the spear of the age in your side;
lost in the rages of fragrance,
lost in the rags of remorse,
lost in the waves of a sickness
that loosens the high silver nerves.
O chosen love, O frozen love
O tangle of matter and ghost.
O darling of angels, demons and saints
and the whole broken-hearted host —
Gentle this soul.
Come forth from the cloud of unknowing
and kiss the cheek of the moon;
the code of solitude broken,
why tarry confused and alone?
And leave no word of discomfort,
and leave no observer to mourn,
but climb on your tears and be silent
like the rose on its ladder of thorn.
Then lay your rose on the fire;
the fire give up to the sun;
the sun give over to splendour
in the arms of the High Holy One;
for the Holy One dreams of a letter,
dreams of a letter’s death —
oh bless the continuous stutter
of the word being made into flesh.
O chosen love, O frozen love
O tangle of matter and ghost
O darling of angels, demons and saints
and the whole broken-hearted host —
Gentle this soul,
gentle this soul.
OUR LADY OF SOLITUDE
All summer long she touched me
She gathered in my soul
From many a thorn, from many a thicket
Her fingers like a weaver’s, quick and cool
And the light came from her body
And the night went through her grace
All summer long she touched me
And I knew her, I knew her face to face
And her dress was blue and silver
And her words were few and small
She is the vessel of the whole wide world
Mistress, oh mistress of us all
Dear Lady, Queen of Solitude
I thank you with my heart
For keeping me so close to thee
While so many, oh so many stood apart
And the light came from her body
And the night went through her grace
All summer long she touched me
And I knew her, I knew her face to face
THE GYPSY WIFE
Where where where
is my gypsy wife tonight?
I’ve heard all the wild reports;
they can’t be right.
But whose head is this she’s dancing with
on the threshing floor?
Whose darkness deepens in her arms
a little more?
And where
where is my gypsy wife tonight?
The silver knives are flashing
in the tired old café.
A ghost climbs on the table
in a bridal negligee.
She says, “My body is the light,
my body is the way.”
I raise my arm against it all
and I catch the bride’s bouquet.
And where
where is my gypsy wife tonight?
Too early for the rainbow,
too early for the dove.
These are the final days:
this is the darkness, this is the flood.
And there is no man or woman
who can be touched,
but you who come between them,
you will be judged.
And where
where is my gypsy wife tonight,
where where where
is my gypsy wife tonight?
THE TRAITOR
Now the swan it floated on the English River;
the rose of high romance it opened wide;
a suntanned woman yawned me through the summer;
the judges watched us from the other side.
I told my mother, “Mother, I must leave you.
Preserve my room, but not shed a tear.
Should rumours of a shabby ending reach you,
it was half my fault and half the atmosphere.”
But the rose I sickened with a scarlet fever
and the swan I tempted with a sense of shame;
she said at last I was her finest lover,
and if she withered I would be to blame.
The judges said, “You missed it by a fraction.
Rise up and brace your troops for the attack.
The dreamers ride against the men of action,
oh see the men of action falling back.”
But I lingered on her thighs a fatal moment,
I kissed her lips as though I thirsted still.
My falsity, it stung me like a hornet;
the poison sank and it paralyzed my will.
I could not move to warn all the younger soldiers
that they had been deserted from above;
so on battlefields from here to Barcelona
I’m listed with the enemies of love.
And long ago she said, “I must be leaving,
but keep my body here to lie upon.
You can move it up and down, and when I’m sleeping,
run some wire through that rose and wind the swan.”
So daily I renew my idle duty;
I touch her here and there, I know my place;
I kiss her open mouth, I praise her beauty,
and people call me traitor to my face.
THE GUESTS
One by one the guests arrive
The guests are coming through
The open-hearted many
The broken-hearted few
And no one knows where the night is going
And no one knows why the wine is flowing
O love, I need you, I need you, I need you
I need you now
And those who dance begin to dance
And those who weep begin
Welcome, welcome, cries a voice
Let all my guests come in
And all go stumbling through that house
In lonely secrecy
Saying, Do reveal yourself
Or, Why hast thou forsaken me
All at once the torches flare
The inner door flies open
One by one they enter there
In every style of passion
And here they take their sweet repast
While house and grounds dissolve
And one by one the guests are cast
beyond the garden walls
And those who dance begin to dance
Those who weep begin
And those who earnestly are lost
Are lost and lost again
One by one the guests arrive
The guests are coming through
The broken-hearted many
The open-hearted few
And no one knows where the night is going
And no one knows why the wine is flowing
O love, I need you, I need you, I need you
I need you now
BALLAD OF THE ABSENT MARE
Say a prayer for the cowboy his mare’s run away
and he’ll walk till he finds her, his darling, his stray
But the river’s in flood and the roads are awash
and the bridges break up in the panic of loss
And there’s nothing to follow, there’s nowhere to go
She’s gone like the summer, she’s gone like the snow
And the crickets are breaking his heart with their song
as the day caves in and the night is all wrong
Did he dream, was it she who went galloping past
and bent down the fern and broke open the grass
and printed the mud with the iron and the gold
that he nailed to her feet when he was the lord
And though she goes grazing a minute away
he tracks her all night and he tracks her all day;
blind to her presence except to compare
his injury here with her punishment there
Then at home on his branch in the highest tree
a songbird
