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I will be free, no lover's kiss to bind me to earth, no bliss of love to counteract actual bliss.

Hilda Doolittle

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TAGS & TOPICS

Hilda Doolittle
Kissing
Lovers
Counteract
Freedom
Bind
Free
Lover
Earth
Bliss
Love
Actual
Kiss
Solitude

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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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(Those women whom the distaff no longer claims nor spun cloth) driven made, mad, mad by Bacchus.
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For this beauty, beauty without strength, chokes out life.
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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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I fear no man, no woman flower does not fear bird, insect nor adder.
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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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Ardent yet chill and formal, how I ache to tempt a chisel as a sculptor.
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Dance until the earth dance.
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My eye-balls are glass, my limbs marble, my face fixed in its marble mask.
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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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Luminous, unfearful high-priestesses, our fervour shall banish all evil.
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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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I testify to rainbow feathers, to the span of heaven and walls of colour, the colonnades of jasper.
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Lovers may come and go, there was the memory of blood, the low call.
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The heart the heart the heart how it thrives on hate.
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The stallion and his mare, unbridled, with arrow-pattern, are worked on. the blue cloth before the door of religion and inspiration.
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Sing and your hell is heaven, your heaven less hell.
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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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Love is a garment riven in the light that rises from Parnassus, showing the night is over.
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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 . . .
Hilda Doolittle