Chapter I: AM weary of salmon dawns

And of cinnamon sunsets; Silver-grey and iron-grey Of winter dusk and morn Torture me; and in the amethystine shadows Of snow, and in the mauve of curving clouds Some poison has dwelling.

Ivory on a fan of Venice, Black-pearl of a bowl of Japan, Prismatic lustres of Phoenician glass, Fawn-tinged embroideries from looms of Bagdad, The green of ancient bronze, cinereous tinge Of iron gods,-- These, and the saffron of old cerements, Violet wine, Zebra-striped onyx, Are to me like the narrow walls of home To the land-locked sailor.

I must have fire-brands! I must have leaves! I must have sea-deeps!

EMANUEL MORGAN _Opus 16_

DEATH on a cross was not the blade
In Mary's heart . . .
For the mother of man and the son of the maid
Had walked one night apart,
When his beard was not yet grown--and, afraid,
She had seen his young words dart.

Between a mother and a son,
The guillotine . . .
It falls, it falls, and one by one,
Unseeing and unseen,
They face the great sharp shining ton
That time has eaten green.

Between the shoulder and the head
The guillotine must play
And cleave with clash unmerited
The generating day . . .
Till the separated parts, not dead,
Rise and walk away.

ANNE KNISH _Opus 134_

LISTEN, my friend, That you may understand me.--

In my earliest youth I dreamed in hues volcanic. I saw each day open Like a curtain of flame. Black slaves attended My waking moments; Three ebony slaves Washed sleep from my white body. Three ebony slaves Around my ivory smoothness Folded heavy robes Of crimson and white. And as I issued forth Into the blue vault of the daylight A grey ape pranced before me And a leopard crept behind.

This was the state Of my young heritage. Scarlet as the voice of trumpets Was the pageant of my days. Can I accept now The twilight? And soon the dark, where all colors Die?

Before I die, I will hold one last revel! I will have golden cups and poppy curtains!-- And yet--

No! . . . In a black hall The black table shall spread far down before me And all the feasters garbed in black. Then, at the feast's height, I arising Shall with a gesture like the midnight Throw back my midnight robe and suddenly stand Naked, the sole white flame of the world.

EMANUEL MORGAN _Opus 63_

THE seven deathly spears of memory Setting behind a god, a golden glorious Halo of land and sea Even for you and me, Even for us . . .

The spear of Egypt, Orange, Through the sleeping lid, With all the power of the bulk of a pyramid.

The spear of Chile, Yellow, Through the thrilling cheek, With all the push of an upturned Andean peak.

The spear of Thibet, Violet, Through the eager hand, The thrust of the iron of a silent land.

The spear of the Ice-Poles, Green, Through the warm-breathing breast, The glacial east and the glacial west

The spear of Norway, Blue, Through the curved arm-pit, The cheerless sun majestic in a jagged slit.

The spear of India, Indigo, Through the holy side, A heaven-touching temple-roof down a mountain-slide.

The spear of Europe, Red, In the mouth's breath, The million-splintering scream of death . . .

Even to us, The seven-spearing sun, The sword of separation before our love is done; Even for us, A simian shape Throwing seven souls on the sea-wet cape; Even for us Who smile mouth to mouth, The full tornado from the seven-forked south; Even to us Who clasp with our knees, The scattering upheaval of the seven cold seas!

And this is as near as lovers ever come, Their words are dumb; This is as near as they have ever kissed, Their lips are ocean-mist.

Yet what avail the seven Spears of memory Against the obstinate archery Of light, the spears of heaven?

ANNE KNISH _Opus 40_