Chapter I: WOULD not in the early morning

Start my mind on its inevitable journey Toward the East. There are white domes somewhere Under that blue enameled sky, white domes, white domes; Therefore even the cream Is safest yellow. Cream is better than lemon In tea at breakfast I think of tigers as eating lemons. Thank God this tea comes from the green grocer, Not from Ceylon.

EMANUEL MORGAN _Opus 13_

O PEACOCK-FEATHER
Drawn through a death-dim hole,
With colors blurred together,
Persian pattern of a soul--

Is it enough to have belonged
To the exaltation of a bird
Round whom they thronged
Each time her high tail stirred?

. . . I loved a woman whose two eyes,
One blue, one gray,
Would block
Like cliffs my foothold in the skies . . .
She is dead, they say--
Dead as a peacock.

ANNE KNISH _Opus 126_

HIS eyes Are the resurrection. Once when beneath the moonrise They looked into mine, Grey mists held mastery between us, And I knew that his soul Had gone down into death. But tonight a golden star-dust Is pouring through space, And the mist is burned away by it. Tonight his soul awakens Out of its splendid cerements, And through his eyes the miracle Arises to the earth.

I have prayed long beside the tomb And touched the grave-cloths With living fingers. I have lain my breasts Against the granite Of the sarcophagus Where he was. Prayers for the dead I offered up And hecatombs.

Today there was a wonder in the sunrise. I knew that there were glories in the sky And new branches of willow on the earth. And my soul trembled with prophecy.

I prophesied The resurrection. Now it has come. And I lie shaken Before its tumult.

EMANUEL MORGAN _Opus 2_

HOPE Is the antelope Over the hills; Fear Is the wounded deer Bleeding in rills; Care Is the heavy bear Tearing at meat; Fun Is the mastodon Vanished complete . . .

And I am the stag with the golden horn Waiting till my day is born.

ANNE KNISH _Opus 151_

CANDLE, candle,
Flicker and flow--
I knew you once--
But it was not long ago,
it was

Last night. And you spoiled my otherwise bright evening.

EMANUEL MORGAN _Opus 62_

THREE little creatures gloomed across the floor
And stood profound in front of me,
And one was Faith, and one was Hope,
And one was Charity.

Faith looked for what it could not find,
Hope looked for what was lost,
(Love looked and looked but Love was blind),
Charity's eyes were crossed.

Then with a leap a single shape,
With beauty on its chin,
Brandished a little screaming ape . . .
And each one, like a pin,

Fell to a pattern on the rug
As flat as they could be--
And died there comfortable and snug,
Faith, Hope and Charity.

That shape, it was my shining soul
Bludgeoning every sham . . .
O little ape, be glad that I
Can be the thing I am!

ANNE KNISH _Opus 131_