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(Those women whom the distaff no longer claims nor spun cloth) driven made, mad, mad by Bacchus.

Hilda Doolittle

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Hilda Doolittle
Worship
Bacchus
Longer
Cloth
Women
Spun
Made
Mad
Madness
Driven
Claims
Drinking

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There's a black rose growing in your garden.
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Dance until the earth dance.
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Not God with wine, nor death, nor hate for a cry, but God with a song
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Could beauty be beaten out, O youth the cities have sent to strike at each other's strength, it is you who have kept her alight.
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Until it seems the whole city will be covered with gold pollen shaken from the bell-towers, lilies plundered with the weight of massive bees . . .
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Long hours trail in their purple and long years are lost in just this moment while our souls are near, our mouths separate.
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Pompeii has nothing to teach us, we know crack of volcanic fissure, slow flow of terrible lava, pressure on heart, lungs, the brain about to burst its brittle case (what the skull can endure!)
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The heart the heart the heart how it thrives on hate.
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Love is a garment riven in the light that rises from Parnassus, showing the night is over.
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I fear no man, no woman flower does not fear bird, insect nor adder.
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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.
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A slight wind shakes the seed-pods my thoughts are spent as the black seeds.
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Ardent yet chill and formal, how I ache to tempt a chisel as a sculptor.
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Passionate grave thought, belief enhanced, ritual returned and magic.
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The fallen hazel-nuts, Stripped late of their green sheaths, The grapes, red-purple, Their berries Dripping with wine, Pomegranates already broken, And shrunken fig, And quinces untouched, I bring thee as offering.
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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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The whole white world is ours.
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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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War wreaked on you his hideous ravishment We, we alone, Nereids inviolate, Remain to weep, with the sea-birds to chant: Corinth is lost, Corinth is desolate.
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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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