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To Isobel, or How You Do Not Want to Write a Poem
Her voice broke to a sobbing whisper, and as Billy opened his great, ragged arms and caught her to him he heard that whisper again, saying, «We're glad… glad… glad you’ve come back to us.»
«And I… may… stay?"
She raised her face, glorious in its welcome.
«If you want me… still.»
James Oliver Curwood, Isobel
Everything looked drowsy and
slowed down in wind’s uproar
Dry leaves and waste papers
whirled and rolled in dusty drafts
as though a storm was not far off
A dire and portentous lull
did lurk in grey wind’s voice
Clear and grey was the light
in the grey cloudy afternoon
sweltering and wet
To see again in green waters
by a lost gaze with no hope
long walks along old roads
beneath wind-shaken leaves
To relish again kisses as long
as the longest drafts and
soft adherence of cheeks
Lost twinklings of yore
Hopes faded away
Black-written in blighted hope
on red-plastered walls and
green-painted park benches
Teen sillinesses that looked like
scraps of a wasted wisdom
Signs bestowed to leaves by her
whose words were unsmiling
unbeautified and unscented
Something’s left over—alas
drawn like sortes in olden time
When you did need it
I quenched your yearning
for just a fond embrace
I quelled your unsootheable longing
for the most sweet kiss
saddened by recollection
Lovers melt themselves in intimacy
invincible for an instant before
eversame swamps them anew
Orgasm-fleeting happiness is nothing
but illusion hiding the awful truth
of this hopeless horror and fear
Afterwards we never enjoyed rapture nor happiness
Too long and desperate were the kisses
You sighed and shivered with
no abandon and no keen stroke
Elsewhere you were
Forlorn I did love you
when bright-eyed and smiling you came
Who are you?
Life is like a deep
dim recollection
gone astray
in this horror of diguises
where living is denied
Swamp where you
slowly and unavoidably
fall and sink
It’s twilight now
Alone forlorn and lost
for unhushed kiss-longingI’m waiting
and waiting will never endbecause you will return no more
No more
Nothing here but dismal darkness
a survival that knows no love
Blank horror of disguises
devouring everything that stands
Dim and agonizing display of life untrue
where everybody is caged inside himself
«And he felt the errors of contemporary style to the point of rolling (physically, and if you look at it as mere superficial snob, ridiculously) on the floor of his temporary quarters in Giessen when my third volume displayed me trapped, fly-papered, gummed and strapped down in a jejune provincial effort to learn, mehercule, the stilted language that then passed for “good English” in the arthritic milieu that held control of the respected Birtish critical circles […].»
Ezra Pound, «Ford Madox (Hueffer) Ford; Obit»
Blue shade through wind-blended sounds