Sun-Up and Other Poems | Page 8

never, never, never forgive them....?so we poked a stick in the bottle-green water.?But only weeds came up?and an old top with the paint washed off.
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Jude and I?wave to the new moon?curled right up like one gold hair?on the bald-head sandhill.?Mama peeps out the window and smiles.?She thinks?I am playing with myself...?Run, Jude, run with the wind--?but hold my hand tight?or the wind,?looking for some one to play with,?will take me away from you!?Wind with no one to play with?cooees the orange-trees--?stay-at-home orange trees,?have to nurse oranges,?greeny-gold.?Wind shouts to the grass--?run-away-grass?tugs at its roots,?but the earth holds tight?and the grass falls down?and wind boos over it.?Wind whistles the bees--?bees too busy?with taking home stuff out of flowers?won't look back--?bees always going somewhere.?Only Jude and I--?heads over shoulders?watching all roads at one time--?run with the wind,?going to nowhere.
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Jude and I?were weeding our garden?when we heard his whip--?must have been a new whip?to cut off dandelion-heads at one swing....?He was the kind of boy you knew when you had Celia....?with nice clothes on and curls?crawling about his collar?like little golden slugs,?and his man was leading his horse.?I wish I hadn't run to meet him....?If you hadn't run to meet him?he mightn't have trod on your garden and said:?Get out of my field you dirty little beggar...?he mightn't have struck you with his whip....?How the daisies stared....?I hate daisies--?stupid white faces--?skinny necks?craning over the grass!?I said It is not your field,?and he struck me again.?But he didn't make me run.?His hand?smelled of sweet soap...?he couldn't shake me off,?but his man did....?Funny--how the sky fell down?and turned over and over?like a blue carpet rolling you up,?and the grass caught at your face--?it couldn't have been spiteful--?it must have been saving itself.?Hot road... silly wind playing with your hair....?The road smelled of horses.?I only got up?when I heard a dray.
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Mama has sung ba ba black sheep,?and put a chair with a cloth on it?between me and the light.?But the clock keeps saying:?Dirty little beggar,?dirty little beggar....?Some day?I will get that boy.?I will pull off his arms and legs?and put him in a box?and hide the box?under the bed....?I wonder?will he buzz?when I take him out to look at his body?that will have no arms to whip me?
Mama drew my cot to the window?so I can look at the stars.?I will not look at the stars.?There is a black chimney?throwing up sparks?and one tall flame?like gold hair in a blaze....?I know now?what I shall do....?I will set fire to him?and he will burn up into a tall flame--?he will scream into the sky?and sparks will fly out of him--?he will burn and burn...?and his blazing hair?shall light up the world.
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Before he hit me--?I knew he was going to--?I thought about Jude....?I thought if he'd fight...?but he shriveled all up...?he lay down like a fear.
Mama never knew about Jude.?You always wanted to tell her,?but somehow you never did.?You were afraid she'd smile?and say he wasn't real--?that he was only a little dream-boy,?because the grass didn't fall down under his feet....?He is fading now....?He is just lines... like a drawing....?You can see mama in between.?When she moves?she rubs some of him out.
MONOLOGUES
JAGUAR
Nasal intonations of light?and clicking tongues...?publicity of windows?stoning me with pent-up cries...?smells of abattoirs...?smells of long-dead meat.
Some day-end--?while the sand is yet cozy as a blanket?off the warm body of a squaw,?and the jaguars are out to kill...?with a blue-black night coming on?and a painted cloud?stalking the first star--?I shall go alone into the Silence...?the coiled Silence...?where a cry can run only a little way?and waver and dwindle?and be lost.
And there...?where tiny antlers clinch and strain?as life grapples in a million avid points,?and threshing things?strike and die,?letting their hate live on?in the spreading purple of a wound...?I too?will make covert of a crevice in the night,?and turn and watch...?nose at the cleft's edge.
WILD DUCK
I
That was a great night we spied upon?See-sawing home,?Singing a hot sweet song to the super-stars?Shuffling off behind the smoke-haze...?Fog-horns sentimentalizing on the river...?Lights dwindling to shining slits?In the wet asphalt...?Purring lights... red and green and golden-whiskered...?Digging daintily pointed claws in the soft mud...?... But you did not know...?As the trains made golden augers?Boring in the darkness...?How my heart kept racing out along the rails,?As a spider runs along a thread?And hauls him in again?To some drawing point...?You did not know?How wild ducks' wings?Itch at dawn...?How at dawn the necks of wild ducks?Arch to the sun?And new-mown air?Trickles sweet in their gullets.
II
As water, cleared of the reflection of a bird?That has lately flown across it,?Yet trembles with the beating of its wings,?So my soul... emptied of the known you... utterly...?Is yet vibrant with the cadence of the song?You might have been....?'Twas a great night...?With never a waste look over a shoulder?Curved to the crook of the wind...?And a great word we