Not for all the lonely winding road that leads across the hill

Into the neverness beyond. And not for all the restless thrill

Of changing skies. Only for him who knows the ceaseless urge

To go . . . go ever on, carried by tide and trade-wind’s pulsing surge,

Lured by the bright mirage of far-off places,

Forests and jungles and bleak frozen spaces,

Ready to bid love greeting or farewell

With the same light gesture. Knowing the spell

That makes the Somewhere-else the Promised Land,

Caring no whit if Sun of Surr or Samarkand

Shall bleach his bones or curious creatures of the sea

Play havoc with his flesh. Content to be

Lover of Chance with Loneliness for wife,

Faithful to faithlessness of all save life,

Ready to face that last dim misted trail

When eager eyes and pliant muscles fail,

Thinking of Death as just another place to go,

Another road to walk, another land to know.

West of the sunset stands my house,

  There . . . and east of the dawn;

North to the Arctic runs my yard;

  South to the Pole, my lawn;

Seven seas are to sail my ships

  To the ends of the earth . . . beyond;

Drifters’ gold is for me to spend

  For I am a vagabond.

Fabulous cities are mine to loot;

  Queens of the earth to wed;

Fruits of the world are mine to eat;

  The couch of a king, my bed;

All that I see is mine to keep;

  Foolish, the fancy seems

But I am rich with the wealth of Sight,

  The coin of the realm of dreams.

When I have a house . . . as I sometime may . . .

I’ll suit my fancy in every way.

I’ll fill it with things that have caught my eye

In drifting from Iceland to Molokai.

It won’t be correct or in period style

But . . . oh, I’ve thought for a long, long while

Of all the corners and all the nooks,

Of all the bookshelves and all the books,

The great big table, the deep soft chairs

And the Chinese rug at the foot of the stairs,

(it’s an old, old rug from far Chow Wan

that a Chinese princess once walked on).

  My house will stand on the side of a hill

By a slow broad river, deep and still,

With a tall lone pine on guard nearby

Where the birds can sing and the storm winds cry.

A flagstone walk with lazy curves

Will lead to the door where a Pan’s head serves

As a knocker there like a vibrant drum

To let me know that a friend has come,

And the door will squeak as I swing it wide

To welcome you to the cheer inside.

For I’ll have good friends who can sit and chat

Or simply sit, when it comes to that,

By the fireplace where the fir logs blaze

And the smoke rolls up in a weaving haze.

  I’ll want a wood-box, scarred and rough,

For leaves and bark and odorous stuff

Like resinous knots and cones and gums

To chuck on the flames when winter comes.

And I hope a cricket will stay around

For I love its creaky lonesome sound.

There are times when only a dog will do

For a friend . . . when you’re beaten, sick and blue

And the world’s all wrong, for he won’t care

If you break and cry, or grouch and swear,

For he’ll let you know as he licks your hands

That he’s downright sorry . . . and understands.

I’ll have on a bench a box inlaid

With dragon-plaques of milk-white jade

To hold my own particular brand

Of cigarettes brought from the Pharaoh’s land

With a cloisonne bowl on a lizard’s skin

To flick my cigarette ashes in.

And a squat blue jar for a certain blend

Of pipe tobacco. I’ll have to send

To a quaint old chap I chanced to meet

In his fusty shop on a London street.

  A long low shelf of teak will hold

My best-loved books in leather and gold

While magazines lie on a bowlegged stand

In a polyglot mixture close at hand.

  I’ll have on a table a rich brocade

That I think the pyxies must have made

For the dull gold thread on blues and grays

Weaves the pattern of Puck . . . the Magic Maze.

  On the mantelpiece I’ll have a place

For a little mud god with a painted face

That was given to me . . . oh, long ago

By a Philippine maid in Olongapo.

Then . . . just in range of a lazy reach . . .

A bulging bowl of Indian beech

Will brim with things that are good to munch,

Hickory nuts to crack and crunch,

Big fat raisins and sun-dried dates

And curious fruits from the Malay Straits,

Maple sugar and cookies brown

With good hard cider to wash them down,

Wine-sap apples, pick of the crop,

And ears of corn to shell and pop

With plenty of butter and lots of salt . . .

If you don’t get filled it’s not my fault.

  And there where the shadows fall I’ve planned

To have a magnificent Concert-Grand

With polished wood and ivory keys

For wild discordant rhapsodies,

For wailing minor Hindu songs,

For Chinese chants with clanging gongs,

For flippant jazz and for lullabies

And moody things that I’ll improvise

To play the long gray dusk away

And bid good-bye to another day.

Pictures . . . I think I’ll have but three;

One, in oil, of a wind-swept sea

With the flying scud and the waves whipped white . . .

(I know the chap who can paint it right)

In lapis blue and a deep jade green . . .

A great big smashing fine marine

That’ll make you feel the spray in your face.

I’ll hang it over my fireplace.

  The second picture . . . a freakish thing . . .

Is gaudy and bright as a macaw’s wing,

An impressionistic smear called “Sin,”

A nude on a striped zebra skin

By a Danish girl I knew in France.

My respectable friends will look askance

At the purple eyes and the scarlet hair,

At the pallid face and the evil stare

Of the sinister beautiful vampire face.

I shouldn’t have it about the place

But I like . . . while I loathe . . . the beastly thing

And that’s the way that one feels about sin.

The picture I love the best of all

Will hang alone on my study wall

Where the sunset’s glow and the moon’s cold gleam

Will fall on the face and make it seem

That the eyes in the picture are meeting mine,

That the lips are curved in the fine sweet line

Of that wistful, tender, provocative smile

That has stirred my heart for a wondrous while.

  It’s a sketch of the girl who loved too well

To tie me down to that bit of Hell

That a drifter knows when he finds he’s held

By the soft strong chains that passions weld.

  It was best for her and for me, I know,

That she measured my love and bade me go

For we both have our great illusion yet

Unsoiled, unspoiled by a vain regret.

  I won’t deny that it makes me sad

To know that I’ve missed what I might have had.

It’s a clean sweet memory, quite apart,

And I’ve been faithful . . . in my heart.

All these things I will have about,

Not a one could I do without;

Cedar and sandalwood chips to burn

In the tarnished bowl of a copper urn,

A paperweight of meteorite

That seared and scorched the sky one night,

A Moro kris . . . my paperknife . . .

Once slit the throat of a Rajah’s wife.

  The beams of my house will be fragrant wood

That once in a teeming jungle stood

As a proud tall tree where the leopards couched

And the parrot screamed and the black men crouched.

  The roof must have a rakish dip

To shadowy eaves where the rain can drip

In a damp, persistent tuneful way;

It’s a cheerful sound on a gloomy day.

And I want a shingle loose somewhere

To wail like a banshee in despair

When the wind is high and the storm-gods race

And I am snug by my fireplace.

  I hope a couple of birds will nest

Around the house. I’ll do my best

To make them happy, so every year

They’ll raise their brood of fledglings here.

When I have my house I will suit myself

And have what I’ll call my “Condiment Shelf”

Filled with all manner of herbs and spice,

Curry and chutney for meats and rice,

Pots and bottles of extracts rare . . .

Onions and garlic will both be there. . . .

And soyo and saffron and savory-goo

And stuff that I’ll buy from an old Hindu,

Ginger with syrup in quaint stone jars,

Almonds and figs in tinselled bars,

Astrakhan caviar, highly prized,

And citron and orange peel crystallized,

Anchovy paste and poha jam,

Basil and chili and marjoram,

Pickles and cheeses from every land

And flavors that come from Samarkand.

  And, hung with a string from a handy hook,

Will be a dog-eared, well-thumbed book

That is pasted full of recipes

From France and Spain and the Caribbees,

Roots and leaves and herbs to use

For curious soups and odd ragouts.

  I’ll have a cook that I’ll name Oh Joy,

A sleek, fat, yellow-faced China boy

Who can roast a pig or mix a drink,

(you can’t improve on a slant-eyed Chink).

On the gray-stone hearth there’ll be a mat

For a scrappy, swaggering yellow cat

With a war-scarred face from a hundred fights

With neighbors’ cats on moonlight nights.

A wise old Tom who can hold his own

And make my dogs let him alone.

  I’ll have a window-seat broad and deep

Where I can sprawl to read or sleep,

With windows placed so I can turn

And watch the sunsets blaze and burn

Beyond high peaks that scar the sky

Like bare white wolf-fangs that defy

The very gods. I’ll have a nook

For a savage idol that I took

From a ruined temple in Peru,

A demon-chaser named Mang-Chu

To guard my house by night and day

And keep all evil things away.

  Pewter and bronze and hammered brass,

Old carved wood and gleaming glass,

Candles in polychrome candlesticks

And peasant lamps in floating wicks,

Dragons in silk on a Mandarin suit

In a chest that is filled with vagabond-loot.

All of the beautiful useless things

That a vagabond’s aimless drifting brings.

. . . Then when my house is all complete

I’ll stretch me out on the window seat

With a favorite book and a cigarette

And a long cool drink that Oh Joy will get

And I’ll look about at my bachelor-nest

While the sun goes zooming down the west

And the hot gold light will fall on my face

And make me think of some heathen place

That I’ve failed to see . . . that I’ve missed someway . . .

A place that I’d planned to find some day,

And I’ll feel the lure of it drawing me.

Oh damn! I know what the end will be.

I’ll go. And my house will fall away

While the mice by night and the moths by day

Will nibble the covers off all my books

And the spiders weave in the shadowed nooks

And my dogs . . . I’ll see that they have a home

While I follow the sun, while I drift and roam

To the ends of the earth like a chip on the stream,

Like a straw on the wind, like a vagrant dream,

And the thought will strike with a swift sharp pain

That I probably never will build again

This house that I’ll have in some far day.

Well . . . it’s just a dream-house anyway.

My treasure chest is filled with gold.

        Gold . . . gold . . . gold.

Vagabond’s gold and drifter’s gold . . .

Worthless, priceless dreamer’s gold . . .

Gold of the sunset . . . gold of the dawn . . .

Gold of the shower trees on my lawn . . .

Poet’s gold and artist’s gold . . .

Gold that can not be bought or sold. . . .

                Gold.

Names! The lure in names of places

Stirring thoughts of foreign faces,

Ports and palaces and steamers.

Names are ships to carry dreamers.

              Pago-pago, Suva, Java,

              Languor, lotuses and lava,

Everything a dreamer wishes,

Buried treasure, flying fishes,

Cocoanuts and kings and corals,

Pirates, pearls and pagan morals,

Rum and reefs and Christian teaching,

Gin, and jungle parrots screeching.

              Kobe, Nikko, Yokohama,

              Views of sacred Fujiyama,

Bales of silk and bowls of lacquer,

Dragons on a sugar cracker,

Temples high on pictured mountains,

Purple gold-fish, perfume fountains,

Amber, obis, geisha dances,

Almond eyes and slanted glances.

              Places that I pray I may go,

              Rio, Terra del Fuego,

Condors soaring in the Andes,

Cloying Guatemalan candies,

Pampas grasses, pink flamingos,

Spanish girls who call us “gringos,”

Llamas, lizards, smoking craters,

Armadillos, alligators.

              Cairo, Carthage, Congo . . . CONGO!

              Names that like a savage gong go,

Paris, Venice, gay Vienna,

Cocottes’ kisses, genius, henna,

Gorgeous vicious mad Manhattan,

Misery, motors, rags and satin,

Moose and mice and sin and sago,

Yaps from Yap or Winnebago.

              Every name a ship with cargo,

              Brass from Burmah, wheat from Fargo,

Pots and prunes and precious metal

Mined on Popocatepetl,

Chests of carved and stained catalpa,

Letters from Tegucigalpa,

Linen from an Irish shanty

For a store in Ypsilanti.

              Sailing ship and ocean liner

              Bringing stuff from Asia Minor,

Ferry boat or lazy freighter,

Folks from China or Decatur,

Mozambique or Madagascar,

Slav or Serb or savage Lascar,

Barber, Berber or Brazilian

Clad in blue or bright vermilion.

              Fascinating names of places

              Stirring thoughts of foreign faces,

              Ports and palaces and steamers,

              Names are ships to carry dreamers.

      P. S. There’s a place I want to go,

            A place called Paramaribo.

            I don’t know and I don’t care

            Where it is or who lives there

            But just as sure as Fate I know

            I’ll go to Paramaribo.

Never a tide goes out to sea

But carries a bit of the heart of me

Riding the foam and the gray sea-wrack,

Caring no whit if it ne’er comes back,

Drifting over the seven seas

Driven by trade-wind, storm and breeze,

Hearing the cry of the sad sea-loon,

Floating a while in a blue lagoon,

Bleached and scorched by the tropic suns,

Spun away when the rip-tide runs,

On and over and back and forth

Up to the still white frozen north

Where a weary day is a long half year

And out of the icebergs dead men peer.

Hither and thither and on and yon,

Glamorous night and clamorous dawn,

Gaining nothing and losing less,

Loving the joy, accepting the stress,

Taking whatever the Fates may give.

God, it’s a glorious life to live.

I remember . . . how could I forget . . .

  The first faint beating of rebellious wings

Within my heart. Youngster, I had not yet

  Gone forth on high adventurings

      Beyond the pages of a book. One day

        A bronze and amber autumn afternoon

      Teasing my mind with idle dreams I lay

        Watching the sun die red, waiting the moon.

Suddenly a hoarse and vibrant cry

  Riddled the air with strong staccato might

And there across the sultry burning sky

  Soared the great cleaving “V” of geese in flight,

      Racing the winter winds. And like a spell

        Their wing-song challenged me. My eager heart

      Rose in response to follow . . . fluttered . . . fell . . .

        Baffled, reluctant after that brave start.

I made a thousand small increasing trials

  Each stronger, surer, longer than the last

Until gay spring with myriad flower-smiles

  Routed the gods of snow . . . and winter passed.

      Then when the first awaited warning call

        Drummed down the sky I spread young lusty wings

      Triumphantly in flight beyond recall

        Of faithfulness to aught save far horizons’ beckonings.

I wonder if, long centuries ago,

I was a centaur for somehow I know

That once I led my wild stampeding herd

Of milk-white mares and colts. Our hoofbeats stirred

The bronzy Grecian hillsides into dust.

My neighing challenge, strong with living lust,

Rang out, a cry half human and half brute,

Across lush meadows. From a nearby butte

A nightblack stallion answered with discordant scream

And raged to battle.

                        This I did not dream

For I can feel the thundered shock as bodies met,

Foam flecked. I sense the rancid reek of sweat,

I see flared nostrils, red distended eyes

And hear the blended dissonance of furious cries.

  I, with brute passion joined with human skill,

Reared, lunged and struck . . . struck true to kill.

With slashing hoof I ripped the swollen vein

That laced my rival’s throat. A gasp of pain,

A strong convulsive shudder, and a pulsing flood

Gushed forth to bathe me in thick crimson blood.

Then whinnying triumph, with pride-lifted head,

Back to my white submissive mares I sped.

This is the five-stringed harp, the singing lyre,

  To play the mad sweet song I improvise,

  My life, song of the senses; to devise

New harmonies and chords. I never tire

    Questioning the taunt responsive strings

      For overtones of sensuous delight,

      Blending the five, taste, touch, scent, hearing, sight,

    Hushing my breath to catch the faintest whisperings.

To feel . . . the subtleties of silk, the suave caress

  Of satin, warmth of amber, chill of jade,

  The sinister temptation of a dagger blade,

The sluggishness of lead, a body’s suppleness,

    The luxury of fur, the gauzy mesh

      Of spiderwebs, the yielding of curved lips;

      If I were blind my straying fingertips

    Would know the velvet texture of white flesh.

To hear . . . dull muffled thunder in the sky,

  The thin sweet note that bells of Chinese jade

  Give off when struck with silver. Cannonade

Of surf on coral reefs, a gull’s lone cry,

    Gongs, cymbals, zithers that wild gypsies strum,

      A muted laugh, a shrilled harsh shriek of fear;

      If I were deaf I know my heart would hear

    The challenge of a far-off beaten drum.

To see . . . ah, God, to see new skies, new lands,

  Strange cities, temples, palaces, blue seas,

  Old flags, defiant, whipping in the breeze,

Red flowers, forests standing, desert sands,

    Bazaars ablaze with color, pageantry,

      White peacocks, people, porphyry and brass,

      Clouds, crystal, ivory, ebony and glass;

    Fate, grant me this, that I may always see!

To breathe the musk of life, the strong perfume

  Of living things, trees, flowers, ripened fruit,

  The honest smell of onions, orrisroot,

The friendly scent of old familiar rooms,

    Leaves burning of an autumn afternoon,

      Mint, myrrh, magnolia, cinnamon and cloves,

      White jasmine, juniper and orange groves,

    The thousand summer fragrances of June.

To taste . . . good food, meats, sauces, gravies, spice,

  Hot chilis, syrups, honey and fresh bread,

  Crisp ham, wild game, thick steaks, rare, juicy, red,

Odd relishes that epicures devise;

    To drink light beer and dark from wooden kegs,

      White wine and red, . . . champagne if I prefer,

      Fresh milk, cold water or an old liqueur,

    But wine of wines to drink . . . Life, froth and dregs.

The poet speaks.

  That night beneath a waning moon a pallid pool

  Slumbered in lotus-burdened beauty, crystal cool.

                              Do you remember . . .

The woman answers.

  I remember that at first your lips were cool

  But warmed to the ardent flame of mine, there by the pool.

The poet speaks.

  Clusters of stars were mirrored there like jewels of light

  And pale moonflowers mocked the moon with perfumed white.

                              Do you remember . . .

The woman answers.

  I remember two hot stars blazed in your eyes.

  The fragrance of your flesh was sweeter than a flower could devise.

The poet speaks.

  All through the swooning night a lonely night-in-gale

  Sang the mad rapture of its heartbreak ’til the moon grew pale.

                              Do you remember . . .

The woman answers.

  I remember that the silent singing of my heart

  Held thrice more poignant sorrow than a bird’s song could impart.

The poet speaks.

  Dawn was a radiance, smoky mauve and drifting gold,

  Crying with beauty that the pagan gods alone behold.

                              Do you remember . . .

The woman answers.

  I remember that the dawn was gray with pain

  Ending a night I knew could never come to me again.

I am bloodbrother of all drifting things

That ride the wind and tide, or on swift wings

Cry down the pathless blackness of the nights,

Guided by restlessness and phantom lights

Of will-o’-the-wisps borne by lost frantic souls,

Futile seekers of far shifting goals.

  We see strange sights, learn curious truths,

Find lotus lands and taste the fruit that soothes

Our fretted spirits for a blissful while

In vague enchantment on an idle dreaming isle,

But leaves us craving, seeking once again

Veiled distances. We know the stabbing pain

That makes the desolation-haunting loon

Fling maniac laughter to the silent moon,

For once, god-cursed, it saw the monstrous joke

Life plays on life; its terrored reason broke

And so its mocking mirth congeals our blood.

We are the riders of the aimless flood,

Strayed human driftwood watching with wise weary eyes

The brassy tropic suns and shallow empty skies

Of chartless seas. One day is like another day,

And we unhappy, happy . . . who can say?

We know not what strange port shall be our last,

Nor care. Today we feast, tomorrow fast.

The treasure found is less to us than treasure sought,

And we most dearly treasure trifles dearly bought,

While all those tender things, love, friendship, home

That haunt the dreams of us who drift and roam

We trade for worthless star-dust which we vainly seek

In nameless valleys lost behind some mist-enshrouded peak.

Just this side of Somewhere there’s a lovely lonely island,

  A lotus-languid island in a molten opal sea,

The mountains there are jasper, jade and jasper are the mountains;

  There’s a pearl and purple palace that I’ve built for you and me.

On a beach of gold and topaz there’s a pearly purple palace;

  The halls are paved with onyx and the walls are figured brass;

There are cages filled with leopards, sullen leopards, black and tawny;

  There are parakeets and macaws perched on trees of gilt and glass.

There are canopies of moonstones, hollow moonstones filled with seed-pearls

  Where the breeze can sigh and tinkle and the moonlight filter through

To the couch where you are sleeping on a coverlet of silver

  While a night-in-gale is singing muted lullabies to you.

In the dawn I’ll come and wake you, with a song of love I’ll wake you,

  Then we’ll stroll down stairs of porphyry inlaid with malachite,

While the white fantastic peacocks spread their gauzy fans to shield us

  From the fervor and the brightness of the dawn’s hot gilding light.

In a shallow pool of turquoise where the pallid lilies slumber

  We will drift and dream in languor as the hours flow away,

Watching dragon-flies and orchids, counting idle gliding bubbles,

  Doing nothing most delightfully throughout the summer day.

I have made a boat of wishes and it’s ready for our sailing,

  The oars are teak and sandalwood, the sails are woven gold,

Across a sea of moonlight with the evening star to guide us

  We will float until the distant jasper mountains we behold.

I wrote of my house of dreams one day,

My “Vagabond’s House.” I told the way

That the rugs were laid across the floor,

I told of the walls and the panelled door,

I told of the books on a teak-wood stand,

The bits of lacquer, the Concert-Grand,

The favorite pictures on the wall,

The woven silk of a faded shawl,

The jars of spices along a shelf,

I told of the things I chose myself

To grace my house . . . those priceless things

That an hour of idle dreaming brings.

  So vividly real it sometimes seemed

That I quite forgot that I only dreamed;

That the walls were smoke, that the colors gay

Were a dear mirage that would fade away.

So I wrote as though the house were real.

The book went forth and made appeal

To some far person in some far land.

I know, for a letter came to hand. . . .

“Dear Friend,” it said, “I don’t know you,

But I am a dreamer and vagabond, too,

And the house you built of fragile stuff

Is the same as mine. If we dream enough,

If we strive and work, I truly feel

That we can make our houses real.

And if mine comes true and I build some day

A house of wood or stone or clay

In a summer land by a drowsy sea

I hope you will come and visit me

For the door will open to rooms beyond

For poet and artist and vagabond,

A cozy chair and the table set,

A book and a drink and a cigarette,

A shaded light with an orange glow . . .

All of the things we love and know.

  It may be never, it may be soon

But I hope that maybe some afternoon

I’ll hear a step on the creaking stair . . .

I’ll open the door and you’ll be there.

              Yours, a vagabond.”

Address . . .

      “A God-forgotten Spot,” South Africa.

I don’t suppose I’ll ever see

A dryad slipping from her tree

Nor hear the pulsing pipes of Pan

(although at times I think I can)

Nor see the moon-nymphs dance at night

And yet, perhaps . . . perhaps I might.

  I watch the waves break on the rocks

And, in between the thundered shocks

I think that I can almost hear

The sirens singing sweet and clear.

  Sometimes the shadows on a tree

Like dappled fauns appear to me

And once beside a blue lagoon

Beneath a witching tropic moon

I saw the flash of silver scales

(the kind that grow on mermaids’ tails)

  I don’t suppose I’ll ever see

These things that mean so much to me

But if I watch by night, by day,

You can not tell . . . perhaps I may.

A cubby-hole, dark dingy gray

  Tucked in between two little stores

    With stagnant tubs of fish about

    And bowls of Chinese sauerkraut

  And vegetables strewn on the floors

The candle-maker sits all day.

He looks as old as time itself,

  His face is but a wrinkled mask,

    Thin body, like a gargoyle bent

    Above his pools of paint, content.

  To dream in paint and wax, his task.

The dreams, as candles, line a shelf.

With tallow fat on bamboo wicks,

  With patterns from a ’broidered shawl,

    With careful brush and Chinese skill

    He works his wizardry until

  Strange flowers bloom and dragons crawl

Along fantastic candlesticks.

A sudden thick vermilion splash,

  A subtle green that has no name,

    A wavered line of antique gold,

    Cerise, celestial blue . . . behold!

  A phœnix rises from the flame

Where seven colors shriek and clash.

“Good luck, long life” is written there

  Upon each stick in letters bold.

    So in your painted candle’s glow

    Wherever you may be, you’ll know

  The curling blue-gray smoke will hold

For you a kindly Chinese prayer.

And with the smoke your thoughts will stray

  To where, between two little stores

    With stagnant tubs of fish about

    And bowls of Chinese sauerkraut

  And vegetables strewn on the floors

The candle-maker paints all day.

Eee-e-e—yih—Bong! and a

  clat-a-clat-a-clat and a Bong!

    I can hear them scraping on a cat-gut nerve. . . .

    I can hear them beating on a gong. . . .

    Like the brazen curse

    Of a bilious god. . . .

      BONG!

clat-a-clat-a-clat and a clat-a-clat-a-clat

  Like a goat-hoofed devil on the roof of my mind

  I can hear them beating with a stick. . . .

    Like a dry, hard pulse

    In a wooden vein

      clat-a-clat-a-clat

eee-yih—a-ah and an eee-yih—a-ah and a BONG!

  Like a screech of a tooth with an ache and a voice

  In a shrill falsetto like a pain . . .

    Like the scratch of a pin

    On a blistered wrist

      eee-ee-yih-a-ah!

How I know where the jewel-trees grow,

Where blossoms of rose-carnelian blow

On twisted branches of weathered gold

And pale pink petals of quartz unfold

To show white stamens tipped with pearls

While lapis-lazuli leaves in swirls

With slivers of paper-thin jade surround

Fat amber buds. The glittering ground

Is flaked with coral-petal flower snow.

In cloisonné bowls the jewel-trees grow.

In a window of Fong Inn’s store they bear

Their burden of beauty. Go see them there.

Musty, fusty, dusty smells

Gilded gods and temple bells,

Candlesticks of twisted brass,

Teak and ebony and glass.

Silks

Slinky, slithery silks . . .

That hiss and shimmer as Ah Moy stirs them;

Light from a painted lantern blurs them.

Soft whispering silks. . . .

Heavy murmurous silks . . .

Celestial blues

Rainbow hues

Many silks.

And little boxes.

Red lacquered pigskin.

Brass boxes from Thibet, studded with turquoise.

Raw turquoise and white jade.

Boxes that a blind man made,

Feeling with scarred sensitive fingers

For the design

And twisting line

Of the dragon’s tail.

Fragile ivory boxes, delicate as lace, holding kingfisher feathers, jewelry and necklaces and earrings and tiny flowers made of silver shavings and gold wire and seed-pearls.

Red, red lacquer

And black lacquer flecked with gold

And traced with the name of the Emperor.

Class beads,

Carved seeds,

Chains of Peking Liu

Twilight blue. . . .

Amber beads like globes of honeyed sunlight, warm to the touch, strung on orange silk.

White light flicked from points of silver filagree.

Many eyes.

Eyes of little porcelain dogs

Brightly inquisitive.

Eyes of dragons in silk on a Mandarin suit.

Flaming eyes. . . .

Slanted unwinking eyes of Chow Fat

Like black beads with lights behind them.

Chow Fat, the proprietor,

His face is like old leather

And his smile is kindly

And wise.

His fingers are very long . . . and pointed.

Behind Chow Fat are the eyes of Buddha,

The calm gilded eyes of Buddha.

Their tranquillity soothes unrest.

 

. . . . . .

 

Musty, fusty, dusty smells,

Gilded gods and temple bells

And the dull monotonous song

Of a brass gong.

Three Chinese shawls of silk are spread

Across a chest of lacquer red.

One shawl is black, with poison green

And jade and blue ultramarine . . .

Fantastic flowers, shrill cerise

In exquisite embroideries.

Another shawl is oyster white.

Exotic blossoms there invite

Strange butterflies to ’light and fold

Their wings of powdered Chinese gold.

The third is strange in patterned line . . .

Night-black and paper-white design,

Quite Beardsleyesque, the very same

Sin-flowers spread their leaves of flame.

These Chinese shawls of silk are spread

Across a chest of lacquer red.

My grass-house stands by the open sea

On a bit of beach that belongs to me,

And I paid . . . I don’t remember the price

Of my little acre in Paradise.

Now, a great deal more than sun-browned leaves

Of Island grass went into the weaves

And walls of my house, for all day long

As we built the house there were scraps of song

And tatters of laughter and wisps of sighs

All tangled up with the binding ties

Of love and friendliness. Wondrous things

Were used to make my house. The strings

Of my heart were the warp, my love the woof

Of woven walls and brown-thatched roof.

Oh, the Southern Cross hangs over my door

And the moon flings silver on the floor

While the surf makes thunder along the beach

And the rainbow’s end is within my reach.

The jasmine sprinkles my walls with stars

And spend-thrift sun-gold lies in bars

On the hala mat where I sprawl at ease

And feel the swift caressing breeze

That is tanged with salt from the lazy sea

Where the flying fish skim endlessly.

  By looking beyond my window ledge

I can see a long hibiscus hedge

With polka-dot pattern of red and white

Aquiver with light in the drenching light.

  The green fantastic mountains rise

In sudden swoops to the startled sides

Where white cloud-monsters puff their cheeks

And scrape their bellies across the peaks.

  Along the reef on a still dark night

A fisherman prowls with a flaring light

Of smoky orange. He peers and feels

In the coral caves for the tiger-eels

And the slimy squid. He brings to me

Crisp wet limu cooled by the sea,

And little sea-urchins full of meat

And lobsters and crabs for me to eat.

There’s a monkey-pod tree upon my lawn

Where the mynah birds, at the peep of dawn

Raise an awful row, but I don’t care.

I rather like to hear them there.

Oh, the seasons come and the seasons go,

And the kona-storms and the trade-winds blow,

While the mangoes ripen on the trees

And I smell white ginger in the breeze.

The breadfruit swings its swollen globes

Of luscious green. Like royal robes

The gorgeous bougainvillea spreads

Its scarlet and magenta reds.

All up and down the road in rows

The autumn-colored croton grows

In red and green and russet-brown.

A little stream comes rushing down

Across my yard. I dammed it so

The water hyacinths could grow.

In June the reckless shower trees

Spend all their hoarded wealth to please

My fancy with a dress of gold

While poinciana, wanton-bold

Bedecks itself with flaming red.

The pale begonia flowers shed

A pearly pinkish sort of dew

Of petals on the grass. Can you

Look through my eyes and see this land

Where beauty lives on every hand?

And would you care to use my ears

And hear the music with its tears

Beneath a joyous note? I’ll give

My heart to you so you may live

One day in Paradise. My hut

Of grass is open to you, but

I think before the day has flown

You’ll want a grass house of your own.

Oh, little grass house on the beach

Your drifting wind-blown leaves will reach

Across the world, across the years

And settle on my heart. The fears

Of losing you have made me care

To pluck a leaf from here and there

And weave them into lazy line

And keep them in this book of mine.

One-finger, two-finger, three-finger poi!

Go to a luau and eat it with joy.

Eat it with laulau and eat it with limu;

Eat it with hunks of roast pig from the imu;

Eat it with breadfruit and big sweet potatoes;

Eat it with salmon fixed up with tomatoes;

Eat it with chicken . . . it’s better with mullet

Which tickles your palate and pleases your gullet;

  Don’t use a fork . . .

  Wiggle your finger

  Deep in the poi-bowl . . .

  Lift it, don’t linger.

Give it a flip in the proper direction,

It gets in your eye if you don’t make connection.

My house in Honolulu town

Is big and cool. The roof is brown.

It once was red but now the sun

Has faded it. The vines have run

In purple splendour everywhere.

They look so fine, I do not care

To tear their gorgeous blossoms down

And paint the roof. I like it brown.

Regal tree, you flaunt your dress of scarlet

Brazenly. You royal vermilion harlot,

Shamelessly you toss your painted petals

On the breeze. Like thin corroded metals

Are your leaves. Were you less redly splendid

Your career of wantonness were ended.

Other trees for chaster colors labor.

They all think you’re not a proper neighbor.

A winding Honolulu street

Goes by my house. I hear the feet

Of seven nations passing by.

I hear their footsteps fall and try

To see the people. I am blind

And have to see them in my mind.

  I hear the soft and silken swish

  Of Chinese slippers, and I wish

  That I could see the colors gay

  The women wear. For people say

  That coats of silk and bright sateen

  With golden thread are worn. I’ve seen

  Them passing in my mind but, . . . oh,

  I want to really see them so.

Last night the clack of wooden shoe

Or sandal sounded and I knew

A Japanese was trotting past.

I heard the sound die out at last

And thought, because I’d heard before,

That on the obi that she wore

Were figures in exquisite hues . . .

Pale pink and lavenders and blues.

  I pray each day . . . I pray each night

  To God. I want . . . I want my sight!

Sometimes the hard decisive sound

Of leather heels strikes on the ground

So firm . . . so firm. I know the stride

Is that of youth. A virile pride

Vibrates in every step. His eyes

Are clean and blue, just as the skies

Are blue. I know their eager gaze

Is clear . . . not blind with murky haze.

Sometimes there comes a sound so low

I scarcely hear it . . . yet I know

That native lovers, barefoot, walk.

The whispered murmur of their talk

Drifts in. I listen and surmise

The silver moon is in their eyes.

How odd . . . if poets do not lie . . .

These lovers, too, are blind as I.

All day, all day, and through the night

I hear the people pass. I fight

To keep my soul quite free from hate.

I can not yet I cry the fate

That took my sight. Oh, If I pray

To God, and live my prayers, some day

Will He . . . if I believe . . . will He

Give back my eyes . . . my sight . . . to me?

What thin and tepid blood must flow in veins of you

who say the glamour’s gone

From all these fair far islands of the seas beneath the

Southern Cross.

  If there is not a scarlet witchery in the perfume of

  ylang-ylang . . .

  if all the lingering sweetness of white ginger blooms

  has lost its subtle thrill . . .

  if scented moonlight, vibrant with the throbbing song

  of hot native voices can not raise the rhythm of your

  heart one beat . . .

  if thrushes, singing poignant beauty in lost blue valleys

  of Manoa can not make you dream of Pan . . .

  if all the secret whisperings of palms, and sighing

  swooning croon of restless surf on beaches made for

  all the lovers in the world, are naught to you . . .

  if with white coral and fine gold sand you can not

  build the castle of your dreams . . .

if your cold flesh can still be calm beneath the silk

caresses of scent-burdened breezes . . .

if your light fancy can not climb the sky-flung curve

of that pale moonstone arch, the lunar rainbow, to

steal one jewelled star for your sweet love . . .

if one long sobbing note of steel guitar, slid from a

moaning minor to a tremulous treble sigh, can not

search out your slow-beating pulse and trip its sluggish

pulsing for one quick moment . . .

if all these things have lost their power . . . for they

are not gone . . . then romance is dead, beauty is a

hag, love is an idle tale, blood can know no sultry

fevers of desire . . .

  and glamour’s gone from Hawaii

  and from all the world . . .

  for you!

Moon-mists, like veils of sheer and tinted gauze,

  Sweep down the slopes of Tantalus at night,

  Shimmer and catch the opalescent light,

Drifting like souls of ghosts, without a pause;

Floating like filmy garments of a breeze,

  Frightened and moon-mad. Endlessly they pale

  And dim and pass. Their phantom draperies trail

Tatters of silver in the koa trees.

I walk quite slowly down Baby Street,

Babies are everywhere . . . under my feet,

Sprawled on the sidewalks, perched on the walls,

Babies in dydies, in blue overalls,

Babies in rompers of flowered cretonne,

Babies with not much of anything on,

Little brown babies in brown mamas’ laps,

Philippine babies, Koreans and Japs,

Fresh shiny babies right out of the tub,

Babies in scandalous need of a scrub,

Baby Hawaiians, the sons of a chief,

Rastus from Africa, black past belief,

Babies with yellow hair, babies with brown,

Babies with just a few patches of down,

Toddling babies on little bowed legs,

Very new babies, much balder than eggs,

Portuguese babies and Russians as well,

Babies whose ancestors no one can tell,

Toothless as turkeys, these tiny young tads,

But grinning as though they were dentifice ads.

Walk very carefully . . . make your step hesitant.

One of these babies someday may be president.

Gay little fishes with painted scales,

Gossamer fins and chiffon tails,

Spattered with jewel dust, stained with dyes,

Gems of jade and jet for eyes.

Striped with orange and smeared with blue,

Dipped in the rainbow’s every hue.

Little ones, yellow as buttercups,

Big ones, ugly as gutter-pups,

Fat ones, bloated and marked like toads,

Squatted by submarine forest roads.

Fishes gilded with guinea-gold,

Shaped like mythical beasts of old,

Some are enamelled like cloisonne,

Lacquered and penciled with colors gay.

’Broidered and traced like a Persian shawl,

Fishes that swim and fishes that crawl,

Splotched and daubed in a cubist scheme,

Some are born of a mad man’s dream.

Fishes with whiskers and fishes with horns

Just like the fabulous unicorn’s.

Colors that burn like a funeral pyre,

Colors as pale as a moonstone’s fire,

Ochre and amethyst, ultramarine,

Amber, umber and macaw green,

Fragments of fancy, living a day,

Going their curious deep-sea way.

Gay little fishes with painted scales,

Long may you wave your chiffon tails.

Lobster curry on mounds of rice . . .

If you like curry it’s mighty nice

With grated cocoanut, feathered down,

Little green onions frizzled brown,

Nuts, and the yolks of hard-boiled eggs,

Mango chutney and garlic pegs,

Anchovy paste and Bombay duck,

Bits of bacon and Hindu truck,

Minced green peppers and chow-chow, too,

And anything else that occurs to you.

Mix together . . . a heaping plate.

A dish for a blinking potentate.

Patterns of fury, etched in flame.

  A little reckless narrow street

Goes plunging down the hill to meet

The broad and stately avenue

(a thing no proper street should do.)

But does this little street repine

And moan about its swift decline

Oh, no indeed. Instead, it flaunts

A gaudy flowered dress, and taunts

The avenue below with hints

Of bougainvillea’s strident tints

And poinciana’s regal flame.

Why, with a brazen lack of shame

It wears a jade-green bracelet

Of “chain-of-love,” the bold coquette!

  The houses all along the way

Don’t quite approve of such display

For they are filled (and here’s the joke)

With very nice and proper folk.

Storm-clouds, like muffled purple thunder, pass

Blown by the kona. Mountainous they mass

Against the sky in the sultry wrath.

Leaving across the frightened sea a path

Of silence. While, with baffled fury spent

In angry billowings, they rear their heads and vent

Their rage in futile mutterings above the land;

Then silently and sullenly disband.

Oh we’re going to a luau

To a luau, to a luau

  Where we’ll dance the hula-hula

  On a beach beneath the stars,

And there’ll be a lot of singing

For the singing boys are bringing

  All their tricky ukuleles

  And their sobbing steel guitars.

  I watched a hula-dance last night

  Upon a beach of sand so white

  Its crescent reproduced the moon.

  The surf with driving crash and swoon

  Set up a rhythm in my blood.

  Kukui torches cast a flood

  Of murky orange light that played

  About the dancers as they swayed.

A-thud-a-thud . . . a beaten gourd!

Warm voices . . . native voices . . . poured

Wild cadences of old refrains

Like ti-root liquor in my veins.

  Turned back and dully in my ears

  I heard the low hypnotic heat

  Of hollow drum and smelled the sweet

Sick reek of living sacrifice

And flowers crushed and burning spice;

I knew the savage prayer and chant

Of priests. I heard the victim pant

In agony. One glimpse I had

Of postures passionate and mad.

The movements of the dance last night

Were gestures from some phallic rite

Performed a thousand years ago

Before some stone-faced god, I know.

The sea is a cloth of silver

Stirred to uneasy ripples

By the ghost-white hand of the moon.

Dim in the jewelled distance

Diamond Head crouches,

A headless sphinx

Baring her tawny breasts

To the massed clouds and the sky. . . .

Mists pass

Leaving us alone with the moon

And one brief moment of ecstasy.

I plant my flowers, row on row,

In hope that they will grow just so,

All neat and sweet, but I forget

That while the phlox and mignonette

Are used to garden ways and know

The proper way that they should grow,

These tropic blossoms will not do

The sort of thing I want them to.

  The yellow alamanda sprawls

In gold confusion on the walls

And in among its flower-suns

The little starry jasmine runs.

The bougainvillea climbs the trees

And flings its tatters on the breeze

All scarlet and magenta-red . . .

A canopy above my head.

  The multi-colored little phlox

Grow here and there among the rocks

Like gay confetti tossed about

In some moonlit midsummer’s rout.

The fragile spider-lily weaves

A cobweb lace of white. The leaves

Of croton hedges growing here

Hold autumn colors through the year.

In spring the mangoes’ varnished green

Is changed to bronze. I’ve often seen

A honey-moth with searching tongue

And whirring wings fly in among

The heavy nodding ragged heads

Of dahlias. I have several beds

Of asters, purple, pink and white.

My ginger plants are my delight.

No flower grows so sweet and clean

As wild white ginger blooms. They mean

Hawaii to me. I make a lei

Of them for friends who go away.

  The gay and festive “chain-of-love”

Flaunt leafy chains of hearts above

My garden gate. Day lilies show

Their throats of orange-gold. I know

Where pirates’ loot, the “cup-of-gold”

Grows in my garden. They unfold

The heavy petals drenched with dew

And perfume. Morning-glories blue

Swing pale day-moons in graceful lines

About the place. Moon-flower vines

Make mimic moons with scented discs

Of petal-silk. A lizard frisks

All in and out among the blooms

A gray and graceful palm-tree looms

Above the flower beds. Its fronds

Are mirrored in my lily ponds

Where water-hyacinths have grown.

  A spiny cactus stands alone

In grim unfriendly prickliness.

I did not like it, I confess,

Until a little timid vine

Of jasmine started to entwine

The gaunt unlovely plant. They look

Like figures in my fairy-book.

(the ugly Beast is quite content

with Beauty’s gentle prisonment.)

  Hibiscus hedges line my walk

With flowers. Some are white as chalk,

Or red as rouge, or pink as dawn,

Or yellow, flame, cerise or fawn.

A thousand shapes, a thousand shades.

The bees make sudden buzzing raids

Upon the orange sweetheart vine.

Against the wall I have a line

Of tall poinsettia plants. They blow

At Christmas time . . . a swaying row

Of gay fantastic jagged flowers.

On sunny days I sit for hours.

And watch the golden shower trees

Yield all their treasure to the bees.

The yellow petals strew the ground

And wax begonias grow around

A little rockery where ferns

And air-plants hang from Chinese urns.

  There are no days throughout the year

Without some sort of flowers here

In sweet profusion, uncontrolled.

If all their many names were told

You’d weary of the endless list.

No color, tint or shape is missed

In Nature’s wondrous gift to me.

I wonder if I’ve made you see

This sun-lit, moon-witched, rainbow place

Of beauty. Just a little space

Quite filled with flowers, vines and trees,

Walled in with stone, the haunt of bees

And butterflies and lunar moths.

When you are passing will you pause

Or—if you will—drop in and see

This garden that belongs to me.

Six months the long green cactus branches sprawl

  Like spiny serpents carved from opaque jade,

Gorging themselves with sunlight on the wall

  Or seeking dewy coolness in the shade.

Half of a year’s white moons yield pallid light;

  Dews of a hundred mornings keep them fresh;

Mists cool their sun-parched skin throughout the night;

  Earth with volcanic ashes feeds their flesh.

Then on some mystic night . . . who gives the hour . . .

  Down the long line a silent call is thrilled;

Ten thousand buds to moonlit glory flower;

  Then thousand star-white blooms with light are filled.

Down from the mountain peaks in phantom line

  Great bronzy Polynesian gods pass by

To drink from flower-chalices a wine

  Of white and scented moonlight of Hawaii.

Dawn with its rosy eager thirsting lips

  Hurries the sun but finds the wine-cups drained;

Finds but the dregs and, disappointed, sips

  And waits ’til six new moons have waxed and waned.

Oh, you’ll never know Hawaii ’til you’ve kissed an Island girl

  And she’s hung a ginger lei about your neck;

’Til you’ve danced the hula-hula on a beach of sand and pearl

  And have eaten opihis by the peck.

’Til you’ve hung your every garment on a big kamani tree

  And have felt the foaming surf about your knees;

’Til you’ve plunged into the breakers with a cry of pagan glee

  In a bathing suit of moonlight and a breeze.

’Til you’ve seen the lunar rainbow’s phantom arch across the blue

  And have watched the Southern Cross dip in the sea;

’Til the singing boys have stabbed your heart with music . . . thru and thru;

  ’Til you’ve raced the silver surf at Waikiki;

’Til you’ve slid down Ginger Jack . . . and every youngster knows the place;

  ’Til you’ve gorged on pig until you couldn’t think;

’Til you’ve seen the path of fury strewn with white-hot lava lace

  Where red Pele walks at Kilauea’s brink.

’Til you’ve heard the old folks yarning of the days before today;

  At a luau over bowls of fish and poi;

’Til you’ve gone aboard a steamer with intent to stay away

  And have learned the meaning of “Aloha oe.”

’Til you’ve been so blinking homesick for these Islands of the Sea

  That you simply couldn’t stand it any more

And you’ve chucked your things together . . . bought a ticket on the run

  And have headed for Hawaii’s sunny shore.

’Til you’ve felt your tonsils quiver when the tears begin to start

  As old Diamond Head looms black against the sky;

No, you’re just a malihini ’til you’ve felt down in your heart

  That your home . . . I mean your home is in Hawaii.

Will you remember when you go away

The fragrance of ginger blooms in a white lei?

Will you remember the blue of the sea

That melts into sapphires at Waikiki?

Will you remember how you used to wear

Pikoki like ivory wound in your hair?

Will you remember the moon in the trees;

The scent of gardenias borne on the breeze;

Sunsets from Tantalus, rainbows at sea;

Will you . . . I hope you will not . . . forget me?

Will you remember the shadowy beams

Of Vagabond’s House in our city of dreams?

Will you remember the tropical nights

With native boys singing? The flickering lights

Of fisherman prowling about on the reef?

Will you remember . . . the moment is brief . . .

When your ship sails away while your friends on the shore

Sing “Aloha, farewell, ’til we see you once more.”

Worthless treasures and priceless trash,

Silver that gleams in the lightning’s flash.

Gold that the sunset spills on the sky,

Gauzes and tissues in mists trailing by,

Diamonds, a necklace of dew on the grass,

Filagree silver in frost on the glass,

Lace in kiawe trees shadowing brooks,

Riches a money-blind man overlooks,

Perfumes of araby scenting a lane,

Opals that fall from the sky in the rain,

Gold in the sands of a shallow lagoon

Platinum dripping cold white from the moon,

Silk in the rose petals flung on the breeze,

Velvet in moss on the trunks of the trees,

Day-dreams and memories, moments acute

With thrice-distilled happiness. . . . vagabond’s loot.

We knew the desolation of great heights

And the contentment of deep valleys;

We saw the moon leap silver from the mountain peaks

And watched the red sun die in a welter of mists on the horizon;

We knew the white swift decline of vast snow-fields

And the small beauty of forest flowers;

Our dreams rose with the smoke of our camp fires in the wilderness

And our friendship glowed with the embers of fir-fires;

We shared hunger, thirst and the great struggle toward the mountain top

As we shared peace, good food and pleasant rest of our night camps;

All these things . . . the dizziness of sudden precipices, straining muscles, weariness, exaltation, the soothing fragrance of pine trees, the chatter of mountain streams and the roar of furious rapids entered into the pattern of our friendship and made it fine.

These things we knew together. . . .

And these things we will remember.

Somewhere white peacocks dream on pedestals of twisted brass

  Or spread their pale fantastic fans beneath the perfumed ylang-ylang;

Somewhere slim maidens in their gilded garments pass

  Strumming the yalvi . . . chanting to its slow barbaric twang.

Some of us drift to these shores on the trade-winds;

  Drift here and linger. The days slip along,

Autumn and summer, the spring and the winter

  Pass like the uncounted notes of a song.

Some of our hearts find their roots here and blossom.

  Harder each day to depart if one lingers,

Hours and days and the months and the seasons

  Trickle like water and sand through our fingers.

Someday when Death with sudden callous hands

  Strikes from my grasp the vibrant gift of life,

Shatters the crystal, stills my hot demands

  For songs of color and the surge of strife,

    Chills the warm blood and numbs this flesh of mine,

      Stifles the laugh that answers death with mirth;

    Withers the lips that drink love’s rouge-red wine,

      Blurs the quick senses, renders all to earth,

Then you who are my friend take what remains

  When searing flames have had their cruel way

And go to that high place where summer rains

  And moonmists drift and lunar-rainbows play,

    There with a few gay ghosts of memories,

      Shadows of joys we knew, bid quick farewell

    And scatter my futile ashes on the breeze

      To float to Heaven or to drift to Hell

For this will be a restless dust of mine

  Seeking the places that I loved and knew,

Haunting the beaches golden wavered line,

  Searching the glades where ginger blossoms grew,

    Wandering down the trade-wind’s vagrant way,

      Riding the surf’s onrushing jade-green crest,

    ’Til on a future blessed lazy day

      My tired spirit finds gray dreamless rest.

They failed, those man-made wings! Then down the graying sky

A living meteor fell with cruel speed. A cry

Part fear but greater part farewell to all dear things

Joined with the screaming of wind-tortured wings;

Farewell to clouds and clean high places of the blue;

Farewell to sunlight, gallant daring flight. He knew

The hurt of treachery when trusted pinions turned

To futile webs of tattered gauze. He learned

In those swift seconds all that man may hope to know

Of grandeur and of sorrow. This I feel is so

That ere death’s anæsthesia blurred away

All consciousness of hope, regret, dismay,

He looked into his heart and visioned there

Only a thankfulness for answered prayer

That as crusader of the blue unconquered sky,

Having so bravely lived, so might he bravely die.

The red sun saw them rise, fearless and strong

Into the still blue sky, and all day long

The ceaseless drone of motors stirred the air,

A great defiant challenge. Clear and fair

With pageantry of banners then, the sun

Sank to the sea, reluctant to be done

With that brave sight. It paved a path with gold

To guide the flyers down the west. The cold

White stars took up the vigil through the night

And watched with dazzled eyes the steady flight.

Then they unwillingly gave way. The second dawn

Flared with new splendour on the pathway drawn

Across the pathless sea. Gladly the sun

Welcomed the dauntless men . . . their victory won.

Dear frail gray Mother with your quiet hands

  Reposed in patient waiting as the days slip by;

  A tired Dresden figure stifling a sigh

To smile a gallant answer to the years’ demands.

I’ve watched relentless time make gold depart

  From your bright hair and fade your roses’ hue;

  It could not dim your brave eyes’ dauntless blue

Nor break the high fine courage of your heart.

You are my one strong faith . . . you can not fail;

  The vagabond’s one love that can not die.

  You’d leave blue Heaven if you heard my cry

To turn a guiding star-gleam on the trail.

  . . . zoom . . . zoom . . . zoom . . .

  that is the sound of the surf . . .

as the great green waves rush up the shore

with a murderous thundering ominous roar

and leave drowned dead things at my door

  . . . zoom . . . zoom . . . zoom . . .

  . . . suish . . . suish . . . shuis-s-h . . .

  that is the sound of the tow . . .

as it slips and slithers along the sands

with terrible groping formless hands

that drag at my beach-house where it stands

  . . . suish . . . suis-s-h . . . suis-s-sh . . .

  eeeie-u-u . . . eeeie-u-u- . . . eeeie-u-u- . . .

  that is the sound of the wind

it wails like a banshee adrift in space

and threatens to scatter my driftwood place,

it slashes the sand like spite in my face

  eeeie-u-u-u . . . eeeie-u-u . . . eeeie-u-u . . .

  Surf . . . tow . . . or the wind . . .

  which of the three will it be . . .

the surf . . . will it bludgeon and beat me dead . . .

or the tow drag me down to its ocean bed . . .

or the wind wail a dirge above my head . . .

  zoom . . . suis-s-h . . . eeeie-u-u. . . .

  Hollywood . . . Hollywood . . .

  Fabulous Follywood . . .

Celluloid Babylon, glorious, glamorous,

  City delirious,

  Frivolous, serious,

Goal of ambitious and vicious and clamorous.

  Here are the infamous,

  Innocent, sinfamous,

Striving, conniving to gain recognition,

  Faddists, fanatics

  And men who make batiks,

Trying and crying in mad competition.

  Millionaire movie queens,

  Milliners, Magdalenes,

Movie-bug bitten, a fatal affliction.

  Eager young extra girls,

  Sinuous sextra girls,

Fighting for fame in the flickering fiction.

  Beauties from Budapest,

  Bangor and Bucharest,

Cuties from Cairo in lovely profusion.

  Scripts and scenarios,

  Leering Lotharios,

Grease-paint and gossamer, dreams and illusion.

  Treachery, loyalty,

  Celluloid royalty,

Pickfords and Chaplins, de Milles and the Gishes,

  Stars meteoric,

  Romantic, caloric,

Peers in the kingdom of visions and wishes.

  Drama, a city full,

  Tragic and pitiful,

Bunk, junk and genius amazingly blended.

  Tawdry, tremendous,

  Absurd and stupendous,

Shoddy and cheap . . . and astoundingly splendid.

  Hollywood . . . Hollywood,

  Fabulous Follywood . . .

Target for censor, reformer and deacon.

  They say you’re a harlot,

  Your sins are as scarlet

Perhaps you’re a goddess that bears a bright beacon.

You are a silver thread across a web of mauve and rose.

A fleck of foam riding triumphant on the malestrom of emotion.

The thin tense cry of a violin to the contralto of a cello.

The cold gleam of a diamond in the fever of opals.

A fine blue vein across a hot red artery.

Shimmer of moonstones in a goblet of wine.

An arrow of ice aslant a summer pool.

Amber beads on a chain of platinum.

Cut crystal between rubies.

Frost on pomegranates.

Fire in ice.

Suppose the ice of you

Melted in the fire of you.

What would you be

Damp ashes!

You would not interest me

Probably.

Love me, Love, but love me lightly.

  Weave no silken gauze to tie me.

I acknowledge most contritely

  Vows are bonds that irk and try me.

If you find a strand enfolds me,

  Flick a careless finger through it.

Break the gossamer that holds me

  But, be sure I see you do it.

Then, because I think you flout me,

  I will take the bond you sever

And I’ll bind it close about me

  For a while . . . if not forever.

I’m glad I drank the blood-red wine,

  The crimson froth, the murky dregs,

I’m glad I drank the amber ale

  That bubbled forth from wooden kegs.

I’m glad I squandered folly’s gold

  On worthless treasure, priceless trash,

I’m glad I danced the nights away

  To frenzied cymbals’ blatant crash.

I’m glad I kissed soft painted lips,

  I’m glad I knew responsive flesh,

I’m glad I burned the vital flame

  While fire of life was in me fresh.

I’m glad I know the look of Heav’n,

  I’m glad I had a slant at Hell,

I’m glad I lived, I’m glad I loved

  Before the slow black curtain fell.

I’m glad that I can madly laugh,

  I’m glad that I don’t give a damn

To see myself . . . a tawdry thing.

  I’m glad. Oh God! Like Hell I am.

I sat throughout the long ungodly night

  Watching the moon climb blindly in the sky;

  Watching gaunt gray Regret cry wildly by;

Watching Remorse with futile Longing fight.

Tortured and mad, my thoughts made ghastly play,

  Weaving a tangled web with twisted skeins

  Of sorrow. Through my chilled and tortured veins

Flowed a slow poison, shame thinned with dismay.

Dawn, with its golden flood of cleansing light

  Brought small relief. The gray grim wraiths withdrew

  To secret hiding, only to renew

Their morbid dance with coming of the night.

Can’t you feel the happy tingle. . . .

Can’t you hear the snappy jingle

  Of the jazzy ukulele . . . it’s a cheerful sound and pert.

Can’t you hear the deeper throbbing

And the sentimental sobbing

  Of the steel guitars a-crying like a laugh that hides a hurt.

On the tables, leis of mai-le

Sweetly fragrant peeping shyly

  From the blazing red hibiscus and the mountain-green of ti

How your appetite does quicken

When you see the bowls of chicken.

  And the poi . . . oh boy . . . why some folks never like it puzzles me.

See the salty mounds of limu

And the pig hot from the imu;

  See the smoking sweet potatoes and the mullet wrapped in leaves.

Little nips of roast kukui,

Squid and luau, rich and gooey.

  That’s the thing you praise to folks away and nobody believes.

Fresh opihis there to munch on;

Little crabs to crack and crunch on;

  Shrimp and lobster, luscious wana. What comes last and what comes first.

Use your fingers . . . don’t be fussy

Though it is a trifle mussy;

  You’ll enjoy it and you’ll gorge yourself until you nearly burst.

Here’s a cup . . . don’t ask what’s in it.

Drink it down and in a minute

  You’ll be gayer than the gayest with your troubles left behind.

See those smiling kindly faces.

Well, I’ve been a lot of places

  But I’ve never found a welcome like the Honolulu kind.

There’s the moon just faintly showing

Through the torches’ orange glowing.

  Some one sing a song . . . an old song . . . not this modern whah-whah jazz.

“Imi au” that song of longing

Sets old memories to thronging.

  There’s a poignancy about it that no other love song has.

Getting late . . . a few are yawning.

In the sky a hint of dawning.

  Gone the fish and pig and luau, gone the bowls of creamy poi.

Don’t you hate to hear them starting

That one perfect song of parting

  Like a plucking on your heart-strings “ ’Til we meet, Aloha oe.”

Swift-changing curves. The gestures of her hands

Taught waves to draw white lines upon the sands.

Slim fingers, tipped like gulls’ wings bent in flight;

Dark tropic eyes, deep sky-black pools of night.

Slow fluid curves. A body young and gay . . .

A flower watched her dance and learn to sway.

From throat to wrist . . . sweet slipping wilting lines

That stole their grace from wind-waved mai-le vines.

Her dance, a mystic half-forgotten rite

Before some Polynesian god at night.

Today I passed a tiny florist shop

With hurried step . . . a fragrance made me stop

And look with sudden wistful homesick stare.

A bowl of pale gardenias beckoned there

Behind the glass. So white! So deeply green

The leaves. Auwe, how often have I seen

The hedges starred with those soft velvet flowers.

How often has their fragrance perfumed hours

Of high romance in Flappers Acre, Waikiki,

Auwe! I’m homesick as can be.

Black out of blackness. Mountains taking form.

  The sun behind gray clouds. A hint of rain.

  And colors seeping into things again.

Shy green, pale blue and yellow, thinly warm.

There’s a place in Manoa, way up in the hills,

  Where the forest comes down like an army in green;

Where the gossamer sheen of a waterfall spills

    And is flung by the breeze

    To the rocks and the trees

  And the thrushes, shy singers, are heard and not seen.

It is there that the ginger blows, fragrant and white;

  Where climbing lianas trail down from the sky;

And the ferns make a canopy, lacy and light;

    There’s a spring that is cool

    Flowing into a pool

  And a gay little brook that goes burbling by.

The shadows that fall from the leaves to the grass

  Are rags of black velvet on emerald plush

And the clouds dim the sunlight to gray as they pass

    Where the day filters through

    To the slender bamboo

  And a sly, slinky mongoose slips out of the brush.

If I look through the curtains of leaves hanging down

  I can see tiny glimmers of dazzling blue

And patches of turquoise and blotches of brown

    With spatters of yellow

    And orange and mellow;

  The sea and the sky and the roofs of the town.

It is quiet and peaceful and restful and cool;

  It’s secret, it’s mine, this lost little spot;

I go there to think and to dream by the pool

    All alone, quite, unless . . .

    I don’t blush to confess

  That it’s nicer with someone I love a whole lot.

What is the pattern and fabric of our love?

Moonlight, drawn through silver mists,

By the witchery of night-winds on Tantalus.

  Darkly velvet the shadows of koa leaves

Fall in curved delicacy, shifting and touching

Like lips that lightly touch and touch again.

Raindrops pierce the dimly shadowed lines

Like crystal beads tossed across an old and lovely tapestry.

  In swift-flowing line, clean, glinting,

Runs the red-gold thread of ecstasy

And by it the twilight mauve of sadness

Giving the rich gold a brighter gleam.

Here and there, in no arranged design,

Are rare fine jewels. . . .

Fire-opals, burning with a lambent flame.

Amethysts deeply purple as a sorrow,

Lapis, bluely restful,

And one deep sapphire

Holding in its heart a white radiance

Like that first star we saw at evening . . .

  These are our little moments of happiness.

Some day in some cold city of the north

I’ll hear the tattered fragment of a song,

“Aloha oe.” The dull gray city streets will fade.

I’ll see the lavish gold of summer’s suns

Drenching a land of joyous fadeless green;

I’ll see the luminous Hawaiian moons

Making white magic with the sea and sky;

I’ll sense the fragrance of white ginger;

I’ll see that single burning star

That leaves a silver path across the sea

At Waikiki.

In some cold city of the north I’ll hear that song

And one, not more than one pale moon will wane

Then I’ll be back.

Shadows of trade-clouds racing on the sand,

  Nights that are webs of moonlight spun with song,

Bridges of rainbows joining sky and land,

  Days that are hours . . . hours eons long.

Thundering surf in grand exalted chant,

  Suns that are guinea gold and moons of brass,

Copperous dawns and sunsets palpitant

  Pulsing with color. Kona storms that pass,

Frantic and frenzied, tarnishing the sea,

  Bellowing challenge to the surfs mad roar,

Dying in distant purple pageantry

  Leaving the land more smiling than before.

Sunlight and shadow, stars and veiling mist,

  Moody, uncertain, mingled tears and smiles.

When I’m away my heart keeps faithful tryst

  With my far, pagan, thrice-enchanted isles.

          To one hour of one night

          between the setting of a tired moon

          and the rising of a joyous sun

          I dedicate this poem.

Ah, you were lovely . . . lovely on that last mad night

With all your flesh white-gold and golden-white

Wearing a robe of moon-mist traced with shadow-leaves,

Caught with a spray of jasmine-stars whose perfume weaves

Meshes of sweet delirium.

            The moon was gone

Wearied as we with rapture ere the jealous dawn

Flung its barbaric banners on the tender sky.

Wisely we said farewell . . . bid swift good-bye

While still the glamour of the night was fresh

For how could I who’d known the glory of your flesh

Behold you primly garmented to meet the day.

Even caressing satin would have bruised away

The gossamer of romance that you wore for me.

Now you remain a dream-remembered ecstasy

Sweeter in each remembering. Sandra, I do

Give thanks to all the gods there are for that last hour of you.

Walking in beauty as we are, sun-gold, moonsilver ever in our eyes.

  Treading on flowers, breathing perfumed air,

We do forget what loveliness is ours, what treasure lies

  Quick to our hands until, all unaware

We come to a sudden corner, face the sea and clouds, a stretch of sky,

    Burning with color, drenched with glory. So,

As one, walking asleep with open eyes, wakens to a cry

  We waken to a beauty which we saw and did not know.

It’s more than just an easy word for casual good-bye;

It’s gayer than a greeting and it’s sadder than a sigh;

It has the hurting poignancy, the pathos of a sob;

It’s sweeter than a youthful heart’s exquisite joyous throb;

It’s all the tender messages that words can not convey;

It’s tears unshed, and longing for a loved one gone away;

It’s welcome to Hawaii and it’s lingering farewell;

It’s all the dear and silent things that lovers’ lips can tell;

It’s woven into flower leis and old Hawaiian songs;

It’s frailer than a spider-web and strong as leather thongs;

It’s fresh as dew on ginger blooms and older than the moon;

It’s in the little lullabys that native mothers croon;

It’s said a hundred different ways, in sadness and in joy;

Aloha means “I love you.” So, I say “Aloha oe.”