I
Each day is Biloxi's birthday party,
This whole poem is to be read aloud, with great speed, and in one breath, as it were, as though it were one word, rather than one sentence. This, over and over, till the metrical scheme is fluid in the mind, a unit. Then, of course, read very slowly.
Splendid with many a sun-kissed wonder,
Splendid with many a swimming girl.
Oh, there is melted the heart of stone,
Fantasy, rhyme, and rhapsody ring.
From street car and Ford and yellow taxi,
Argosies crowded to shrieking capacity—
With moon-struck boy and sun-struck girl.
Tourists, residents, what you please—
From the whirling south, from the whirling north,
Bees near the hive,
Or far from home,
Dreaming of love like honeycomb.
“Barney Google” is what they sing,
“Mister Shean and Mister Gallagher,”
“Black Joe,” and “Old Kentucky Home,”
“Swing Low Sweet Chariot,” “Maryland,” “Dixie,”
“Sometimes I feel like a Mourning Dove,”
“The Pullman Porters on Parade,”
Or hear, now, my “Song of Love.”
But storms come down from the soul of the Universe,
Put the long coast in imminent jeopardy,
Despoiling felicity, quenching the ecstasy,
Hide my fantastical town from me—
Where every street is a valentine,
The kind we gave to love in youth
Where the lace is deep, three layers deep,
In, and in, and in you look:—
Gossamer book!
Fairy book!
Once, when such a storm was on,
When every spiritual hope seemed gone,
I was burning the world like a bridge, behind me,
I was walking in water so no one could find me—
In the edge of the waves, where the waves meet the beach—
Forest and sea waves, both within reach,
Far from my prairie home,
Far from the old hive, far from home,
Dreaming of love like honeycomb.
Twisted winds, coming down, from Heaven knows where,
Blistered feet were mine, seaweed was my hair.
Dream sea birds flew down on fanatical wings,
Flew down through tremendous red-rainbow rimmed rings.
They were speaking of glory, speaking of death,
Were shrieking creepy, fanatical things.
Many unwritten songs of mine, long forgotten,
And dim resolves, and loves forgotten
Swept in with the driftwood and foamy flakes.
Yet I said: “I will march till glory wakes,
Yet I said: “My brain with marvelling sings
That courage and sleep, courage and sleep are the principal things,”
March on, sleep-walkers, till courage comes
With invisible drums,
March, while the sad heart breaks,
Whirl on, like a leaf, then fight again—
Sleep and courage! Sleep and courage! The fate of men!
It was there, on the proud Spanish Trail I was walking,
And I thought of Don Ivan, my Spanish ancestor,
Friend of Columbus, and Isabel's guest,
From the stormy right
Come the green sea talking;
I was walking the Old Spanish Trail toward Biloxi,
So famous for legends of Spanish chivalry!
City of feathers, balloons and confetti,
City of hearties, of birthday parties!
Oh, streets of valentines in long lines,
Great garden of mocking-bird melody,
Oh, filagree city of fogs and mystery!
Far from the old hive, far from my home,
I was dreaming of love like honeycomb.
And startling pathways, starry-white,
Were revealed by the lightning and street light,
Revealed,
Revealed by the lightning and street light.
