But as I entered softly in
I saw a woman there,
The line of neck and cheek and chin,
The darkness of her hair,
The form of one I did not know
Sitting in my chair.

I stood a moment fierce and still,
Watching her neck and hair.
I made a step to her; and saw
That there was no one there.

It was some trick of the firelight
That made me see her there.
It was a chance of shade and light
And the cushion in the chair.

Oh, all you happy over the earth,
That night, how could I sleep?
I lay and watched the lonely gloom;
And watched the moonlight creep
From wall to basin, round the room,
All night I could not sleep.

Whereon I wrote and wrought,
And now, being grey,
I dream that I have brought
To such a pitch my thought
That coming time can say,
‘He shadowed in a glass
What thing her body was.’

For she had fiery blood
When I was young,
And trod so sweetly proud
As ’twere upon a cloud,
A woman Homer sung,
That life and letters seem
But an heroic dream.

Stare solid into mine
And ask my Business there –
“My Business but a Life I left
Was such remaining there?”

I leaned upon the Awe –
I lingered with Before –
The Second like an Ocean rolled
And broke against my ear –

I laughed a crumbling Laugh
That I could fear a Door
Who Consternation compassed
And never winced before.

I fitted to the Latch
My Hand, with trembling care
Lest back the awful Door should spring
And leave me in the Floor –

Then moved my Fingers off
As cautiously as Glass
And held my ears, and like a Thief
Fled gasping from the House –

What Thou dost — is Delight –
Bondage as Play — be sweet –
Imprisonment — Content –
And Sentence — Sacrament –
Just We two — meet –

Where Thou art not — is Woe –
Tho’ Bands of Spices — row –
What Thou dost not — Despair –
Tho’ Gabriel — praise me — Sire –

If I were doing my Laundry I’d wash my dirty Iran
I’d throw in my United States, and pour on the Ivory Soap,
scrub up Africa, put all the birds and elephants back in
the jungle,
I’d wash the Amazon river and clean the oily Carib & Gulf of Mexico,
Rub that smog off the North Pole, wipe up all the pipelines in Alaska,
Rub a dub dub for Rocky Flats and Los Alamos, Flush that sparkly
Cesium out of Love Canal
Rinse down the Acid Rain over the Parthenon & Sphinx, Drain the Sludge
out of the Mediterranean basin & make it azure again,
Put some blueing back into the sky over the Rhine, bleach the little
Clouds so snow return white as snow,
Cleanse the Hudson Thames & Neckar, Drain the Suds out of Lake Erie
Then I’d throw big Asia in one giant Load & wash out the blood &
Agent Orange,
Dump the whole mess of Russia and China in the wringer, squeeze out
the tattletail Gray of U.S. Central American police state,
& put the planet in the drier & let it sit 20 minutes or an
Aeon till it came out clean

Now loud, it thunders o’er my head,
And now in distance dies.
But give me back my barren hills
Where colder breezes rise;

Where scarce the scattered, stunted trees
Can yield an answering swell,
But where a wilderness of heath
Returns the sound as well.

For yonder garden, fair and wide,
With groves of evergreen,
Long winding walks, and borders trim,
And velvet lawns between;

Restore to me that little spot,
With grey walls compassed round,
Where knotted grass neglected lies,
And weeds usurp the ground.

Though all around this mansion high
Invites the foot to roam,
And though its halls are fair within —
Oh, give me back my HOME!

And so, though still, where’er I go,
Cold stranger-glances meet my eye;
Though, when my spirit sinks in woe,
Unheeded swells the unbidden sigh;

Though solitude, endured too long,
Bids youthful joys too soon decay,
Makes mirth a stranger to my tongue,
And overclouds my noon of day;

When kindly thoughts, that would have way,
Flow back discouraged to my breast; –
I know there is, though far away,
A home where heart and soul may rest.

Warm hands are there, that, clasped in mine,
The warmer heart will not belie;
While mirth, and truth, and friendship shine
In smiling lip and earnest eye.

The ice that gathers round my hea rt
May there be thawed; and sweetly, then,
The joys of youth, that now depart,
Will come to cheer my soul again.

Though far I roam, that thought shall be
My hope, my comfort, everywhere;
While such a home remains to me,
My heart shall never know despair!

Oh stay with company and mirth
And daylight and the air;
Too full already is the grave
Of fellows that were good and brave
And died bacause they were.

Garlanding the white stuccoed tower

Of City Station: red on green

As poetry’s demon seizes me,

Upending all ordures of order.

‘Haworth Moor, Haworth Moor’

Echoes and re-echoes under the Dark Arches

Where the Aire gurgles and swirls

In eddies of Jack the Ripper, cloud-hopping

Jumping Jack Flash but Jack’s the lad I’m not

My adolescent timidity gelding

My desire for the welcoming heavy breasts

And garlanded yielding vaginas.

Watching the blue blood of the azaleas

Spatter on Haworth’s cobbles.

A seamless transparency of rain

Lowering over the turning trees

My thoughts drifting to Claudel’s

‘Five Great Odes’, to the stone marker

To the swathes of heather.

I stood on the moor top

Where the tracks cross

The fellside green

The fellside ochre,

Shifting reflections

Of C

Speak to me of how you miss me.
Tell me the hours go long and slow.

Speak to me of the drag on your heart,
The iron drag of the long days.

I know hours empty as a beggar’s tin cup on a rainy day, empty as a soldier’s sleeve with an arm lost.

Speak to me …

I listened to thier honest chat:
Said one: “To-morrow we shall be
Plod plod along the featureless sands,
And coasting miles and miles of sea.”
Said one: “Before the turn of tide
We will achieve the eyrie-seat.”
Said one: “To-morrow shall be like
To-day, but much more sweet.”

“To-morrow,” said they, strong with hope,
And dwelt upon the pleasant way:
“To-morrow,” cried they, one and all,
While no one spoke of yesterday.
Their life stood full at blessed noon;
I, only I, had passed away:
“To-morrow and to-day,” they cried;
I was of yesterday.

I shivered comfortless, but cast
No chill across the table-cloth;
I, all-forgotten, shi vered, sad
To stay, and yet to part how loth:
I passed from the familiar room,
I who from love had passed away,
Like the remembrance of a guest
That tarrieth but a day.

they cause the eyes to melt
or the body to shriek without pain.

I have never seen one fly, but
sometimes they perch on the hand.

Mist is when the sky is tired of flight
and rests its soft machine on ground:

then the world is dim and bookish
like engravings under tissue paper.

Rain is when the earth is television.
It has the property of making colours darker.

Model T is a room with the lock inside –
a key is turned to free the world

for movement, so quick there is a film
to watch for anything missed.

But time is tied to the wrist
or kept in a box, ticking with impatience.

In homes, a haunted apparatus sleeps,
that snores when you pick it up.

If the ghost cries, they carry it
to their lips and soothe it to sleep

with sounds. And yet they wake it up
deliberately, by tickling with a finger.

Only the young are allowed to suffer
openly. Adults go to a punishment room

with water but nothing to eat.
They lock the door and suffer the noises

alone. No one is exempt
and everyone’s pain has a different smell.

At night when all the colours die,
they hide in pairs

and read about themselves –
in colour, with their eyelids shut.

It may be, when the devil’s own time is done,
That I shall hear the dropping of the rain
At midnight, and lie quiet in my bed;
Or stretch and straighten to the yellow sun;
Or face the turning tree, and have no pain;
So shall I learn at last my heart is dead.

The tenderest light that ever was seen
Sifts through the vine-made window screen–
Sifts and quivers, and flits and falls
On home-made carpets and gray-hung walls.

All through June the west wind free
The breath of clover brings to me.
All through the languid July day
I catch the scent of new-mown hay.

The morning-glories and scarlet vine
Over the doorway twist and twine;
And every day, when the house is still,
The humming-bird comes to the window-sill.

In the cunningest chamber under the sun
I sink to sleep when the day is done;
And am waked at morn, in my snow-white bed,
By a singing bird on the roof o’erhead.

Better than treasures brought from Rome,
Are the living pictures I see at home–
My aged father, with frosted hair,
And mot her’s face, like a painting rare.

Far from the city’s dust and heat,
I get but sounds and odors sweet.
Who can wonder I love to stay,
Week after week, here hidden away,
In this sly nook that I love the best–
This little brown house like a ground-bird’s nest?

Because it’s Sunday — all the time –
And Recess — never comes –
And Eden’ll be so lonesome
Bright Wednesday Afternoons –

If God could make a visit –
Or ever took a Nap –
So not to see us — but they say
Himself — a Telescope

Perennial beholds us –
Myself would run away
From Him — and Holy Ghost — and All –
But there’s the “Judgement Day”!

The Habit of a Foreign Sky
We — difficult — acquire
As Children, who remain in Face
The more their Feet retire.

Through all their former Places, we
Like Individuals go
Who something lost, the seeking for
Is all that’s left them, now –

All crumpled was the cheek
No other kiss had known
Than flake of snow, divided with
The Redbreast of the Barn –

If Mother — in the Grave –
Or Father — on the Sea –
Or Father in the Firmament –
Or Brethren, had he –

If Commonwealth below,
Or Commonwealth above
Have missed a Barefoot Citizen –
I’ve ransomed it — alive –

‘Tis more pitiful Endeavor
Than did Loaded Sea
O’er the Curls attempt to caper
It had cast away –

Never Bride had such Assembling –
Never kinsmen kneeled
To salute so fair a Forehead –
Garland be indeed –

Fitter Feet — of Her before us –
Than whatever Brow
Art of Snow — or Trick of Lily
Possibly bestow

Of Her Father — Whoso ask Her –
He shall seek as high
As the Palm — that serve the Desert –
To obtain the Sky –

Distance — be Her only Motion –
If ’tis Nay — or Yes –
Acquiescence — or Demurral –
Whosoever guess –

He — must pass the Crystal Angle
That obscure Her face –
He — must have achieved in person
Equal Paradise –

Round our new Fireside — but for this –
This pattern — of the Way –
Whose Memory drowns me, like the Dip
Of a Celestial Sea –

What Mornings in our Garden — guessed –
What Bees — for us — to hum –
With only Birds to interrupt
The Ripple of our Theme –

And Task for Both –
When Play be done –
Your Problem — of the Brain –
And mine — some foolisher effect –
A Ruffle — or a Tune –

The Afternoons — Together spent –
And Twilight — in the Lanes –
Some ministry to poorer lives –
Seen poorest — thro’ our gains –

And then Return — and Night — and Home –

And then away to You to pass –
A new — diviner — care –
Till Sunrise take us back to Scene –
Transmuted — Vivider –

This seems a Home –
And Home is not –
But what that Place could be –
Affl icts me — as a Setting Sun –
Where Dawn — knows how to be –

Of Bliss the Codes are few –
As Jesus cites of Him –
“Come unto me” the moiety
That wafts the Seraphim –

When can I go home?

The days are getting longer,

And the nights are growing cold.

My bodies aging daily,

And my soul longs for you.

When will it be over?

When can I come home?
*****
I remember back when I was born,

Satan tried to take my life.

But I fought right back like I should,

But he came and took my wife.

Life for me got rougher,

I have no friends in sight.

There’s no one there to hold me,

When I turn out the light.
*****

When will it be over?

When can I go home?

The days are getting longer,

And the nights are growing cold.

My bodies aging daily,

And my soul longs for you.

When will it be over?

When can I come home?
*****
The people have gone crazy,

I’ve had all I can stand.

Their lifestyles are deceitful,

When will you move your hand.

For I long to see you Jesu s,

When will you come for me.

And break these chains that bound me,

And set my soul free.
*****

When will it be over?

When can I go home?

The days are getting longer,

And the nights are growing cold.

My bodies aging daily,

And my soul longs for you.

When will it be over?

When can I come home?
*****

Written 05-23-91

Men that are men again; who goes home?
Tocsin and trumpeter! Who goes home?
For there’s blood on the field and blood on the foam
And blood on the body when Man goes home.
And a voice valedictory . . . Who is for Victory?
Who is for Liberty? Who goes home?