Conrad Potter Aiken

Fanfare of northwest wind, a bluejay wind announces autumn, and the equinox rolls back blue bays to a far afternoon.

All lovely things will have an ending, All lovely things will fade and die, And youth, that's now so bravely spending,

Light your cigarette, then, in this shadow, And talk to her, your arm engaged with hers. Heavily over your heads the eaten maple

Beloved, let us once more praise the rain. Let us discover some new alphabet, For this, the often praised; and be ourselves,

He Fill your bowl with roses: the bowl, too, have of crystal. Sit at the western window. Take the sun

Behold me, in my chiffon, gauze, and tinsel, Flitting out of the shadow into the spotlight, And into the shadow again, without a whisper!

I (Bread and Music) Music I heard with you was more than music, And bread I broke with you was more than bread;

The parrot, screeching, flew out into the darkness, Circled three times above the upturned faces With a great whir of brilliant outspread wings,

It is moonlight. Alone in the silence I ascend my stairs once more, While waves, remote in a pale blue starlight,

Southeast, and storm, and every weathervane shivers and moans upon its dripping pin, ragged on chimneys the cloud whips, the rain

How is it that I am now so softly awakened, My leaves shaken down with music? Darling, I love you.

The girl in the room beneath Before going to bed Strums on a mandolin

I stood for a long while before the shop window Looking at the blue butterflies embroidered on tawny silk. The building was a tower before me,

The first bell is silver, And breathing darkness I think only of the long scythe of time. The second bell is crimson,

On the day when my uncle and I drove to the cemetery, Rain rattled on the roof of the carriage; And talkng constrainedly of this and that

When I was a boy, and saw bright rows of icicles In many lengths along a wall I was dissappointed to find

It is now two hours since I left you, And the perfume of your hands is still on my hands. And though since then

The day opens with the brown light of snowfall And past the window snowflakes fall and fall. I sit in my chair all day and work and work

Many things perplex me and leave me troubled, Many things are locked away in the white book of stars Never to be opened by me.

This girl gave her heart to me, And this, and this. This one looked at me as if she loved me,

It is night time, and cold, and snow is falling, And no wind grieves the walls. In the small world of light around the arc-lamp

As I walked through the lamplit gardens, On the thin white crust of snow, So intensely was I thinking of my misfortune,

How many times have we been interrupted Just as I was about to make up a story for you! One time it was because we suddenly saw a firefly

My heart is an old house, and in that forlorn old house, In the very centre, dark and forgotten, Is a locked room where an enchanted princess

Like an old tree uprooted by the wind And flung down cruelly With roots bared to the sun and stars

The music of the morning is red and warm; Snow lies against the walls; And on the sloping roof in the yellow sunlight

It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning When the light drips through the shutters like the dew, I arise, I face the sunrise,

Music I heard with you was more than music, And bread I broke with you was more than bread; Now that I am without you, all is desolate;

I. Moonlight silvers the tops of trees, Moonlight whitens the lilac shadowed wall

After the movie, when the lights come up, He takes her powdered hand behind the wings; She, all in yellow, like a buttercup,

Senlin sits before us, and we see him. He smokes his pipe before us, and we hear him. Is he small, with reddish hair,

Senlin, walking beside us, swings his arms And turns his head to look at walls and trees. The wind comes whistling from shrill stars of winter,

It is evening, Senlin says, and in the evening, By a silent shore, by a far distant sea, White unicorns come gravely down to the water.

Senlin, walking before us in the sunlight, Bending his small legs in a peculiar way, Goes to his work with thoughts of the universe.

In the hot noon, in an old and savage garden, The peach-tree grows. Its cruel and ugly roots Rend and rifle the silent earth for moisture.

Rustling among his odds and ends of knowledge Suddenly, to his wonder, Senlin finds How Cleopatra and Senebtisi

'And am I then a pyramid?' says Senlin, 'In which are caves and coffins, where lies hidden Some old and mocking hieroglyph of flesh?

In cold blue lucid dusk before the sunrise, One yellow star sings over a peak of snow, And melts and vanishes in a light like roses.

I am a house, says Senlin, locked and darkened, Sealed from the sun with wall and door and blind. Summon me loudly, and you'll hear slow footsteps

It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning When the light drips through the shutters like the dew, I arise, I face the sunrise,

I walk to my work, says Senlin, along a street Superbly hung in space. I lift these mortal stones, and with my trowel

That woman, did she try to attract my attention? Is it true I saw her smile and nod? She turned her head and smiled . . . was it for me?

It is noontime, Senlin says, and a street piano Strikes sharply against the sunshine a harsh chord, And the universe is suddenly agitated,

Death himself in the rain . . . death himself . . . Death in the savage sunlight . . . skeletal death . . . I hear the clack of his feet,

It is noontime, Senlin says. The sky is brilliant Above a green and dreaming hill. I lay my trowel down. The pool is cloudless,

The pale blue gloom of evening comes Among the phantom forests and walls With a mournful and rythmic sound of drums.

It is evening, Senlin says, and in the evening The throbbing of drums has languidly died away. Forest and sea are still. We breathe in silence

It is moonlight. Alone in the silence I ascend my stairs once more, While waves, remote in a pale blue starlight,

Senlin sat before us and we heard him. He smoked his pipe before us and we saw him. Was he small, with reddish hair,

Senlin, alone before us, played a music. Was it himself he played? . . . We sat and listened, Perplexed and pleased and tired.

Senlin stood before us in the sunlight, And laughed, and walked away. Did no one see him leaving the doors of the city,

See, as the carver carves a rose, A wing, a toad, a serpent's eye, In cruel granite, to disclose

When she came out, that white little Russian dancer, With her bright hair, and her eyes, so young, so young, He suddenly lost his leader, and all the players,

The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light. The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east: And lights wink out through the windows, one by one.

One, from his high bright window in a tower, Leans out, as evening falls, And sees the advancing curtain of the shower

One, where the pale sea foamed at the yellow sand, With wave upon slowly shattering wave, Turned to the city of towers as evening fell;

Up high black walls, up sombre terraces, Clinging like luminous birds to the sides of cliffs, The yellow lights went climbing towards the sky.

The snow floats down upon us, mingled with rain . . . It eddies around pale lilac lamps, and falls Down golden-windowed walls.

Over the darkened city, the city of towers, The city of a thousand gates, Over the gleaming terraced roofs, the huddled towers,

Midnight; bells toll, and along the cloud-high towers The golden lights go out . . . The yellow windows darken, the shades are drawn,

The white fog creeps from the cold sea over the city, Over the pale grey tumbled towers, And settles among the roofs, the pale grey walls.

The round red sun heaves darkly out of the sea. The walls and towers are warmed and gleam. Sounds go drowsily up from streets and wharves.

More towers must yet be built, more towers destroyed, Great rocks hoisted in air; And he must seek his bread in high pale sunlight

The warm sun dreams in the dust, the warm sun falls On bright red roofs and walls; The trees in the park exhale a ghost of rain;

'Draw three cards, and I will tell your future . . . Draw three cards, and lay them down, Rest your palms upon them, stare at the crystal,

Round white clouds roll slowly above the housetops, Over the clear red roofs they flow and pass. A flock of pigeons rises with blue wings flashing,

She turned her head on the pillow, and cried once more. And drawing a shaken breath, and closing her eyes, To shut out, if she could, this dingy room,

Two lovers, here at the corner, by the steeple, Two lovers blow together like music blowing: And the crowd dissolves about them like a sea.

Well, it was two days after my husband died, Two days! And the earth still raw above him. And I was sweeping the carpet in their hall.

The days, the nights, flow one by one above us, The hours go silently over our lifted faces, We are like dreamers who walk beneath a sea.

'Number four, the girl who died on the table, The girl with golden hair,' The purpling body lies on the polished marble.

Snow falls. The sky is grey, and sullenly glares With purple lights in the canyoned street. The fiery sign on the dark tower wreathes and flares . . .

As evening falls, And the yellow lights leap one by one Along high walls;

You read, what is it, then that you are reading? What music moves so silently in your mind? Your bright hand turns the page.

The lamplit page is turned, the dream forgotten; The music changes tone, you wake, remember Deep worlds you lived before, deep worlds hereafter

Of what she said to me that night, no matter. The strange thing came next day. My brain was full of music, something she played me;

The cigarette-smoke loops and slides above us, Dipping and swirling as the waiter passes; You strike a match and stare upon the flame.

This is the house. On one side there is darkness, On one side there is light. Into the darkness you may lift your lanterns,

You see that porcelain ranged there in the window, Platters and soup-plates done with pale pink rosebuds, And tiny violets, and wreaths of ivy?

Wind blows. Snow falls. The great clock in its tower Ticks with reverberant coil and tolls the hour: At the deep sudden stroke the pigeons fly . . .

We sit together and talk, or smoke in silence. You say (but use no words) 'this night is passing As other nights when we are dead will pass . . .'

From time to time, lifting his eyes, he sees The soft blue starlight through the one small window, The moon above black trees, and clouds, and Venus,

What shall we talk of? Li Po? Hokusai? You narrow your long dark eyes to fascinate me; You smile a little. . . .Outside, the night goes by.

Now, when the moon slid under the cloud And the cold clear dark of starlight fell, He heard in his blood the well-known bell

The half-shut doors through which we heard that music Are softly closed. Horns mutter down to silence. The stars whirl out, the night grows deep.

'This envelope you say has something in it Which once belonged to your dead son, or something He knew, was fond of? Something he remembers?

The door is shut. She leaves the curtained office, And down the grey-walled stairs comes trembling slowly Towards the dazzling street.

Well, as you say, we live for small horizons: We move in crowds, we flow and talk together, Seeing so many eyes and hands and faces,

He, in the room above, grown old and tired, She, in the room below, his floor her ceiling, Pursue their separate dreams. He turns his light,

No, I shall not say why it is that I love you, Why do you ask me, save for vanity? Surely you would not have me, like a mirror,

As evening falls, The walls grow luminous and warm, the walls Tremble and glow with the lives within them moving,

The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light. The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east: And lights wink out through the windows, one by one.

I. The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light. The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east:

I. The round red sun heaves darkly out of the sea. The walls and towers are warmed and gleam.

I As evening falls, And the yellow lights leap one by one

I. CLAIRVOYANT 'This envelope you say has something in it Which once belonged to your dead son, or something

Through that window, all else being extinct Except itself and me, I saw the struggle Of darkness against darkness. Within the room

She looks out in the blue morning and sees a whole wonderful world she looks out in the morning

He thinks her little feet should pass Where dandelions star thickly grass; Her hands should lift in sunlit air

Here on the pale beach, in the darkness; With the full moon just to rise; They sit alone, and look over the sea,