Poems (Tree)/Moods

by Iris Tree

For works with similar titles, see Moods.

MOODS

I

ICROUCHED upon cushions and wallowed in their somnolent caresses,And—listening with dread for the moment of my own silenceRending the flimsy lace of whisperings—My gnome dances before meBehind a fan of smoke,My dwarf squats on my shouldersTweeking their moulted wings,My ape peers in the mirror of my faceMimicking my soul's gaunt gestures—My wolf bays through my moonly lonelinessBlotching the night with howlsMy laughter goes whining away on the wind,Laughs that are whipped by a soul too sick with merriment,Too satiate with humour's emptiness! . . .

II

Ah! loveliness with little pointed feetDancing across the leer of ugliness,Skimming like a gold threadThrough a necklace of vile masks—Lifting with lotus fingersThe blue arras of nightmare—Loveliness like a delicate silver flutePressed to a negro's lips—

III

Do you then wish for all those griefsWhose snarling hands you kiss,Kneeling in adoration to a dagger As saints before a cross?You who have tossed all flowers away,Coveting the drenched red peonies of bloodTheir javelin-petals wet with slaughter,—Do you then crave your own blood's offering,Your own breast's pallor pierced with knives of flame?In your ears are the pattering of the hunter's feet,Softer than death, and omens mouthed by winds of twilight,You lean across the precipice of timeCalling and cryingFor the last abyssmal passion of self-slaughter—

IV

Waiting,Like grey cloud-giants climbing the hills of HeavenCarrying vast burdens over the crags of chaos—Waiting,Like trees that hear the far-off moan of winds,Like listening trees that hug their branches round them,Their leaves whispering lividly the rumour of storms,Waiting like a vast arch of quietnessThrough which a screaming messenger shall dart—Like a dense hood of silencePierced by a sword of music—Waiting, like the deathly stillness of a poolReflecting the diver poised before he plunges. . . .

1919