Songs of armageddon and other poems / George Sylvester Viereck [electronic text]

THE BOOK OF HELEN AND MARGUERITE

"I have loved Helen of Troy and the blonde Marguerite"

DR. FAUST'S DESCENT FROM HEAVEN

I

THOUGH your womb be the mother of bliss, 0 Earth, and the mother of woes, Though your large hands be full of the strange gifts of life, the kiss, and the worm, and the rose, The thunders that break from the sky of fate, and the flash in the pan, To me they are empty, for I know all things encompassed of man. The devious desires that crouch through the brain like monsters that nest in the sea, Pass—pageants of ghosts—through the luminous eyes of one who is dear to me. The other—all pangs and delights of the visible world and its quests, Are engraved in the exquisite curve of her throat and the hieroglyphs of her breasts. One rides on the wingéd chimæra of dreams through æons purple and red, The other—like new-mown grass is the scent of her flesh in my bed. What can you give me of joy, Earth, what of bitter and sweet? I have loved Helen of Troy and the blonde Marguerite.

II

Straightforth with the Magical Seal I knocked at the musical gates Of Heaven. The angels grew pale, or swooned in the arms of their mates. "I have sounded all chords in the harp of man's life," I said, "It is I, Doctor Faust. Now give me your manna for bread." And they gave me their manna to eat, and drink, and I drank thereof, But they tasted as ashes and stale in my mouth after the kisses of love. So I spake up to God: "In your realm, O Lord, there is nothing to do For a man such as I. Let me pass. T'were different if I could be you! To play with omnipotence, curb lightnings, and summon new worlds at my will— Yet I stretch out no impious hand for your kingdom. I, too, have my fill. Though the suns be your toy, of Love's breasts have I joy, though the prayer of the saints be your meat, Have you loved Helen of Troy and the blonde Marguerite?

III

Into Inferno I stalked to the stream where sulphur and brimstone well Through lonelinesses more deep than the Florentine's Frozen Hell. I came to the nethermost place where Satan sate in splendor alone, The writhing limbs of anguished men were the pillars of his throne. His court was paved with dead men's hopes stamped like designs into mud, From thousand scarlet candles came the drip of human blood. In his eyes were all the tortures of all nights barren and fever-tossed Of all who loved and won and all who loved and lost. And I grasped the hand of the Prince of Hell: "O brother once divine, Lo, all your thorns have pierced my side and all your hells were mine. Thorns of flame that destroy, remorse, with slow but infallible feet: I have loved Helen of Troy and the blonde Marguerite.

IV

From the lesser gods to their masters, Time and Eternity, I turned—to crave the single boon that they could give to me. "I am the Pilgrim of Passion who ever must choose and grieve Between the earth-born daughters of Lilith and of Eve. For I have lost my way twixt Heaven and Hell and Earth, Give me oblivion," I said, "or grant me another birth! Grant me another encasement where the flesh shall be the soul, Where good shall be as evil and pole as antipole. Let Lilith and her sister, both back into night be thrust, Fashion Woman anew out of their astral dust. Dreams of impossible joy and impossible loveliness meet When beautiful Helen of Troy shall be one with the blonde Marguerite."

VENUS AMERICANA

Tannhaeuser speaks:

TIME'S famished mouth is choked with sands, But I, thy knight, have made no gain, Save tribulations of the hands, And fierce caresses of the brain.

Once more the Magic Mound is rent, My feet, but not for Rome, depart From hectic lusts that die unspent, The sterile orchids of thy heart.

Ten thousand years and lovers tire Even the gods. They wrought such change That the Greek wine of thy desire Has turned to absinthe, drugged and strange.

Thou art a captive of thy spleen Within thy golden House of Mirth, Borne in a shimmering limousine, Thy small feet never touch the earth.

Fear and earth-strange nerve fibres pull Thy heart-strings by an unseen wire From the fruition of love's full Delight. Thy brain alone is fire.

But though thy body's loveliness Pin man's heart like a butterfly,

I shall not sell my soul for less Than love for love, than eye for eye.

Such pleasure as Prince Paris had To whom thy pulses sang out sweet, And many a brown Sicilian lad— The ungirt loin, the sun-kissed feet!

My love's too dear a thing, I ween, To thrill an empty mood of thine, Drowned like that pearl the dusky queen Dissolved in dark Egyptian wine.

Neurotic Venus, from thy cave Come into God's air, salt and fresh, Or snatch from some Hellenic grave The splendid courage of the flesh!

LOVE IN A ZEPPELIN

BELOW us rolled the earth. We were Like clouds above the dust and din. We heard Saint Peter's violin, For Heaven's gate drew near us there: We rode upon the Zeppelin, The strong-ribbed dolphin of the air.

A magic carpet was the plain, Men crawled like ants that seemed to doze. A thousand poplars stood in rows Like soldiers marching in a lane. Your mouth, the envy of the rose, Drank in the sunshine llke champagne.

And then the glass grew bright for us With wine. Like happy boy and maid We drank to all hearts unafraid Who bravely walk the perilous Ways of the air to shame the shade Of Phaethon and Icarus.

Leander for his Love's sake hurled Himself into the deep, but I More blessed than Hero's lover, fly Above green meadows dew-bepearled, While at my side I clasp on high The fairest lady in the world.

God's lifted finger, looms a spire, And now the city's windows gleam. Our shadow races with the stream And still the ship climbs high and higher, But not so high as soars my dream, But not so swift as my desire.

My lady laughs. Oh Cruel One: All ships pay toll unto the sea, But I can build a craft for thee, That earth itself shall not outrun, And lift on wings of melody My heart's desire to the sun.

All ships pay toll unto the sea, Death sounds the last bell of delight; Like the earth earthy, and the night, Love's pleasant face at last shall be: But she who shares a poet's flight May share his immortality.

A BALLAD OF SAINT VITUS

GIRLS fidget with their fans. Scarce heard, The mummers pause. The curtain rings. Desire, like an uncouth bird, Against the playhouse flaps huge wings. The crowds, like crazy silhouettes, Reel to a tune more fierce than gay From thousand frantic cabarets— Saint Vitus stalks along Broadway.

This is the turkey trot. The Saint Spurs them.. They mimic, scared of peace, Till the last blazing billboards faint, The mad gyrations of Maurice. When from wan sleep they start, the drug Still whips their blood. Thus night and day, With tango, grapevine, bunny-hug, Saint Vitus trots along Broadway.

And yet—why not? Tomorrow closes The door of life and ends my rime, And where Milady pins my roses The worm will leave a trail of slime. New bacchants wheel to measures new— Who shall remember Gaby's sway? And who shall think of us, of you And me, along the mad White Way?

L'Envoi

Dear, Death the fowler spreads his net, And lovely limbs are made of clay; Our dust shall witch with vain regret If love we seize not while we may: Prince Virus stalks along Broadway!

VENGEANCE

THIS is the self-same Gilded Inn Where oft I waited wearily, But you—you had your tango tea, And love was slaughtered for a spin.

Another, in apparel gay, Holds hands now and sips mint with me, And you may dance your tango tea, Like Herod's wife, till Judgment Day!

A VAGABOND

SWEET vagabond, I hardly know Your mother's tongue, your father's name, For even as a dream you came, And even as a dream you go.

My heart shall hold your gift of love Dear, till I sleep the ground beneath, Though the white scallops of your teeth Shall be my only proof thereof.

THE LOVE SEAL

A SILVER sea beneath the stars— We paid to love his mystic rites, And from thy lips I kissed the scars Of fiercer joys and stranger nights.

What redder lips, what mouth of fate, Till Buddha noddeth near the goal, Shall, stronger still, obliterate My one night's madness from thy soul?

I brand thee through eternity, Upon thy blood I set my seal, And boy and girl and change and sea Cannot wipe out my mark or heal.

While the great life-snake sheds its coat, I must rehearse my tragic part, To kiss the love-wounds from thy throat, And burn the iron in thy—heart.

PIERROT CRUCIFIED

FROM what moon-meadow shall we cull The honey of Theocritus? Earth holds but little cheer for us, All tender blossoms dear to us Life tramples like a maddened bull. Therefore thy mouth is amorous But of some strange red dream that was, O infinitely beautiful, And infinitely piteous!

What vague progenitors affirm Through thee some perished Circe's art, And plant the deadly cankerworm In the white rose that is thy heart? Bid to the banquets of my brain By what ancestral prompter's cue Hie hooded shapes of sin and pain, With all their ghastly retinue?

What girl whose lips were sweet to hire, Bruised with what kisses that destroy, What frail, pale lad who played with fire And made of love a barren toy, What hoary grim voluptuary Who hunted pleasure as his quarry, Foredrained the cup of my desire, And spilt unpoured thy wine of joy?

Was there a dim pre-natal hour Ere spear-armed fancies sallied hence, Like priests of Baal, to deflower Thine unpolluted innocence? What goddess mad with what strange ire Fills stainless heart of maid or boy With the love-weariness of Tyre And all the secret lusts of Troy That smoulder in life's dismal pyre?

Madonna nailed unto the tree 0f some perverse fatality For sins of others long ago, Thou art my tragic Columbine, I am thy tearful Pierrot! But being human, not divine, There are two masters strong enough To make us glad, and one is Love. The other has a fetid breath...

Ah let him tarry! Choose not—Death! From my own Calvary I scanned Thy sorrow. I am love. My hand Holds the great chalice red with wine, And my young soul is seared as thine!

The self-same sword has pierced my side, With the same lusts my blood abounds, And I must love thee for thy wounds Because I too am crucified.

BETRAYAL

LIFE cheated me, and from her golden purse Drew forth the lead of promise half-fulfilled, The dice was loaded that love's own hand spilled, And every throw of friendship was a curse. And so my dreams grew ashen as a wraith, With haggard eyes my songs began to tire: Our spirit-compact, free from earth desire, Was the last pillar of my battered faith.

Then for the lifting of a lash, your hand Withdrew; you wavered weakly, and we fell; A moment's doubt may send a soul to hell, A moment's earthquake devastate a land. And deep contrition cannot now nor art Rebuild the ruined mansion of my heart.

REPENTANCE

HOT tears of anger wash my cheek like rain, Am I a slave then, whom the laws control, Abject and old, unreverenced? —My soul I sought to free from fetters, and again I hear the clanging of that prison chain That the dead years upon our lives impose, Which still to bind a thousand prophets rose, And which to break full thousand died in vain.

I have offended, yea, and suddenly Things that I thought long stifled rise in me, And though I know there be not right nor wrong, That the proud pillars of our faith must fall; Yet by my weakness grows repentance strong, With my own hands I clutch the cup of gall!

THE SCAPEGOAT

AND so you often speak of me When in his arms he holds the treasure That once was mine? What memory Stalks through your brain? What ghost of pleasure?

But must you tell him every thrill And all my nakedness uncover? Ah, you are subtle, for he will Thus be vicariously the lover

Of your red past. But can he hear The whole strange truth and never falter? And will you whisper in his ear Love's Black Mass and the secret Psalter?

We summoned from the poppied dead Hecate and the dreams that she brews. Now all these sins are on his head, As on the scapegoat of the Hebrews.

Though he win Lilith for his bride, He also wins the scarlet nightmare That plagued my soul, while free I ride Into the dawn upon my white mare.

THE CHALLENGE

"I CHALLENGE you!" you said to me The curtain parts. You enter in. A dream of pink and ivory Through the soft satin peeps your skin.

Before me, in defiance bold, Now all your little being stands. Your breasts like two small birds I hold— I feel their heart-beats with my hands.

But in your eyes there is no dread: A little animal at play You cuddle up within my bed, And simply will not go away.

Perhaps some sober Puritan Would take your tender ways amiss, I am not marble, but a man— Worlds have been battered for a kiss.

And though but now your hand and eye Upon forbidden ways have strayed, Against the damask sheet you lie More like a flower than a maid.

How white are you, how brown am I, My lily girl! My midnight rose!

How delicate against my thigh Is the indenture of your toes.

No after-savors mar your lips With memories of past delight, Save phantom lads who come on ships Of dreams to little girls at night.

A thornless rose of memory Shall be this strange night's white caress. My love with you deals tenderly, And life, I pray will do no less.

"Is this not love's way, even so?" You ask and smile triumphantly, And know not that still home you go With all your young virginity.

Scat, little kitten, nor delay, While there, as yet, is naught to rue! The city swarms with beasts of prey Who lie in wait for such as you.

Avaunt, incredible gamin! You have no right at all to be, Save in the sculptures of Rodin, Or else—in Greek mythology.

THE DREAMER

He dreams. The scented breath of June Fans his bare limbs. He softly sighs, And still more softly smiles. His eyes Through closed lids gaze into the moon.

Now the boy's arms enfold the air, His pulses quicken with delight: For through the casements of the night A dream-girl floats with burnished hair.

The gold of silken locks is spread Above him like a coverlet. His lips, now curved with passion, fret The milk-white down where lies his head.

Can maid of flesh be half so sweet? She knows no fear. She asks no gain, Nor of her roses winds a chain For Love to drag with weary feet.

And now her phantom hands caress His youth. Her kisses fall like rain. And stabs of pleasure kin to pain Perturb his rose-pink nakedness.

His breath comes fast. Desire shakes His blood. In amorous eclipse The whole world lies between the hips Of love. He moans. He swoons. He wakes.

THE DOUBLES

WHEN I consider how love works us wrong, And from delight forever trouble borrows, Then this shall be the burden of my song: Mother of Love, thou art the Mother of Sorrows!

But when I witness how the selfsame cross Borne by two hearts may make but one thereof, I must confess my logic at a loss: Mother of Sorrows, thou art the Mother of Love!

Learn this to-day, and thou hast learned enough, The fool himself will learn it on the morrow: That Sorrow is the other self of Love, And Love is but another name for Sorrow!

THE REBEL

Your far-off smile is proof that we Are strangers, Love a subtle liar: It is not you who long for me, It is not I whom you desire.

With the grim hunger of that plant Whose tendrils round its prey are thrown, You clutch my heart: your red lips pant With a fierce purpose not your own.

Deep in your breast an alien Power Lurks for me, patient as the fates, Or as the love-mouth of the flower For the appointed pollen waits.

Like to some slimy incubus It rises from the primal main; Its horrid fangs will make of us Blind links in an unending chain.

The ancient chain of blood and tears And all men's dreams who dreamed in vain! Must we prolong through weary years The never ceasing curse of Cain?

An hundred generations toiled And loved and sweated and begot,

To cast their breads on waters soiled, And recreate the brute—for what?

The evil leer, the sullen frown, The apish jowl, the smile inane— To drag this precious burden down The long road—was it worth the pain?

And even we, what can we bring? A thousand ills are on us all, Where is the pleasure without sting, Where is the honey without gall?

Instead of gods above the strife Who dream of some transcendant goal, Shall we be instruments of life, To save the body, slave the soul?

Shall we not dare to pluck life's sweet, But smash the tablets of its rule? Must I who sate at wisdom's feet End as all men must end‐Love's Fool?

My heart, a scarlet butterfly, Through scented groves was wont to whirl. Shall I be prisoned by the sly Ways of the immemorial girl?

Shall my songs perish that an heir Live to renew the curse of old? I know not. But God damn your hair That through my fingers runs like gold! . . .

Shall I, Lord of a thousand quests, Succumb unto your blood's commands? I know not. But God damn your breasts! They are like rosebuds in my hands! . . .

Those lips, those lines, that smile, those eyes, Love's lovely traps, God damn them all! . . . O Life-Force thou art very wise, Thou art an artist. I shall fall.

THE END