Gods, what a black, fierce day! The clouds were iron,
Wrenched to strange, rugged shapes; the red sun winked
Over the rough crest of the hairy wood
In angry scorn; the grey road twisted, kinked,
Like a sick serpent, seeming to environ
The trees with magic. All the wood was still --

Cracked, crannied pines bent like malicious cripples
Before the gusty wind; they seemed to nose,
Nudge, poke each other, cackling with ill mirth --
Enchantment's days were over -- sh! -- Suppose
That crouching log there, where the white light stipples
Should -- break its quiet! WAS THAT CRIMSON -- EARTH?

It smirched the ground like a lewd whisper, "Danger!" --
I hunched my cloak about me -- then, appalled,
Turned ice and fire by turns -- for -- someone stirred
The brown, dry needles sharply! Terror crawled
Along my spine, as forth there stepped -- a Stranger!
And all the pines crooned like a drowsy bird!

His stock was black. His great shoe-buckles glistened.
His fur cuffs ended in a sheen of rings.
And underneath his coat a case bulged blackly --
He swept his ****** in a rush of wings!
Then took the fiddle out, and, as I listened,
Tightened and tuned the yellowed strings, hung slackly.

Ping! Pang! The clear notes swooped and curved and darted,
Rising like gulls. Then, with a finger skinny,
He rubbed the bow with rosin, said, "Your pardon
Signor! -- Maestro Nicolo Paganini
They used to call me! Tchk! -- The cold grips *******
A poor musician's fingers!" -- His lips parted.

A tortured soul screamed suddenly and loud,
From the brown, quivering case! Then, faster, faster,
Dancing in flame-like whorls, wild, beating, screaming,
The music wailed unutterable disaster;
Heartbroken murmurs from pale lips once proud,
Dead, choking moans from hearts once nobly dreaming.

Till all resolved in anguish -- died away
Upon one minor chord, and was resumed
In anguish; fell again to a low cry,
Then rose triumphant where the white fires fumed,
Terrible, marching, trampling, reeling, gay,
Hurling mad, broken legions down to die

Through everlasting hells -- The tears were salt
Upon my fingers -- Then, I saw, behind
The fury of the player, all the trees
Crouched like violinists, boughs crooked, jerking, blind,
Sweeping mad bows to music without fault,
Grey cheeks to greyer fiddles, withered knees.

Gasping, I fled! -- but still that devilish tune
Stunned ears and brain alike -- till clouds of dust
Blotted the picture, and the noise grew dim --
Shaking, I reached the town -- and turned -- in trust --
Wind-smitten, dread, against the sky-line's rim,
Black, dragon branches whipped below a moon!

Do not touch me,
I would burst off,
Into flecks of chagrin,
And delate your propinquity.

I am rain dropped,
On the greener grass,
And there I hang slackly,
Upon its trenchant blade.

I am betrayed by vagrant clouds,
Suspended from moving sky,
My abode is forsaken,
Taken away by winds.

Do not touch me, rather
I would embrace the soil,
Seep into pores and phloem,
Meet the river and rise again.

I past beside the reverend walls
  In which of old I wore the gown;
  I roved at random thro' the town,
And saw the tumult of the halls;

And heard one more in college fanes
  The storm their high-built organs make,
  And thunder-music, rolling, shake
The prophet blazon'd on the panes;

And caught one more the distant shout,
  The measured pulse of racing oars
  Among the willows; paced the shores
And many a bridge, and all about

The same gray flats again, and felt
  The same, but not the same; and last
  Up that long walk of limes I past
To see the rooms in which he dwelt.

Another name was on the door:
  I linger'd; all within was noise
  Of songs, and clapping hands, and boys
That crash'd the glass and beat the floor;

Where once we held debate, a band
  Of youthful friends, on mind and art,
  And labour, and the changing mart,
And all the framework of the land;

When one would aim an arrow fair,
  But send it slackly from the string;
  And one would pierce an outer ring,
And one an inner, here and there;

And last the master-bowman, he,
  Would cleave the mark. A willing ear
  We lent him. Who, but hung to hear
The rapt oration flowing free

From point to point, with power and grace
  And music in the bounds of law,
  To those conclusions when we saw
The God within him light his face,

And seem to lift the form, and glow
  In azure orbits heavenly wise;
  And over those ethereal eyes
The bar of Michael Angelo.

how dose you think a day begins? its
little teeth
smally thin
(as grass between)
the throats of men?

does you think it green as blades of thinness wide
,sprouted mutely?

does you go out to fields and collect it?
in your hands do it shake and quivers?
(does you bring it up to your mouth,
and does you kiss it?
entering the thick copseness of your pallet?)

who many days you been in hurt verdant roughness of coarse forests?
(you been amongst em sleeping the hot hair is full of drowsy longness
and your muscles slackly follow into deeep chambers of distilled nuthing?

you been out back? by the glade brush and the doe mouths
are white with steep petals of lingering health?

"take itup your mouth," goes the drawn trees, drawing even deeplyer
into the quant tussle of wakeless hours where a twitch don't and not
even a cat.

)the forest goes and does you ever think how those thighs
combed with coarse wreaking of bleeding youth
tasted like copper tastes hot at your tongue climbing your whole mouth
into its neat dumbness?

(the Summers there are millions of Summers left and does you think
how

a    day


begins
?

You stand,
defiantly and alone,
like a solitary survivor of a great war.

A slave of time
and forgotten by time.
A king of empty fields
of despair and guilt.

Where’s that broken,
empty stomach calling from!
Is it calling from your dingy
and dark shanty towns!

Shanty towns with crumbling dreams.
Shanty towns with pictures of hope
hanging slackly on the walls.
Walls heaved with so many holes
from the effort to stand,
defiantly and alone.

You stare into nothingness
and there lies the riff-raff
on your street corners
and smoking God knows what!

You stare into nothingness
and there lies a myriad of beautiful
flowers lining up your street and
drinking God knows what!

And so you stand,
defiantly and alone
like a solitary survivor
of a great war.

A king of empty fields
and torn down dreams.
A king of broken fields and waste grounds.

I sensed your coming,
I knew your being,
Quite apparently,
Quite before you had arrived.

On a plain summer afternoon,
While the world outside lagged a little,
I was resting on the chair, slackly as ever,
With my fingers holding their cup of tea.
The white curtains of the window swung a little,
It swayed left to right and towards me and back,
passing a gentle breeze slightly across my eyes.
I unhitched the door and opened the gate.
The sky on the left was darker than the right.
I sensed your coming,
I knew your being,
Quite before you had arrived.

The sunlight battled to breathe,
But each time you crumpled it away.
Confused I stood,
Starring the fight between the yellow and the grey.
The dust rose high and hit my eye.
For a moment, I felt blind.
Yet, I sensed your coming,
I knew your being,
This time, in a certain way.

Drop. And another. And another,
I saw you drizzle,
Glorious and divine.
Sulkily though, I waited for you.
For I sensed your coming the ugly way.

Rightly so,
You grew big and mighty.
Wild and intense.
The windowpanes began to hit against the wall hard,
You took away the light such,
that the candle refused to glow in dark.
The trees tried hard,
to keep up still, to keep up just.
You but shattered few till last.

And yet, I grieved when you left.
In joy and in pain,
In peace and in rage,
I craved you more and didn't want at all.
You were a beautiful happening,
You were a scary venture.
On a plain summer afternoon,
You were the rain.