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Lift up our eyes to you? no, God, we stare and stare, upon a nearer thing that greets us here, Death, violent and near.

Hilda Doolittle

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Hilda Doolittle
Sky
Greets
Eyes
Nearer
Upon
Stare
Eye
Lift
War
Lifts
Death
Staring
Thing
Near
Violent

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Ardent yet chill and formal, how I ache to tempt a chisel as a sculptor.
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Love has no charm when Love is swept to earth: you'd make a lop-winged god, frozen and contrite, of god up-darting, winged for passionate flight.
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Sing and your hell is heaven, your heaven less hell.
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Passionate grave thought, belief enhanced, ritual returned and magic.
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We are voyagers, discoverers of the not-known, the unrecorded we have no map possibly we will reach haven, heaven.
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In my garden the winds have beaten the ripe lilies in my garden, the salt has wilted the first flakes of young narcissus.
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Not God with wine, nor death, nor hate for a cry, but God with a song
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Love, why have you sought the horde of spearsmen, why the tent Achilles pitched beside the river-ford?
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I myself have seen the floating ships And nothing will ever be the same The shouts, The harrowing voices within the house. I stand apart with an army: My mind is graven with ships.
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I spit honey out of my mouth: nothing is second-best after the sweet of Eros.
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I fear no man, no woman flower does not fear bird, insect nor adder.
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There is no man can take, there is no pool can slake, ultimately I am alone ultimately I am done.
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For you are abstract, making no mistake, slurring no word in the rhythm you make, the poem, writ in the air.
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Take what the old-church found in Mithra's tomb, candle and script and bell, take what the new-church spat upon and broke and shattered.
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Light threatens, is active, is gone, so it is with a song.
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Let Love step down, open the clasped hands, forfeit the thorny crown, retrieve the garment that was whole, body and spirit one, spirit and soul.
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It is no madness to say you will fall, you great cities.
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You are wind in a stark tree, you are the stark tree unbent, you are a strung bow, you are an arrow.
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Words were her plague and words were her redemption.
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No poetic phantasy but a biological reality, a fact: I am an entity like bird, insect, plant or sea-plant cell I live I am alive.
Hilda Doolittle