PORTRAITS

Stenographer Intellect, You are an electrical conspiracy Between the advance guards of soul and mind. Thoughts and spiritual instincts, Profound and unfanatical, Sit plotting against the enmity That seeks to wall them in separate castles... A thought and a spiritual instinct Link themselves for an instant Upon the face of this stenographer. Unknown to her mind and speech A gleam of intellect contradicts her features, And she spies the jest of her relation To the droning man beside her. This incredible news Will be doubted by poets and scientists.

Waitress Musicians and carpenters Meet upon your trays of food: Aesthetics and the flesh Play their little joke upon dogma, Urged by the rhythm of your hands. Your rouged cheeks slip unnoticed Through the sexless turmoil. The rituals are hastened Lest they become self-conscious... I stop you and remark: “The sylvan story of your hair Is damaged by your rhinestone comb. May I remove it?” Then you stare. The fact that you have been Greeted by something other than a wink Almost causes you to think. You walk away, holding an emotion That skims the lips of many adjectives. Confused, uncertain, scornful— With none of them fused together.

Shop-Girl Yellow roses in your black hair Hold the significance Of stifled mystics defying Time. Yellow roses in your black hair Can become to certain eyes The trivial details of emotion. Yellow roses in your black hair Often embarrass passing philosophers Who suddenly realize That they have been furtively snatching at color and light. Shop-girl, in the midst of your frolic, Take this portrait without surprise. Portraits are merely pretexts.

Manicurist Maudlin, hurt, morose, Tender, angry, remote, Whimsical, frigid, impatient— Compel these adjectives to become Friendly to each other And let them stumble in unison Beneath the muscular trouble of life. The careful Boss who sends them on Holds one eye of bitterness And another of sentimentality, Closing each one on different occasions. The careful Boss may be your soul, Tired manicurist, amazing The fragrant barber-shop With words of valiant prose. Ferretti, the mildly dying barber, Loves his bald head with one finger And whispers, “She’s crazy, I fire her tomorrow. When customer ask her to eat with him She laugh and tell him she no care To pay too much for indigestion. She’s crazy. I fire her tomorrow.” Ferretti does not know That souls are not entirely unconcerned With straining for effects.

Housewife Seraphic and relaxed, you take Your novel with uncertain thumbs, As one who lingers over cake And dreads the thought of final crumbs. Frown at my precious sorcery And label me an envious elf. If human beings could agree Their boredom might revenge itself. O youthful housewife, weighing grains Of joy upon your empty smile, The total of my bolder gains Is but a more impressive guile. Your serious child wins the alert And limpid art of playing tag, While your emotions rest inert Like dried fruit in a paper bag. And yet I envy both of you And wish that I could also find The mildness of your fancied view, Where feelings dance and thoughts are kind.

Woman They worship musical sound Protecting the breast of emotion. Their feelings pose as fortune-tellers And angle for coins from credulous thoughts. Shall we abandon this luxury Of mild mist and wild raptures? Your face refrains from saying yes But your closed eyes roundly Reward the luminous sentence. Greece and Asia have exchanged Problems upon your face, And the fine poise of your head Tries to catch their conversation. Few people care to use Thought as a musical instrument That brings its singing restraint to grief and joy, But we, with straight arms, will descend Daringly upon this situation. The full-blown confusion of life Will detest our intrusion.

Old Actor Any minor poet can claim That his subject resembles music. (“Her steps were notes of music.” “His presence was like a song.”) You are a long-neglected Instrument from which the player, With over-confident lips, blows only A jet of dust that falls upon The damp chagrin of his face. Moist from the futile effort He asks his listeners to admire Imaginary notes. They clap their hands, and he must retire To the slow digesting of his lie. Old actor, you have finished reciting Hamlet; Your pennies are gathered; and you depart.