Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
The Festival of the CornMarsden Hartley
(The dance is given on the fête-day of San Domingo. The saint’s wooden image having been venerated in the church of the pueblo, the procession now emerges, carrying it into the plaza.)
D
Give him a leaf of corn in his hand;
Rub him with blue corn-juice—
His legs, his hands, his arms.
Were prancing on the front wall
Of the little mission.
The dark red boy sat upon the roof,
Waiting for the first gunshot
To strike the hammer on the bell.
With ribbons they brought together
The new brides and bridegrooms of the year.
The koshare; with cornhusks on their heads,
Cornhusks of the year that is gone;
Rabbit’s fur for girdles;
Orange corn for necklaces.
Turtle-shells, sea-shells, and ox-toes
Made music like juvenile zylophones
In the wind.
Their bodies were naked but for the breech-cloth.
Give him a leaf of corn in his hand;
Rub him with blue corn-juice—his legs,
His hands, his arms.
From the church, bearing Domingo
Under a blue calico canopy:
Priests in robes, acolytes in overalls,
Little red acolytes with bluebottle hair.
Men of the chorus were gathering.
They sang in unison, resembling old choir-boys
In the organ-loft of the mountain-tops.
Came up out of the kiva’s mouth,
Beautiful as young girls at maypole time;
Their hair combed and oiled with bear’s oil
All the way to their waists.
Jet, with the reflection
Of eagles’ eyes upon it;
Jet, with morning blisses reflected;
Black rivers of young hair, striped with rows of blue corn.
A man, a boy, a man, a boy, a man.
Long lines of wondrous dark flesh
Turning toward the ash-gold dancing-place.
The rawhide drum was muttering, as the macaw
Feathers of the ceremonial rod waved
In the summer wind.
Crimson macaw-tails, and a coyote’s skin
Were trembling to the aria of the young corn.
Of the wooden soul and the stove-pipe halo,
Gilded with store bronze.
Let him dance!
Dance, Domingo, dance!
Jesus won’t care,
For a little while.
In their ears, their red feet trod the way, coercing
The adolescent corn.
They want the young corn-breasts to fill with young milk;
They want the ear to hang heavy with orange and blue milk.
Rock the young Jesus to sleep.
Lay him down under a candle.
He’ll drowse and fall to dreams with the thud-thud
Of the beautiful red feet on an ash-gold earth.
Their kisses like the rainbow edges
Of a whirling spectroscope.
Blue prisms dangling from red bodies—
Blue corn-juice dripping, drop by drop,
Over the edge of luscious young red lips.
It is the blue corn-juice
His mother is pouring over him.
Soon—there will be ribbons of new
Marriages stretched in front of the altar rail.
The old choristers are singing
In the organ-loft of the mountain-tops.
All the valleys are in unison with the thud-thud
Of multitudinous red feet.
At the feet of Domingo of the wooden cheeks.
Dream, little Jesus-child! The sunlight from little candles helps the pagan dream. The red boy laughs your grief away—with his young luscious body. The fountain is filled with the blue juice of the corn.
Straighten my stovepipe halo once more;
Take up the posts of my calico canopy;
Carry me to the altar again—
Back to the Nottingham-lace curtains,
And the blue robes of Mary.
Stick the old pap in his mouth—
The pap with the milk that is grey.