T. R. Smith, comp. Poetica Erotica: Rare and Curious Amatory Verse. 1921–22.
Red Is the Color of Blood
By Conrad Aiken (1889–1973)(Part III. III.; from The Charnel Rose, 1918) RED is the color of blood, and I will seek it: | |
| I have sought it in the grass. | |
| It is the color of steep sun seen through eyelids. | |
| It is hidden under the suave flesh of women,— | |
| Flow there, quietly flows. | 5 |
| It mounts from the heart to the temples, the singing mouth— | |
| As cold sap climbs to the rose. | |
| I am confused in webs and knots of scarlet | |
| Spun from the darkness; | |
| Or shuttled from the mouths of thirsty spiders. | 10 |
| Madness for red! I devour the leaves of autumn. | |
| I tire of the green of the world. | |
| I am myself a mouth for blood … | |
| Here, in the golden haze of the late slant sun, | |
| Let us walk, with the light in our eyes, | 15 |
| To a single bench from the outset predetermined. | |
| Look: there are seagulls in these city skies, | |
| Kindled against the blue. | |
| But I do not think of the seagulls, I think of you. | |
| Your eyes, with the late sun in them, | 20 |
| Are like blue pools dazzled with yellow petals. | |
| This pale green suits them well. | |
| Here is your finger, with an emerald on it: | |
| The one I gave you. I say these things politely— | |
| But what I think beneath them, who can tell? | 25 |
| For I think of you, crumpled against a whiteness; | |
| Flayed and torn, with a dulled face. | |
| I think of you, writhing, a thing of scarlet, | |
| And myself, rising red from that embrace. | |
| November sun is sunlight poured through honey: | 30 |
| Old things, in such a light, grow subtle and fine. | |
| Bare oaks are like still fire. | |
| Talk to me: now we drink the evening’s wine. | |
| Look, how our shadows creep along the gravel!— | |
| And this way, how the gravel begins to shine! | 35 |
| This is the time of day for recollections, | |
| For sentimental regrets, oblique allusions, | |
| Rose-leaves, shrivelled in a musty jar. | |
| Scatter them to the wind! There are tempests coming. | |
| It is dark, with a windy star. | 40 |
| If human mouths were really roses, my dear,— | |
| (Why must we link things so?—) | |
| I would tear yours petal from petal with slow murder. | |
| I would pluck the stamens, the pistils, | |
| The gold and the green,— | 45 |
| Spreading the subtle sweetness that was your breath | |
| On a cold wave of death … | |
| Now let us walk back, slowly, as we came. | |
| We will light the room with candles; they may shine | |
| Like rows of yellow eyes. | 50 |
| Your hair is like spun fire, by candle-flame. | |
| You smile at me—say nothing. You are wise. | |
| For I think of you, flung down brutal darkness; | |
| Crushed and red, with pale face. | |
| I think of you, with your hair disordered and dripping, | 55 |
| And myself, rising red from that embrace. | |