Poems[3]
Reading edition
Poems[3]
JEANNE D’ORGE
The Cup
My body is no more clay But rapture—touched and golden: The Cup—the Cup From which my lover drinks And drinking makes immortal.
The Stranger
(Eleven years)
Oh you spoil everything! I am glad you are only my teacher— My mother would know better: She would not make me treat my friend badly as you do; She would let me go to the Park and ride on the Merry-go-round with him; Even if he is a sailor and a stranger he is grown-up and kind: What harm can he do me? Would he beat me? Would he run away with me in his sloop? Would he murder me? You shake your head and say nothing! You have nothing to say— And now you have spoiled everything. You scared me so that when he came as he promised I edged away and hid my face and almost cried— He couldn’t understand and of course he was hurt and went away And I never shall see him again— It is all spoiled. And you spoiled it—by saying nothing—nothing— You never say anything— You never speak a true word.
The Kiss
(Fifteen years)
I shut my eyes and remember He kissed me, My playmate suddenly kissed me Again and again— Now I remember all I knew long ago.... And more. Kisses take your breath, stab to the heart with sweetest, strangest pain; Oh, you can grow faint under their sweetness— What will the Bridal night be.... A rush through terror and fire and death Into swift heaven.
The Interpreter
(Sixteen years)
I wish there were Someone Who would hear confession: Not a priest—I do not want to be told of my sins; Not a mother—I do not want to give sorrow; Not a friend—she would not know enough; Not a lover—he would be too partial; Not God—he is far away; But Someone that should be friend, lover, mother, priest, God all in one And a Stranger besides—who would not condemn nor interfere, Who when everything is said from beginning to end Would show the reason of it all And tell you to go ahead And work it out your own way.
The Sealed Package
I will make it all into a package and put a heavy seal upon it, and label it “To be destroyed unopened when I am dead.”
These nine black months. These memories that must be cut away—like a cancer from the breast but without anaesthetics to deaden the pain. Cut away altogether lest they threaten life and reputation and the honor of the family.
Here is the signature of the man who caused it all, and the letter he wrote when he knew the terrible truth.
It includes a perfunctory offer of marriage which I was too proud to accept.
It also proves that I was virgin when he seduced me and protests that had he believed in my virtue he never would have touched me.
Here is the paper from the registry office recording the birth of a male child:—mother unmarried—father’s name withheld.
Here is the receipt for money paid on the adoption of a nameless child, and the promise in my own handwriting to the woman who adopted him:—never to make any further claims upon him—a resignation of all the rights of motherhood.
The rest is misery in black and white.
A diary of stoic days and nights when even dreams were wet with tears. An account of a secret sojourn in a strange city—veiled walks in twilight streets—skulking in corners—lies—deceit—trickery—truckling to convention. The copy of a prayer from Thomas-à-Kempis, and on the opposite page a character sketch of the drunken and facetious landlady in whose house the child was born.
Seal up the package.
If I look at it too long I am likely to go blind with rage at my own weakness.
I am likely to go mad and pull down upon me the pillars of society.
I am likely to go mad and destroy the world—
Seal up the package—hide it away—
Forget—forget.
The incident is closed.
Memories
The Beauty and the Doom of that last day— No heart was in me but an empty gaping wound That reddened all the hours. We were afraid to speak: to look: to touch— At dusk within the house a dog barked wildly And at that—I heard a voice—a wizard’s voice That gave me back my heart. You spoke—and words were wands that touched and changed Passion to glory—thistles into palms You even made the silly barking of a dog Eternal in mine ears. So now the mangiest pup that howls about the world Has voice and power and magic To rend my heart in twain Or bid it rise and forth again.