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A Book Of Impressions From American Life In Tales And Poems
In the fields Seeds on the air floating. In the towns Black smoke for a shroud. In my breast Understanding awake. _Mid American Chants_.
Tales are people who sit on the doorstep of the house of my mind. It is cold outside and they sit waiting. I look out at a window.
The tales have cold hands, Their hands are freezing.
A short thickly-built tale arises and threshes his arms about. His nose is red and he has two gold teeth.
There is an old female tale sitting hunched up in a cloak.
Many tales come to sit for a few moments on the doorstep and then go away. It is too cold for them outside. The street before the door of the house of my mind is filled with tales. They murmur and cry out, they are dying of cold and hunger.
I am a helpless man--my hands tremble. I should be sitting on a bench like a tailor. I should be weaving warm cloth out of the threads of thought. The tales should be clothed. They are freezing on the doorstep of the house of my mind.
I am a helpless man--my hands tremble. I feel in the darkness but cannot find the doorknob. I look out at a window. Many tales are dying in the street before the house of my mind.
THE DUMB MAN I WANT TO KNOW WHY SEEDS THE OTHER WOMAN THE EGG UNLIGHTED LAMPS SENILITY THE MAN IN THE BROWN COAT BROTHERS THE DOOR OF THE TRAP THE NEW ENGLANDER WAR MOTHERHOOD OUT OF NOWHERE INTO NOTHING THE MAN WITH THE TRUMPET
There is a story.--I cannot tell it.--I have no words. The story is almost forgotten but sometimes I remember.
The story concerns three men in a house in a street. If I could say the words I would sing the story. I would whisper it into the ears of women, of mothers. I would run through the streets saying it over and over. My tongue would be torn loose--it would rattle against my teeth.
The three men are in a room in the house. One is young and dandified. He continually laughs.
There is a second man who has a long white beard. He is consumed with doubt but occasionally his doubt leaves him and he sleeps.
A third man there is who has wicked eyes and who moves nervously about the room rubbing his hands together. The three men are waiting-- waiting.