Words

IN long prim rows the formal words distend, Stuffed birds with loosely-fitting beaks, they glare With beady eyes pathetically vague Beneath their sober domes of dusty glass. (Pale frigid flute-voiced children promenade To suck the air into their fading lungs, Native to soot: the tortoise-shell effect Of sunsets barred by buildings smug and bare And sleek pat streets of asphalt: gamins drab Whose nightingales the Cockney sparrows are. When furry frost hangs white about the chin, These too will cough a dirge, no doubt, and die!) O words, assert yourselves! from long prim rows Trip out and weave new patterns with the clouds That preen their swan-wings spread upon the air, Then loll like tufts of lilac heavily; Lush coolness, limpid nebulousness; where The dove-tame zephyrs leap in shapely loops To fill the windy trammel of a skirt, Or must we oil you with celebral sweat? When levers, springs and cogs are oiled you’ll come Naked and unembarrassed by the moon. . . . . . . . . . The words have answered, lo, the words advance No longer blocked in patterns, dribble out In pleasant drops, with bird-quick flickers trip Into a dissonance or discord: so, Sharp darts of dappled sound to cleave the ear. Some strut, and laughing madly, stridently, These crack their wind-swift fingers, or like ants Waving antennæ, struggle bravely on Beneath their heavy burdens, one or two Twinkle, then flutter off like hueless leaves, Or dart and flash like wagtails on a pool, Some fired with sulphurous glow, and some askew Sway perilously, like a drunkard’s hat. But what are these with puckered, pointed ears That flit among the crowds like strips of tape? They seem to stumble into tragedies. “Oh, we shall twine you merry wreaths,” they say, “Gay wreaths, festoons of entrails for your brow!” Their eyes like little glasses of liqueur Glitter and frighten me: within, without, Words with hot breath hiss subtly venomous, A million droning insects in my ears, A million mottled thrushes in my mind.