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Various jangling keys
New Haven 1953. First edition of Bogardus' first book of verse. Sm.8vo., 49pp., decorated hardcover. VG in VG DJ, very light rubbing on corners, two tiny closed tears at the top edge of rear panel.
47 pages, Loose Leaf
First published January 1, 1953
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May 23, 2018
NEAR A CEMETERY POND
The snow faintly falls,
Falls faintly on the tombstone tops,
Spreading crisp streets.
Butterfly skaters, their faces burned
And caked with cold, take
Advantage of the thrilling pond
And its dead water.
And I am happy.
For what seemed years
I, finding challenges in
Blank fields,
Waded through the teeming mush
Of summer, with its indolent fans
And the high bother of
Its humming flies, sick
With consummation.
All fall long, I who warm
At histories of decay,
Waited for the fight
The frost brought on.
And now I have glided
On hearts too chilled to break.
Skaters, your world
Flakes,
And I laugh with lust
To see your spills.
I am a man of winter--
I sympathize and do not care.
I make your freezing into fuel,
Leaping on your pain.
This is my manna,
T0 thrive on dearth and death,
My husky soul
Admits my crime,
I love the waste white wintertime.
FOR THE LEFT HAND ALONE
And so an old popular song
Puts up a simple moan.
Once, when a lover tried too long
To tower with his Own,
Their candle love
would for the throng
Of level life atone.
And though, like Babel, that was wrong,
This base behest of bone,
With you away, is a game too strong,
That like the deadening drone
Accompaniment of that old song
Is silly played alone.
The snow faintly falls,
Falls faintly on the tombstone tops,
Spreading crisp streets.
Butterfly skaters, their faces burned
And caked with cold, take
Advantage of the thrilling pond
And its dead water.
And I am happy.
For what seemed years
I, finding challenges in
Blank fields,
Waded through the teeming mush
Of summer, with its indolent fans
And the high bother of
Its humming flies, sick
With consummation.
All fall long, I who warm
At histories of decay,
Waited for the fight
The frost brought on.
And now I have glided
On hearts too chilled to break.
Skaters, your world
Flakes,
And I laugh with lust
To see your spills.
I am a man of winter--
I sympathize and do not care.
I make your freezing into fuel,
Leaping on your pain.
This is my manna,
T0 thrive on dearth and death,
My husky soul
Admits my crime,
I love the waste white wintertime.
FOR THE LEFT HAND ALONE
And so an old popular song
Puts up a simple moan.
Once, when a lover tried too long
To tower with his Own,
Their candle love
would for the throng
Of level life atone.
And though, like Babel, that was wrong,
This base behest of bone,
With you away, is a game too strong,
That like the deadening drone
Accompaniment of that old song
Is silly played alone.
Displaying 1 of 1 review