Orchids and dimples

Title

Orchids and dimples

extracted text

looking at you through t. s. eliot 1. among the snow-white clouds and the barren and weather-beaten streets was the illusion and the dream and you were there melted in the glass breaking the dance of shadows to life; my bones ache for old dependencies as i grow accustomed to your footsteps, virginal, slow, a recital to an old folly; whence the cold of December rain descends and i am told you have the eyes of spring! 2. no more shall i look at you painlessly, once in the summer of our meeting dull roots of rain fall blissfully and the grapes bloom in our hands and the heavens stand quietly reflecting her light upon our faces and your arms full and your cheeks wet with tears when you read my letters, no more cold shoulders must assail the howling shout of indifference and i could not speak in thunder, i was neither happy nor sad looking into the heart of silence without delight, but i will make you understand: when you walk alone in the evening, your melted shadow rises to meet you! 3. here we are, old men broken to the bone of ages being ushered into a world of songs, in a sad month, waiting for the crabs from the rivers rising, here where no pain must survive the ancient run of white feathers dissolving in a wilderness of mirrors, i would meet you to excite the sad whispers of the heart and the laughter of the memory that has grown flowers of judas, think now, time has many children in the hours and minutes of my passion lost in fractured atoms, and it is not by any love of sorrow that my life is measured in chilled delirium. i would meet you half-way in a garden of roses and i shall become young again but old in my rage and wiser in this page i have written to meet the demands of grace. by MANUEL S. SATORRE JR. orchids and dimples (to A. H.) at the heart of your dimpled cheeks i catch the flight of december sun and i assumed that nothing passes time and not all men celebrate your charms, but here i am, rising from the ruins of a memory long forgotten by god's hands, resurrecting the silent shout of sea-gulls and the anger of the soft-spoken wind! listen! the sounds breaking from the blooming rose quietly hail this poetry of the moving earth seeking the magnolia of your voice, and i am glad the strong pulse throbbing the beat of life revolts, leaping from dark cages and beyond the rooms of the world stands the shadow of god's grandmother knitting a song of love out of life's unending crochet. . . . by MANUEL S. SATORRE JR. hearse The phonographed bell tolls sadly for a man remotely attached, for death of distance faced this day. For all the silent clashes, griped and grieved, and the single bouquet at his foot — I forget the gambler's name to which it belonged — like a problem being wrong, halting the rushes of equalling passion. The foreshadowed lonely hearse: and troubled sweat and sound of cutting saw near: 'tis a matter of seconds the musical occasion that moves a tear to fill all need for the man with a sigh endeared. by C. Y. ENGE Page Twenty-two THE CAROLINIAN January-February, 1966

Date

1966

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In Copyright - Educational Use Permitted

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