Alfred Kreymborg, ed. Others for 1919. 1920.
Marjorie Allen Seiffert
Love Poems in Autumn
S
Sing to your step,
Windows beckon,
Doorways open a square embrace.
Swinging together
Behind you.
There’s a flag on my tower,
And my windows
Are orange to the night.
They are set in grey stone that frowns
At the black wind.
And a fire
Painting the grey stone gold.
My windows are black
With the hungry night peering through them.
Wind snatches the sparks,
Tongs and poker jangle together
Like the iron bones
Of a man that was hanged.
The feet of dancers
Shine with laughter,
Their hearts are vibrant as bells;
Divided, like water
Before a gleaming ship.
Their eyes
Are blind with music.
Feeling them cool as mist
Against their brows.
Find infinite golden floors
Beneath their feet.
I took Night
Into my arms,
Night lay upon my breast.
She would have brought me
Stars for my hair.
Lightly
From far away—
About my shoulders
White mist curled.
Death lies in wait
For those who do not know
What they desire,
And Hell for those who fear
What they have taken.
From stretching forth,
Brown
From the winds
Blowing upon them.
They do not tremble.
Let there be dancing figures
On our wine-flask,
Swastikas on our rug,
Inscriptions in our rings
And on our dwelling.
For our worship,
Pledge our love
With vows and holy promises.
Let it be darkly
With threatening gestures.
Thus we ignore
That we love and die
Like insects.
I shall punish your blindness
With a veil.
Gaily, word to word,
I shall weave them flauntingly
Into veil upon veil,
I shall wind them defiantly
Over my lips, over my eyes.
On my lips,
You shall not see your image
In my eyes!
That you are blind.
I would be free
From two superstitions,
Thanks and Forgiveness.
As Flame,
As Wind,
As Night,
To whom I have been
Wind,
And Flame,
And Night….
Now drowned
In separate darkness.
I am dazed and weary
From the shapelessness
Of what I am—
Among haphazard stones
In meaningless patterns.
Between rounded cobbles,
Today’s deluge sweeps me
Toward alien pavements,
To-morrow’s sun shall dry me
In a new design.
Toward the open sea!
November’s breath
Is black in the branches of trees
And under the bushes;
Harsh rain
Whips down the rustling branch
Of leaves.
In the throat of the wind,
Its teeth
Bite away beauty.
“Spring
Will come again!”