I should slave this Best three-quarters of my life Paying off instalments on a house Where my kids could flirt And have fudge parties. I should do all this, Because I am a man And would be a model citizen, But I won't ! I don't want to wake up After the breaking period [32] Of my life and find myself Old Thin Shrunk Narrow Full of wheezes and aches, From buying oleomargarine For my fat wife to trickle Down her epiglotis ; From paying for little trousers With shiny black buttons on them For my boys. I should do all this. But I shan't. [33] SUMMER AND GEESE HER eyes lighted like a child's, A look of loving all outdoors was in them. "Oh, I was out in the snow !" she cried. "Getting eggs from the woman under the hill. And there were a dozen geese in her yard Flapping and teetering happily on their crooked yellow legs As the snow flakes showered down upon them." She waved her arms with the free movement of wings ; A gorgeous white bird herself, frolicking with snow flakes. The light of loving was in her eyes. She gave me the picture And I have put it with my treasures In a handy place where I shall find it In the summer When the geese are gobbling June bugs on the lawn And smacking their smooth yellow beaks over it. I shall find it then and wish for winter And wonder wistfully if she and I will be sharing pictures When again the geese are revelling in the snow. [34] I CANNOT WAIT TILL SPRING I AM so beautiful to myself I must look very ugly to others. The things I do for spiritual expansion Growth and being Must ring false to many. I do not care. I cannot see ugliness in myself or others. All I can see in all of us Is a lack of interest in growth. People do not have to wait for Spring To burst their buds. Spring with some is the Day of Judgment. With others it shall come tomorrow. Yet man is a superior plant In which the sap is always stirring. I cannot wait till Spring. [35] BLACK CAT BLACK cat Blinking at me Close your eyes ! You cannot stand the light. In your gleaming eyes Shines something that passes my understanding. Probably I fear that look Because I cannot penetrate its meaning. Glaring at me, you might spring upon me As your fathers in the forest A thousand years back. But somehow I know you won't. Probably because I feed you And you cannot keep a fire yourself. Black cat with wicked eyes It is your fear or hate of me that I do not under- stand. There, beast, close your eyes You dare not spring at my bare throat. For tonight you have made me an animal trainer. I crack my whip in your sullen face Insolently. You cringe. And spit. Yes, tomorrow you may spring upon me [36] In an unguarded moment And sink your teeth into my white neck. But down, down, beast ! I am your master now. My hand trembles as I crack the whip. You do not know that. And now I will drink whisky To steady my nerves But you shall never know why. [37] THESE THINGS I LOVE WISPS. Sprigs of bitter sweet. Strays. Curling grape-vine tendrils. Fragments. Unfinished songs, lost in the singing. Echoes from nothing. The quiver of an eyelash. A shattered fan. The timorous curl of a sensitive lip. A single hair fluttering in the wind. Dust from a moth's fat belly brushed off by a bit of black velvet. A broken butterfly wing. Wraiths. Trailing ends of smoke vanishing into ether. The breath of imagined perfumes. Things found and thrown away, or never found at all. Bits of shimmering Roman glass. A single line of a poem. The whiskered frond of a fern. Pictures wonderfully begun and never finished. A story without an end. Fingers idly caressing piano keys in search of more rhythm. Wastrel airs. A single dandelion seed ballooning down the wind in search of a well-kept lawn to violate. A fuzzy fringe of mold on the rind of a Camem- bert cheese. These things I love. l39i YOUR IDEA YOUR idea of romance is Sitting by the fire Being fed marshmallows, Having your stomach Filled and Rubbed. My notion of the thing Is doing something Different. Racing waves on wild sea-shores Braving the elements For a bit of breath and life. Doing things. Daring. Not sitting smug In one's chimney corner Patting a full stomach And romancing about that. [40] KITE-FLYING I. 1MUST fly my kite today For I have done something ; Achieved a little. I must roll in meadows new With velvet grass, For this day has brought to me A thing I need. Making me all child again. [41] KITE-FLYING II. WELL, I flew my kite Happily But such a little while ; For now I am back The kite trailing over my shoulder By its knotted string, Bumping along the uneven ground, Somewhat tattered. Yes, I am back from flying my kite, Perhaps a little sad That I did not keep it up longer Let out a little more string Or lose it forever in the air. Flying kites is fun It's coming home that's hard. [42] POVERTY THE poor are always with us. Poverty is shivering in thin shoes Waiting in a bundle- or bread-line. Poverty is hoarding things one has used up, Keeping them in attics To attract dust When they might be given To those who could make use of them. Poverty is clinging to facts. A man who will not throw away a thing he doesn't need Is every bit as poor As a man who has nothing to throw away. [43] MY LITTLE BOY MY little boy holds out his arms and says, "I want to hug you." Then he hugs and kisses As long as he likes And no one has the heart to put him down Or stop his eager lips. As often as he, I hold out my arms And say the same with my eyes ; But the response I get is meagre For I am grown-up, Like those to whom I make my appeal. So I sigh and turn away, Ageing a little in the interim And wishing I were my little boy Who loves And is loved. [44] A FALLING ASH "^7~OU remind me of a man I knew some J years ago," -*- Said a friend to me, the other day. "He was on the old Morning Telegraph. Very versatile, with a gatling gun mind. Life never seemed to come fast enough for him. He always set it the pace. Drank, loved, talked wildly, raced around; Pursuing and playing everything all the time. Toward the last he hardly went to bed at all. Wanted to live hard and fast Fast and loose And all there was. "Well, one day he went in to his boss, Said he'd be damned if he'd work for a living any longer, Threw up his job Put on his hat And went up to Central Park. There he got down on his knees and ate grass, Like Nebuchadnezzar. A little later he sent me a telegram : 'I'm on my way. It's lot of fun.' Two hours afterward I got another from him [451 Reading : 'I'll be shaking hands with the sun be- fore long.' And next morning I read in the paper That ten minutes after sending me the telegram He climbed to the top of the Brooklyn Bridge, Threw a gay kiss to the world And with a dancing step Skipped off into space. When they fished him out he was dead." As my friend finished I found myself tingling with pleasure In the beautiful story. I itched to go up to Central Park And begin eating grass. But my perennial interest in life Jerked me back by the collar. Before I can step off into the cosmos With the grace of a dancing master I must increase my pace Experience everything interesting in life. When the time comes I can think of nothing more joyous Than jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge Unless it would be Clambering out a window on the top floor of the Woolworth Building Some starlit night [46] And leaping With arms outstretched To throw around the moon And hug her to me. My body, giving way to gravity, probably would land In Fulton Street. But my spirit should be at last in the arms of my beloved And together we would look down to earth and cry: "Oh, look ! There goes a falling ash." 147 1 KALEIDOSCOPE CHILDLIKE things are always mine Soldiers marching, stiff-legged, Through vivid fields, With green grass Pasted on. Hike Calliopes Mouth organs Jews' harps And merry-go-rounds. I should like being A kaleidoscope, Of varied flashings. Whirling through life A gorgeous, happy maze Of blinding color. As changeful as A child. [48] SIT DOWN BESIDE ME, DEAR SIT down beside me, will you, dear, For I must dream Follow fancies With you, Walk deserted city streets All night, Your arm tucked snugly under mine. Let us ride shooting stars together, Fish for reflected lights With long lines From the black raised-back of Brooklyn Bridge. Let us stop for a beer In the back room Of an all night saloon, Sitting close, Listening to the wail of the panhandler (Screech owl of a Bowery night.) Sit down beside me, dear, And let us dream of doing things. Of dangling our legs from the sill of a window In the Wool worth Tower And winking back at the lively stars. While sitting smugly in this stuffy room. Sit down beside me, dear. [49] A NIGHT OF IT THE ANTI-MILITARIST BALL Six sibilant souses. A tourist or two. The whole East Side upstanding on its legs, mad with dance. Fat floundering fellow chasing cropped-haired girl through balcony. "Have another drink, Jack." "Where you goin' afterward ?" "Up to Joel's." "All right. See you there." JOEL'S Gold-toothed gaiety Out all night with the cats Drink nobody needs Human sympathy Crass commercialism Empty words from empty heads Shallow hearts and third-rail whisky Piano thumping Hug-close dancing Sweltering smelting pot [50] THE RED MILL "Check your hat !" 10 c. Little glass of flat beer. 10 c. Pistachio nuts from the pimp vendor. 25 c. Assorted blondes and brunettes. $2.00 to $5-00. Billie the sallow piano player. Priceless. Lucy the shallow-voice singer. Worth it ail. [51] GLOWING BLUE-WHITE BAY-BERRIES LOOKING into your eyes I see: Glowing blue-white bay-berries. Mysticism. Often a row of droll magicians in warm brown cloaks march around the delicate rim of your iris, in stately procession, carrying wands. Tawny tiger lilies, I see. Violets. The meeting, melting, and merging of all quick colors, all soft ones; tints and tones, into that which makes you most personally you. Mystery. Imagery. Freeness, Frankness, All outdoors. The sum of human beauty I see in your eyes. [52] ALADDIN I AM Aladdin. Wanting a thing I have but to snap my fingers. Jinn, bring me a lady With love light smouldering in her eyes The lady with the magic kiss That turns troubles into joys. The lady of the white soft throat And shell-like tint cheeks. Ah, here you are Lady ! Thank you, Jinn. Lady, sing to me A song as gorgeous as the plumage of the Bird of Paradise. Music melts in your mouth Becoming vaporous perfume Utterly intoxicating me. No ; I will not have you sing more. You may dance for me a while. Weave a delirious design for me With your body, Ah, you are like a gold fish Glinting gaily Darting through sparkling waters. There, that will do, Lady. Say you love me, now. Yes, yes, I believe you. [53] I could not doubt that voice of yours As full of the abandon of expression As your dance. And now, Lady, The Magic Kiss ! Ummm. That is good. Jinn, take her away. 1541 MICROSCOPIC THINGS I HAVE forgotten everything in my life that is unimportant, Uninteresting things I can never remember ; Details I abhor. I have never committed a single thing to memory. But I know what is going on in me always, Every minutest jot of my being, Each emotion, I can cut into fractions and classify. Outside details are unworthy my regard Having made their place By being small. And yet I cannot wear my shoes in bed. I hate little things of every sort Except ants, Which are so ridiculously industrious, And the microscopic parasites which live upon them without ever working at all. [55] COMBINATION SALAD I PITY publishers. They get cross-eyed Keeping one eye Cocked On art And the other on business. Doing the splits until their crotches are sore. Always subject to nervous prostration When called upon to write small royalty checks. ALWAYS my soft heart has beat with adulation For people who edit and criticize writing. Worthy folk, going about wiping the noses of croupy phrases; Tucking exclamation-points into strange beds, Picking moth webs out of warm, fur-bearing sentences, And on top of that splitting cords of infinitives, To get up an appetite for a book review. I hold my breath when I come into the presence of these people. I feel highly humble. [59] MINISTERS and religious folk Are interior decorators Whose taste in conventional design I don't like. I am tired of mission furniture and mission stuff. If ever I need to call in anybody It will be a plasterer To cover up with a smooth white finish Smudgy spots left on me by bumping into min- isters and pious folk in life. BIG FOOTED people Go about stepping on things : Ideals, egos the cosmos They crush Clod-footedly. I should hate to have the epidermis Of an ornithornicus On the sole of an elephantine foot. I prefer skipping lightly across egg shells In padded Chinese slippers with blue embroider- ed tops. [60] SMUG people are so sweet They get along with themselves So aimiably. I should like to be smug And satisfied As to right and wrong And what you should do And what you shouldn't. It would give me such a sense of superiority ; I think I'd take to wearing a watch chain Across my proud Stomach And a crested ring upon my finger. SOLITAIRE is sad play Thumbing the cards alone Is pinched fun. I should rather be in a game With everybody Than sitting alone Playing against Time And myself. [61] OH, today is Easter And I must lay an egg. It is the custom of the country And God shall not find me wanting On this glorious day of His. I am his humble servant. I shall lay an egg In His name, And refrain from cackling boastfully Meek in the knowledge That it is God's miracle Not mine. I LIKE long prayers, The kind that stretch Like elastic bands. I always sit around, Holding my breath, Hoping they '11 snap back And hit the preacher On the nose. [62] I WILL throw away myself. I will be a thing of civilization. Kept down. I will submit to don- ning my views ready-made as delivered in my morning newspaper. I will regard the views of my intimates above my own. I will say "Thank you" to the policeman when, park-benched, I feel the poke of his club at the stomach-pit of my dozing self. I will not swear. I will not drink those things that make me more myself. I will not smoke in the subway or defile the Stars and Stripes. But, by God, with or without your hus- bandly permission, I will crush with caresses the woman I love who loves me. You turned to me on the street, Smiling your professional best; And in a soft flash of memory I recalled my baby's first smile Which I had thought was for me Until the nurse heartlessly said it came with colic. [63] A DANDY, pert little fellow Talked to me the other day. He was sunny and breezy, Clever, glib of tongue and well-bred. But he didn't say anything. All the time he was talking I had a mental picture of him Strutting up a conventional Fifth Avenue of Thought ; Out with his Ego on a leash For an afternoon's airing. I KNOW a nice affectionate girl Who goes about Patting beefsteaks on the back, Running her fingers fondly through the beards of oysters, Holding hands for hours with breaded veal cut- lets Rubbing noses with pork chops And having affairs with boiled onions. Her emotional eyes light with amorous interest In the presence of food ; They fill with great glistening tears When the plates are taken out And she sits despondent Weeping gently into her coffee. [64] I HATE institutions. They try to make people All alike; Shake 'em like cocktail ingredients In a patented aluminum mixer, And then pour 'em all Out of the same containers, A dozen little cocktails All alike, Each of a flavor identical to the other. I thnik the last thing I should institute Would be an institution. MY POEMS are popular Anywhere but home. My family think me A rattling good writer Of checks. But when it comes to poetry Of mine They shake thoughtful heads And withhold their praise Until the stuff is sold. [65] YESTERDAY I lost the job Which gave me the right To dream And make poetry. But today does not find me back At dull work. I shall starve my habits My stomach And my family. I cannot starve my soul. I'M TIRED of hearing praises sung To pale cheeked Sad eyed Virgins Who kept the vestal lights aglow. I sing to the red-cheeked Healthy Modern maids Who keep the cheery Red lights burning. [66] SEED PEARLS I AM a fine fellow With lots of friends : I pay for their dinners. With poor people I am Hale, well-met: I drop money into their hats. Everybody likes me While he needs me : I give him what I have. Oh, I am popular With many, many people Who dip into my supply Of this and that. I KNOW a cellar Where human rats hang out ; Narrow-eyed Fat and mangey. Gliding through their runs; Greasy Smelly ; Leaving their marks on me And every thing. [69] I WISH burglars would stay away When I want to write late at night. Their squeaky shoes get on my nerves, I cannot concentrate. If they only wouldn't Incessantly rattle the silver In dropping it into their black bags And slam and poke around so, Leaving draughty doors open. Why the devil don't they stay In their own homes Nights And go to sleep And not bungle about, Bothering me? A THING need not be high-sounding, Puffed with importance, To prove its right to existence. It may be only a glint, A gleam, A glimmer, As simple as this suggestion, To be interesting And worth a printer's trouble Dirtying his hands To set it up in type. [70] I AM hungry, I have fed my body on beefsteak, Camembert and bnissels sprouts ; My mind on books, Plays and argument; My emotions on love, anger and sorrow. But my psychic self is starved. I hear it hollering for a good meal Of fourth dimensional food. Something more than victuals for Body, mind and soul I crave. I should like to take a big bite Out of the red-cheeked cosmos. COB-WEBS in the corner, Grey and dusty, Let them stay, They make the room look lived in. Cob-webs in my brain, Grey and dusty, I'll keep them there To catch butterflies That might flit through If I kept cleaning out (Like an efficient housewife) All the funny little corners Of my mind. MY SAD moments are never my best. People like me And I like myself Better When I am fully illuminated, Lit up, A candle in every window of my house. I will not draw the blinds of my soul Or put out the lights. I will go around lighting them all, Trimming the wicks, Putting new candles in place of old, Keeping every light burning. COLORED flowers I like, Better than white. Instinctively I pick out Shirts gay of hue Instead of blank-bosomed ones. I like crazy quilts Better than sheets. My taste is for tints. I'll take pink lemonade In preference to a glass of water. I like chocolate colored candy And chocolate colored folks. [72] A FELLOW I know Is going to Paris For a while Because he's sick. I shouldn't care to Go to Paris Unless I were Strong And Well. THE BEATEN track is not for me I will not follow A fixed course Knocking my ankles Against the edges of ruts. I can not prune back the branchings of my being I must let them grow; Wild, if they like. Running all over the place. [731 MY SOUL struggles for articulation Seeking always new mediums Of more expressive speech. I would talk with my ears. Waft a meaning from my finger tips ; Rising to full self expression In a significant wriggle of my toes. I CANNOT starve I am productive. I will never be poor With all there is in me. I am rich in things. But I will not work For money ; I must play for it. GOD, give me liquid Anything that flows I am parched I must not dry up And wither in the sun of life Like a cut flower. God give me liquid; Anything to drink. [74] COLOR I must have. Fantasy. Blue enamel cuff buttons And a melting yellow tie With olive green grotesqueries At play upon it. Appreciation I desire. Sensuousness. I would have a polished black girl With burnished eyes In love with me And I would Wriggle my hand like a Fluttering gold fish Along her warm back Until she Purred. [751 CANDIED FOUR-LEAF CLOVER HOMES ARE little hells Where folks do time Stewing and suffering Trying to live By killing each other. A FALLING star Is a planet Committing suicide. Rushing through the heavens In headlong descent To a greater astral plane. LIVING BY my own laws Which are not strict, I seldom have occasion to Arrest myself. 179] DAMN anybody With cheap ambitions; I will be God. I AM impassioned; Alive with lust for living. I shall die dancing. AMATEUR PREACHERS are all right In their sincere Humble way. But God save me From professionals. I LIKE men who are Old women, And sit around all day Numbing their minds, Chewing their tongues, Between spasms of gossiping. [80] SLEEPING ALONE is a silly thing. One is so much alone by day. It should seem good at night To lie down with sheep and cows and people And slip away from one's senses With the grass, the rock and the ground. LOOKING into your eyes I doubt their sincerity, Listening to you talk I question your motive, Seeing your smile I wonder what's behind it. In you I am always feeling about for falsity, Suspecting you of being human. SNORING is mussy music. Yet people have to sleep. I should rather have them always awake And singing. WHY SHOULD I read When writing entertains me more ? And what use to me are words : 7 can hum. [81] READING the Sunday papers I wonder why God gives us comics on that day And the church Disputes Our right to laugh at them Till Monday. JUST TO be together For two little minutes, Or three. I want nothing more Except spending The whole of my life with you. I AM hating you hard today Knowing that it is only Another form Of hating myself. [82] THE HOWLING wind has no superstition ; It is one. I should rather Be A superstition Than fear one. DAMN FOLKS who cackle. I hate hens. Suspecting them of boasting. Sensing that they feel superior. I don't think I'd cackle if I could lay an egg. I COULD cry myself to sleep If I didn't feel like laughing hard. Life would play grim jokes on me If its jokes were not so funny. [83] You. Blossoms and rain Trickles and petals You ring in my ears You SHALL work to make my living While I only sing you songs And that is as it should be, For I must sing to live, While you must work. [84] MY WILL MY WILL JUDGE of the Probate Court; This is my will. Patterned after Villon's Greater Testament Rather than written On the stereotyped blank Provided By the legal fraternity (To whom I leave Ninety per cent of the Property of All helpless widows. I leave it them with a laugh, Knowing they will get it Anyway.) And to you, beskirted, bewhiskered, Befuddled Judge I bequeath a book The Rubaiyat A book of the law of life and Love; For you to drool over, Smudging its pages with your Thick thumbs, Its meaning with your Thick mind. [87] I give to all people their due Of me After I am dead. Ministers may have my soul (They will not recognize it Until it is a corpse. I dare them to touch it Before it's cold.) Doctors can come to my coffin On a germ- collecting expedition Butterfly nets in readiness to Catch my germs ajump. (Margaret Brewster shall have my Appendix then.) And I leave a whole plateful of T. B's For my friend Doc Dope. My banker shall have my Pass book To balance to his Entire satisfaction, And to my broker I leave Six per cent of anything he wants, With an extra Commission of One-eighth on Everything, And a bonus to pay The Government tax. [88] To bar-keeps who have mixed Bad cocktails I return the chlorossis of the liver They have thoughtlessly Bestowed on me. But to the good mixers I give A bumper of my Joy of Life Topped with a stiff, Sugar-powdered sprig of Mint. (My cellar will be found full Of the good things I have Bottled Every year of my life, And some of the best vintages Are marked for the Booze boys and old Hippolyte Havel.) My family can have all the Patience I have left at death. (They would have got it Anyway.) I make no specific Bequests To my children: They had all I could give them [89] The day they were conceived. To editors I leave Copies of English and How to Abuse It. My butcher shall have My weak-springed Postal scale Which always Over-weighed. And my last cent Shall be paid On account To the fat-faced Grinning grocer. My landlord (Rest his gentle soul) Shall have a pew Rent-free In hell. And every pious, hypocritical soul in Tenafly Shall have my thumb To put to his nose By way of Final benediction. In life I have been a miser, Storing up things to leave People. [90] Things they need most. I give every love-longing girl A beautiful boy To fondle. Every prostitute a Pimp. Anybody is at liberty to take from my estate The things he most needs. I give all timid married folk Their freedom, All wage-slaves Overalls. (Knowing they'd have no use for Rest, or anything else.) I've set aside a fund for cannibals To spend printing tracts in Igorotte To educate and save the souls of Missionaries Through healthy heathen idols. I leave to Carnegie a Library Of revolutionary books He's never read, And set aside a Can of kerosene to Be poured Over Rockefeller's funeral pyre. The blood of the Lamb I bequeath To Billy Sunday and All bloody revivalists. Bombs to anarchists And the nerve to use them. Shoes to the children of Boot-makers. The Bully Medal I have devised To be given in the name of Law To every policeman Who distinguishes himself At clubbing human heads. And I would have a Memorial tablet Placed in my favorite saloon Above an ever-running Tap of beer With the inscription : "Bacchus said, 'Let there be beer And there was beer.' " A dark dingy park I leave Filled with benches For hobbling hags Whisky soaks and bums To sleep sweetly upon, Undisturbed by cops. The playful part of me Shall go To my sweetheart (Who would miss it most,) And the serious side of myself Must be divided exactly in three equal parts [92] Among my wife, brother-in-law and Fritz Krog, (A trio who will be overwhelmed By my munificence.) My mother (Rest her indulgent soul) Shall inherit Every little by-product of Me Which might have gone to swell The Book of Golden Deeds, Compiled by a Superintendent Of the Sunday School. I hate leaving something to myself After I am gone. It seems presumptuous Selfish, And yet I might Return Resurrected (like Christ) And look around For a start of some kind; And the first thing I Should miss Would be My independence Impudence Ego. So to myself I leave that Unholy Trinity. [93] UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. I AUG I 2003 WK8 FROM DATE RECEIVED Form L9-25m-8,'46 ( 9852 ) 444 THE LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES PLEA^ DO NOT REMOVE THIS BOOK CARDli University Research Library "TJ CO