Elizabeth Bartlett_poems of yes and no

_Poems of Yes and No_, was originally published in 1952 by Editorial

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poems

yes and no

elizabeth bartlett

editorial jus

méxico

some of these poems have appeared in poetry chapbook,

arizona quarterly, southwest review, prairie schooner,

university of kansas city review, new york times and

mexican life magazine

yes, paul -- with all my heart

first edition

1952

number

contents

yes

search the wild wind

lesson on five fingers

journey to jerusalem

prayer for four seasons

ekstasis

challenge

while I live

odyssey

life I love

mood on a string

time is a palette

dusk I love

the lovers

whatever else may be

tropic time

stormbird

the wind and the rain

art

diary

grassflesh

the now and here

swallows return

reply to critics

step softly

I would remember

now and forever

catchtraps

beyond cost

summer and winter

suddenly

item: body found

on trial

guadalajara

pilgrimage

washday in the tropics

only this

maturity

alter ego

this much I know about time

in the wake of sleep

cold wakening

weather forecast

measured interval

black sun

log for a voyage

notes for the future

yes yes yes yes yes

search the wild wind

when the foals of spring leap by

leave the summer colts behind

nose up, head high

stretch the hill's ribs

when the stable gates are wide

lead the mares from manger cribs

stallion with pride

reach the storm's heart

when the world is lost to sight

buck the sky and cliffs apart

clouds black, snow white

pitch a new tent

when the greengrass disappears

paw beneath the crystal scent

sweet leaves, fresh spears

march with the dawn

when the nights grow long and cold

seek for pastures not yet born

rider, be bold

lesson on five fingers

now that I have learned

how seasons are returned

brook my laughter here

to the running years

waterfall the fears

now that I realize

how much the world denies

green my sense leaves bright

to chlorophyl of light

photocell the nights

now that I have found

how each must choose his ground

terrace my piece of time

to a hill of sweet limes

stairway the climb

now that I have seen

how cunning walks between

mountain my trust high

to the pigmy wise

landslide the lies

now that I understand

how heart unites with hand

radar the future free

to the dove singing me

laurel the peace

journey to jerusalem

sky our thoughts to midnight

that hold no noon's repose

silence speaks in clearer voice

than day's tumultuous crows

unpave the streets to earthscape

grass pillow to our heads

as virgin stars attend once more

moon music forested

mountain our hearts to the lion

tender our hands to the dove

olive the branch over zion

to israelite our love

flower this hope to the springtime

summer our dream with its fruit

festive the fields in the autumn

winter the future's root

prayer for four seasons

rain, rain on me

make me green

as lettuce leaf

at spring's fresh core

sun, shine on me

burn me bright

as coral reef

on island shore

wind, blow on me

sweep me clean

as grain fields tall

for autumn's mill

stars, sing for me

lark the night

as snowflakes fall

on woods and hill

ekstasis

all the hills of the world lie here

aeolus ride your winds

the skybound clouds leap out like deer

daedalus fly your wings

the fields are green with sun and shade

pegasus strike your hoof

the silence sings, the people fade

hesperus light my roof

the ocean's wide and far away

tantalus drink your fill

no distant lands draw me astray

orpheus bring your skill

olympus is within my heart

poetry lift me high

with pagan joy I sing my art

melody till I die

challenge

tell me, in this high land of mountained length

where time is green and space big-bellied

with fruitful plains rockribbed by corn and bean

for simple courage, do you know strength

as something earned through bitterness of need

in narrow streets and tortured rooms, oh hungry lean

listen, above the winding road come sounds

descending on bells, sky voices and wind

mixing with the shy four footed ones' cries,

what do they tell, can you hear from the grounds

of city skyscrapers through the tunnelthinned

walls that rail the nervetracked brain with wooden ties

look you, whose eyes are wise with too much seen

through doors and windows, in whom the sunlight

is confined by steel canyons and arctic

nights, here is heart space, here clouds rise between

warm currents to open roofs, see how the height

of climb and width of free brightens to tropic

taste this, you tongue lovers, you gourmets, you

who know the ends for which the palette buds

bloom to burst on a thousand sauces, wines,

rare meats and molded cheeses, what brew

is this, what essence extracted from muds

and rooted origins of leaf that taste defines

breathe, ah breathe again, purge out the unclear

lungs, the downbent head, smell has other use

than multiplies in shop and factory

to substitute the sense, no need to fear

the pure air here, to hide subtle and obtuse

behind the mob's excuse, here the wind blows free

reach out, know touch as up and down, the span

of head to heel, thigh to shoulder, each side

with rough of bark to blossom, stone to dust,

how else but by the feel, the real, can man

press nature to his will and impel his pride

in shaping to his needs an earth which he can trust

go up, your feet will take you high above

streets and buildings to a new position

forget the old appointments, you have a more

important one with God to measure love

not by the scrupled ways of acquisition

but freely as the stars that follow and explore

while I live

my love is a hart seeking the waterfall

where he may press two lips against its crystal

depths--see how he leaps to kiss the imaged mist

that bubbles up beneath him--he staggers, kissed

my love is an alpine trail that mountains climb

above clouds and timber to heights out of time

and measure--no distance there or memory

for weak foot and tired brain--but death only

my love is a trumpet sustaining its call

to the last clear breath--listen, the interval,

out of canyon silences, on the dry wind,

the throat of night catches, its echoes are thinned

my love is a dream where childhood fell asleep

beckoned by shadows that lengthen as they creep;

now she sighs, weeps, losing her way--morning wakes

the sleeper and she smiles, her eyes are lakes

odyssey

ah never say the dreams were false

that boy and girl were madly bold

not time but timeless changes all

man and woman we should know

what we dreamed was what we were

and could not timeless be

two strange wild things in universe

too tame for altering

then let them keep without reserve

the wings they had prepared

and while we walk a humbled earth

see them with spirit dare

life I love

life I love who know the heart's unease

the mind's disease, the search unending

to a blind conclusion

I have gone so many ways

towards praise, away from blame

to find seclusion

known coldest doubt and passionate release

the after peace of countless wars grown tired

by their own diffusion

how many changes seen: chance days

nights, the grays of violent and tame

mixed in the time's confusion

dreamed plans, wished hopes without cease

no single piece of life sought

without delusion

and yet have loved each coming, going blaze

each phase, willed and thrilled to every flame

that brightened the illusion

then let me know death as one who foresees

breath's end to seize a new beginning

through the soul's transfusion

mood on a string

again the after rain and shine of night

when mellow yellow patternings of light

make rivers run through streets of mirrors bright

to where the air brings thought from its seclude

as though a silver magnet drew a rood

about the mind's internal solitude

then is the darkness gentle to my sight

with glossy lamps to toss me into flight

and give to sleep the freeness of a kite

that after storm can rise in amplitude

above the clinging wet still unsubdued

to sail in lonely splendor wind pursued

time is a palette

each day has its color

radiates

each day its own color

on the wheel

endlessly

and they are wrong who say

all colors are gray

they are blind

or else

unimaginatively

well I remember the primary days

the reds and yellows and blues

those brilliant saturated hues

each its own bright self

intensively

a day red as a ripe warm plum

on the mouth

staining chin and blouse with summer

while leaves on a red tree flamed

in crimson joy

shamelessly

and there were other reds

for feathers dipped in blood

to sign youth's honor on a windless sky

running over rooftops

most solemneyed

earnestly

or red for something velvet deep

over quivering flesh and trembling hair

stabbing the breath

with a wild commotion

like coroncitas on a christmas tree

ecstatically

a vivid red each time

coloring morning to evening canvas

of that particular day

connecting sleep with sleep

in the intimate dye

imperishably

yellow was first word for gold

then sun

and it was always rich

like the promise of a wedding ring

or shining birthday coin

inevitably

yellow was wish

more often than anything seen or heard

except for the canary my father kept

as his own yellow sign

pure and unalloyed

incorruptibly

mostly it was feeling

the evidence and substance in one

symbol of perfection and as rare

when harsh-cold-rough were there

it wasn't yellow

changelessly

precious as treasure

awarded by the gods to saint and hero

like the holy grail

the lost chord

those unrecoverable legends

fabulously

blue was definite

less temperamental than red

more tangible than yellow

like summer sigh or puff of winter air

the outlines of dawn to dusk

distinguishably

blue was practical and necessary

like the blueing used in my mother's wash

like smoke

water air and sky blue

for everything clear and understandable

unmistakably

but blue had magic too

meaning giant ships and giant fish

rockets to the moon and planet shores

too big and far away

too terribly true

incredibly

a glamorous color blue

suiting cinderella's glass slipper

forget me nots and chinese porcelain

and once I found a blue shell

so fragile I let it crumble on the sand

irretrievably

but even the primary colors

are not all the colors

and each day has its color

each day radiates its own color

on the wheel

endlessly

and they are wrong who say

all colors are gray

unable to remember

unwilling to separate

with desperate impatience

unimaginatively

dusk I love

dusk I love who know the morning's light

the night's darkness, the black and white

of yes and no and all false and true

I have lived with definite so long

with wrong and right, with weak and strong

with how much undefined dusk by you

for I have seen the between hours

when towers grew soft as flowers

and cold stones were stemmed in warmest hue

and I have watched a kind gentle grace

take place behind the coarser face

unloose the many masks old and new

I too felt the purple air's dissent

from meant purpose and clear intent

nothing certain but a changing view

then let me have time's dusk perspective

to give the life men think they live

an outer shape and an inner clue

the lovers

after the sunlight over barren fields

after the dry wind through stony creeks

we found our little green where lilies were

and knee deep oxen stood watching us

triumphant under trees... for this was peace

as nature meant nature's peace to be

with fertile soil made ready by its need

with instincts tamed in gentler ways than fear

with freedom measured freely as the sky

measures breath... we lay there side by side

breathing kisses, feeling the wet and cool

of bodies grassed in loving, each a groove

within a groove seeking counterpart

with close-open-close, with light in dark

and waves lapping... we heard the overflow

of lake on buttressed dam down sluiced walls

making music in ditches, singing birth

to stalks in the earth, with giant surge

of up and out bringing humanity

a greater day for love... then happily

we rose and barefoot walked the golden green

to where horses and men waded beneath

multifoliate rays of setting sun

their work done before the darkness come

to cheat them... together all of us swam

glad for the fresh clean water which ran

on hands and hoofs, on flesh and hide, like beams

bathing between, feeling our oneness sweet

reward, for the sun was a broken sword

pointing the peace towards our tomorrow

whatever else may be

as long as you're happy

there were flowers on the street

and sweetmeats at noon

and a high wind in the towers

ceaselessly

as long as you're happy

there were mornings in the sun

and nights in the moon

and a magic in the warnings

heedlessly

as long as it was long

heart was head and hands were feet

heat was heavy, still

and words were trees with roots of red

urgently

as long as--happy song

wish was flight and new worlds won

space was empty, chill

and lips were birds with feathers light

fervently

for long is as long as

life is as strong as

ah to be happy and free

tropic time

here before old leaves go

new leaves come in

here before old loves know

new loves begin

now when the year's one spring

no season chills

now when the fear's one thing

no reason kills

this is time after then

there was regret

this time is laughter when

where we forget

stormbird

the winds have abated and the rain

now the lonely dark comes again

with blue lines running in the mind

with hands explorative and blind

(was it the bitter taste of smoke

or pepper berries? lips parted spoke

words out of kisses bringing fears

no nearer to relief than tears)

now memory is of lightning, flares

in the night, with darkeyed cares

encircling universes strange

as the skies through which they range

thunder removes to distant space--

from quiet woods where ancient grace

roots tree in soil and lake is mild

only the stormbird's flight is wild

the wind and the rain

thoughts in my head

like wind through pines

lift to north

veer to south

shift to east

rear to west

the wind not the pines

till my thoughts are dead

love in my heart

like rain on dust

stirs to dawn

dries to noon

whirs to dusk

cries to night

the rain not the dust

till my love depart

art

worthier than words the meaning kiss

which makes true poetry of lips

which sets a wisdom into rhyme

no pen can simulate by line

music has cadence but heartbeats sound

what no ear ever tuned beyond

a harmony so fully sensed

that voice is mute with instrument

imperative to move the dancer's arms

would free the body from those bonds

wherein an inner rhythm leaps

secret with wonder, flow and cease

the eye's canvas such beauty lights

of shade and color and design

that brush must hesitate to set

a lesser skill on palimpsest

yet kiss is brief and heartbeat slows

while freedom captivates us most

and beauty turns to counterfeit

the images lost in memory's mist

diary

returning miles of space

can you find the precise hour

travel through that day

locate the very moment

ago there

the train goes back and forth

stops at what time stations

monday morning january tenth

autumn ten years

ago then

the boat arrives departs

ticket pier cabin port

pre-war london paris rome

before the depression

remember where

the plane roars lifts the earth

speeds me a century

past sound past light

we know the way back

remember when

and buses taxis subways trams

for how long how far conversations

so much so many who and what

and love and life and yes again

name place date pen

grass flesh

the deep of night is crept upon our talk

and what we had to say the wind will keep

until our tongues can thrust up through the stalk

and stay the light; meanwhile let silence sleep

between us remembering what we were

before our eyes were covered by the dark

lovers who saw beauty in each other

and from the clay drew forth an hour's spark

that hour can not die, though we must lie

with stiffened arms about an earth which turned

about us once to prove how much of sky

there is in love's embrace; our kisses burned

the millioned lightyeared stars that now must roam

the space of all eternity till dust

can rise on flaming wings to plume the dome

with fires kindled by our mortal lust

what triumphs we have known within the mesh

of failure, time can not scrape from our bones;

out of the pregnant dreams of our grass flesh

a fertile spring will issue from the stones

and flower like our songs in crimson mirth;

each hidden sense that death but borrows here

to bring about its own more perfect birth

with quickened breath will help new life appear

the now and here

the sunlit trees along the quiet street

enclose the afternoon on either side

their shadows dark and still the dozing heat

and there is no morning or night to hide

it might be anywhere the now and here

when the heart is simple and forgets the brain

in france on a river or a hill in spain

when life was peaceful and there was no fear

the reminiscent chord the piano strikes

returns us again to the slow learned ease

of oars on a boat and the long road hikes

the faces and voices like melodies

then old folks gladdened the spry basque danses

as student groups mingled to learn quaint ways

and families gathered for shore holidays

with poppies in the sun and vins des provences

in the city of the mind thoughts like these

graze quietly in distant valleys

as though time's gaps lay between a range

of sunlit afternoons that never change

swallows return

o spring thaw out my winter's chill

so cold I might be buried still

beneath the snow

long years I lay as one whose night

strong arms had banished from the light

to mute my song

now wake me from oblivion

bow down and lift me to the sun

like earth to plow

prepare for me some green retreat

enough for summer to complete

its ecstasy

let autumn shake its leaves at me

set laughter whirling from each tree

and I forget

then should my winter come at last

when darkened shadows overcast

the fields of men

I'll gladly say goodbye and go

while memories warm me with their glow

across the stile

for every year my dust shall rise

o'er mud and rust to welcome skies

where swallows soar

reply to critics

tell them who scorn my ways

I lived without their praise

and will until I die

let them be cynical

I have my own faith still

to question and deny

the proud and stiff of neck

the small who grub and peck

both look too low or high

while I but seek to know

the feel of things that grow

and by my living why

no no no no no no no no

step softly

your feet are on my heart

the sawdust underneath

hurts less than I

even sawdust, dry

and dirtied by our not particular feet

it's something deep inside

that aches

I know not why

unless the pride

mistakes

for the heart that only guesses

still will bear

the feet that walk upon it

but not the heart that knows

too often it confesses

and breaks