Cold-Blooded Creatures

Credit: Brianshomeblog 

Man, the egregious egoist

(In mystery the twig is bent)

Imagines, by some mental twist,

That he alone is sentient

Of the intolerable load

That on all living creatures lies,

Nor stoops to pity in the toad

The speechless sorrow of his eyes.

He asks no questions of the snake,

Nor plumbs the phosphorescent gloom

Where lidless fishes, broad awake,

Swim staring at a nightmare doom.

~ Elinor Morton Wylie

Cold-Blooded Creatures

Credit: Brianshomeblog 

Man, the egregious egoist

(In mystery the twig is bent)

Imagines, by some mental twist,

That he alone is sentient

Of the intolerable load

That on all living creatures lies,

Nor stoops to pity in the toad

The speechless sorrow of his eyes.

He asks no questions of the snake,

Nor plumbs the phosphorescent gloom

Where lidless fishes, broad awake,

Swim staring at a nightmare doom.

~ Elinor Morton Wylie

Pretty Words

Poets make pets of pretty, docile words:

I love smooth words, like gold-enamelled fish

Which circle slowly with a silken swish,

And tender ones, like downy-feathered birds:

Words shy and dappled, deep-eyed deer in herds,

Come to my hand, and playful if I wish,

Or purring softly at a silver dish,

Blue Persian kittens fed on cream and curds.

I love bright words, words up and singing early;

Words that are luminous in the dark, and sing;

Warm lazy words, white cattle under trees;

I love words opalescent, cool, and pearly,

Like midsummer moths, and honied words like bees,

Gilded and sticky, with a little sting.

~ Elinor Morton Wylie

Pretty Words

Poets make pets of pretty, docile words:

I love smooth words, like gold-enamelled fish

Which circle slowly with a silken swish,

And tender ones, like downy-feathered birds:

Words shy and dappled, deep-eyed deer in herds,

Come to my hand, and playful if I wish,

Or purring softly at a silver dish,

Blue Persian kittens fed on cream and curds.

I love bright words, words up and singing early;

Words that are luminous in the dark, and sing;

Warm lazy words, white cattle under trees;

I love words opalescent, cool, and pearly,

Like midsummer moths, and honied words like bees,

Gilded and sticky, with a little sting.

~ Elinor Morton Wylie

Quarrel

Source: Favim

Let us quarrel for these reasons:

You detest the salt which seasons

My speech . . . and all my lights go out

In the cold poison of your doubt.

I love Shelley . . . you love Keats

Something parts and something meets.

I love salads . . . you love chops;

Something goes and something stops.

Something hides its face and cries;

Something shivers; something dies.

I love blue ribbons brought from fairs;

You love sitting splitting hairs.

I love truth, and so do you . . .

Tell me, is it truly true?

~ Elinor Morton Wylie

Quarrel

Source: Favim

Let us quarrel for these reasons:

You detest the salt which seasons

My speech . . . and all my lights go out

In the cold poison of your doubt.

I love Shelley . . . you love Keats

Something parts and something meets.

I love salads . . . you love chops;

Something goes and something stops.

Something hides its face and cries;

Something shivers; something dies.

I love blue ribbons brought from fairs;

You love sitting splitting hairs.

I love truth, and so do you . . .

Tell me, is it truly true?

~ Elinor Morton Wylie

A Proud Lady

Source: Favim

Hate in the world's hand

Can carve and set its seal

Like the strong blast of sand

Which cuts into steel.

I have seen how the finger of hate

Can mar and mould

Faces burned passionate

And frozen cold.

Sorrowful faces worn

As stone with rain,

Faces writhing with scorn

And sullen with pain.

But you have a proud face

Which the world cannot harm,

You have turned the pain to a grace

And the scorn to a charm.

You have taken the arrows and slings

Which prick and bruise

And fashioned them into wings

For the heels of your shoes.

From the world's hand which tries

To tear you apart

You have stolen the falcon's eyes

And the lion's heart.

What has it done, this world,

With hard finger-tips,

But sweetly chiseled and curled

Your inscrutable lips?

~ Elinor Morton Wylie

A Proud Lady

Source: Favim

Hate in the world's hand

Can carve and set its seal

Like the strong blast of sand

Which cuts into steel.

I have seen how the finger of hate

Can mar and mould

Faces burned passionate

And frozen cold.

Sorrowful faces worn

As stone with rain,

Faces writhing with scorn

And sullen with pain.

But you have a proud face

Which the world cannot harm,

You have turned the pain to a grace

And the scorn to a charm.

You have taken the arrows and slings

Which prick and bruise

And fashioned them into wings

For the heels of your shoes.

From the world's hand which tries

To tear you apart

You have stolen the falcon's eyes

And the lion's heart.

What has it done, this world,

With hard finger-tips,

But sweetly chiseled and curled

Your inscrutable lips?

~ Elinor Morton Wylie