Spectra Part 5

THEY enter with long trailing of shadowy cloth, And each with one hand praying in the air, And the softness of their garments is the grayness of a moth-- The lost and broken night-moth of despair.

And they keep a wounded distance With following bare feet, A distance Isadoran-- And the dark moons beat Their drums.

More desolate than they are Isadora stands, The blaze of the sun on her grief; The stars of a willow are in both her hands, And her heart is the shape of a leaf.

And they come to her for comfort And her black-thrown hair Is a harp of consolation Singing anthems in the air.

With the dark she wrestles, daring alone, Though their young arms would aid; Her body wreathes and brightens, never thrown, Unvanquished, unafraid . . .

Till light comes leaping On little children's feet, Comes leaping Isadoran-- And the white stars beat Their drums.

ANNE KNISH _Opus 195_

HER soul was freckled Like the bald head Of a jaundiced Jewish banker.

Her fair and featurous face Writhed like An albino boa-constrictor.

She thought she resembled the Mona Lisa.

This demonstrates the futility of thinking.

EMANUEL MORGAN _Opus 6_

IF I were only dafter I might be making hymns To the liquor of your laughter And the lacquer of your limbs.

But you turn across the table A telescope of eyes.

And it lights a Russian sable Running circles in the skies. . . .

Till I go running after, Obeying all your whims-- For the liquor of your laughter And the lacquer of your limbs.

EMANUEL MORGAN _Opus 9_

WHEN frogs' legs on a plate are brought to me As though I were divinity in France, I feel as G.o.d would feel were He to see Imperial Russians dance.

These people's thoughts and gestures and concerns Move like a Russian ballet made of eggs; A bright-smirched canvas heaven heaves and burns Above their arms and legs.

Society hops this way and that, well-taught; But while I watch, in cloudy state, I feel as G.o.d would feel if he were brought Frogs' legs on a plate.

ANNE KNISH _Opus 187_

I DO not know very much, But I know this-- That the storms of contempt that sweep over us, Ready to blast any edifice before then Rise from the fathomless maelstrom Of contempt for ourselves.

If there be a G.o.d, May he preserve me From striking with these lightnings Those whom I love.

Saying which, Zarathustra strolled on Down Fifth Avenue.

The last three lines Are symptomatic.

EMANUEL MORGAN _Opus 104_

HOW terrible to entertain a lunatic!

To keep his earnestness from coming close!

A Madagascar land-crab once Lifted blue claws at me And rattled long black eyes That would have got me Had I not been gay.

ANNE KNISH _Opus 182_

"HE'S the remnant of a suit that has been drowned; That's what decided me," said Clarice.

"And so I married him, I really wanted a merman; And this slimy quality in him Won me.

No one forbade the banns.

Ergo--will you love me?"

EMANUEL MORGAN _Opus 101_

HE not only plays One note But holds another note Away from it-- As a lover Lifts A waft of hair From loved eyes.

The piano s.h.i.+vers, When he touches it, And the leg s.h.i.+nes.

ANNE KNISH _Opus 181_

SKEPTICAL cat, Calm your eyes, and come to me.

For long ago, in some palmed forest, I too felt claws curling Within my fingers . . .

Moons wax and wane; My eyes, too, once narrowed and widened Why do you shrink back?

Come to me: let me pat you-- Come, vast-eyed one . . .

Or I will spring upon you And with steel-hook fingers Tear you limb from limb. . . .

There were twins in my cradle. . . .

EMANUEL MORGAN _Opus 78_

I AM beset by liking so many people.

What can I do but hide my face away?-- Lest, looking up in love, I see no eyes or lids In the gleaming whirl of day, Lest, reaching for the fingers of love, I know not which are they, Lest the dear-lipped mult.i.tude, Kissing me, choke me dead!--

O green eyes in the breakers, White heave unquieted, What can I do but dive again, again--again-- To hide my head!