The Things

Conrad Aiken

The house in Broad Street, red brick, with nine rooms

the weedgrown graveyard with its rows of tombs

the jail from which imprisoned faces grinned

at stiff palmettos flashing in the wind

the engine-house, with engines, and a tank

in which young alligators swam and stank,

the bell-tower, of red iron, where the bell

gonged of the fires in a tone from hell

magnolia trees with whitehot torch of bud

the yellow river between banks of mud

the tall striped lighthouse like a barber’s pole

snake in the bog and locust in the hole

worn cigarette cards, of white battleships,

or flags, or chorus girls with scarlet lips,

jackstones of copper, peach tree in the yard

splashing ripe peaches on an earth baked hard

children beneath the arc-light in a romp

with Run sheep Run, and rice-birds in the swamp,

the organ-grinder’s monkey, dancing bears,

okras in baskets, Psyche on the stairs—

and then the north star nearer, and the snow

silent between the now and long ago

time like a train that roared from place to place

new crowds, new faces, for a single face

no longer then the chinaberry tree

nor the dark mockingbird to sing his glee

nor prawns nor catfish; icicles instead

and Indian-pipes, and cider in the shed

arbutus under pinewoods in the spring

and death remembered as a tropic thing

with picture postcard angels to upraise it

and trumpet vines and hummingbirds to phrase it

then wisdom come, and Shakspere’s voice far off,

to be or not, upon the teacher’s cough,

the latent heat of melting ice, the brief

hypotenuse from ecstasy to grief

amo amas, and then the cras amet,

the new-found eyes no slumber could forget,

Vivien, the affliction of the senses,

and conjugation of historic tenses

and Shakspere nearer come, and louder heard,

and the disparateness of flesh and word,

time growing swifter, and the pendulums

in shorter savage arcs that beat like drums—

hands held, relinquished, faces come and gone,

kissed and forgotten, and become but one,

old shoes worn out, and new ones bought, the gloves

soiled, and so lost in limbo, like the loves—

then Shakspere in the heart, the instant speech

parting the conscious terrors each from each—

wisdom’s dishevelment, the purpose lamed,

and purposeless the footsteps eastward aimed

the bloodstream always slower, while the clock

followed the tired heart with louder knock,

fatigue upon the eye, the tardy springs

inviting to no longer longed-for things—

the birdsong nearer now than Shakspere’s voice,

whispers of comfort—Death is near, rejoice!—

remember now the red house with nine rooms

the graveyard with its trumpetvines and tombs—

play jackstones now and let your jackstones be

the stars that make Orion’s galaxy

so to deceive yourself until you move

into that house whose tenants do not love.

514

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Heart’s Needle by W. D. Snodgrass

For Cynthia

When he would not return to fine garments and good food, to his houses and his people, Loingseachan told him, “Your father is dead.” “I’m sorry to hear it,” he said. “Your mother is dead,” said the lad. “All pity for me has gone out of the world.” “Your sister, too, is dead.” “The mild sun rests on every ditch,” he said; “a sister loves even though not loved.” “Suibhne, your daughter is dead.” “And an only daughter is the needle of the heart.” “And Suibhne, your little boy, who used to call you “Daddy”—he is dead.” “Aye,” said Suibhne, “that’s the drop that brings a man to the ground.”
He fell out of the yew tree; Loingseachan closed his arms around him and placed him in manacles.—AFTER THE MIDDLE-IRISH ROMANCE, THE MADNESS OF SUIBHNE