THE CAVES OF JOSEPHINE
I’m sure if one could probe But deep enough, he’d find this globe Just tunneled through with catacombs And resonant with hollow domes And yawning gulfs, abysmal spaces And divers dark, unfathomed places Where echoes die through mere excess Of nothingness.
There’s mystery in holes—a solid thing Is never half so interesting; It’s fun to poke around in them—to draw the screen Away from things long hidden and unseen, Like those in Josephine. Ten miles of thickest Douglas green The little trail winds through, That leads you to Old Gray Back with his half-closed, Crooked eye. How long he’s dosed That way—without a blink, Who knows? Until Elijah found the chink That day he shot the bear— Just crippled her enough to tear Down through the rocks—a bloody track Into the big, black crack; And that was back Along there in the seventies. Dick Rawly tells the story—he’s The guide, And how he beams with pride To see outsiders rave About the marvels of his cave, As proud of every chamber, niche and shelf As if he’d chiseled it himself.
And Lord! The more you snoop Around down there, and scrape and stoop To see the things you see, The more you think he has a right to be. Dick’s different too—he says his say As if he’d learned it yesterday Instead of when he did. With all the ardor of a kid He rambles on—it’s always new To him, just as it is to you.
He tells you how the place was formed In glacial days, when waters stormed And roared and cut their channels through The very spot where you Stand marveling. Then comes the change. The glaciers pass, along the range They ride no more, the streams are dried, The conflict stops. On every side Lime-laden drops begin To percolate and filter in— The long, cold sweat appears. For several hundred thousand years, Away from light, away from time, Those little drops have oozed their lime.
Relentless patience must have played Its part when all this underworld was made, And infinite variety took hand When it was planned— Or was it planned? Was it intent— Or some sublimely perfect accident That caused to be That marble-fluted canopy Above the many-pillowed throne That’s shown In brilliant, bold relief against our light In this Lost Paradise of night. And see— Upflocking toward the canopy, A-scurrying, Those baffling forms that cling And swarms of pudgy shapes that ride In half-lights, side by side. And was it chance that made The Coral Garden’s gray arcade And pillared it and set in place Each tiny statuette and grotesque face; And petrified the water-falls; And hung the walls And roofs of all the halls With rows of frescoes—pendant, bright, And gleaming like a starry night; And made the sweetest chimes to ring— We heard their clear notes echoing. If it was chance, I didn’t find It so. To me it seemed a master-mind Was lurking there—some spirit born of endless night, Transfusing each slow-dropping mite Into a wonder-thing By deft, fantastic fashioning.
Dick said The place was uninhabited, Except for a few bats At times and some pack-rats That nested near the mouth—but how could he Tell what had been? To me The place was just deserted—that was all! Because we heard no laughter fall, Nor voices ring, Proved not a thing.
And when The first intrusion came of mortal men, There must have been a merry muss And universal exodus Down through those dark recesses there And on to undiscovered regions where No man may hope to go. I would have witnessed such a show! Those trooping little refugees Of divers personalities In babbling groups, by twos and threes, With all their household goods—they must have moved Them all—the fact is proved Conclusively, as there’s no trace Of such effects in any place.
Perhaps the Pix went first— They’re fearsome, so I’ve heard, and cursed With nerves. And then the Nixie crew, The Pix’s shapely cousins who Are beautiful—as Nixies go, And no less slow To move when trouble stirs the air. Now comes a flare Of lurid light—the rhythmic tramps Of Gwelfs who bear their swinging lamps Of cocobol; A roll Of music like bassoons— The beating wings of Dragleloons, Their patterned pinions show their sheen And glow with iridescent green— Out trails the light—a glint of scales Gives hint of flashing, rainbow tails.
Now Master Goblin falls in line, The chills are jumping in his spine, His eyeballs bulge with speechless fear, His mouth’s a slit from ear to ear. He goes galumping in his boots; Behind him thump the Dormizoots, And then the Elves. From all the crannies, nooks and shelves The Wiffles come, and scrambling Wools, And Blurbs and jibbering Gabools— They stumble, tumble—now they run, Each fumbles for the other one, Mate calls for mate— A seething flux conglomerate Of cave-born entities. They pant and grunt and squeak and wheeze, They stampede, yell, And chase pell-mell. Through tortuous tunnels walled with light The pigmy pageant makes its flight, The last far turn is made, The swinging flicker-flashes fade, The clamor and the cries Are dimmed—the babbling tumult dies.
The palace rooms are dark, the halls of state, The Coral Gardens—all are desolate. No music falls— The conclaves and the carnivals, The mystic rites, The colors bathed in mellow lights, The throbbing life and mirth Of all this chambered, nether-earth Are gone. Nor will one Elf return To ring the crystal chimes or burn Strange incense at the pillowed throne, Because no Elf was ever known To tread again where mortal man Has been—nor any of the hybrid clan Who must have scampered out of there That day Elijah shot the bear.
HOBNOBBING WITH THE
FIRMAMENT
When I was just a barefoot tike I used to wonder what ’twas like Up there—oh way, way up—as high As all those screaming gulls could fly— So white against the blue; And where at evening too The whippoorwills croaked, darted, swirled, So far above my boyhood world.
Why, every youngster with two eyes Has had his dreams about the skies— My dreams have never quit Although I’m getting on a bit, So one day when it came, this chance, I took it—over there in France.
Upholstered in A furry skin— I think ’twas sheep, the coat, Or maybe cow or goat And buckled snug round the throat, With helmet, goggles—all the frills, A bird-man to the very quills;
The hills are flat, the roads are streaks, The rivers dwindle into creeks— A crazy-quilt of gay brocades And all the patches fields and glades.
And thus I stood—they laughed, While I was photographed. And out before the hangar there Our gleaming Lizzie of the air— A dragon-fly—just poised to stay A moment here and then away. A little nick dug in her side Where one might stick a toe, then slide Across the top and drop Kerflop With one more roll Into the cockpit cubby-hole— From here the young Observer chap Snaps photographs and makes his map; Since you have filled his place, you are Lord High Observer of your car!
The first thing you observe is not To let your feet or legs get caught In all those shifts and sliding gears And lifts with which the Pilot steers, Yanks at the cranks and cable-things That work the rudders and the wings; And next, that life-belt should be placed Just sort of loosely ’round the waist— Superfluous no doubt, But handy when you’re falling out.
The noisy motor spits and tugs In little fits of chuggy-chugs, With chuggy-chug—chug-chug—chug-chick, Now chug and chick come double quick— The stench of petrol it exhales With reeking breath. The old prop’s flails, Like some titanic tabby’s purr, Churn ’round into a deafening whir. Goliath! That’s the breed of her— You’ll think so when you catch the stir She kicks behind her in her wake That moment when she starts to make Her lovely take-off—once they’ve wheeled Her into line upon the field!
The Pilot, turning, cries “All set?” You grab like cripes and yell “You bet!” The grinning ground-men wave good-bye, And gathering speed, the dragon-fly Moves on. The turf’s a blur—so swift It flashes by. You feel no lift And yet you rise—you only know You float by seeing there below The earth receding, while the air Would gladly tear The helmet from your goggled head. You glimpse a house, a barn, a shed— You only know them by their tops— The profile way of seeing stops. The hills are flat, the roads are streaks, The rivers dwindle into creeks— A crazy-quilt of gay brocades And all the patches fields and glades. And all around, the quilt is spanned By vanishing horizon-land, Where fading contours disappear In wreaths of violet atmosphere That gradually evolve into That great inverted bowl of blue.
And are you dizzy? How absurd! You’re not of earth—you are a bird. You do not have that toppling feel When all beneath you seemed to reel That day you peeped in timid fright From some cathedral’s pigmy height; You are afloat on gleaming wings, Not propped up with terrestrial things.
But look! Hold fast! With wicked tilt She’s swinging round. That crazy-quilt, The spreading earth, has dropped from view— Or so it seems somehow to you Until your tangled vision sees Fields and rivers, roads and trees, Barns and houses—little town, Smiling at you, looking down. Another twist and there you view The sprawling world out under you, All right-side-up and in its place— The play-ground of the human race— Those insects whom you left to creep And work and laugh and eat and sleep. Perspectives do get twisted quite In making one’s initial flight!
But swift! Low bridge! She mounts the loop! You meet the onslaught with a stoop, And with her upward-moving course, You’re shoved against her with such force, That little seat you’re sticking to Seems fairly crushing into you. Then just as quickly, all has ceased, The sudden impact is released, You clutch to keep from dropping now, You clutch and wonder—marvel how She slowly crawls across the top, She almost stalls—you think she’ll stop! You wonder just how long ’twould take To make that trip should something break Or slip, Or should you loose your grip— And if you’d strike a church or what— Or just some pleasant garden spot;
Perhaps you hope a kindly fate Would cause you to evaporate Into an atmospheric state— A sort of cosmic spirit-thing, And thus take wing, just fluttering, Up toward those pearly portals there, So nonchalant and debonair— Without all that formality Of tumbling first into a tree!
But see! She’s found an even keel At last. What joy to feel That level glide—to know you’re still On board—until, Oh Lord! Another stunt! You grab, you grunt, But breathe you can’t, Her nose has struck a fiendish slant! That chuggy-chug—has it gone dead? Or has the Pilot lost his head? He does not swerve, his aim’s exact, He’s Hell-bent for that timber-tract! Oh were there ever, ever trees With such a prickly look as these? They’re coming closer up—and see, They’re getting sharper—every tree!
Now look! She zooms! Agile she springs Aloft with taut and straining wings. In one great climb she squanders all The power she gathered in her fall; She leaves the woodlands in her wake, She cuts across a marshy lake, And dipping gently, circles round Above the aviation ground, Where field-mechanics stand about To lend a hand and help you out— To ask you how you liked to drop Five thousand feet without a stop, And if the loop was all you thought A loop would likely be or not?
You thank them—tell them all how glad You were to have the ride you had, And then, a trifle limp and white, With some slight loss of appetite, And with two rather wobbly pegs As proxies for your former legs, You kick the turf up with your heel To reassure yourself it’s real— A little woozy still you feel, A little dizzy— And then you take one long, last look—at Lizzie! Thus ends my tale—You’ve got it straight, The way we teased and tempted fate, Shook off this earthly dust and went Hobnobbing with the firmament.