Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock
The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Or green with yellow rings,
Or yellow with blue rings.
None of them are strange,
With socks of lace
And beaded ceintures.
People are not going
To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
Only here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
Catches tigers
In red weather.
****
The light is like a spider.
The webs of your eyes
There are filaments of your eyes
****
The Brave Man
The sun, that brave man,
Green and gloomy eyes
The good stars,
Fears of my bed,
That brave man comes up
****
A Fading of the Sun
Who can think of the sun costuming clouds
The warm antiquity of self,
If joy shall be without a book
Within as pillars of the sun,
****
The Poem That Took the Place of a Mountain
There is was, word for word,
He breathed its oxygen,
It reminded him how he had needed
How he had recomposed the pines,
For the outlook that would be right,
The exact rock where his inexactness
Where he could lie and, gazing down at the sea,
Lash's Gallery
It crawls over the water.
It crawls over the edges of the snow.
It crawls under your eyelids
And spreads its webs there-
Its two webs.
Are fastened
To the flesh and bones of you
As to rafters or grass.
On the surface of the water
And in the edges of the snow.
Comes through the boughs that lie in wait,
That brave man.
In dark forms of the grass
Run away.
Pale helms and spiky spurs,
Run away.
Fears of life and fears of death,
Run away.
From below and walks without meditation,
That brave man.
When all people are shaken
Or of night endazzled, proud,
When people awaken
And cry and cry for help?
Everyone, grows suddenly cold.
The tea is bad, bread sad.
How can the world so old be so mad
That the people die?
It lies, themselves within themselves,
If they will look
Within themselves
And cry and cry for help?
Supports of night. The tea,
The wine is good. The bread,
The meat is sweet.
And they will not die.
The poem that too the place of a mountain.
Even when the book lay turned in the dust of his table.
A place to go to in his own direction,
Shifted the rocks and picked his way among clouds,
Where he would be complete in an unexplained completion:
Would discover, at last, the view toward which they had edged,
Recognize his unique and solitary home.
Lash's Rainer Maria Rilke
I Love Dave
World of Love
