The spear of Norway,
Blue,
Through the curved arm-pit,
The cheerless sun majestic in a jagged slit.
The spear of India,
Indigo,
Through the holy side,
A heaven-touching temple-roof down a mountain-slide.
The spear of Europe,
Red,
In the mouth's breath,
The million-splintering scream of death . . .
Even to us,
The seven-spearing sun,
The sword of separation before our love is done;
Even for us,
A simian shape
Throwing seven souls on the sea-wet cape;
Even for us
Who smile mouth to mouth,
The full tornado from the seven-forked south;
Even to us
Who clasp with our knees,
The scattering upheaval of the seven cold seas!
And this is as near as lovers ever come,
Their words are dumb;
This is as near as they have ever kissed,
Their lips are ocean-mist.
Yet what avail the seven
Spears of memory
Against the obstinate archery
Of light, the spears of heaven?
ANNE KNISH
Opus 40
I HAVE not written, reader,
That you may read. . . .
They sit in rows in the bare school-room
Reading.
Throwing rocks at windows is better,
And oh the tortoise-shell cat with the can tied on!
I would rather be a can-tier
Than a writer for readers.
I have written, reader,
For abstruse reasons.
Gold in the mine . . .
Black water seeping into tunnels . . .
A plank breaks, and the roof falls . . .
Three men suffocated.
The wife of one now works in a laundry;
The wife of another has married a fat man;
I forget about the third.