Conrad Potter Aiken(5 August 1889 - 17 August 1973 / Savannah, Georgia)
- by Conrad Potter Aiken103
While the blue noon above us arches, And the poplar sheds disconsolate leaves, Tell me again why love bewitches, And what love gives.
It is the trembling finger that traces The eyebrow's curve, the curve of the cheek? The mouth that quivers, when the hand caresses, But cannot speak?
No, not these, not in these is hidden The secret, more than in other things: Not only the touch of a hand can gladden Till the blood sings.
It is the leaf that falls between us, The bells that murmur, the shadows that move, The autumnal sunlight that fades upon us: These things are love.
It is the ‘No, let us sit here longer,' The ‘Wait till tomorrow,' the ‘Once I knew —' These trifles, said as I touch your finger, And the clock strikes two.
The world is intricate, and we are nothing. It is the complex world of grass, A twig on the path, a look of loathing, Feelings that pass —
These are the secret! And I could hate you, When, as I lean for another kiss, I see in your eyes that I do not meet you, And that love is this.
Rock meeting rock can know love better Than eyes that stare or lips that touch. All that we know in love is bitter, And it is not much.
- by Conrad Potter Aiken85
Goya drew a pig on a wall. The five-year-old hairdresser's son Saw, graved on a silver tray, The lion; and sunsets were begun.
Goya smelt the bull-fight blood. The pupil of the Carmelite Gave his hands to a goldsmith, learned To gild an aureole aright.
Goya saw the Puzzel's eyes: Sang in the street (with a guitar) And climbed the balcony; but Keats (Under the halyards) wrote ‘Bright star.'
Goya saw the Great Slut pick The chirping human puppets up, And laugh, with pendulous mountain lip, And drown them in a coffee cup;
Or squeeze their little juices out In arid hands, insensitive, To make them gibber . . . Goya went Among the catacombs to live.
He saw gross Ronyons of the air, Harelipped and goitered, raped in flight By hairless pimps, umbrella-winged: Tumult above Madrid at night.
He heard the seconds in his clock Crack like seeds, divulge, and pour Abysmal filth of Nothingness Between the pendulum and the floor:
Torrents of dead veins, rotted cells, Tonsils decayed, and fingernails: Dead hair, dead fur, dead claws, dead skin: Nostrils and lids; and cauls and veils;
And eyes that still, in death, remained (Unlidded and unlashed) aware Of the foul core, and, fouler yet, The region worm that ravins there.
Stench flowed out of the second's tick. And Goya swam with it through Space, Sweating the fetor from his limbs, And stared upon the unfeatured face
That did not see, and sheltered naught, But was, and is. The second gone, Goya returned, and drew the face; And scrawled beneath it, ‘This I have known' . . .
And drew four slatterns, in an attic, Heavy, with heads on arms, asleep: And underscribed it, ‘Let them slumber, Who, if they woke, could only weep' . . .
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