The Winged Beetle

THE POET AT BAY 127 Life was, and laughter. Take the odds Offered us by the gambling gods ! I saw a painted dancing-girl Writhe, jerk, shake, snap her fingers, curl Her lips into a lecherous leer All night for sixpence and her beer. I met her eyes. We knew each other, In God’s womb sister and twin brother ! She blazed. Each belly-twitch set swinging The censers of the stars, set singing The myriad choirs of cherubim. All nature dived from sense, to swim In that past-space past-period Infinite ocean that is God. Such luck be yours ! You cannot tell The pulse that makes my forehead swell. You see me walk in clubs, not cloisters ; Eat not ambrosia, but oysters. Nor shall it all avail you, though You eat your heart for lust to know, To watch these sparks of verse I throw Cold ere they flame ! For they attest The anvil’s ring, the hammer’s zest, The white-hot rage of steel, that is My soul exulting in God’s kiss The hammer, and the anvil life. . . . . . . . . . . Go, and explain it to your wife !