WHY
NO ONE LIKES TO DWELL
ON "DEAD
GERANIUMS":
i.e., HIS POETRY KIND OF SPEAKS FOR ITSELF...
Rhapsody
on a Windy Night
Twelve o'clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations,
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
Half-past one,
The street lamp sputtered,
The street lamp muttered,
The street lamp said, "Regard that
woman
Who hesitates towards you in the light of the
door
Which opens on her like a grin.
You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand,
And you see the corner of her eye
Twists like a crooked pin."
The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
Rust that clings to the form that the
strength has left ;
Hard and curled and ready to snap.
Half-past two,
The street lamp said,
"Remark the cat which flattens itself in
the gutter,
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid
butter."
So the hand of a child, automatic,
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running
along the quay.
I could see nothing behind that child's
eye.
I have seen eyes in the street
Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
An old crab with barnacles on his back,
Gripped the end of a stick which I held
him.
Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered,
The lamp muttered in the dark.
The lamp hummed:
"Regard the moon,
La lune
ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smoothes the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory.
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and old Cologne,
She is
alone ...
With all the old nocturnal smells
That cross and cross across her
brain."
The reminiscence comes
Of sunless, dry geraniums
And dust in crevices,
Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
And female smells in shuttered rooms,
And cigarettes in corridors
And cocktail smells in bars."
The lamp said,
"Four o'clock,
Here is the number on the door.
Memory!
You have the key,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the
stair,
Mount.
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the
wall,
Put your shoes at the door, sleep:
Prepare for life."
The [very] last
twist of the knife.
Happy
Birthday to 2 radiologists I worked with in the past: Dr. C.S. Moss and Dr. B. Fedeson
