Caliban in the Coal Mines God, we don't like to complain-- We know that the mine is no lark-- But--there's the pools from the rain; But--there's the cold and the dark. God, You don't know what it is-- You, in Your well-lighted sky, Watching the meteors whizz; Warm, with the sun always by. God, if You had but the moon Stuck in Your cap for a lamp, Even You'd tire of it soon, Down in the dark and the damp. Nothing but blackness above, And nothing that moves but the cars-- God, if You wish for our love, Fling us a handful of stars! ----- Portrait of an American He slobbers over sentimental plays And sniffles over sentimental songs. He tells you often how he sadly longs For the ideals of the dear old days. In gatherings he is the first to raise His voice against "our country's shameful wrongs." He storms at greed. His hard, flat tone prolongs The hymns and mumbled platitudes of praise. I heard him in his office Friday past. "Look here," he said, "their talk is all a bluff; You mark my words, this thing will never last. Let them walk out--they'll come back quick enough. We'll have all hands at work--and working fast! How do they think we're running this--for love?" ----- Sunday It was Sunday-- Eleven in the morning; people were at church-- Prayers were in the making; God was near at hand-- Down the cramped and narrow streets of quiet Lawrence Came the tramp of workers marching in their hundreds; Marching in the morning, marching to the grave-yard, Where, no longer fiery, underneath the grasses, Callous and uncaring, lay their friend and sister. In their hands they carried wreaths and drooping flowers, Overhead their banners dipped and soared like eagles-- Aye, but eagles bleeding, stained with their own heart's blood-- Red, but not for glory-red, with wounds and travail, Red, the buoyant symbol of the blood of all the world. So they bore their banners, singing toward the grave-yard, So they marched and chanted, mingling tears and tributes, So, with flowers, the dying went to deck the dead. Within the churches people heard The sound, and much concern was theirs-- God might not hear the Sacred Word-- God might not hear their prayers! Should such things be allowed these slaves-- To vex the Sabbath peace with Song, To come with chants, like marching waves, That proudly swept along. Suppose God turned to these—and heard! Suppose He listened unawares-- God might forget the Sacred Word, God might forget their prayers! And so (the tragic irony) The blue-clad Guardians of the Peace Were sent to sweep them back—to see The ribald Song should cease; To scatter those who came and vexed God with their troubled cries and cares. Quiet---so God might hear the text; The sleek and unctuous prayers! Up the rapt and singing streets of little Lawrence Came the stolid soldiers; and, behind the bluecoats, Grinning and invisible, bearing unseen torches, Rode red hordes of anger, sweeping all before them. Lust and Evil joined them--Terror rode among them; Fury fired its pistols; Madness stabbed and yelled. Through the wild and bleeding streets of shuddering Lawrence, Raged the heedless panic, hour-long and bitter. Passion tore and trampled; men once mild and peaceful, Fought with savage hatred in the name of Law and Order. And, below the outcry, like the sea beneath the breakers, Mingling with the anguish, rolled the solemn organ.... Eleven in the morning--people were at church-- Prayers were in the making--God was near at hand-- It was Sunday! ----- Prayer GOD, though this life is but a wraith, Although we know not what we use, Although we grope with little faith, Give me the heart to fight---and lose. Ever insurgent let me be, Make me more daring than devout; From sleek contentment keep me free, And fill me with a buoyant doubt. Open my eyes to visions girt With beauty, and with wonder lit--- But always let me see the dirt, And all that spawn and die in it. Open my ears to music; let Me thrill with Spring's first flutes and drums--- But never let me dare forget The bitter ballads of the slums. From compromise and things half done, Keep me with stern and stubborn pride; And when at last the fight is won, God, keep me still unsatisfied. ----- On the Birth of a Child Lo, to the battle-ground of Life, Child, you have come, like a conquering shout, Out of a struggle---into strife; Out of a darkness---into doubt. Girt with the fragile armor of youth, Child, you must ride into endless wars, With the sword of protest, the buckler of truth, And a banner of love to sweep the stars. About you the world's despair will surge; Into defeat you must plunge and grope. Be to the faltering an urge; Be to the hopeless years a hope! Be to the darkened world a flame; Be to its unconcern a blow--- For out of its pain and tumult you came, And into its tumult and pain you go. ---- Song Tournament: New Style Rain, said the first, as it falls in Venice Is like the dropping of golden pennies Into a sea as smooth and bright As a bowl of curdled malachite. Storm, sang the next, in the streets of Peking Is like the ghost of a yellow sea-king, Scooping the dust to find if he may Discover what earth has hidden away. The mist, sighed the third, that lies on London Is the wraith of Beauty, betrayed and undone By a world of dark machines that plan To splinter the shaken soul of man. The rush of Spring, smiled the fourth, in Florence Is wave upon wave of laughing torrents, A flood of birds, a water-voiced calling, A green rain rising instead of falling. The wind, cried the fifth, in the Bay of Naples Is a quarrel of leaves among the maples, A war of sunbeams idly fanned, A whisper softer than sand on sand. Then spoke the last: God's endless tears, Too great for Heaven, anoint the spheres, While every drop becomes a well In the fathomless, thirsting heart of Hell. And thus six bards, who could boast of travel Fifty miles from their native gravel, Rose in the sunlight and offered their stanzas At the shrine of the Poetry Contest in Kansas. ----- Portrait of a Machine What nudity as beautiful as this Obedient monster purring at its toil; These naked iron muscles dripping oil And the sure-fingered rods that never miss. This long and shining flank of metal is Magic that greasy labour cannot spoil; While this vast engine that could rend the soil Conceals its fury with a gentle hiss. It does not vent its loathing, it does not turn Upon its makers with destroying hate. It bears a deeper malice; lives to earn Its masters bread and laughs to see this great Lord of the earth, who rules but cannot learn, Become the slave of what his slaves create. ----- AUCTION: ANDERSON GALLERIES "Lot 65: John Keats to Fanny Brawne A beauty, gentlemen, and in the best Condition. Four leaves, scarcely pressed. What am I bid? Five hundred ... Five ... Come on. Who'll make it Six? Six hundred.... "(Pale and drawn, I dreamed forever in a sweet unrest Of your warm, lucent, million-pleasured breast) "Six hundred ... Now Six fifty ... Are you done?" "Seven ... A half ... Did I hear eight? ... Eight ... Eight ... Who'll make it Nine?" (Would that I could survive The horrors of a brutal world. I hate All men and women, saving one, alive.) "Nine fifty ... Going ... Sorry, sir; too late. Sold to this party for Nine sixty five." ----- Dorothy Dances This is no child that dances. This is flame. Here fire at last has found its natural frame. What else is that which burns and flies From those enkindled eyes . . . What is that inner blaze Which plays About that lighted face . . . This thing is fire set free -- Fire possesses her, or rather she Controls its mastery. With every gesture, every rhythmic stride, Beat after beat, It follows, purring at her side, Or licks the shadows of her flashing feet. Around her everywhere It coils its thread of yellow hair; Through every vein its bright blood creeps, And its red hands Caress her as she stands Or lift her boldly when she leaps. Then, as the surge of radiance grows stronger These two are two no longer And they merge Into a disembodied ecstasy; Free To express some half-forgotten hunger, Some half-forbidden urge. What mystery Has been at work until it blent One child and that fierce element? Give it no name. It is enough that flesh has danced with fame. ----- Portrait of a Child Unconscious of amused and tolerant eyes, He sits among his scattered dreams, and plays. True to no one thing long; running for praise With something less than half begun. He tries To build his blocks against the furthest skies. They fall; his soldiers tumble; but he stays And plans and struts and laughs at fresh dismays-- Too confident and busy to be wise. His toys are towns and temples; his commands Bring forth vast armies trembling at his nod. He shapes and shatters with impartial hands... And, in his crude and tireless play, I see The savage, the creator, and the god: All that man was and all he hopes to be. ----- End of the Comedy Eleven o'clock, and the curtain falls. The cold wind tears the strands of illusion; The delicate music is lost In the blare of home-going crowds And a midnight paper. The night has grown martial; It meets us with blows and disaster. Even the stars have turned shrapnel, Fixed in silent explosions. And here at our door The moonlight is laid Like a drawn sword. ----- To Albert Einstein (On his Fifty-fourth Birthday) Extend the vision! Now the skies Have fallen; now the living dead Have nothing for their faith but lies, And darkness for their daily bread. Yet cleave the heavens, as you seize On the last stretch of light! Yet race Beyond the furthest galaxies And dream to find man's home in space. Let in the stars, minute, immense! Bring to our brute, besotted ears The strains beyond the ear of sense, The unheard music of the spheres. In you and your prophetic speech, The clear voice clothed in mystery, Once more the word is made to reach More than the word can ever be. Proclaim it! -- like that other Jew Who cried our dream and its distress; Searching the skies, seeking, like you, Man's home in time and timelessness. ----- Swimmers I took the crazy short-cut to the bay; Over a fence or two and through a hedge, Jumping a private road, along the edge Of backyards full of drying wash it lay. I ran, electric with elation, Sweating, impetuous and wild For a swift plunge in the sea that smiled, Quiet and luring, half a mile away. This was the final thrill, the last sensation That capped four hours of violence and laughter: To have, with casual friends and casual jokes, Hard sport, a cold swim and fresh linen after - And now, the last set being played and over, I hurried past the ruddy lakes of clover; I swung my racket at astonished oaks, My arm still tingling from aggressive strokes. Tennis was over for the day - I took the leaping short-cut to the bay. Then the swift plunge into the cool, green dark - The windy waters rushing past me, through me; Filled with a sense of some heroic lark, Exulting in a vigor clean and roomy. Swiftly I rose to meet the feline sea That sprang upon me with a hundred claws, And grappled, pulled me down and played with me. Then, tense and breathless in the tightening pause When one wave grows into a toppling acre, I dived headlong into the foremost breaker; Pitting against a cold and turbulent strife The feverish intensity of life. Out of the foam I lurched and rode the wave, Swimming, hand over hand, against the wind; I felt the sea's vain pounding, and I grinned Knowing I was its master, not its slave. Oh, the proud total of those lusty hours - The give and take of rough and vigorous tussles With happy sinews and rejoicing muscles; The knowledge of my own miraculous powers, Feeling the force in one small body bent To curb and tame this towering element. Back on the curving beach I stood again, Facing the bath-house, when a group of men, Stumbling beneath some sort of weight, went by. I could not see the hidden thing they carried; I only heard: "He never gave a cry -" "Who's going to tell her?" - "Yes, and they just married" - "Such a good swimmer, too" - and then they passed; Leaving the silence throbbing and aghast. A moment there my buoyant heart hung slack, And then the glad, barbaric blood came back Singing a livelier tune; and in my pulse Beat the great wave that surges and exults - Why I was there and whither I must go I did not care. Enough for me to know The same unresting struggle and the glowing Beauty of spendthrift-eours, bravely showing Life, an adventure perilous and gay; And Death, a long and vivid holiday. ----- Feuerzauber I never knew the earth had so much gold--- The fields run over with it, and this hill Hoary and old, Is young with buoyant blooms that flame and thrill. Such golden fires, such yellow --- lo, how good This spendthrift world, and what a lavish God--- This fringe of wood, Blazing with buttercup and goldenrod. You too, beloved, are changed. Again I see Your face grow mystical, as on that night You turned to me, And all the trembling world---and you---were white. Aye, you are touched; your singing lips grow dumb; The fields absorb you, color you entire... And you become A goddess standing in a world of fire! ----- Faith What are we bound for? What's the yield Of all this energy and waste? Why do we spend ourselves and build With such an empty haste? Wherefore the bravery we boast? How can we spend one laughing breath When at the end all things are lost In ignorance and death? The stars have found a blazing course In a vast curve that cuts through space; Enough for us to feel that force Swinging us through the days. Enough that we have strength to sing And fight and somehow scorn the grave; That Life's too bold and bright a thing To question or to save.