Cold Joints

IN mental constipation shivering, He went into the fields, where he could sing To ease the sobbing of his plangent mind, With desolate, cracked voice, for they were kind. The sky an ashen cup of neutral air; Black specks of surly rooks whirred cawing there And sombre clots of writhing, stunted trees Stretched withered fingers, creaking traceries Of mazed arms multitudinous; their moan A memory that he was not alone. Upon the gravel path small frosted stars Glittered and bleared; the rusty railing-bars Were furred with silver lichen as the down Bristled upon a dead man’s throat; a crown Of Gothic spires through lustrous distance crept. The world and all its wedge-shaped engines slept. Disturbed, he heard the crunch of footsteps fast And looking up, he saw two men that passed. “Good-morning, Mr. Gosling.” “Oh, good-day!” “Bit nippy weather!” then strode on their way With patch-work quilted minds and bowler hats, With Sunday journal, gloves and yellow spats, Into the distance ... while the echoes bear “Bit nippy weather” drifting down the air.

UP, silver man nid-nodding by the hearth! The languid summer has trailed out her days.... For this night leave your bible, leave your path Of selfish righteousness; delay your praise Of God till He has given you a seat Amongst the flapping angels. (Fire and sleete And candle-light And Christ receive thy soul.) Well, these are facts, even if impolite— As trite and boring as the price of coal. The lyke-wake dirge comes after; now you live— Too old for fornication—that is true. But you may love the slender fleeting things, The terrible music of the slipping hours, If sordid Life has nothing else to give. In each clock-tick there is a something new— Unsatiated sweet imaginings, Pianola dreams or orchidaceous flowers! And though you shiver in a slow decay, You still have guts and marrow, though your limbs Be well-nigh licked of blood, you need not stay For ever by the fire and croon cracked hymns! The children gloze and fleech him all in vain— The taxi throbs outside. “I hope the rain Won’t spoil the fireworks.” Granpa’s left behind With baby and the adenoided nurse. The maid moves in to draw the window blind. Her lips compressed have never known a curse. Amazed, she sees frail drops are trickling down What she had ever held to be a mask. Half-pitying the old exhausted man So infantine, yet sitting all alone As in blue forest depths a mossy stone, Where toads crouch like the voice in gramophone, She brings him crumpets and a cup of tea.

“HE’S got hot lips when he plays jazz.” How trite and obvious; of course he has! Sex blossoms on the lips as well as other parts, If not, he is unworthy of an entrance to our hearts. And you invite spontaneous destruction For splitting chips which form so tiresome an obstruction To our imaginative possibilities. No half-dissembled grey tranquillities Of mental judgment! We want elephants, Tough-grained calamities, to clamber up on; To travel petulantly bump-a-bump, to sup on Champagne and slippery flesh of oysters, And conversational quips and roysters With childishly garrulous termagants. And in their company you’ll find it pays To polish up the petals of a phrase!